What in the hell am I supposed to do with all of this G-d okra?

I ask you. Seriously. The garden continues to spew forth the slimy stuff for which I have no culinary answer. I would fry it, but that's time consuming. How come the tomatoes can't make as impressive a showing? They're tiny and sad and green.

So, I guess I took an unscheduled blog break. A blogcation, if you will. You won't? Ok. Things that have been keeping me from this blog:

• I had a birthday! I'm now 28 and bitter instead of 27 and bitter. But at least I'm not 30. So, there's that.
• I watched some peeps get married in Arkansas. It was actually quite nice and beautiful up there on Mt. Magazine. I'd like to go back.
• I watched Top Chef Masters. Did you know that Rick Bayless is from OKC? Rock on.
• I have been consumed by work. Back to 60 hour weeks with nothing but commute, work, commute, sleep, commute, work, commute, sleep. There's not even time to drink excessively. Sadcakes.
• I've purchased a couple of cookbooks that will no doubt gather dust while I eat at Chick-fil-a too many times. They're actually great books, though: Simply Organic and Mark Bittman's Kitchen Express.
• The summer roommate moved out.
• I've watched lots of movies: Julie and Julia (as a Smith grad, it's required viewing), which sucked except the parts Meryl Streep was in; Funny People, which was unfunny and awful; The Goods, which was surprisingly hysterical.
• I've hotly anticipated and subsequently analyzed the return of Mad Men - it was as good as ever. New episodes are pretty much the saving grace of Sunday nights.
• I got a new car. It looks like this. The events that caused this purchase are boring and complicated, but who cares! I got a new car! WOOOOO! (By new I mean new to me, it's gently used. Also, it'd better last me at least 100,000 miles or I'm screwed.)

So, all in all a good August thus far. But I'm exhausted.

Oh, and did you see this? Good thing I got season tickets. You know, until we fuck it up.

No Whine Oh-Nine

You may not remember this. Turns out I'm not getting married to anyone, including myself.



While I kicked it up a notch at the gym, I didn't reach my goal, yet somehow managed to purchase a Le Creuset dutch over sometime in March. Don't ask. I extended my deadline through August and started a bootcamp class at my gym last week. Two days a week, one hour, 5.45 am. AWESOME! Right, in addition to doing something at the gym or outside every day but Sunday. I've actually been able to do it, and have been rewarded by gaining a pound. And being rendered a paraplegic.

Yesterday morning, we did stripper squats. Like 10,000. Naturally, I was quite good at them. What I'm not quite good at now is sitting up in bed, walking, leaning over, bending, driving, breathing, getting out of a chair, living. FUCK! That shit hurts! DOMS is kicking my ass. How am I supposed to run tonight so that I don't suck ass even worse tomorrow morning? F U vicious cycle! I will prevail. It's only six weeks. I can do anything for six weeks, especially if it involves not getting a hair cut, washing my car, or paying bills.

Also, how many ibuprofen is too much? Are too much. I think i just got my answer.




Bath time!

Is that a taco in your purse or are you just happy to see me?

Did you know, that on no less than two occassions, I have found a taco in the side pocket of my purse? Sometimes, I go to Taco Cabana (jealous?) and order too many tacos. So, I put one in my purse for safe keeping, until I'm ready to eat it at a later date. And then, you know, later, I find a taco in the side pocket of my purse.

XOXO,

Blythe

I'd like the crap sandwich with a side of extra crap sandwich.

Have you ever woken up one morning and realized that you haven't had a haircut since August? And then you check your mail and there's a letter from the IRS that insinuates that maybe you forgot to report some of your income from 2007 and now you owe lots of money?* And then you realize that your attempt at political humor was so pedantic that even your six year old cousin made the Kenneth/Bobby connection? And work blows serious donkey balls, but you can't talk about it because it's all confidential and shit? And then you check your 403(b) just for shits and giggles, but end up sobbing? And your deadbeat, college dropout brother has been MIA for weeks causing your mother to have a slow, drawn out series of mini nervous breakdowns punctuated by terrible cell phone reception? Also, you have a denti$t appointment in the morning, which will undoubtedly lead to a crown and public drooling.

