full circle.

wifi on the ferry again! love it! 

christmas shopping in the city is  so much more fun than christmas shopping in a mall. the aunts, mama and i trekked all around newbury st., the prudential, and the waterfront and i never experienced brain fog like i do in an enclosed shopping complex. in fact, i enjoyed myself and didn't complain even when we went into the life is good store to get my brother a t-shirt that he probably won't wear. 

shopping was capped off with martinis (as it should be) but i never made it to yoga. blame it on the martini(s), blame it on my dad for taking the car to the airport, or even blame it on the rest of this island life for abandoning ship, but i didn't go. and i should have.

or maybe not because now i have to go to boston at least 5 more times this winter. 

easing in

I know. I know. Not a good start to the blog writing so far. I was going to spew a list of excuses, such as that the other half of this island life has abandoned ship, but I won't..I won't make excuses. I'll just blog. 

I'll sit here on the ferry and blog. Wireless on the ferry is something I really enjoy. It brings all new possibilities to the 45 minutes boat ride. How many times can you check your email in 45 minutes?

I'm going to Boston for the weekend for another yoga workshop. And although I might have rolled my eyes and sighed a little when telling my island friends that I had to leave again, I really love a good excuse to go to the city. Good food, good yoga, and good wine drinking with my mom. And that pretty much sums up what I do on a weekend at home. On a few disastrous occasions I have tried to do things like shop for things that one can't find on the island.

Two summers ago, Adam, brother Daniel and I fell victim to the beckoning of IKEA from Rt. 24. Immediately upon arrival all five...no wait...all six senses were attacked. The sixth being that overwhelming understanding that something was just wrong. Thirty minutes into it, Adam found me, like a deer in headlights, clutching individual pieces of silverware, a fruit peeler and a reading lamp that came in 47 pieces and required a PhD. to assemble. He convinced me to put it all back...no wait...I got that fruit peeler! and together, he and Daniel steered me out of there.

Then last year, I made the mistake of bringing my island boy to a mall...at Christmas time! Though, I admit, I had just as hard of a time with it. Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas time, the lights, the cheeriness, and even some of the songs, but whoa America...whoa... 

Along with tears, some yelling, some staring from strangers, and an hour of silent treatment, that trip to the mall ended with a promise to never go back. Here we are, nearing Christmas, and I haven' seen one mall Santa. 

seasons greetings.

well hello! it's been much too long, but wait...before you judge us as the biggest slackers in cyberspce, please notice that the subtitle of this island life is "notes from the off-season". 

that's right, the off-season. "on-season" antics are a whole other ball-game: beaching, paddle boarding, cookouts, bonfires, bike rides,  and don't forget the dark side: road rage, no parking, nantucket reds, beaches we are no longer allowed to go to , people that say "oaks bluff" and  70 hour work weeks. 

and now here we are, november 24th, there are plenty of parking spots, no traffic, and in just 3 short months the ferry traffic has reversed, and the most difficult night to get on the island is sunday, not friday.

i knew it was time to start up the blog last friday. i had just taken dudley (better known as hudley) on an hour long walk. we hadn't seen a soul until the end just as we were nearing home, a man walked out of the woods (i think it was a man) dressed in full camouflage, only 'his' eyes visible, with a bow and arrow. hudley stared at 'him' for a minute and then just kept trotting along. hunting season. time to dig out hudley's neon orange vest.  

if friday was the preliminary blog wake up call i got my real jump start this morning in the form of www.twobluelemons.blogspot.com, my friend sarah's new blog. and if she can start a (pretty awesome) blog while working her ass off (year-round) and creating culinary masterpieces every single night then surely i can revive this island life. 

the times they are a-changing.

Welkomen. That's what my new computer said to me when I turned it on today. Welkomen. And then it greeted me in 27 other languages. I love this machine. I love computer. And no I'm not just saying that. I do love computer. I had one of those moments of clarity today at the market and I knew it was time to start blogging again. I was staring at the massive selection of bread loaves. Desperately not wanting to be food shopping, and particularly not wanting to be shopping for bread. We never eat a whole loaf of bread before green mold takes over and so I hate buying it knowing that maybe we will eat 2 slices each. But tonight there was a special request for bread so I tried. I was feeling a little annoyed at how many choices there were. Why on earth does this small market carry 6 varieties of cinnamon raisin bread? Then my eyes fell upon "womens bread. bread for women, with 27g. of soy." Really? I was really getting ansy when a girl saddled up next to me wearing boots, ill-fitting jeans and a tight grungy beige fleece. I did a double take and suddenly became very aware of my shorts, flip flops and tank top and realized that I might be trying a little too hard to hold onto summer.  

a day's work

In honor of upward facing mondays, which have been woefully neglected of late, I am here to report that Erin and I have been official yoga-teachers-teaching-yoga now for almost two full weeks.

Unfortunately, not a single person has been to any of our classes. Which leads me to the age-old existential dilemma: If a yoga teacher calls out poses alone in a forest...

It remains a possibility that the reason we are student-free is the fact that we have told no one the time and location of our classes. And for some mysterious reason, our "boss" does not seem to be at all interested in the distribution of promotional materials. It seems that the "let it be," "teach-and-they-will-come" yoga-tude does not mesh with the traditional business practices of things like, I don't know, marketing? I guess the idea is if we teach to an empty room for long enough, all of the positive energy we create will seep through the building and waft into town, much like the intoxicating scent of back-door donuts after midnight (the only available post-bar munchy on the island), tickling the senses of the yoga-minded and dragging them like zombies to the studio door.

I'll let you know how that works out.

Speaking of work: I needs me some more. Finding a job for the summer on this island is, I will venture to say, unlike any experience of employment-seeking anywhere else. It is not as simple as deciding what you want to do, sending out a resume, interviewing, etc. It is a carefully choreographed routine of finding a few hours here, a few hours there, adding it all up and watching the cold hard cash pour in. Here are some examples of the ways that we are planning on earning our keep:

Along with her regular shifts at the restaurant, where she will continue to dazzle both kitchen-staff and clientele with inane questions and a level of hand-eye coordination comparable to a developmentally-challenged bear cub, Alex has signed on to help maintain a vegetable garden in Gay Head (which only wash-ashores would dare to call by it's proper name: Aquinnah.) She will also teach her extremely popular weekly yoga class, and possibly a few other classes elsewhere, if her dedicated following will agree to share her with the rest of the island. In her spare time, she hopes to pen insightful pieces for two island newspapers (next up: how to clean your gutters!), various online publications, and, fingers crossed, finish the young adult novel she's been working on since the late seventies.

Erin will join Alex for one-to-two weekly shifts of chowder-pushing fun, in addition to the random nights she is picking up at pretty much every restaurant from here to the mainland. She will also stick with her loyal gardening crew, where she will dead-head her little heart out, spying on the rich and used-to-be-famous and trying not to accidentally run over their yippy dogs with her car. In addition to these regular scheduled gigs, she will babysit for the world's most adorable two-year-old twins (who wear matching carhartt overalls and rainboots in inclement weather), be a companion to a feisty (and sometimes verbally abusive) elderly feminist, shadow an autistic girl, teach yoga, and keep up with the house/yardwork required for her room and board.

So if anyone is looking for, I don't know, anybody to do anything...between the two of us we could probably squeeze a few more hours in. I did see an ad in the paper for a Shellfish Warden, and I think it might be the job for me. I've always said that those oysters could use a little discipline.

meantime

Oh, hello. Bet you thought we were never coming back. Things have been a' shifting over on this here island, which I guess is to be expected as we enter the never-easy transition from life on an empty little haven to the daily hustle and where-the-hell- did-all- these-people-come- from-bustle of life on a vacation hot spot.

