Ambrosial

Every now and then I agree to wax my mustache, slip on a dress, don a pair of painful (but beautiful!) heels, go to a nice restaurant, and feign being familiar with the wine offerings. These are the criteria of an adult female human, n’est-ce pas? Besides which, I have a bathroom full of makeup that needs rationalizing.

This week I went to Staplehouse for the first time, and it lived up to the hype. The service was great, the atmosphere was welcoming and comfortable, and the food was…delicious. Gah, delicious is so basic–what’s wrong with me? The food was mouthwatering and delectable. Heavenly? I don’t know, man. I’m not a food critic. The food was…ambrosial. The thesaurus says that means delightful. We’ve all learned a new word today. You’re welcome.

I ate liver, kids. Beautifully presented liver. And okra. Foods I had long since condemned. And I recommend those things to you. I recommend that you eat chicken liver. I don’t know who I am anymore. Actually, that’s not true. I’m the girl who put on a red lip, enjoyed some chicken liver and Beaujolais, and who’s now sitting on her couch in a robe eating Twizzlers. What can I say? I’m well-rounded.

If you happen to go to Staplehouse (or have already been) let me know what you think!

October

Life Tip: Do not binge-watch The Haunting of Hill House on Netflix, then go to a haunted house, then re-watch Paranormal Activity if you ever want to sleep again. I made that mistake yesterday. Still awake. Still a wreck.

Every October it becomes clear to me that I’m still the same eight-year-old who confidently and defiantly claimed that “scary movies/stories/haunted houses don’t scare me anymore” and the same eight-year-old who begged to sleep in her mom’s bed afterward. This is who I am. I’ll never change.

But it’s October, and haunted houses and horror movies are mandatory. I don’t make the rules. You know what else happens in October? The silly debate over whether candy corn is disgusting or not. And I think we can all agree that candy corn is disgusting–but in a wholly delicious way and if you don’t like it, you’re probably a serial killer or some other kind of horrible person, and I will be suspicious of you until the end of time.

If you live in/near Atlanta, you should check out Netherworld Haunted House. I go almost every year, and every time it’s still so f#$king terrifying! I mean–I’m a chicken so it doesn’t take much, but still. Highly recommend! Also watch The Haunting of Hill House, because it is phenomenal.

This Friday I’m going to Six Flags for Fright Fest and then maybe another scary movie, so I’ve stocked my place with enough wine to put a horse to sleep. And marshmallows. And candy corn. Like I said before, I don’t make the rules.

New Hobbies

This morning I woke up to an email from Sephora notifying me that I am $104 dollars away from Rouge status. And I thought, oh yeah! Rouge me up right nice, baby. And then, while opening up the Sephora app on my phone to see what was new, I thought, wait–rouge status is when you spend $1000 in a year…holy shit, I’ve spent almost $1000 in Sephora this year! Then, in the name of responsibility and accountability, I closed the app, showered and dressed…then went to Target.

In retrospect, going to Target was probably a bad idea, too. While at the store, I had the great idea to stock my kitchen with all the equipment I’ve ever read about in cookbooks: a food processor for all the soups and nut butters I envision myself making, a dutch oven for…things that have to be made in a dutch oven, a casserole dish because since the age of eight I’ve really been an eighty-five year old lady dreaming of baking delicious casseroles, a strainer because why don’t I already have one of those, a whisk, ramekins, garlic press…

I went a little overboard, but I do feel ready for anything now–the holidays, birthdays, game nights. Back in September I bought Chrissy Teigen’s second cookbook, and I’m excited to go through and try a bunch of stuff. I’m going to be a really good cook one day, guys. Even if it means that you, my friends, have to eat my subpar meals while I’m getting there.

Anyway, I’m on a self-imposed ban now from Sephora and Target. But, bright side, I’ll have a lot more time to become a domestic goddess. Hit me up if you want some homemade almond butter.

What I Did Do

I read four books this quarter. I didn’t even complete half of my goal of ten books. But, you know what I did do?