All I've managed to do to mitigate any of this is to make an appointment to get my hair cut that I can't afford because of the taxes I owe.

*The best part about this is that I forgot to report severance pay. It's not like it was anything exciting like a salary or lottery winnings.

Top Ten Signs You're Not Ready to Procreate.

When I was in the NYC, I saw lots and lots of babies and preggers chicks. They're fucking everywhere. And then there's octomom and her litter. And, of course, Brangelina. And those Duggers. Also, FaceBook reveals news of knocked up high school mates left and right. I don't really feel the ol' biological clock ticking, but I do know that my body makes horrible cracking noises during yoga and one time last week I got a cramp in my hip during naughty time = I'm getting old. But among the thousands of reasons I'm aware of (there are surely more I am not) that would make me an unfit mother, I think the most telling is what I'd consider naming spawn. Here are my top favorite bebe names in no particular order:

Charlotte

Valentina

Savannah

Simon

Anouk

Sebastian

Clementine

Evangeline

Annabelle

Liam

Ruby

Tabitha

Oscar

Can you imagine being named Ruby Valentina?

Christmas blows jingle balls.

An Oklahoma Christmas

Why is the most wonderful time of year the least? As I've mentioned, the season puts me in a severely foul mood, which can only be remedied by online shopping and the promise of days off from work. It was a rather dull holiday, which is all the more depressing, since I'm obviously a heartless robot incapable of feeling any joy.

1. A few weeks ago, one of my g-pas offered me a rather new 42" TV as he and g-ma had replaced their set recently for a new HD model. Sign me up! The fam crammed our overfed asses into my mom's Matrix to ensure we had trunk (hatch) space to accomodate the TV, which we intended to pick up on our annual pilgrimage to a place that might even be worse the Worcestor, MA, Woodward, OK. Upon arrival, I was greeted by said g-pa, who led me to a closet with an old, decrepit, maybe 25" set encased in what appeared to be fake wood panelling. I accepted it graciously and tossed it in the cavernous trunk of the car. I noticed that they had clearly reallocated the TV in question to the playroom where my little cousins had set up Christmas camp. Bah.

2. Part two of the same trip, with the same g-parents (it's confusing because my parents share the same hometown, which means two birds, one stone when it comes to holidays), all hell breaks loose because of a four year old girl. The grandparents have a spacious house clearly built with the intention of holding extended family over holidays. However, there's simply not enough room for all of the family members who arrive from all over the southern US. This year, the assortment included my step grandmother's daughter, husband, and four year old daughter (oh yeah, I forgot to mention she's the step 'ma - it's been over 20 years, so sometimes I forget, but it's important). Christmas Eve, four year old girl gets a room, the parents get a room, and my uncle (not step) gets a room. Christmas day, uncle is informed that he will be sleeping on the couch because step g-ma's number one son is arriving with his wife. So, now we have four year old girl in one room, parents in one room, newly arriving couple in one room, 48 year old uncle with bad back on couch in living room. Uncle says oh hell no. They think he is kidding because what sensible adult doesn't understand that a small child needs their very own queen size bed? I mean, really. He's not. He's driven in from Houston (not a quick jaunt, you see) and decides to hightail it back to Norman for a real bed at my house. Ok. Makes sense. We're heading out (after Christmas number three at the OTHER grandparents house complete with assorted cousins, aunts and uncles), and are about 45 miles outside of Woodward, when uncle's beamer starts spewing smoke. After leaving him on the highway and a trip to the Seiling, OK gas station that is thankfully open on Christmas Day night at about 11pm, we determine that he's got a cracked radiator. Guess where he's headed. Oh snap.