We both have much to report, and hereby swear to do so soon. For my part, there's been some doggy drama, and to avoid getting into complex vet-speak which might terrify some and bore the rest to tears, I will simply say that the little Whiskey man could use some happy thoughts from the World Wide Web.

And after you have thought your happy Whiskey thoughts, might I suggest that you head back over to Identity Theory and check out some more interviews? Including one I did with Doug Pray, director of the just-released documentary Surfwise, which I highly recommend you see. Immediately.

With any luck, by the time you've found your nearest indie theatre or rented the DVD, watched the movie, discussed it with friends and checked back in, we will have waved goodbye to the worst of our seasonal-affective-disorder and be back in full force for your time-wasting amusement.

Caught.

Oh hi...Although this may look like chewing, I am simply sniffing your shoe.














I swear.















I don't know how that happened.

washashore wednesday

Eventually, we are hoping to introduce a new feature in which we profile one of the many washashores, who, like us, now call this strange and wonderful place home.

But before we kick off, I thought I'd take a minute to start to define this friendly term, since it's lingered so comfortably over there in the introduction corner for so long.

Wash-a-shores, as you might imagine, are people who have somehow ended up here on this island, despite having suffered the miserable and highly unforgivable misfortune of being born and raised somewhere else.

As you also might imagine, being a wash-a-shore is more often an accusation than something to identify with proudly. In fact, the only occasions on which I even consider the fact that I am, indeed, a wash-a-shore, are the ones when I am reminded that just about everyone around me is emphatically not.

"Islanders" like to remind you of their native status in many subtle and not-so-subtle ways, often involving semi-confrontational exchanges with wash-a-shores.

Like this one:

Washashore: Hi, I'm Alex.

Islander: Hi Alex. I don't think we're related. Where are you from?

Washashore: Boston, originally, but I grew up coming here in the --

Islander: I'm 12th generation.

Washashore: Excuse me?

Islander: 12th generation Islander. My ancestors landed here on a boat and set up schools and churches and basically invented fishing. And everything else.

Washashore: Wow. That's amazing.

Islander: 12th generation.

Washashore: Gotcha.

Okay. Now let's say you somehow manage to penetrate the circle. You have islander friends. They stop asserting their lineage on a daily basis, and usually you all coexist just fine. Until you ask for directions, in which case you will be confronted with something like the following:

Islander: Meet me at Taylor's house.

Washashore: Okay. Where's that again?

Islander: It's on that street on the left before Will's house.

Washashore: Which Will?

Islander: Willy. You know, Willy, with the hair?

Washashore: Right. So it's the first street on the left before his house?

Islander: I don't know, it's near there.

Washashore: What's the street called?

Islander: We call it Sawyer's because in high school there was this kid Sawyer who used to always throw parties there, but he didn't live there, he lived up-island somewhere with his grandma on her farm.

Washashore: Okay. But the street's not called Sawyer's?

Islander: I doubt it.

Washashore: What does it say on the sign?

Islander: What sign?

Washashore: The street sign.

Islander: Street sign? Islanders don't use street signs. We use navigational tools and our inner compass! We invented street signs!

Washashore: That doesn't make any sense.

Islander: I'll just pick you up.

Hello?

Anybody out there?

We are back from the second part of our three-part yoga training, which I guess would make us each two-thirds of a teacher. Which I guess would also make the two of us together one-and-one-third yoga teachers. Which is a start.

I, for one, am glad that I still have a third to go, if this weekend's "practical" was any indication of my own teaching abilities. Turns out, it's much easier to take a yoga class than to teach one, even if it might look like the student is the one with his foot behind his head while the teacher does a lot of pacing and reminding people to breathe.

This weekend, I learned that I have a few funny little new-teacher habits. The first is a tendency to march the length of the room with my arms crossed, like some sort of yogic drill sargeant. The second is frequent use of "kindergarten-speak," which results in first-person-plural commands like: "We're going to bend into our right knees," or "Let's look over our left shoulders towards the window, which we're starting to wish we could jump out of. Together. As one."

Friends who craft.

Amongst other things, the Vineyard breeds creativity. Something in the air makes you want to create..to be a creator. After living here for a little while you might find yourself wanting to sew your own clothes and grow your own food because yes, people actually do that here.

But if you aren't careful you might find yourself donning draw-string hemp pants and Jesus sandals for a night on the town. It could happen.

As you may recall, last week I was singing praises for Celynne and may have even called her the "craftiest girl I know". And I stand by that claim although it looks like she may have to share her crown.

Alex is quite the crafter in her own right, and she is not one to be outdone. I recently received a couple of my very own Alex creations, in the form of homemade peanut butter brownies, and a journal that she made, with a recipe card for the brownies in the back! Along with Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Cookbook (woohoo!!).

I don't have a picture of the brownies because I ate them. All of them. In 2 days.

Tough Guy.

boneyard

So. The other day, I saw Venga playing outside, intently burying her face in some foreign object that I couldn't really see from my post at the window, but was pretty sure would choke or otherwise maim her in some way.

I went to out to investigate and found this:



Then, I went to investigate from a different angle, and found this:




Looks a lot like a skull of some kind, doesn't it? And it would appear that I've become the sort of person who allows her dog to gnaw on skeletons of small creatures, wouldn't it?




Don't be ridiculous. Obviously, I picked up the goat skull (which is what the Boy insists it is, the skull of a goat or possibly a lamb or other small-ish farm animal long expired,) piercing a long stick through one of its sockets so as to avoid contracting any kind of bone-residing disease, and flung it immediately deep into the woods.


Well, almost immediately.

air

eat it, write it a letter, take it for a walk.

On our way back from New Hampshire this weekend, the Boy and I stopped at a Super WalMart in Plymouth. What makes an average WalMart Super, you ask? Why, Subway and an Auto Body Shop, which perfectly suited our needs yesterday as we were:

A. Driving a car with a dead battery, requiring it to be jumped at every stop, and
B. Starving.

What Super WalMart sadly lacks is a waiting area for those traveling with pets. So, in order to kill the forty-five minutes it took to replace the battery, we took turns doing loops around the parking lot with the dogs and going inside to look at all the stuff.

Every time I venture off of this island and end up wandering the aisles of one of these massive, florescent megastores, I am immediately rendered useless. Much like a child lost in the woods, if the woods played contemporary soft-rock and were always on sale.

I roam aimlessly from one department to the other, never quite sure what I need. Because, with so much stuff everywhere, surely I must need something.

Turns out, what I needed yesterday were three avocados and a magazine, while the Boy needed a pair of work boots, some tools and a putting practice kit. (Boy wins again.)

After my second time returning to the parking lot empty-handed, I was promptly sent back inside to pick out a new dog collar. I scanned the various signs and smiley-faces and quickly found a fish-tank. Thinking I was on the right track I headed over, only to learn that fish are "Small Pets" and, as such, are found in the "Small Pet" department, along with the fifty-pound sacks of bird seed and turtle mazes. (Yes, turtle mazes. Please keep up.)

I rounded a corner and found a friendly greeter who informed me that dogs are Large Pets, and that I would find the Large Pet Department "clear across the store."

He made a motion with his hands, like he was about to pass a football and telling me to go long, really long. Then, for clarity's sake (I must have looked like someone in desperate need of clarity at this point,) he added:

"You can't miss it. It goes Candy, Stationery, Large Pets."

