Snowed in

Finally, a snowstorm to be proud of.















Perfect for making progess on my bread-baking goals







Whole wheat dough,
on the rise






And taking my domestic nerdiness to new heights.






Embroidery, courtesy of Sublime Stitching's Camp-Out! collection

Divison of labor

When Husband and I got married, we thought we had it all figured out. He would do the dishes, and I’d take the laundry. Done! Marital strife averted. And with newlywed glee and an easy apartment, it was nearly enough.

But a little over a year later we bought a house, and cleaning clothes and dishes became a treat when faced with taxes, home repairs, and lawn care.

In a fit of fear and frustration, I made a list. Under my name I wrote the things that were mainly my responsibility: managing money/paying taxes, cleaning, household upkeep and decor (yes, I actually used those words), and planning vacations. Husband got household repair, outdoor upkeep, errand running, and pet maintenance.

I actually called Husband at work to discuss this. I remember pleading with him to take something, and he agreed to take on vacation planning.

Now when I find that list I laugh. It wasn’t funny then – I remember being near tears – but we’ve reached a place where we both feel more comfortable with our responsibilities. And our approach continues to evolve – Husband really takes the lead on cooking, to the point where I feel like I’m losing my skills. But there’s nothing like arriving home to Husband cooking dinner, offering to make me a drink as I read the mail and unwind.

Yes, we’ve got it all figured out.

That is, until a baby throws it all to hell.

Half-marathon

Miles 1-4. Hmm. Don't know if I can do this.
Mile 5. Subconsciously speed up in anticipation of half-way point. Get light-headed. Swear.
Mile 6.5 About frigging time.
Miles 6.5-8 La la la...
Mile 8 Gu gel! Mmm, tangerine.
Miles 8-10 Sugar high.
Mile 10 Big frigging hill. The "You could just stop" demon starts whispering seductively in my ear.
Mile 11 Seriously doubt viability of marathon.
Mile 12 Hurrah! Promise myself that in just nine minutes I never have to run again.
Mile 12.8 Walk very steep, short hill. Break into run and pass those who ran up the hill. See you, suckers! Spy finish line blocks away but quell excitement in case a mirage.
Mile 13.1 Finish line! Eat that!
Mile 13.2 Difficulties fade in warm glow of success and central heating. Thoughts turn excitedly to upcoming marathon.

My capacity

NAME CHANGE
I think I should change my blog name to "My Capacity for Self-Preservation" because as much as Husband runs into trouble and mayhem, I stave off embarrassment and trouble. And then we could have his 'n' hers blogs, and how cool would that be.

GROWING OLD
I really dread the day when I will have to change my profile to say "late twenties" or god forbid, "early thirties."

ADVENTURE
At all points in time I am simultaneously working on goals in the following categories:
-Self improvement (health, mind, skills, personal growth)
-Relationships (friends, family, Husband)
-Career
-Home (improvement, decor/upkeep)

And as things happen, the goals shift in relative importance to one another.
For example: Friend EC comes to happy hour with Sex and the City-esque tales of hijinks.
Thus: Home improvement goals fall; ADVENTURE goals rise.

Grassy

Remember when my cats were destroying my plants, and I grew them grass, but they eshewed it?

Apparently, like children, they need to try it many times before discovering that they like it.

Or maybe they needed Sylvester to show them how it's done.

Cadbury eating from a Chia cat grass garden, a Christmas present from my brother.

But really, I think they started eating it because they knew how much I would enjoy adding yellow and cartoon figures to my living room decor.

Canoodling

The New York Times has an homage to the inventor of the ramen noodle, who died Friday.

The cafeteria at my university in Japan served something called "Stamina Ramen," which I thought was the ramen equivalent of the monster cookie, but apparently contains pork, garlic, and leeks.

I always wondered if it was supposed to be for test-takers or runners, but I secretly hoped it was for lovers.

