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!