photo heavy

I find it so much easier to blog when my life is boring. When I start doing things like going out of town for the weekend, I lose the ability to blog. I mean, who wants to read and me & my friends sitting around having a good time?

Based on the pictures, you would think that the weekend was spent crafting wedding invitations.



Dear Lis is one of the FOUR people I know getting married this August. Remember how I said that no one else I know can get married this August? And how there were three friends getting married? Now there are four. I'm serious now.

But, it turns out I'm an excellent paper folder. It's all those years of library volunteer work. It was very satisfying to fold & glue and chat with Miss August Fifth, seen here with the fruits of our labor:



After the invitations came a by-the-seat-of-our-pants batchelorette party for Miss August Fifth and Miss August Tenth that involved being the youngest people in a bar, dancing to a cover band and rocking out in a style unusual for us as a gang. Then we stayed up till 4 am, with both batchelorettes 100% sober.

When we get together for these holiday weekend reunions, we tend to go to the grocery store a LOT. At least twice a day. The local Safeway saw quite a bit of us this weekend. There was the time when Lis chatted up the cute little old men veterans handing out fake poppies. The time when Laurel bought Kleenex just because she needed $50 in cash. The time when we couldn't find the bubbly water for Laurel. The time we actually bought food for dinner (nachos, tomato soup, salad). The time we couldn't find film for Laurel. Well, it just took a while.

There was also the incident with the broken glass. See, Toni broke a glass. And we thought she cleaned it up. But what she really did (this was around 3 am) was carry it to the garbage can and sprinkle tiny shards on the rug in front of her sink. So that when I did the dishes the next morning, I kept stepping on glass. So Lis swept. And I kept stepping on it. And then we figured it out.

Then I drove home on Monday and lo, the sun came out and it was beautiful. And there was a turkey dinner at my parents, with a vat of mashed potatoes and a crock pot of gravy. And it was good.



And there was much wine, and many side dishes, and three birthday cakes, and one birthday pie.



And a Western Hero Indian Warrior Set, which I modeled. The end.

brighton beach

A rock for show & tell. I was completely stumped when I learned this week's subject was "a rock." Because I have no interesting rocks. I was trying to think of interesting ways to shoot the rocks around the garden when I remembered this little guy. He hasn't really seen the light of day in four years, having been imprisoned in my raincoat pocket. I picked him up on Brighton beach in 2002, while I sat on the shore & ate fish & chips. And just never managed to take him out of my pocket until now. Also featured is a French lavendar that a Sunday Schooler left behind when we were doing herbs for Mother's Day.  

who knows where thoughts come from, they just appear

I really should go to bed but instead I'm watching Empire Records. Apparently we are special fans because this is the Special Fan Edition. I'd forgotten how much time they spend dusting the place. Oh, it's so high school (not the dusting, the whole thing).

Damn the man.

I finished Human Croquet. Now I want to play human croquet, although we don't have enough people. Pity. Maybe Monday. (Which, according to the news, should be "dry enough for a barbecue!" You know you're in Portland when that's the leading story.)

Now I'm trying The Eyre Affair. I've got Summerland and Headlong waiting for me on the shelf.

Coming up: Jessmonster has a weekend! A whole two days in a row off! Sunday AND Monday! My only weekend until...oh, God knows when. Maybe August when I get a week's vacation. I'm gonna celebrate by 1) hitting the open road 2) catching up with the girls and 3) eating turkey & giving thanks with my family. Wrong holiday? No. It's just the 4th Annual Turkey Dinner in May.

my cross to bear

I'm thinking of taking up Kate's challenge with the scones and testing out a recipe of my own - hers were indeed too much on the cakey side. Naturally, like Kate I've been reading recipe reviews on Epicurious. Does anyone actually follow the recipe? Is that a fad that's gone by the wayside? Do we all just look up recipes online so that we can make something totally different but review that recipe anyway? I'm thinking of making these. But, I'm going to completely change all the flavorings - perhaps turn them into a mascarpone cheese torte instead, with essence of orange flavored cranberry and lime drizzled over the top. And instead of using half and half, I'll use orange juice. Instead of flour, I will decimate a young coconut and use my teeth to combine it with the butter.