Peace Rally Tuesday

There is a peace rally in my neighborhood every Tuesday. As I speed up the highway exit, there they are, handmade signs, kids, sometimes a dog, just a half dozen of them, really. They tilt their cardboard peace signs at me. There is no call to action -- just "PEACE."

And I think, every week, as I creep up to make a right turn on red, "WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?"

Still, I wonder.

Every Tuesday.

PEACE.

5 things

5 things you [most likely] don't know about me, courtesy of Kloumr:

1. When asked as a kid what I wanted to be, I'd say that I wanted to be a mother. With 10 kids. [2.] By age 14 I'd subscribed to Ms. and delivered a speeches on feminism to my English class and abortion to my health class.
3. In 4th grade our teacher taped a group of us talking to illustrate some topic to the class. Bored with our assigned discussion topic, I began talking about why I hated our teacher, forgetting that the video would soon be played in front of the whole class.
4. My brother used to tease me as a kid by telling me that I'd been in one of those naked-baby-sitting-in-the-tire Michelin tire commercials. I'd get upset, and apparently my mom found it funny, because while she wouldn't confirm it, she wouldn't deny it, either.
5. I had my first ever can of Diet Coke this year.

Booby

SECRETS
Anyone who knows me at all knows that I enjoy the things we don't usually talk about - the things beyond how your week went or how work is going, the things that we don't necessarily offer up -- in some cases, because we're never asked.

Inspired by my friend with the 5'4 red-haired boyfriend, I picked up my journal again after months of neglect. After engaging in some talk of secrets this weekend at a get-together, I decided to list every secret that I could think of. When I was done, I realized 2/3 of the secrets were about other people. I can only conclude:

1. I am boring.
2. I am too chicken to commit my secrets to paper, where they could potentially be read someday.

You decide.

Either way, should probably find a better hiding place for the old journal. Cause damn, I know some good dirt.

LIMITED IMAGINATION
I realized this weekend that when friends talk about their new beaus, I envision as the epitome of my type - i.e. 5'11* or taller, brown haired, and broader than me. Surely this is not everyone's ideal, especially for the friend in question, who is 5'4. *Me + 2 inch heels = 5'10.

GOOD THINGS
Miss American Pie, comprised of diary entries and letters, recounts the author's life from age 12 to 18 growing up in the Deep South in the 1970s. Desegregation, unexplainable adolescent angst, crying over boys -- it's all there. By Margaret Sartor.

And God Created the Au Pair by Benedicte Newlan and Pascale Smets. Don't be deterred by the awful and misleading title -- this book by The Times (London) columnists about two sisters sharing the woes of child-rearing over email is full of dry British wit that made me "laugh out loud" on many occasions as promised.

5 SECONDS AGO:
Tacohead: I can't think of a good title for this post.
Husband: Titular?
Tacohead: What?! There's no tits in this post!

In the dark

Tonight I am saving energy practicing in case I go blind emulating the pioneers ... OK!, I admit it: I'm hiding out in the dark from trick-or-treaters. What's more anti-child and anti-American way than not handing out candy to one and all? When I realized that Husband would be gone again, leaving me to fend off greedy kids who grab extra candy out of our candy bowl as I drop a pair of Reese's into their bag, I decided to boy- and girl-cott the candy giving. That, and we ate all our Snickers last week. And as you know, Halloween has never been my favorite holiday.

All you masochists out there--take note. November is NoBloMoPo. You, too, could write everyday day, and show me up by two weeks. Me? I've still recovering from the two-week challenge. I'm hiding, you could say, in the dark.

So, how are the cats?

They're fine, thanks.















Don't let their sleepy exterior fool you. Inside lurks pure evil.















Their latest victim is my plants. Despite dousing the plants with cayenne and mustard powder and spraying them liberally with orange oil, they have attacked and destroyed.
Exhibit A:














Two week ago these were lush clover.
So I went to plan B: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
I grew them their own plot of grass... their very own pasture to graze in.
Exhibit B:














Do they eat it? No.
They look at me like, "What is this crap." They're offended by its very presence.