3. Ex-boyfriend sightings. Boo. It's still so strange to me that a) he's never responded to what I thought was a clever b-day card that said, hey, we're over all the weird crap, let's put it behind us and laugh, and b) that someone whom I shared almost everyday with for seven years is wandering the streets of my town with no inclination at all to inquire about how I am, what I am, all that stuff. Baffling. Current boyfriend drama. NSFB. (Not safe for blogs.) We'll see!

4. Recession is the new economy. I usually rely on making bank at Christmas to get me through the winter or allow me to buy something much needed (washer and dryer!!!), but it was a super stingy Christmas this year, understandably. So, I apologize for wearing either the same smelly thing over and over again, or for showing up ridiculousy under or overdressed because I'm down to the formal or loungewear portion of the ol' wordrobe.

My life without a washer and dryer. Sad, isn't it?

5. NYE! Go fuck yourself. I give up on this. $10 says you can find me with a bottle of scotch and a self imposed SATC marathon on my shitty, not 42" TV.

6. Happy holidays. More later.

It's Veterans Day!

And you know what that means. Actually, you don't. Because today is the 2X anniversary of the exbf's expulsion from his momsters uterus. He's managed to wish me a happy birthday via text or email over the last two years, so I've determined it's time to take it up a notch, now that my heart has gone from robot to slightly less robot status. Here's what I'm thinking:

Fine. I will just send an email.

The one where no one cares about my blog.

Man, if only I'd kept the genius coming instead of succumbing to the man.

This could've been me!

Hey Clinton, blogbuddy of ZFS, did that ramen come from Chinatown? Zing! Oh, no? Not a zing!? Ok.

Or this!

Lost Ogles, I met you at the NMF and you snubbed me. Then no mention in your 15 minutes of Oklahoma metro fame (which is equal to -25.8 seconds of national fame)? Ok, fair enough.

But, instead, it's just this:

It turns out that I am alive.

However, Christmas has sent me into a sadness spiral.

Cringesday: D.O.R.K.

Guess what's even worse than OKC morning traffic? (And it's really not bad because of congestion, it's bad because people in OK think the left lane is for trucks and minivans going 63 through a 70 uphill with Jesus fish stickers plastered to the rear bumber.) OKC traffic with no stop lights. I left extra early this morning to account for this possibility, but alas, I ended up tacking on an extra 20 minutes from sitting at 4-way stops as dumbasses tried to figure out how they work. WTF!? Anyway, to quash my road ragicidal tendencies, I took my morning routine to the extreme.

DearJustice (pron. justeece according to Shain),

Your hit single, D.A.N.C.E. is personally responsible for the remaining modicum of sanity I have during this time of state-wide emergency. Listening on repeat for an hour somehow really calmed my already threadbare nerves. I refuse to tire of this song, even though they played it on MTVu. Thanks weird French dudes.

As strong as you might
Working day and night
Whatever happens
Do the DANCE (do the dance)

Goulet Wednesday News Round Up: If Ever I Would Leave You Edition.

RIP, buddy.

Dear friends,

It is with a heavy heart (and a heavier ass) that I regret to inform you that the patron saint of this blog, Robert Goulet, passed away in LA while awaiting a lung transplant. Bee-Spot reader John called me last night to break the news. It was a tough phone call that drove me into a despair that could only be cured by eating more barbeque than I should've, but that's really neither here nor there. What's important is the legacy that Mr. Goulet has left behind. If and when I find out what that is, I probably won't let you know. It might be his turn as Lancelot in the classic musical Camelot or his brilliant work in Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of I wish Leslie Nielson Were My Grandpa. In the meantime...

Nature! - This is probably, literally the eighth time I've posted this. And it never gets old. And there's this one too.

Cringesday: I am a d-bag edition.