In all seriousness, though, my favorite review is the one that says, "the only thing I did was change the half and half to non-fat half and half because everyone was talking about how fattening it was."

Excuse me while I piece back together my exploded brain.

1) Non-fat half and half. Such a thing cannot possibly exist, can it? If you take out the "half" that is cream, you are left with just milk. It would be like non-fat milk. The definition, the very essence of half and half is the FAT. It is there for a reason. First, milkfat is delicious. Second, it is useful to our bodies.

2) Do not eat a scone if you are worried about the fat content. In fact, if you're going to try subsisting on low fat anything, you might as well just die now and get it over with. Okay?

closest thing to rain

Last night there was thunder, and then it sprinkled, and then lots of lightning, and a bit more rain, and we picked up Annie to go out for dessert, and then somewhere on Burnside it felt like the car was hit by a tsunami. We could barely see out the windows, the streets were enormous puddles with water leaping up onto the sidewalks, sheets of water were pouring off the buildings. And we were all wearing skirts and our most un-sensible shoes. I always wear sensible shoes. For some reason, I thought last night would be a good time to break in the wedding shoes. Thankfully it slowed to a heavy rain by the time we got to Kitri's apartment, but she did get her toes gritty in the process of leaping across the broad river that was the gutter. It was like the Oregon Trail game, where you have to ford the river and lose two oxen, a wagon, three sacks of flour, and one small child.

Today the house smells of wet dog and presently Annie will come over and we'll go for coffee and perhaps discuss further plans for our naming business. As Annie said, we'll have a cozy office with tea and I shall read aloud from the Prologue while Annie takes notes. Splendid.

Also, the rain just makes me want to curl up on the couch with a book. It's the perfect thing for a rainy day.

Twenty-one years ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to find my parents gone and my world upside down. The next day, this little thing was brought home and I immediately began mocking her tiny baby hands. It was rough there for a while, but we still keep her around. Fittingly, Q just met a baby sister of her own. Welcome to the club, kid.  

interrupted to bring you tidings of great joy

Sal tagged me, and since she's irresistable, here goes:

I AM: creaky in my joints like a little old woman.

I WANT: a massage. Pure and simple.

I WISH: cups of coffee stayed hot while I write letters.

I HATE: my uniform shorts with their lovely rubbery waistband.

I MISS: taking the train from London to tramp around England.

I FEAR: I am not as clean and tidy as I'd like to think I am.

I HEAR: cars. And, if I lift my finger to turn it back on, the melodious voice of Josh Ritter.

I WONDER: what Q's sibling - no, SISTER - will be named.

I REGRET: not eating more cheese when I was in France and more gelato when I was in Italy.

I AM NOT: good on the phone.

I DANCE: best in my own living room.

I SING: along in a nutty voice.

I CRY: over books.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: right. I know, shocking, isn't it?

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: half-finished quilts, hats that don't fit, and cookies.

I WRITE: letters sitting on the couch.

I CONFUSE: myself.

I NEED: lunch.

I SHOULD: turn the music back up after I turned it down to answer my phone & get baby news.

I START: cleaning and get distracted.

I FINISH: anything chocolate.

is it friday yet?

How is it that I have the energy to get up, go for a three mile walk with a dog pulling at my arm, unload the dishwasher, reload it, sweep the kitchen floor (okay, it's about two square feet, but still), clean off the counters, and fix breakfast, but then I can't manage to pry myself off the chair to go take a shower? Eh.