But isn't that always how it goes?

Chappy Birthday.

I rang in my 26th year in a very Vineyard way today. I read, wrote, did yoga and had breakfast with Brother Daniel. All while pretending that my sinuses were not about to burst out of my face. Brother Daniel didn't have much luck with the denial approach because what he is suffering from is actually a man cold.

I spent the afternoon on Chappy with my friend Celynne. Chappy is an island off an island and to get there you take a 38 second barge ride that costs $3. It's pretty exciting.

Celynne is the most crafty girl I know. She made me a bouquet of daffodils and my favorite forsythias. She also made me a wallet and a beautiful birthday card.

Then after we walked on the beach with our pack of dogs (a dalmation, 2 Jack Russels and Dud the Stud) she whipped up a lemon chicken dinner with asparagus and artichokes. This girl is amazing. What a good way to kick off my "upper" twenties.

elsewhere

My first interview is up over at Identity Theory!

A.K.A.

A Whiskey By Any Other Name*:



"The Whisk"

"Skers"

"Skerburger"

"Skinners"

"Skid Vicious"

"Skin Gigolo"

"Skin Jankulitis" (rare dermatological condition)

"Skin Rocket" (don't ask)

"Sir Skins-A-Lot"

"Sir Scum-Bag" (in trouble)

"Scum-Bag Bastard" (in BIG trouble)

Pinky and/or The Brain



*Number of nicknames for which I can take credit: 0

lunch lady land

Perhaps you were curious about that random lunch-lady mention. (Perhaps not, but it would make a better segue if you were. Let's pretend.)

A little while after I moved here, I got to thinking about how nice it would be to volunteer with a local organization, by way of "meeting people," "being pro-active," and/or "contributing to society," all of which I've heard are important endeavors worth exploring.

First let me emphasize the fact that, much to the disappointment of my parents, I am not a joiner. Never have been. You know that space on college applications, the empty box where you're supposed to list all of your extra-curricular activities, clubs, organizations and volunteer work? The space often followed by the suggestion, "Attach additional page if necessary"?

Let's just say that there was never any need for additional pages. Let's also say that, on occasion, I may have been required to do a little truth-stretching in order to fill up those provided few lines in the first place. (Does memorizing the opening sequence from The Real World count as an activity? What about Fifth Grade Student Council? Bus Patrol?)

So, after moving out of New York City, where "getting involved" is pretty much forced upon you every time you step out your front door -- (Interested in removing the crackhead from your steps at two o'clock in the morning? Get involved!) -- and on to an island where everyone is either related to each other or about to be, it became clear that in order to survive here I would have to step out of the old comfort zone and get to joinin'.

I heard about an organization that does great work supporting local farms and farmers. I started helping out at events and maintaining their website. When they got involved in a Farm-To-School campaign to bring more local ingredients into school cafeterias, I wrote up a press release or two. And when they asked if I would be willing to go into the schools and talk to the lunch ladies about how the program has been working so far, I said "Sure thing! Whatever you need! I'm here to help!"

That's the thing about being a joiner, I guess. You say "sure thing" and there are a lot of exclamation points involved.

Anyway, so I agreed talk to the lunch ladies. EVEN THOUGH I was right there at the community meeting where they stomped through the door EN MASSE, less than thrilled that a bunch of neo-hippies in clogs and corduroys were questioning the way they'd been preparing their government-issued mystery meat for years.

Was I scared?

Absolutely not! I sat right down at my computer, ran off a list of fifteen questions, got the names of parent volunteers from each of the island schools, and promptly emailed them their very own "Interview Guide" so that they could conduct the interviews by themselves! Look at me, volunteering without even leaving the house.

I did realize it would look a little suspicious if I didn't take on one of the lunch ladies myself, especially considering that the Charter School is practically in my backyard. Also, it might be of particular interest to note that the Charter School, as an independently run entity, has been using local ingredients in their kitchen for years, and that their lunch lady, a proud clog-wearer herself, was basically at the forefront of the campaign to begin with.

All this to say, the prospect of sitting down with this woman should have been totally and completely non-threatening.

Why, then, has it been weeks since I took this assignment and still I have yet to get my interview done?

Could it be because the only free time lunch ladies have is between 8 and 9 in the morning, which happens to coincide with my very important daily granola-eating/dog-walking routine? Or perhaps it's because I have some deep-seated psychological block for lunch ladies as a group, stemming from some long-forgotten incident involving an accidentally-stolen order of Cajun Fries?

Regardless, let it be known that I DID wake up this morning with every intention of leaving the house in time to drive a quarter mile down the road. I DID copy down the questions and ready my digital tape-recording device. I DID get into my car. And it DID NOT start.

Which leads me to believe that all of this hemming and hawing must go much deeper than schedules and cafeteria food. Maybe, just maybe, I'm not cut out for joining.

Not that a joiner would have necessarily remembered to turn her headlights off, thereby removing the dead car battery from the equation.

But I'm fairly certain a joiner would have walked.

You can sit under my umbrella-ella-ella.

I had good intentions of writing a nice upward facing Monday post today. But I just can't wrap my head around yoga.

It might have to do with my background music. Jay-Z at the moment. I bought one of his old CD's and Kanye West's new one today. Not conducive to down-dogging. But this is the music phase I'm currently in. H to the Izzo.

It started yesterday at my parent's house. I was taking advantage of having access to modern technology ie: watching television. Cable TV overwhelms me, so whenever I am in it's presence I go straight to the music videos.

Kanye West's video for The Good Life came on and wow....it's amazing. The song and the video.

Then last night, I started thinking about how fun it would be to go to Kanye and Rihanna's concert in May.

I quickly went from thinking about it, to dwelling on it, to obsessing over how it is quite possibly the greatest idea I have EVER had and how it is no longer an option but a mandatory off-island excursion. I even found reasonably priced tickets.

I could hardly wait till morning to call my blogmate to tell her to get ready, we're going on a road trip (in 6 weeks).

I was a little nervous that her phone wouldn't work because it didn't yesterday. Then I realized that she gave me the Boy's phone number "in case of emergency", and I laughed at her, what kind of emergency would I have to call the Boy for? but I put it into my cell phone anyway.

Thank God.

Good thing her cell phone worked, because I don't know if this call would have been grounds for calling the Boy at 8am.

We exchanged pleasantries like "are you going to interview the lunch ladies today?" and "do you want to go to that movie about abortion on Wednesday?" and then with some restraint in my voice I asked,

"Do you want to go to the Glow in the Dark show in May?"
"What?"

"The Kanye West and Rihanna concert. Duh."
"Ummmm....."
"It's at the Tweeter Center, outside, it will be such a fun/funny trip."

"Hmmm....."

"You have till Wednesday to decide."

And then we went about our days. One of us to interview lunch ladies. The other to lunch with an old lady.

pathetic snipping

Saturday night we cooked out at the Bridge House, the family camp of one of our friends and one of the oldest houses on the island. It was the first grilling of the season -- still too cold to eat outside but warm enough to kick around a soccer ball at sunset.

After dinner I was snooping around some bookshelves and found a set of Illustrated Encyclopedias from 1961. Volume 8 is dedicated almost entirely to gardening, and contains the following priceless introduction to pruning:

"Pruning is an acquired art. Without adequate understanding, men are apt to commit a kind of tree and shrub butchery in its name, while ladies are likely to approach their victims with such tender hearts that the few pathetic snips they make are ineffective."


Hmm. I wonder which is worse. Tender-hearted snips?