However, Operation Learn to Sharpen Claws on the Play Cavern Scratcher and Not the Couch is going well. And they are a welcome presence at night--my feet have never been warmer.
So the cats can stay. The plants? I'll take them to the office.

Being wrapped in a mylar blanket was pretty cool, too

While starting in a mass of people, being cheered on by thousands, and crossing the finish line was pretty cool, there is nothing that says "real runner" than grabbing a cup of water from a waiting volunteer, slamming it, then tossing it to the ground as you run away. Who knew littering could feel so good?

His hand looks like it was mauled by a lion

I SURVIVED THE TWO-WEEK CHALLENGE
And it wasn't pretty, folks. You were there... you saw the carnage. I won't be challenging myself to do that again anytime soon. I sort of thought I might hit my stride and produce some good stuff. Nope. After day 5 things got ugly.

This would be easier if I were Husband. He does interesting things, like slice his hand in five places washing out a can for recycling, or light a cutting board on fire. And that was just today!

Snippets

CAN ANYONE PLEASE TELL ME
Where the cute clothes for fall are? Because all I'm seeing are 1. 80s throwback clothes that look sloppy and unflattering, and 2. same-old, same-old turtleneck sweaters and cashmere cardigans... good classics, but nothing that says, "Wow, is that new?"

STRANGELY SATISFYING
Was reading Men's Health sex advice for men. (An issue recently appeared in our house). After all the years of randomly flipping through Cosmo, it was nice to read something that made men feel that being good in bed was something that required intense study rather than just instinct and practice.

DOMESTIC GODDESS
In general, I try to do at least one productive thing each weeknight. Not that I'm Little Miss Do-Gooder, just that 15 minutes of cleaning does much to justify two episodes of CSI.

Tonight I was an overachiever, trimming viney bastards from lilacs, filing 7 months of bill stubs, scheduling the chimney sweep -- all the while reading 1.5 Glamours!

USEFUL BITS
Not Martha has all that useful domestic stuff you mean to make note of but always forget.
Guilty pleasures shopping blogs: Mighty Goods and Outblush.
Random tips from all people in all sorts of jobs: Tricks of the Trade

Wisdom from Walnut Grove

In order to feel like a real daily blogger, I took Friday and Saturday off. You know, like they do. Who blogs on the weekend?

As Husband and I are finally in the seventh season, I think it's time for:

LESSONS LEARNED FROM LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE (the TV show)
1. "Cash on the barrel." Although this is Pa's mantra, he breaks it all the time. And nothing spells crop-destroying storm/drought/windstorm like seed on credit.
2. Prairies look an awful lot like the California hills. Unless there's a mountain range I haven't heard of in southeast Minnesota.
3. There are many scenarios in farm life, approximately one per episode, that require Pa to appear shirtless.
4. Despite the open child-filled loft above their bed, Ma and Pa appear to have a smokin' sex life.
5. "God provides." (Ma's mantra). Provides a lot of fires, smallpox outbreaks, dead babies, drownings, and creepy men who are new to town, that is.
6. Mr. Edward's alcoholism is part of his charm.
7. The show doubles as a drinking game if one has a half-pint whenever Pa calls Laura by her treasured nickname.
8. I know he's old and wizened and all, but there's something a bit sexy about Doc Baker and his ability to cure anything from his black bag. Surely the men have thought similar about Miss Beadle or Miss Wilder, and their warm-hearted care and concern for every student?

The real challenge

The real challenge in blogging everyday is not thinking of something to write about.

And it's not the actual writing.

It's putting it out there for people to read.

Because what is more egotistical, more self-centered, than writing about yourself and posting it on the internet, presuming that other people will read it and possibility enjoy it? Do I really think that I'm that interesting? Do I really think anyone cares?

I would have been easier writing some anonymous column where no one really knew me. Where I didn't care what individual people thought.

And I know that the key to having a well-read blog is divulging intimate details. Your real name, the city you live in, what you do for a living. Your dating/sex life. Your deep dark fears. Even your bathroom habits. And I'm not willing to do that.