I finished A Thread of Grace a couple days ago, and I think my favorite part about it (and this will sound so so wrong) was the way she killed off characters. But you know? Some books set during wars are so predictable. The sweetheart will be killed, but not till close to the end. It will all build up to it. Like Cold Mountain (which I also happened to love) where you KNOW he will die - but of course not until the end. But in this one, you'd get an air raid and a stray bullet and torture and what have you - all spread out. Characters you were attached to and others that were on the side. Characters you thought would pull through. But real life isn't as well plotted, usually, as fiction - and that made the deaths feel so much more real. Also, I was pleased to see how much foul Italian language I remember.

Now I'm on to Human Croquet, which, I feel, should have a cover that has something to do with croquet. I like Kate Atkinson's wandery feel and her sense of time.

It is also time for Baby Watch 2006 - three women from church about to pop. As of yesterday, there were increased rumors of Q's mama being in labor. However, God only knows how much time will pass between the appearance of an actual baby and any phone calls to let people know. They might wait days just to torture us. I want to get my hands on that baby.

Also, I have Pomp & Circumstance stuck in my head and I would like to share it with you. No thanks necessary.

for some reason this picture gets the song "sunrise, sunset" stuck in my head. 

Perfidy...Pea...*

We ran this morning. I feel like my muscles should make squeaky noises when I move.

Did you know that it's incredibly beautiful out at 6:30 am? It is. And cool enough to run. And there are lots of baby geese out on the pond in Oaks Bottom. And the air has a hint of swamp in it. And if I weren't running it would have been really really enjoyable. Okay, I admit that I like the after-effects of running, the endorphins and the muscles, the sense of accomplishment. But I would've liked to stroll and take some pictures.

Yesterday at work (library) I got to thinking about fairy tales. I adored fairy tales as a child - we had a well worn copy of the Brothers Grimm and I read my way through all the colors of Andrew Lang's collections. I watched every video of Faerie Tale Theatre that the library owned. Then I got sick of them. They seemed boring and repetitive and their magic was a false magic.

Then, somehow, I got back into them. I like the old-fashioned kind, where there is blood and gore and heartbreak. Where the Grandmother gets eaten and the parents die and heels are cut off. I also like the sharp new versions, where the characters have rapier wits and the illustrations are splendid and the details are all just so. (I abhor the soft focus, the characters without character, the dumbing down, the too-happy ending, the constant flow of tomboy princesses (they are legion), the unexamined cliche.)

I was covering Lauren Child's new version of The Princess and the Pea when it occurred to me that TPATP is perhaps really my favorite fairy tale. It's not too overdone, you know? It's still nice and juicy when you cut it open. There is no commercialized image, no tie-in toy. There is endless opportunity for wit and mockery.

It happens to be one of my favorite of the Faerie Tale Theatre productions, proving funnier as an adult than it was as a child. If you haven't seen it (or any of the FTTs) what are you waiting for?

My whole TPATP renaissance really started with Mini Grey's version. The characters have eyes like peas. They garden. They have fabulous vegetable print wallpaper. The pea whispers to the princess (who's really the gardener's daughter) to say she slept poorly. I am in love. Also with Lauren Child's which has cut-out characters against a doll-house scale set and a real princess. And a smart prince. And great fabric.

*Despereaux's cry as he is banished to the dungeon and the rats.

"we take the guess work out of naming your child!"

In the course of several emails with Annie about the production of children, saints names of recent days (did you know there's a Venerable Dodo?) and raw milk, I found myself consulting our friend Sally and came across this little delight: "But modern man is highly peripatetic..."

First of all, this creates a spiffy mental image of Modern Man roaming the globe, unable to sit down and drink a cup of coffee in peace because he Must Keep Walking. Kind of like a super hero, eh? He would have "MM" stitched on the back of his Columbia all-weather jacket, his swift feet would ascend mountains and cross plains effortlessly. He would eat on the go, but they would be wholesome meals.