Or BUTCHERY.

back and forth. forever.

Remember that movie Me and You and Everyone We Know? Remember that part with the kid and the poop and the chore wheel?

That was funny.

You know what else is funny? Miranda July, writer, director and star of that little cinematic gem has her own website/blog found here. And if that leaves you wanting MORE MIRANDA, you can also check out her online art project, Learning To Love You More.

Oh, Internet. Is there anything you don't have inside of you?

backseat driver

Venga has developed the strange habit of climbing up over the backseat and squishing herself against the rear window of the car, whenever we're in it. For any period of time. Ever.

It made a lot more sense when she was a puppy. That was often the sunniest spot and she could easily fit between the headrests. Now, as she's quite a bit bigger, it takes some fancy footwork and careful maneuvering to get her whole body up there, but still she manages to make it look comfortable.

One night last summer while I was double parked outside one of the bars downtown -- and when I say "downtown," please know that I am referring to the one strip of dive bars in one of the two non-dry towns this island has to offer, bars with names like "The Ritz" and "The Rare Duck" and "Seasons" (definitely a top pick if you're in the mood for pinball or karaoke,) but I digress -- anyway that's where I was, double parked and waiting for the Boy to pick up some take-out Thai, when a pair of drunken collegiates stumbled past the car, spotted Venga all curled up in her nook, and started slurring sympathies along the lines of: "Omigoddddd! That pooor dog! She must be suffocating" and "I think that's, like, puppy abuse. Isn't it?"

The window was down and I should have said something, but the boy was back by then and I was hungry.

I did, however, wonder about that bump when I started reversing. It's kind of hard to watch out for underage sorority sisters swerving down Main Street with this in your rear-view mirror:

getting back into the groove.

Hello friends! I'm back from my Central American hiatus. I'm happy to see that Alex has been entertaining you with her witty self.

I am still adjusting to this island life but I am happy to be back, blogging, yoga-ing, and debating my next career move as a giraffe trainer.

The Vineyard is feeling almost spring-y. Despite being more than 50 degrees 'cooler' than where I just was.

On that note, forgive me for being brief, I am adjusting.

Island Safari

While quickly scanning through the meager offerings of our local paper's Help Wanted section (just for kicks, not for a job or anything, don't get excited) I came across the following:

GIRAFFE TRAINER NEEDED

Must have innate ability to communicate with giraffes. This is NOT a paid position; rewarding giraffe relationships should be enough. E-mail danielle@mvtimes.com.

I know it might seem like I have very little going on and am therefore left with plenty of time to sit around concocting absurd Classified listings and then blogging about them, but I promise you, this one's real.

Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's a joke, some Island humor, a cheeky little commentary on the dismal selection of available jobs here in the off-season.

However, given that the contact info routes all queries to the paper itself, I'm not sure which is more disconcerting: the possibility that the island's major news source is searching for someone willing to talk to giraffes on a volunteer basis, OR the possibility that the island's major news source is so bored with the lack of newsworthy winter events that it has planted a FAKE LISTING in its own publication.

Is it summer yet?

Your Lord, Lord Whiskey

This is Whiskey's favorite spot for lounging, for the following reasons:

A. It's a stair landing located directly above the one major heat source we have in this otherwise bone-chillingly drafty house. The heat source itself is a propane monitor, designed, for reasons unknown to us all, to look like a fake fireplace. Whiskey is terrified of the artificial flames and the pseudo-crackling sounds they emit, but he is happy to appreciate the gusts of warm air that waft up to where he rests, arms crossed like the little gentleman of leisure he is.

B. This bed was purchased at Ocean State Job Lot, a discount store in Falmouth second only to the Christmas Tree Shop for bargains on things like canned goods and canine bedding. Although it may be difficult to tell in this shot, the colors of the luscious felt fabric and synthetic fiber stuffing perfectly pick up the honey-colored spots on Whiskey's hindquarters. As a gentlemen of leisure, color coordination is an issue for him.

On occasion, Venga will try to invade Whiskey's cozy digs, and on these occasions, Whiskey will often respond with vigorous licking, as only gentlemen of leisure do best:

Beneboast!

Beneboast: (v.) The act of reporting a good deed, done by you or for you, for the purposes of mass inspiration and enjoyment.

Beneboast! (www.beneboast.blogspot.com): (n.) The wonderfully witty and wise new blog by my friend Lauren, who we (the royal we) are just beginning to forgive for the unspeakable song-related atrocities she recently committed while we (the actual we) were on vacation in Florida. (Definitely NOT something to beneboast about.)

and would that be daylight savings time?

Though it's possible I've never come right out and said it, I live on this island with a Boy. And while this Boy is technically of man age, most of his behavior places him so squarely in the boy category that it just feels plain silly to refer to him as anything else.

And while I understand that many "men" in their mid-twenties continue to exhibit signs of adolescent boy behavior, and that it might perhaps last well into their thirties and forties...I am also pretty sure that there is a certain characteristic particular to island boys that separate them from the rest.

Here's a for example: This evening, say, around 5:15, the Boy came bounding into the House from work. Now, on any normal evening, the Boy coming home from work in no way involves bounding. There's usually a lot of sitting, a lot of yawning, a lot of "I'm hungry aren't you hungry can't we eat dinner now even though only the elderly eat this early did I mention I'm hungry?" -ing.

So when there's bounding, it generally means one of two things. He's either hurrying to go surfing, or he's hurrying to go surfing.

Or also, maybe he wants to go surfing. Immediately.

I guess there really is some technical reason why the decision to go surfing must always happen spontaneously and be acted on with a sense of urgency comparable only to, I don't know, an impending natural disaster of some kind. I've been told (repeatedly) that it has something to do with quickly shifting wind directions from off-shore to on, or on-shore to off, or whether or not his wetsuit will magically evaporate when the clock strikes 12. One of those.

However, it all seems a little needlessly chaotic for my tastes, especially the part when he asks, as he did this afternoon, for a ride home when he's done.

The ride home is not the problem. I like rides. I like home. See? No problem.

The problem can be detected in the following exchange, which occurred as one of us threw around the entire contents of the kitchen closet looking for his booties -- yes I said booties, surf booties, wicked hot surf booties -- and the other one of us stood patiently in the background:

Me: Okay. So what time do you want me to pick you up?

Boy: I don't know. Around sunset, I guess.

Me: Sunset?

Boy: Yeah.

Me: So what time, though?

Boy: We'll probably get out of the water around when it starts to get dark.

Me: So. Okay. But. So when should I pick you up?

Boy Genius: I don't know! When it gets dark! When the sun sets! Leave the house when the sun starts setting, and by the time you get there, it will be dark!



Okay. I realize that when you live on an island, and you grow up frolicking in the dunes or catching frogs or whatever it is kids do when they're not watching TV like the rest of us, your sense of time has a little more of a sun-dial feel to it.

But I grew up in a city, I had a stoop, I did not catch frogs and I wouldn't know how to read a sun-dial if it projected big digital numbers in the sky.

Actually, that's not a bad idea. Because when it comes to time, call me crazy, but I like numbers! Numbers are pretty much all I need! Nice, solid numbers that leave no room for error based on cloud formations or subtle hues of "dark."

Numbers like 6:58, which, according to weather.com, is when the sun will be setting this evening, and therefore, you can be sure, reflects the exact time at which I will be rolling up to collect the Boy...booties, board and all.

I am yoga (and so can you!)

Isn't it fun listening to people talk about how much they love yoga?