I hung out with my closest friends. I behaved like I was ten years old. I leaped off boats under a scorching sun and into cool waters. I made juvenile jokes and laughed at them myself. I drank Shiraz and woke up at eleven in the morning with pounding headaches. I drank champagne and woke up at eleven in the morning with pounding headaches. I drank rosé all day. I went to sleep when the sun came up. I forgot sunblock when I went stand-up paddle-boarding and didn’t worry once about crow’s feet. I made my friends laugh and got sore stomach muscles from laughing at their jokes. I skipped the mani and pedi. I spent twenty minutes on my winged eyeliner and eye shadow. I went four consecutive days without checking the news. I wore six-inch heels. I walked barefoot on wet grass and hot sand. I ate authentic Italian food and saw centuries-old art. I spoke in French. I cried. I volunteered. I committed. I swam at midnight. I ran at dawn. I test-drove a Lamborghini. I sailed a boat.

I did all the things you can’t do while you’re reading ten books.

Wine Ramblings

I just spent an hour and a half reviewing makeup on Sephora’s website. Turns out when I’ve had a glass or two (or three) of wine at 2pm in the afternoon, I really like to give my opinion on all the things. If you’re wondering, YSL’s Touche Eclat brightening pen did nothing for my under-eye circles after a night of drinking. Nothing.

Aside from that, I’m having quite a miserable day of unyielding allergy symptoms, and I’m torn on wanting April to pass to get rid of these allergies and wanting to remain in a month in Atlanta that isn’t unbearably hot. I don’t do well with sweltering weather and humidity. It’s bleak for me. But then again, I used to really like winter temperatures, and now I can’t even handle that. If I’m snowboarding or skiing–yes. If I’m minding my own business trying to get to work at 7am–no. Guys–just give me 65 degrees year-round, okay? I think that’s comfortable.

Oh, man. I’ve had so much wine that I don’t even know how I’ve reached the topic of weather. Onward.

At the top of the year, I made a goal to read forty books this year. That’s ten books per quarter. That seems ambitious, right? But that was after I talked myself down from fifty-two books for the year. One book per week. I mean, that’s pretty unrealistic, right? And then I had the argument with myself that I used to churn out book after book when I was ten years old. A book per day or every other day when I was in fifth grade. On summer break. This is how irrational the conversations I have with myself are. Like…I’m holding myself to practices I utilized when I was ten? Maybe I want to make sure I store my Barbies away really neatly, too.

Guys…I don’t have Barbies anymore. I also don’t have unlimited time to read books, though I’d like to! So forty per year is what I believe is a fair but challenging goal. Currently, I’m on my twelfth book: T is for Transformation by Shaun T. I love Shaun T. I wouldn’t say I’m a Stan. But I am a fan. See how good I am with the slang, still? Hashtag: young.

I typically don’t like books about people’s personal accounts of abuse and trauma. I still don’t. To be honest, I kinda skip the parts that are too heavy. I’m a lightweight about those things. I mean, it’s hard enough to deal with my own baggage and not become entirely hardened without reading about someone else’s. I consider this a personality flaw. I should be able to take in others’ life experiences without becoming angry or depressed, I think. Sometimes I’m able to. Other times…I’m working on it.

I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m reading Shaun T’s T is for Transformation, and I’m really inspired by it. I’ll let you know how it goes.

You know what’s weird? How you get really used to autocorrect while texting, and then you write on a blogging platform that doesn’t correct your mistakes. Apologies in advance. Maybe learn from my mistakes and don’t have three glasses of wine at lunch.

Toilets & Adulthood

Do you know how much a toilet costs? No–a good toilet. A lot more than you’d expect to pay for something you poop in, let me tell you. My feeling is that the only toilet worth five hundred dollars is a toilet that I don’t have to clean–a self-cleaning toilet, if you will. But according to the folks at Home Depot, “that kind of toilet doesn’t exist,” and according to Lowe’s, “You’re probably thinking of a housekeeper, girl.” But am I? I’ve had a lot of wine, but I think I still know the difference between a self-cleaning toilet and a housekeeper. One of those options a housekeeper doesn’t have to clean. Also–me. I don’t have to clean it either.

Anyway. There is such a thing as a self-cleaning toilet, but it costs more than $500, and I don’t really trust that it’s self-cleaning. Like…am I really not going to clean my toilet? Ever? That sounds like a set-up.

Ugh.

You know how you’re twelve and you’re lounging in the backyard daydreaming of all the ways being an adult would be amazing? Then twenty years later you actually become an adult, and you spend a good portion of your weekly paycheck on silk pillowcases to prevent crow’s feet AND come to the realization that the rest of your paycheck will have to eventually go a self-cleaning toilet that you will still have to clean?

No one prepped me for this part of adulthood.

Also, it’s been more than two years and I still don’t know all the French words. WTF.