Ahem. Secondmost, the word peripatetic is one that only joined my vocabulary three brief years ago, in my senior seminar on that rascal Byron and that bore Wordsworth. In fact, I think one of my classmates wrote his entire seminar paper on peripateticism and B&W. (Is that a word? It is now.) Oh, B&W! How I miss them! Believe it or not, I still have fond memories of spending most of spring break in the library doing research. We took over a room and went to town. We brought in carts of books. Food, even though it was expressly forbidden. We read entertaining bits of research aloud to each other. Our professor would drop by and take us on walks around the campus to discuss in what direction our work was taking us.

I do some of my best thinking when walking. Unfortunately, at the moment I'm sitting at my kitchen table and not doing some of my best thinking and not quite remembering what my whole point was. Let's try to sum up:

1. New super hero: Modern Man.
2. I like the word peripatetic. And what it means.
3. I have disturbingly fond memories of doing research.
4. I never get tired of discussing names.
5. Walking is good. So is running, even if the effects of my run this morning have already worn off, leaving behind only stiff legs.

next time

How could I have forgotten to write about this yesterday?

It is Saturday night. There's a big table of us at an ale house, having farewell drinks & dinner with a coworker who is leaving us (sob) to go across town where my mom happens to work. The ale house is crowded, there are other big tables with families and birthday parties, the place is loud, the waitresses are running around and charging us for the wrong things. We're talking, we're laughing, some of us are talking about work, some of us are doing everything we can to avoid talking about work, some of us are playing pool.

Towards the end of the evening, after part of the group has left and we're working on divvying up the tab, a wizened little old woman approaches the table and looks right at Brooke, the now dearly departed. "It's been a pleasure listening to you," she says in a hard voice that indicates the opposite of pleasure. Brooke gapes at her, and I'm sure I gaped at her, wondering, "what will she say next?"

"Next time, stay home!"

We all came up with a lot of good comebacks later, but we were all too stunned as she turned her heel and walked out the door. I'm pretty sure I gave her one of the signature jessmonster stares, but for once it didn't seem like enough of a gesture.

Oh little old woman with your heart of stone! Leave us be!

return of the shorts

Currently 91 degrees. Finishing up a batch of potato salad with buttermilk dressing (making it, not eating it). Windows are closed, blinds are down, I'm pretending it's not really this hot outside and that I don't have to presently put on a polyester outfit and drive to work. And SHORTS. They are so embarrassing, but to not wear them is foolish when I get to work in a stuffy warehouse.

And I am all into A Thread of Grace.

The end.

for my mom. it's too bad I don't have any of the pictures of my dad as a baby because I am the spitting image. scary. 

sunday

Confession from yesterday: the flowers I gave my mom came from work and were completely free. The one perk from working the manic Saturday before Mother's Day. We were awash in flowers.

Chicken basil sausages cooked on the grill. Potato salad. Desserts from Papa Haydn. Being teased by my family for dropping lemon tart on my skirt. Looking at old family photos for the hundredth time and talking about who got which nose and whose coloring and whose arms. Whose ARMS! Our gratitude for escaping great-great-grandmother Dora's nose. This is how my family spends the evening.

a you-know-what

Kate and I are sprawled in the living room, faithful dog Mollie on the floor at our feet.

"I feel like a you-know-what," I say, mindful of Mollie's ever-alert ears.

"An ice cream bar?" Kate asks.

"Um, a you-know-what," I say again, eyeing Mollie significantly, "although I wouldn't say no to an ice cream bar."

"Oh," she says. "I was just thinking about how I wanted an ice cream bar and I assumed you meant the same thing."

Mission? Accomplished.

i hope it's already too late

I had this weird spell of nausea this morning which compelled me to curl up in a blanket on the couch saying, "this will pass" and wondering if it was a psychosomatic manifestation of all the little things I'd woken up worrying about. I pulled out my book, thinking it would distract me from my woes. Naturally I was just at the part in A Thread of Grace where the German doctor is confessing to the priest about all the atrocities he's participated in and one feels overwhelmed by the magnitude of the evils people bring on each other and THEN of course the doctor becomes nauseated himself and throws up. You know, basically the perfect thing to read at the moment. So I shut the book and shut my eyes and proceeded to imitate Mollie and powernap.