Sometimes, I'll find myself being asked a certain type of question ("Why yoga? How has it changed you? What's the best part about it?") and it's all I can do to stumble through a coherent response without throwing up in my mouth. Because honestly, nobody can talk at length about yoga and its many spiritual and physical benefits without sounding like a fluffy, idol-worshipping lunatic.

The way I usually try to get around this is to focus on the practical, tangible results of a regular yoga practice. Often I'll say something along the lines of: "I have so much more energy now," or, my personal favorite: "Yoga's just so easy because you can do it on your own."

These kinds of answers are good because they are non-threatening and, when executed with skill and the obligatory self-deprecating follow-up remark, they tend not to make you come across as borderline psychotic.

They are not so good because they are lies.

Okay, the energy thing -- maybe on the whole that's not totally false. Sometimes I do feel more energetic. Sometimes I don't. But I'm inclined to believe this has more to do with whether or not I've slept sandwiched between two fidgeting dogs, turning endless circles between my shins or snoring heavily on my head, or how many gallons of coffee I've managed to intravenously inject into my veins before 9 am, than how many Warriors and Triangle Poses I've done that day.

And the "It's great because you can do it on your own" defense? While theoretically this is true, in reality, it's crap. Sure, after you've learned enough of whatever sequence you've been practicing in class, or, in the case of Astanga and me, had the entire Primary Series beat into your brain so that you start dreaming in sanskrit and struggling to remember whether or not there's a vinyasa after the seventeenth forward bend -- when you get it all down, then yes, technically, because there is no necessary equipment involved, you can do it at home on your own.

Technically.

And technically, if you ask me, "Hey Alex, how's your at-home yoga practice going?" I will probably say it's going swell! I practice every day! Thanks for checking in!

And I will pretty much be lying. Because even though I do try every day to throw on some yoga pants (Another practical defense! Who doesn't love yoga pants?) and roll out the mat to practice, most of the time it's a slightly less productive practice than if I had gone to a class or done the entire 90-minute series with a partner.

And by this I mean it's not uncommon for me to do three to five sun-salutations and call it a day.

Case in point: While on vacation last week, as punishment for making me eat nothing but tofu and twigs, I convinced Lauren to do the entire Primary and/or Intermediate Series with me every single morning we were there. (It didn't hurt that our only daily obligation was to sit by the pool or try on sunglasses at Target.)

In the five days since I've been home, if you add up all of the time I've spent locked in my room with a yoga mat (so as to decrease the chances of a dog eating my hair while I'm upside down) then maybe -- maybe -- it would equal one full 90-minute practice.

The moral of this story is not that I'm a liar. It's that I'm lazy. But even lazy people can make yoga a part of their lives. And that, my friends, is why I love yoga.

There, see? I only threw up a little bit that time. You?

got your back.

Gon' git us some supper.

Actually he is on his way to eliminate the skunk that's living under our barn. I'm all for animal rights, and we did use a have-a-heart trap but there is no such thing as catch and release on an island.

Overreacted.

Fine overreacted is an understatement. I totally lost my cool this weekend. But I do believe that there are several of you who would also go, dare I say, ape shit? if you thought someone stole your dog and made off to South America with him.

I won't go too into detail here but Adam and I had an arrangement with the woman who we bought Dudley from, allowing her to use him as a stud when the time was right.

The time was right this weekend. She was supposed to have him for a few hours on Saturday but after dropping him off at 5am we didn't see Dudley again until 10:45 on Sunday night.

In an unlikely reversal of roles, Adam was cool as a cucumber all weekend, actually encouraging ME to calm down. I spent most of Saturday sobbing and by Sunday I was considering legal action.

I'm not proud of my behavior and looking back it may have been a tad excessive to assume that this woman who lives less than 5 miles away dognapped Dudley (and took him to South America) but what can I say?

Call me crazy. Actually don't. I've heard enough of that. Just call me a concerned, overtired, pre-menstrual pet owner.

Dudley is home safe and sound and his new girlfriend, Leona, is spending a few days with us. Just to make sure the deed is done if you know what I'm saying. Wink wink.

Check her out.

(too long.)

Lauren's parents have a "Florida car," which happens to be the very same, trusty Toyota that she carted me around in all through high school and beyond, when I moved to New York City and suddenly decided that getting behind the wheel of a moving vehicle was the risk-equivalent of bungee jumping or stepping out blindfolded in front of a train.

Unlike us, the car has aged since then -- locks are rusty, windows are temperamental, and, most disturbingly, the radio no longer functions as anything other than a display area for the schizophrenic digital clock.

This might not be such a catastrophic state of affairs, if one of us -- not mentioning any names, here -- hadn't decided early on that in order to pass the time on long, flat drives up and down the gulf coast, we would simply sing our own songs.

Did I say songs? That's kind of misleading. Because ONE OF US -- possibly the one of us other than the one of us that's um, you know, me -- not only decided that the go-to activity for this car-heavy, radio-free trip would be singing songs, but that it would be THE SAME SONG ALL THE TIME. FOREVER. UNTIL ONE OF US REACHES ACROSS THE OTHER ONE OF US AND STEERS THE CAR INTO AN ALLIGATOR-INFESTED SWAMP. THE END.

And this is where we move into slightly more embarrassing territory, because in order to answer the one question that I know must be tearing each and every one of you apart, limb from limb, in gut-wrenching suspense, I am forced to admit to the fact that there was a certain period of time when Lauren and I both fancied ourselves the # 1 and 2 fans of a certain, Irish pop group known as The Cranberries.

(Please --we were fourteen, and disaffected, and totally related to Dolores and her Northern Irish angst.)

And so, the problem isn't so much the fact that we are suddenly slaves to a certain sticky melodic jingle -- and when I say slaves, I mean that we live in service to this song, every waking moment of every day, we are singing it, we are humming it, it creeps inside of every silence that falls between us, it never, EVER LEAVES -- but the fact that the lyrics we sing on constant-repeat are evocative of a mother who has tragically lost her child to an interminable, unfeeling religious war -- prompting us to spontaneously erupt with sunny lines like: "How could you hurt a child?" or, the classic: "Nine months is too long...too long...too long..." while casually applying sun-tan lotion, flipping through a magazine, or pondering what combination of vegetable - plus - grain -plus-soy-bean concoction we'll have for dinner tonight.

I'm thinking now that, on our way to the Red Sox spring training game we'll be attending tomorrow afternoon, I might insist that we each listen to our own pair of headphones, attached to our own, varied selection of iPod splendor -- if only to ensure that when Manny knocks in a home run we don't accidentally shout something along the lines of:

"There's a PLACE for the baby that DIES!!!"

vegan vacay.

After an eventful flight from Logan to Fort Meyers -- (note to those traveling with small children: allowing your seven-year-old to fling himself against his neighbor's seat while gleefully listing similarities between the mind-scrambling turbulence that has rocked the aircraft uninterrupted for the past hour and his favorite "rollah coastah" is decidedly not okay. Particularly not when said neighbor is huddled in a fetal ball, white-knuckling the armrests and imagining a number of Castaway-style scenarios, sure to end in a swift plummet into the Florida swampland below) -- I am here in sunny Naples with my oldest friend Lauren and approximately three-quarters of the retired population of the universe.

Lauren is a vegan with a capital Very Very Vegan. It's a relatively new part of her life and has led to only positive things, and, as such, I am Very Very Happy For Her.

It also makes shopping at even the most organic of suburban South Florida supermarkets a challenge, one we met not-exactly prepared yesterday evening after somersaulting our way down the Eastern seaboard and mentally drawing up our wills.

