Sometimes I like to pretend I’m a crafty , homemaking type who not only can design and assemble picturesque arts for the home, but also who cooks and bakes like effing Martha Stewart. This, however, is a whimsical fantasy…. The unfortunate fact is that if it doesn’t go in the crock pot (or come from a cafe), I don’t eat. Luckily this is 2012, and I am perfectly able to get away with this behavior (and my man finds it ‘cute’ instead of ‘….why aren’t you by the stove in high heels making me a three-tiered club sandwich–and don’t you forget the pickle’). But when that domestic desire hits, it hits hard to the gut with sprinkles and designer bows. Enter, an increased grocery budget and three hours’ of time about to be lost to crafts.
Today’s goal was miniature apple pies inside hollowed-out apples. As you may suspect, Pinterest was involved…. An idea this cute could only come from the bowels of that kitten/cookie/wedding fabrics madhouse. This blogger right here developed (or at least, made popular) the idea, complete with adorable photos.
I’ll build up the suspense by laying the scene, as my 9th grade literature teacher would have wanted. I was in the kitchen with the cat, carving out apples with a plastic apple corer and cursing under my breath. I mixed the filling with brown sugar and oatmeal with one hand while the other hurriedly assembled the baking pan. The cat laughed maniacally at me as I failed. There is something about Pillsbury pre-made crusts that make me feel like a cheater. Yet, even while cheating, my crusts still look worse than the original.
How they were supposed to look
How they turned out….
In my defense, they were in fact delicious……
The saga of tornado chasers and Bill Paxton’s ass
‘Twister’ is a cinematic staple of Generation Y’s cultural scrapbook. Every boy wanted to be Bill Paxton, fighting nature’s armpit of doom in the midwest and eyeing Helen Hunt; and every girl wanted to be Helen Hunt, the sexy, unattainable bootstraps girl following her destiny (but not banging Bill Paxton…. No one wants that). And while seeing a flying cow seems like it would be the most hilarious thing ever, let me just tell you: ….I wouldn’t know, actually.
Why I consistently scheduled my Nashville trips for tornado season in tornado alley 3 years in a row, I’ll never know. Perhaps I secretly wanted to be Helen Hunt, driving my station wagon through stagnant highwayscapes and stopping for scrapple while glaring ominously out the window at the clouds. But in point of fact, I’m scared to death of inclimate weather, so I’m fairly sure that wasn’t it. No, I’m going to go with gross negligence in analyzing a calendar.
The incident in question occurred at 4am EST, and it was pitch black and raining. The only reason I saw it at all was because there was a massive lightning strike that lit up the sky long enough for my windshield wipers to evict a second of rain and provide me a view. When the lightning dissipated, the twister just seemed like a finger-shaped grey smudge in the dark again. Five minutes later, my roadie and I rolled up to the destination town and abruptly halt. All the street lamps are out, the traffic lights are black, and tree and sign debris is littered all around. I missed a direct drop down by 5 minutes. How anticlimactic…. But at least I saw it. At 4am a realization like that WAKES YOU THE FUCK UP.
For the record, I am fully aware that while I make an entire post about this one time I happened to see one tornado 5 miles out, native tornado alleyers are laughing hysterically and throwing empty bottles at the tornado buzzing outside their windows. I’ve come to terms with them being 10x the BAMF an East Coaster like myself will ever be.
Believe it or not, selling on craigslist, while completely elementary to savvy folks now, was something I had never done until last night. While I had a brief stint with craigslist last year browsing for apartments (an act of desperation), I had avoided any need to sell there until very recently. And in truth, even that apartment hunt I regret. I’ll never forget the stench of that old man’s basement, or what was in those pickle jars. Or, worse, how long they were there….
Why so cold to the Craigmeister? Oh, I don’t know… There’s just something grotesque about receiving offers for local 5-star apartments in exchange for SSNs from off-continent “sellers” with the English spelling and grammatical mastery of a 4th grader… something about the personal ads with the gratuitous peen shots (complemented by the smirking angled mirror shot), or the offers for triple penetration with a fat Ukrainian trapeze artist…. It could be all or none of those. Perhaps I didn’t want to put out an ad only to receive 10 spam responses, one of which asking what I’m wearing. Sometimes, my friends, it’s just easier to keep your damned stuff than to sell it.
But not last night. Last night, it was time to sell. I think I put 10x the effort into the ad than the average craigslist seller. I cleaned the product as well as the area around it and then set up a photo shoot. I borrowed a camera, arranged flowers, tweaked the lighting, and then still improved the pictures in a digital photo editor after I finished. Then, I made a Microsoft Word flyer with a flashy layout and image/font effects only to discover that the ads are in plain text format. OK, that one I should have remembered…. My bad. So now my ad is ready, and I click submit.
“Ding!” goes my email 5 minutes after posting. It’s a response to the ad! She simply says, “More pictures”.
……SCREW YOU, TWATLOCKER!
This was also something I wanted to do for years but never imagined I could. Then, I met a few folks who did it–regular folks who just made online accounts on model networking sites and had local sort-of-almost-not-creepy gigs the next day. I even met a Bulgarian underwear model (who was a little chubby, but I digress……..)
Well, two can play that game. I signed up, and sure enough had a few offers within 24 hours. All I needed was a head shot, which turned out to be a poorly framed Canon digital camera product of me in a bee costume from Halloween and about 6 beers. Who knew it was that easy?
Turns out I was really great at it, too.
if your musical tastes involve the screeching whinnies of dying horses.
But it just so happens that if you have breasts and are not 300 lbs (but sometimes, even then), men don’t care. That’s fortunate, since amateur male photographers are what’s keeping female-packed “modeling social network sites” in business.
I met some of the most interesting people in my acquaintance while modeling. There was a disturbed, lonely young man in DC who wanted to watch me shave. There was the foot fetisher who advertised tiered “packages”; for example, for $50 he could take your foot photos, for $75 he could take photos and touch, for $100 he could do all of the above plus kiss toes, etc. There was the pagan chain smoker who wanted to take me to a Beltane festival (he stressed that the orgy was optional). I learned of his escapades in Alaska being chased naked by a Kodiak bear. There was the George Takei-esque snoot who deigned to boast “he must always teach models how to pose”, and critiqued everything I did until it fell in line with his example of what I think must have been an open-mouthed, cholera-suffering expression. There was the frightening cabin studio in the woods, and then the jolly but passive aggressive Santa Claus, full of bitter stories about his ex-model. I can safely say I met only 1 (male) photographer that I wouldn’t be ashamed to admit I know in public and who is a sane, normal guy. It was definitely an experience, but not one I care to repeat. Let’s say my interests in people-watching from the front lines have waned, and I now prefer to do so in safe, public spaces without a camera.