Which got rid of my nausea problem but for some reason wasn't very effective with the needing to replace the battery in my car problem. Which, why not? Why can't napping solve problems like that? I keep making tiny gestures in the direction of getting a new battery, like going to the auto parts store and saying, "this is the kind of car I have and this is the kind of battery currently in it, please sell me a new one so my car will start again." And they say, "there are several kinds, we would need to test them in your car" and I feel reluctant to have my car towed anywhere (towed! because of a battery!) but is that what needs to happen? And the people I call who are mechanics or aspiring mechanics do not return my phone calls. Oh well. Maybe another nap would do the trick? Or a walk to the grocery store for some oranges?

Q is skeptical.

on the phone: a photodocumentary

  

Note: Mollie barked furiously at the woman with the stroller. She keeps watch by the window. Coffee courtesy of the Mug of Ugliness. Flowers courtesy of Trader Joe's. Facial expressions courtesy of one eight hundred apple cares and the apple store.

why do we remember the past, and not the future? [Edited for BabelBabe]

While I count down the days until I find out if UW wants me to stay in Portland or move north, here's what I can recall of my high school reading lists:

Freshman Year

Teacher: the man built like a floppy daddy-long-legs, who covered the classroom walls with pictures of Germany and van Gogh's sunflowers, who loved Cancer Ward and Ken Kesey, who made us learn - and I mean really learn - vocabulary. Fifteen words a week? Twenty? Spoiler: he makes a reappearance junior year, and doubles the number of vocab words per week. I might mix up books between these two years.

Cold Sassy Tree. Why? It was decent but not all that great. I think ALL the freshmen had to read this, not just our lucky ducky honors English class. I can't imagine Mr. S picking this one on his own.

The Chosen.
Perhaps the foundation for all my ability to discuss themes in literature. I went on to read every single book I could find by Chaim Potok, and Bronwen and I have to been known to converse about becoming "the Chaim Potok of Orthodoxy." Mean, of course, Christian and not Jewish Orthodox.

A Tale of Two Cities. Ah, the French Revolution! Bastille Day! It is a far, far greater thing...

My mind is a complete blank on what the hell else we read that year. I think that was the year I did my big paper on Pride & Prejudice.

Sophomore Year

Teacher: one of the best teachers I've met. We read a huge variety of books, we tore them apart and put them back together, we did creative writing and real analytical writing. I could argue with him fiercely about a point I was trying to make in a paper. He had us organize a Heroes' Banquet at one student's house at which we, I kid you not, dressed up like real or fictional people who we thought of as heroes, and performed elaborate skits about our characters. My God, we got SO into that. I was Don Quixote. I have a group picture from the occasion.

The Odyssey. I am forever grateful for this because I certainly wouldn't pick it up on my own but it turns out that it makes for great discussion (was Odysseus really a hero? Or just a big jerk?) Plus, now my ears are attuned to mentions of wine dark seas and such, and it even made Joyce's Ulysses bearable.

Lord of the Flies. I blame this book for several years of disliking the color pink. Enough said.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I was always a sucker for Arthurian legend stuff - plus I believe I recall being in a play of the same story in middle school.

Cat's Eye (or was this senior year?) Either way, it got me reading Margaret Atwood.

The Great Gatsby. I've been meaning to reread this for ages - it seemed so perfect at the time. But I can't read any other Fitzgerald because the man only has one story to tell. I tried, believe me.

Junior Year: Mr. S makes a reappearance, with increased vocabulary. I perfect the art of "using the word in a sentence" by creating the most elaborate & unlikely sentences possible with the help of a dictionary of names. I've never looked back.

As I Lay Dying. And we all felt like the title was referring to US.