We managed to spend two hours and $150 on mostly produce (two or three of just about every green, leafy or peel-able item available), four varieties of grain, three cans of beans, tofu (both firm and extra firm), curry powder, tamari sauce, almond milk, peanuts, dark chocolate and -- after reading every ingredient on every box and finally locating the only egg/milk/honey/xantham gum-free option -- pumpkin and flax seed granola.

Oh, and wine. All red, and all for me.

So here's to six days of fiberful, flesh-free feasting, mild hangovers, daily treks to Walmart and Target, both located just across the twelve-laned street, and an even suntan.

You Might Be Living On The Vineyard If: Part One.

When asked to give directions to your home, your answer in any way resembles the following:

"You want to be looking for a silver mailbox next to the third maple tree after the farm. (Try to avoid inadvertently driving on farm property; you might be accused of "messing with the chickens" and promptly shot at. It happens.)

The maple tree used to have some reflectors on it, but they fell off during Hurricane Bob, so the silver mailbox is really all you have to go on. You'll know you've gone too far if you pass that garden supply store where everything's always half-price, or the place that used to be the place with the really good egg sandwiches. Or if you drive into the ocean.

If you catch the maple tree in time, turn left at the mailbox, and after the fourth crater-sized pothole on your right, you'll see a little sign with a painted number on it. The sign is in the shape of either a sailboat or a bird. It's really hard to say.

If you get lost, don't bother trying to call. Your cell phone won't have service and neither does mine. You'll have better luck rolling down your window and yelling for me. Somebody's bound to hear you eventually."

"Home is Where The Links Are"

Don't worry, I'm not here to rave about the incredibly light and fluffy Grapefruit Yogurt Cake I baked yesterday afternoon -- except to say that it's basically gone, and to insist again that you go here and make it yourself.

I am, however, here to rave about something. Someone, rather: My incredibly talented and handsome cousin John, who, with the help of a few good men, has officially endorsed lady Hillary by writing and directing this very clever campaign spot.

While we at This Island Life remain in the Obama camp, I happen to be a firm believer in the old adage: Blood is Thicker Than Equally-Capable-But-Sometimes-Immaturely-Sparring-
Democratic-Hopefuls.

I think I even have it embroidered on a pillow somewhere.

Rhymes With "Stevening"...

I don't know if I'm going through a thing, or whatever, but I'm having a hard time liking the movies lately. Maybe it's because I impulsively reordered the old Netflix queue after the Boy took off for Panama last week, determined to devour as many cheesy romantic comedies that I could stomach before it's back to a rotating selection of the entire Die Hard cycle and anything in any way remotely related to the life and career of Hunter S. Thompson. Not that there's anything wrong with either, but a little variety never killed anyone.

OR DID IT?

Because I'm pretty sure I was very close to near total self-destruction as caused by an acute case of estrogen overload the other night.

I won't even go into the particular film that was screened in the male-free zone that is currently my living room (hint: one word title, referring to a time of day, and not Morning, Afternoon, or Night.) But I will say that the result was an overwhelming desire to watch Bruce Willis and Johnny Depp get into a fist fight on drugs while things blow up in the background.

Along similar lines (similar in that it's movie-related and that's about it) I found this pretty hilarious and (I think) spot-on Oscar preview over at N+1, a literary magazine I would enjoy a lot more if I could ever find it anywhere other than the web.

I realize it's a little late for a preview of something that happened almost a week ago, but bear with me. Maybe tomorrow I'll give you a list of Grammy predictions...I hear Amy Winehouse will be performing via SATELLITE!

master of disaster

I got to leave work a little early tonight, due to a minor on-the-job accident. Alex was making coffee when the pot began to overflow. I tried to "help" and now I am home periodically soaking my hand in ice water.

Because mercury is in retrograde, or the planets are aligned strangely, or because he felt sorry for me, Adam made curry-fried tempeh, grilled veggies and mixed grains for dinner. And when I expressed gratitude and awe about having a boyfriend who is not only willing to eat tempeh but to cook it to boot, he pointed out that he was eating tempeh long before I came along. He was eating tempeh before I even knew what tempeh was. So there.

As we were finishing dinner I spilled a glass of red wine on his jeans. By accident.

I think it is best if I retire early tonight. Just me, my ice water and what's left of my wine.

good vibes

Yoga camp did some wonderful things for me. Aside from being a bit sore, it is almost impossible to not feel good after nine days and fifty hours of yoga.

There are some changes that I didn't expect. For example, I feel slightly repulsed at the thought of eating anything that was once alive and my love for caffeine is back after almost a month hiatus. Oh and I really want another puppy.

After a long day of saluting the sun, up-dogs, down-dogs, and lotuses, my brother and I went out for a coffee. While considering the absurd number of options, (latte, machiatto, frappuccino?) I made eye contact with a retarded man loudly sipping on an enormous frozen drink.

I should mention that this is not the first time that I have been chosen as the object of a "special" person's affection. We are not sure what it is, but honestly, they come from near and far. Retards love me.

So in this very crowded coffee shop this very special man asked me in a very loud voice,

"OH, DID YOU HAVE THE URGE FOR COFFEE?"
"Yes, I did actually."
"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO GET?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"I'M HAVING A FRAPPUCCINO WITH FOUR SHOTS OF ESPRESSO."
"Whoa."
"DO YOU WANT TO TRY IT?"
"No thanks."
(shoving his drink at me)
"HERE YOU SHOULD REALLY TRY IT. IT'S GOOD."
"No thank you, really. I think I'm going to go with something not so...caffeinated. "
(getting irritated now )
"COME ON! YOU HAVE TO TRY IT. IT'S REALLY GOOD. AND I DON'T REALLY MIND SHARING BECAUSE I DON'T GET THE HERPES VIBE FROM YOU."

Then there is silence in this very crowded coffee shop except for a faint whisper from brother Daniel.
"Oh my god".

open letter

Dear Creepy Guy at the Gym,

Yes you, the one standing in the hall, casually lingering by the glass door to the yoga studio while we struggled to get through the Astanga second series this afternoon.

Here's the thing about glass: it works both ways! Just as you can see us, innocently going about our daily practice, so can we see you, seeing us, innocently going about our daily practice.

And it's creepy!

Okay, so perhaps it's not every day you see one girl sitting on another girl's lap, but I'm here to tell you...it's spiritual! And it's not easy! Did you see how deep those back bends were? Can you imagine what might have happened, had we not anchored each other's hips squarely on the ground?

Given that the alternatives looked to be stalking kiddie hour at the pool, or spying on old ladies rolling around atop their big rubber exercise balls, I can understand your decision to stake out the yoga room.

But was the trenchcoat absolutely necessary?

Please. Next time? Come on in! If it's yoga you're interested in, we're happy to give you a lesson. We are certified teachers now. Haven't you heard?

Sincerely,

the gumby girls

hey that's my bike!

Because I have not yet consulted with my other blogging half, this is not an official This Island Life endorsement. However, Barack Obama has been SO BUSY doing incredibly thoughtful things for me lately that I really can't imagine voting for anyone else.

First, he warmed up my car. Next, he made me a mix tape. And finally, he folded me an origami crane, all while thinking I'm cute.

Really, what more can you ask for in a world leader?

This one time? At yoga camp?

So, we're still alive. Sometimes crawling and often complaining, but alive nonetheless.