The hardest part of the two-week challenge (not over yet!) has been getting over myself.

Socks older than you are

TACOHEAD RELICS
I have a different statute of limitations on clothing than most people. Sure, I get new clothes every season... but if I like something, it sticks around. I'm not really proud of this... I realize that my co-workers are tired of seeing the same black bag every day for five years. But I already replaced my winter purse for them, so they'd better deal.

Other members of the Hall of Fame:
-Favorite black sweater that I wear all the time - 7 years old (and kickin'!)
-Husband - 9 years old (Seems young in comparison)
-Pajamas that I wore last night - 9 years old (Bought to take to college)
-Winter black wool pants - 10 years old
-Purple paddle hairbrush - 14 years old
-Umbro shorts that I wear several times a week - 15 years old (long live blue check!)

More like meow

I'm trying to hurry up and post before Husband gets home and we have our one hour together before falling swiftly and convulsively to sleep... lately I have been like a single woman again, and boy, cooking for one is not where it's at. Too easy is it to make a dinner of say, ice cream, or crackers. The production of cooking and even worse, cleaning, is too much for one person on a daily basis.

But tonight, I prevailed! A real dinner, chock full of bok choy, asian eggplant, and zucchini.

I am woman, hear me roar.

But tonight I am also little girl, spoiled yet again by my parents, who met me a nearby mall to pass on a giant box of goodies from Costco -- pita chips, Nut Thins, oatmeal, Bake Naked granola, Dubliner cheese, wheels of Laughing Cow, quiches, Ghiradelli chocolates, Advil, etc. But I resisted their offers of a spin around Macy's, their unused coupons burning a hole in their pockets.

Roar?

Etiquette

A few months ago, in a fit of perversity, I read Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior. I guess, like with all reading, I like to see how other people live.

Apparently, other people carry handkerchiefs.

And have a very specific set of personalized embossed stationary.

I did learn a few things of interest:

- A woman is never Mrs. Firstname Lastname, i.e. Mrs. Laura Bush. She is Mrs. George Bush or Ms. Laura Bush or just Mrs. Bush. According to Miss Manners, some people find the convention sexist, but I like it because it encourages the use of Ms., which I prefer for its neutrality, to Mrs. But to each her own.

- The eternal holiday question resolved: Platters of food are passed to the left.
- The eternal event question resolved: Nametags go on the right.

- The proper way to eat asparagus is with your hands.
- Eating spaghetti by twirling the fork into the spoon is improper. Use only the fork.

There you have it, folks. You're now fully prepared to go to spaghetti and asparagus dinner and not make a fool of yourself. Where would you be without me?

Emergency back-up plan

Solutions to blogger's block:

1. Steal entries from other people. (A common crime in the blogosphere).
2. Post entries from my old diaries, c. 7th grade, perhaps (There is the Collected Works of Tacohead, 3rd grade-senior year in a box at my parent's house).
3. Record all conversations verbatim. (Ex. Tacohead: Good morning! Husband: I was a little sleepy last night. Blogging already? The day has just begun! Tacohead: Tell me about it.)
4. Pretend I am CuteOverload and post photos of my cats.
5. Better yet, make ASCII art of my cat. Oh wait, that's been done.
6. Pretend I am PostSecret and make lots of postcards using all the secrets I can think of that my friends have told me. (Hee-hee.)
7. Record my daily schedule. (8:43 wake. 9:04 rise from bed and shower. 9:20 clean kitchen cupboard. 9:34 pay bills 9:41 make grocery list...)
8. Have fake "guest bloggers" write in.
9. Start stripping so I'll have things to write about. Wait. That's been done, too.
10. Start an advice column, Dear Tacohead, and invite others to "spill the beans" by writing in with their problems.

This entry was brought to you by Hot and Spicy Cheez-its, the snack of wives everywhere waiting for their husbands to wake up and go to a coffeeshop with them to read the paper.