The Grapes of Wrath. Eh. Give me Travels for Charlie any time.

My Antonia. SORRY! Geez. I just remember stuff about fields and maybe a boarding house? And how to pronounce Antonia. I have neutral feelings towards Willa Cather, but then this is the only book of hers that I've read. I SUPPOSE I should read more, but with the reading lists you bloggers are throwing at me these days? No time!

Senior Year: Sweet Ms. A who always had a pencil in her hair and let us read contemporary literature and died a couple years ago of some unsuspected brain thing, leaving behind twins in grade school. It's so cheesy & trite but I wish I could send her a thank you for her part in turning me into someone with a BA in English.

The Kitchen God's Wife. Excellent tear-jerker.

A Prayer for Owen Meany. Okay, picture a classroom full of seniors who've been given time to read. Picture dorky 17 year old Jessmonster with Owen Meany in hand. Now, I'm known for the way I crack up while reading and startle other people in the room. Owen Meany practically had me in tears. I think there were points where the whole class stopped reading to watch me read. And the ones who weren't as far along as I was were wondering what on earth would happen next. I happened to finish the book in class, and that definitely drew some attention, although I wasn't laughing by that point.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles. For such a depressing, fatalistic story, we managed to get a lot of good laughs out of it. Crumby, anyone?

I know there are more and it's driving me up the wall that I can't remember them. You see, is why I obsessively note down all the books I read these days. Records, people, records.

blessed are the cheesemakers

Kate just broke my blogger's block by, as it were, spoon-feeding me topics. "I should blog," I say. "but I don't know what to say." "Check out the operation on the counter," she says. "And maybe take a picture. I don't know, it's up to you."


Need a close up?


I now live with a cheesemaker. A cheese/yogurt/kefir/buttermilk making crazy woman with laptop deprivation.

Blessed are the cheesemakers, for they shall obtain mercy. And have their laptops returned unto them.

I happen to think that The Cheesemakers would be a great band name, with their first album being Blessed Are the Cheesemakers. And maybe a song called "Mercy." Or something like that. Maybe I've just been influenced too much by King Dork (which, if your name is Joe or Joey and you happen to be related to me, you must read. The rest of you can read it, too.)

In other news, Kate has been taking out her withdrawal on poor Mollie. It's a love/hate thing.





And now that Mollie is eight, Kate finally threw a party for her and Kitri, since they share birthdays. But Mollie wasn't allowed to have any of the cake or the gourmet snacks or the wine. It was rough, especially since Kitri was allowed more treats than Mollie. The rest of us lived it up, too.

And some of us, after a mere six hours sleep, staggered out of bed to teach Sunday School. At which I almost died laughing over the kids deciding who was going to marry who when they grew up.

"You're too wild, John," said Rachel. "I'm going to marry Elijah."

"But the boy is the one who asks! Girls aren't supposed to ask people to marry them," protested the boys.

I bit my tongue at this point to see what would come out of their mouths next.

Retorts Rachel: "But I can say no!"

spring, park, almost three. 

little blonde munchkin of a god-daughter, about to enter the oldest child club. when i get a call from their number i now wonder "is k in labor or asking me to distract q while she gets things done?" so far just the latter. 

rosy rosy cheeks 

keys to the kingdom

Before I show & tell you my keys, I have to show you my shot glass, which was a Christmas present and has lately been put to good use.

What? You didn't know I like to do shots?



I would offer to let you guess what's in there, but I honestly believe no one would ever guess. Kate poured some in at, oh, 9 o'clock this morning and boy was it tasty.

See? You can't. Just give up. It's bacon grease. Don't worry, we weren't doing shots of it. It's just a very convenient holding space for the grease, inbetween its life with the bacon and its life with the French toast.

Also, I love that it's a shot glass/measuring spoon (measuring glass?) with all the delightful connotations that offers of a slightly lush baker. Except that I often forget I own it when I'm baking and it would come in handy.