Every morning on our way into Boston, (because we carpool, because we were guilted into it, because our yoga teacher guilts us into all kinds of earthy-crunchy things like reusing plastic utensils and not eating animals and homeschooling our unborn babies, etc.) every morning in between last-minute sanskrit cram sessions, we say to each other:

"Hey, remember that blog we started? What happened to that?"

Not in unison. That would be weird.

And then we shrug and promise to post tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe at the end of the week when we start to remember how to do things with our hands other than support various parts of our bodies that probably shouldn't be leaving the ground.

We say it's because we're tired.

And it is, kind of. But also? We're sort of stumped. Because it's easy to come home and write about little things we think are silly, or crack jokes about the ridiculous ways we occasionally spend our time.

What's hard is writing about something that's actually pretty amazing. Without sounding like we're looking to start a cult.

So, to sum it up in no uncertain terms:

We love yoga camp.

Now, if you'll excuse us, we have tempeh burgers to eat and secret societies to form.

two steps forward...

This morning, I found myself in the familiar predicament of having to use up a number of perishable items left hanging in the fridge for significantly longer than I am comfortable admitting.

Six of these items were eggs, and so I quickly decided on a frittata: This being breakfast, and the remaining leftovers being asparagus, half an onion, and about a third of a block of extra sharp cheddar cheese, it seemed the natural solution.

Perhaps less natural was my decision to prepare anything involving eggs at all. It is an undisputed (though untested) fact that a trained monkey could scramble an egg with more confidence and grace than I. And we won’t even go into the disastrous occasions on which I have brazenly attempted to fry an egg for a sandwich. Except to say again that they were disastrous. Disastrous cannot be over-emphasized in this context.

HOWEVER. After quickly scanning a few recipes, (and locating the broiler…right there at the top of the oven all this time! Who knew!) I dove right in, and am oh-so-thrilled to report that I DID IT! I FOUGHT THE FRITTATA AND I WON!



Not only did the end result actually in many ways resemble frittatas I have seen before, but it kind of tasted like one too!

* * *

In other news, Valentine’s Day happened. Little to report except for an incredibly romantic viewing of the animated classic “Surf’s Up”, during which the Boy drove me near-crazy oooohing and ahhhing at the enormous (cartoon) swell, and shouting things like “Sick!” each time the (penguin) protagonist barreled down the (computer-generated) tubes.

Which is not to say I didn’t find myself eventually joining in. Hey, those penguins surf circles around me.

I guess this growing-up is a gradual process. Right?

happy valentine's day

all grown up

I want to follow up about the book club that Alex casually mentioned in her last post. It's true. We are in a book club, and sometimes we even bring baked goods to our meetings. But, for all you readers out there, let me tell you, book clubbing is great fun.

Ours was born out of the desire to keep brain cells alive and social lives ablaze. So far so good. On Tuesday night, Alex and I, along with our friends Sara and Nili, got together to eat good food (ginger chicken, risotto and roasted veggies from Nili and a salad from Michael, plus those cupcake muffins), drink wine (something red) and discuss Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky.

Believe it or not, we do actually talk about the book during these meetings. Sometimes, Nili even brings a handout. All in all it is a great excuse to spend time with like-minded, intelligent, fun people. Plus, nothing makes me feel more grown up than drinking wine and discussing a book.

Our next selection is Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner. I have never read anything by this famed Faulkner but based on the enthusiasm of the other readers, I am looking forward to it. So much so that I tried to get it from the library yesterday morning, but they didn't have it. And of the SIX libraries on this little island, the only one that does carry this book happens to be the furthest library from my house. So, at the librarian's suggestion, I took advantage of this nifty little delivery service this network of island libraries concocted. Absalom, Absalom! will be delivered to the library nearest my house in 7-10 days.

While I drove home, quite satisfied with 2 books on photography, I began to wonder why on earth it is going to take 7-10 days for a book to get here from the other side of the island? I know I said it was coming from the furthest library away, but come on, that's all relative, we are on an ISLAND! I get mail from Denmark faster than that.

Not to mention 7-10 days puts me at a serious disadvantage in the reading game. This is a competitive book club. The first person to finish the book WINS. I take comfort in knowing that this book that is being delivered from one island library to the other, just for me, is the only free copy on all of Martha's Vineyard, and I plan to keep it for the whole two weeks. If you factor in the time it will take to deliver the book back to it's home library, I will pretty much be in possession of Absalom, Absalom! for the next month. So Sara, Nili and Alex, looks like you're going to have to go out and buy your copies.

Ok we are not really competitive readers. Au contraire, I didn't even finish the first book we read (Wuthering Heights). During the meeting I nervously asked questions about people being kicked out of book clubs. I was assured that I could stay, but to make up for it I read Suite Francaise in record time and then raved about it throughout Tuesday's meeting.

I leave you here to begin preparations for a romantical Valentine's dinner (chicken fajitas, rice and beans, in case you were wondering).

a lemon's a terrible thing to waste

Yesterday, as it was our turn to bring dessert to book club – yes, that’s what I said, book club – and Erin was eager to use up the seventeen pounds of lemons she had been hording in her fridge for various reasons unknown to the universe, we decided to dust off the old hairnets and do us some baking.

Originally, we were ambitious. Erin found this Lemon Cheesecake with Shortbread Cookie Crust recipe and we could already hear the accolades pouring in.

Until we realized that cheesecake is kind of hard to make. Also, time consuming. And since I wasn’t sure how much leisurely baking I’d be able to squeeze in between BOTH of the errands I had to run yesterday afternoon, we decided to go with these delicious, if minorly-muffinesque Orange-Chocolate Chip Cupcakes with Chocolate Frosting.

Now, the first question you are surely asking yourselves is:

“Just what is the difference between a muffin and a cupcake, anyway?”

No? That’s not the first question you’re asking? Well, maybe that’s because you already know the answer, and maybe, instead of being so smug and keeping all of that crucial culinary expertise to yourself, you could share the answer with the rest of us.

Because after comparing and contrasting countless recipes of both the cupcake and muffin variety…we still have no idea.

The SECOND question you are surely asking yourselves is:

“But what of all those lemons?”

(I know this because I understand what close and careful readers you all are. Nothing but nothing gets by you.)

Fear not. Because in addition to the rich, scrumptious chocolate frosting we whipped up, we decided to add a batch of, you guessed it, lemon frosting to the mix.

I know. True pioneers.

Now, it’s true that we only ended up using one and a half of the ten thousand lemons at our disposable.

Also true is the possibility that, had we been better “planners,” or maybe a bit more “creative,” we might have thought to substitute the orange zest in the cupcakes for lemon zest, thereby keeping these cupcakes in a single-citrus situation.

But sometimes you’ve just gotta trust your instincts. And yesterday, our instincts said:

"When life gives you lemons, only use a few of them, because who likes lemons that much any way?”

And it’s hard to believe, since our instincts have failed us so cleverly in the past -- like the time we decided the easiest way to make a quesadilla was obviously to pile some raw chicken between two gigantic tortillas in a pan, fry ‘em up for a minute or two, shimmy a spatula under there and pray for partial-accuracy –

But this time, muffins and mixed citrus madness aside, this time we did okay.


**WARNING**

Consumption of these cupcakes in mass quantities might lead a person to behave in ways other than she normally does, perhaps doing foolish things like letting the dog out at midnight in the middle of snow storm, especially when said dog is a WANDERING LUNATIC and decides to spend ALL NIGHT LONG chasing poor, defenseless bunny rabbits from here to the mainland.

So you can imagine, after a night of not-sleeping on the couch, how relieved/FURIOUS I was to find this goon, sheepishly prancing along the side of the road at 6:45 this morning:

Kramer's Karma

We know, it’s Monday. And Mondays were supposed to be yoga days. We realize we’re getting off to a slow start with this feature, and hereby promise to get our asses in gear soon.

Not next week, though. No. Next week we’ll be in Boston doing a teacher training. Listen, won’t you feel better reading about our harrowing yogic adventures knowing that we’re trained professionals? Obviously the only reason we’re putting ourselves in thousands of dollars of debt to stand on our heads and practice breathing is so we can blog about it afterwards. Duh.

Truth be told, this training situation is making us nervous. Not because of the reading requirements or the yoga itself, although six hours of daily yoga does sound a little intense. That’s like forty thousand downward facing dogs.

No, we’re nervous about a little thing we like to call the giggles.

It’s not like we don’t take this stuff seriously. Yoga is great, breathing is important, chakras matter, we get it. But we’ve had our share of…episodes, and on more than one occasion have each been on the verge of laughing so inappropriately that we almost peed our yoga pants.

First, there was our Bikram teacher, clearly trained at the Jerry Seinfeld School of yoga instruction. You know how Jerry had that less-than-endearing habit of laughing at every single one of his own jokes, about halfway through? Yeah. That’s what this guy did. Except they weren’t so much jokes as yoga poses. And we’ll tell you, there is absolutely nothing funny about standing on one foot and desperately trying to hold on to the other, raised five feet off the ground and angled awkwardly behind your head.

That is, there’s nothing funny until you make mirror eye-contact with your contorted friend rolling her eyes as Jerry chuckles away, causing you to topple forward and onto the mat of your disapproving neighbor.

Mirror eyes are deadly, and were also to blame that one time we thought we’d take a break from all of the sweating and try “gentle yoga.” Fortunately, our new teacher didn’t think yoga was funny. At all. In fact, she was so earnestly engaged and in love with each and every one of our individual body parts that she demanded we look in the mirror at our reflections, locate our shoulders and say, out loud:

“Wow! That’s my shoulder! Look at what my shoulder can do!”

Naturally, our eyes drifted from our incredibly capable and lovely upper arms to each other's faces, both near bursting from the strain of keeping it together. Five minutes of a self-imposed time-out later, during which we buried our heads in child pose, presumably overcome with gratitude and adulation for our limbs, we managed to compose ourselves and rejoin the class.

We think we’ve learned our lesson. But next week will definitely be a challenge, and we’d be lying if we said we're not secretly praying for a studio that's mirror-free.

Look what I ffffound!

Check it:
www.ffffound.com


Kind of like pandora for your eyeballs.

Birthday Peacock Suit.

Yesterday was Dudley's first birthday. To show off his budding maturity he ventured to the basement for the first time ever. We have no idea why, but until yesterday, Dudley, the dog who can not stand to be alone even for one millisecond, would suddenly lose his desire for human contact should the only available human be in the basement.

This house doesn't have a haunted vibe, if it did I would certainly have picked up on it by now, so I don't think Dudley was avoiding anything paranormal. It could just be that it is cold down there. I don't know, but in any case, he descended all 13 steps yesterday, in celebration of his first 365 days, just to watch me do laundry. He was probably a tad disappointed.

While we didn't exactly party till the break of dawn, I did bake him some peanut butter, oat, honey clusters. And then when he was exhausted from all the excitement of the basement and the peanut butter clusters, I made him pose (only for a minute) in his peacock costume.

You might be wondering why Dudley has a peacock costume, and well, it's because it was only $5 at Petco. And I thought it would be funny to have him wear it on New Year's Eve. That's why.

I bet the Dog Whisperer would have a thing or two to say about humans baking for their dogs and dressing them up. It probably sends the wrong message about the "being the pack leader" and would fall under the category of "humanizing" our pet. But...it was pretty damn cute. And it's not like I'm going to make a habit of it, OK Cesar?

I'd prefer not to.

In which Whiskey tolerates Venga, provided he never has to actually acknowledge her presence in any way.

Also, please note the candelabra-shaped lamp missing a shade in the background. This is what happens when you rent a house pre-furnished. Thank you.

regularly scheduled programming.

Apologies for the disappearing act. I took a quick trip to L.A., which, I have to say, wasn't one hundred percent punishment.




This little shopping mecca is pronounced, according to my mother, RO-deo. Like the cowboys. And why shouldn't it be, when it's home to stores like Gucci's, and Armani's? (Penney's must be somewhere close by. I'm guessing in the Valley.)



And any place that serves you grapefruit segments for breakfast, pre-scooped and looking as plump and delicious as these, can't be all that bad.

Back to island business soon, we promise!

Drawing the line.

Most people who choose to live here during the months that are not June, July or August have to get creative when it comes to making a living. That includes those of us with college degrees.

For about a month now I have been doing some errands, grocery shopping etc., for an elderly woman. Yesterday, I was out and about getting lunch for her and her live-in nurse and was being bombarded with phone calls from the nurse with various requests. Can you get some bananas? Sure. Can you get me 3 coconut macaroons? No problem. Two gallons of milk? You got it. Can you get me a baked potato and a do-it-yourself perm kit? Wait a second. Where am I supposed to get a baked potato?

During this succession of requests she slipped in a casual, “oh and can you pick me up a feminine wash?” Sure thing. I just wanted to get off the phone. And then I started to think, a feminine wash? What is that? And then very slowly... painfully, almost excruciatingly slowly, I realized that the nurse was asking me to buy her a douche.

First and foremost I called Adam, who made no attempt whatsoever to muffle his laughter. He also launched into a lengthy explanation about the risks of douching, but before I let myself think too deeply about why he even has this information, I had to remind him that I was not the one in the market for a douche or a do-it-yourself perm kit for that matter.

At first I had no intention of buying this “feminine wash” for her. I thought that I would make a silent yet strong statement in my refusal. Something like do not EVER ask me to buy you DOUCHE ever, ever again.

But then after trying 4 different places for the perm kit, I started to feel bad for the nurse. She is stuck in the house all day, she has no freedom and no escape and she can’t even perm her hair. The guilt got worse and worse so while in the grocery store (which was blissfully vacant) I went ahead and casually threw a box of Massengill in my basket. Then I made a bee-line to the register, pretended to be looking for something in my wallet when the cashier rang in the douche and thanked god that I didn’t see anyone I knew.

The douche, by the way, only cost $2.49, making it the most inexpensive commodity on this entire island. Which leads me to wonder if they just give douche away on the mainland?

Back at the house, as I unpacked the groceries the nurse immediately informed me that I got the wrong douche as well as the wrong Lysol. A little while later she let me know that her sandwich sucked to boot.

For reasons that I still don’t quite understand, I left that house, douche and the Lysoln in hand, with a halfhearted promise to exchange them for the preferred “cleaners”.

I still have both the douche and the Lysol. It takes a great deal of audacity to walk into a grocery store (on an island where everyone knows everyone) and try to exchange a douche. I guess I am not audacious enough. But I hate to see anything go to waste so I am trying to convince Adam to take the Massengill with him to his friend's house on Sunday (for the Superbowl) and nonchalantly leave it in the bathroom, just to see what happens. The Lysol I am keeping for myself.

For those of you still wondering, I haven’t decided whether or not I will buy the feminine wash for the nurse. It would probably be the nice thing to do, but it might also be my chance to draw that line. My decision depends heavily on the tone she uses with me next time we talk. That and whether or not she gets her hair permed.