Okay, my keys in their natural habitat (the bookshelf by the front door).



And a book update:

I love reading classics for the first time as an adult. It's an entirely different world than reading them as a kid or for a high school class. Those early reads are tinged with a sweet nostalgia and all the memories of your first impressions and are dear to your heart. But finding things as an adult? And having that delicious suspense of unfolding a story that's been read thousands of times by others but is completely fresh to you? That happened to me when I finally got around to reading (and appreciating) Tolkien. And George Eliot. And now A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Which, apparently, people are forced to read in high school? Not that there's anything wrong with being forced to read good books in high school, quite the opposite, but reading on your own gives a book so much more freshness and newness and you could imagine you're the first to read it. You don't know how it will turn out. But it's different than reading a newly published book, even one that's come highly recommended. That doesn't have quite the same perfect balance of new and old.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the books we were made to read in high school. I might try to work up a little list and come back with some thoughts on it...

tell me i got here at the right time

It's May. The azalea outside my window is in hot pink bloom. I've got a slice of fresh bread with butter and honey and a cup of (here the image gets shot to hell) tepid coffee. In the oven is a chocolate sour cream bundt cake. This morning I arose, consulted the internets, showered, went to the Four Seasons to acquire bittersweet chocolate (which I always imagine to have been moistened with someone's bittersweet tears), and began baking. If you've ever seen me around chocolate and/or cake batter, you know what a mighty feat it was for me to sit down to bread & honey before licking the bowl clean. And what a bowl! (also at that link to Kate's blog you can see her version of The Shoes, in green, and a link to a site for anyone who needs a good t-shirt, a good cause, or wants to show their love of coffee - okay, I made it easy, I gave you the link myself.)

This is the first time I've used a stand mixer since I was in 4-H in middle school (let that be my belated Sunday confession) and I still have mixed feelings about it. It's great! Because you can wander around and clean up in 30 second intervals between each addition of egg! And the superior power, etc. etc. But! I find it damned obnoxious getting additional ingredients in and out - lots of spilling on the counter, brushing the other bowls (it being a 3 bowl recipe) against the raised beater, etc. The eggs did drop in nicely, though...

Anyway, the cake is for a coworker's birthday (as Kate commented, I seem to bake for a hell of a lot of coworkers' birthdays, but this is the last one for a good long time. Except, oops, I seem to recall telling someone at non-library job that he'd get cupcakes for his birthday...and I think it might be this week. Oh well. Between Kate's stand mixer and my brand spanking new Kitchenaid 9-speed hand mixer, I'm in business. Anyone else? Better speak up now.

Do other people celebrate birthdays as obsessively at work as we do at the library? We've got this elaborate system where you sign up for a date (with no name attached, but those who've been there for ages know them all fairly well) and then get a name and a list of what that person likes - favorite treats, colors, flowers, gift ideas. We each do one a year. Then we select new people the next year. It works out well and gives us a regular sugar kick in the breakroom. At my other job, it's very informal...one girl brought me a cake on my birthday last year, so I brought cupcakes for hers, but there's no system. Partly because there's about a hundred people who work there, and because most people leave the building in the line of duty each day, making parties tricky.

Is anyone else watching Texas Ranch House on PBS? I've caught bits and pieces...nothing beats a PBS reality show in entertainment value.

For Di's sake, I tore myself away from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (hours by in mere moments when it's in my hands - it does seem like a page turner but somehow manages to BE one) to take pictures of my NEW SHOES. I'm really excited about them, can you tell? Guess what? I never used to be into shoes. Take 'em or leave 'em. I wore them, naturally, but I didn't drool or gush or spend much of my hard-earned cash on them. Then I got this Dansko addiction. And now - heels. Which I haven't worn in years. I've forgotten how to walk in them. But this pair - comfy. And, you know, cute. 

Here is a sneak peak of my outfit for Kate's wedding.