Since this is a judgement free safe space*, I feel like I can really be honest in my admission of extreme ultimate douchiness. Actually, it's not that bad. I'm a "sweet" "person" for the most part. Sweet like a chocolate chip cookie from Subway that's fallen between the cracks of your car seat, lost to the elements, beginning to mold. I will profusely thank strangers for holding my place in the insanely long grocery store line because I forgot to grab another 12 pack of Diet Coke Plus, but I will know you for the better part of 10 years and forget your birthday. I have a sack full of gifts at the foot of my bed just waiting to be shipped to long lost friends. What am I waiting for? I have no idea. You will tell me I look nice and I will reply, "really?" or "are you suffering from hysterical blindness?" I will look at you like you showed up for a PETA meeting in a veal suit. I overlook all of the little things. I will get a piece of glass stuck in my foot, you will retrieve a band-aid and alcohol swab, take my dirty foot, swab and bandage while I continue to lecture you about Shakti and yonis or some useless shit without skipping a beat. I will ask you to dinner, but then forget to check my phone to see if you've responded, meanwhile making other plans because I think you've forgotten me. Basically, my awesomeness knows no bounds. But I will try to be better. Do better.

*This is, of course, categorically untrue.

Dumbass - OU/Texas - Rilo Kiley - Car Sadness - General Malaise

Sometimes, I do very dumb things. I am always sorry when I do.

OU beat some Texass. It was pretty sweet. Not gonna lie, I was totally worried there for a little bit, but then I drank 10,000 beers and make some stellar guacamole and it was all ok. Yay!

Then I went to a Rilo Kiley show. The first opening band was something I've already forgotten, but The Bird and the Bee followed, for which I had high expectations. Terrible! They do not translate well into a live show. Finally, Rilo Kiley appeared after taking six hours to check all of their instruments 4,000 times. And it was awesome. Although it's sadly not possible, Julie, I too want to have Jenny Lewis' babies. She's ridiculously sensual, but totally commanding and musically credible as a performer. They played a lot from the new album, but some old stuff too as well as some solo Blake Sennett and a lovely rendition of "Rise Up With Fists" from Rabbit Fur Coat. Overall, I was totally satisfied, especially with the encore which was a heartbreaking "Does He Love You." My concert going companion was not so impressed, but he'll come around. I know it. No one can not love them some Jenny her tights and sexy, velvety baton twirler outfit. You can read a more detailed review HERE. [Yes, I am not smart enough to figure out how to do that fancy after the jump thing or blah blah blah blog stuff, so I just posted it on one of my dead blogs. Pretty awesome, huh.]

The worst part about this weekend was that, for whatever reason, the speakers in my sweet ass old lady ride ('99 dolphin grey Toyota Camry) decided to stop working. There's nothing scarier than a three hour drive in total silence along I-35N at 10.30pm. I had a lot of time to discuss my recent breakup with myself, and kind of like Elaine and Puddy on that fateful transatlantic post vacation flight with vegetable lasagna, we broke up then got back together several times. Right now, I'm not sure where I stand because I'm not returning my calls since I left my charger in Texas.

Then, today, I had a "retreat" at work, well, not at work, with coworkers elsewhere about work. I left having an allergy attack and feeling like basically, everything that sucks is my fault. Sweet. While I was driving home in silence, I had this strange scene flash in my head - something I guess my subconscious thought would make me happy. When the exbf and I first brought Zealand (former dog) back to MA as a puppy, we wanted to make sure he was trained to follow us without a leash, so we walked him every night, sans leash. Now I'm having this vision of the exbf and I, bundled up with probably only our eyes showing, skidding around on ice and snow covered sidewalks, holding hands, holding onto each other, with four month old Zealand walking so carefully right between us. We were just walking. So happy with our new puppy. I'm not sure why I thought this would make me happy. All I am now is sad.

Oh! Darling

This weekend, Lacey and I made our way up to Edmond to see Across The Universe because the Norman theater is stupid and won't show anything but Jessica Alba movies. It is a known fact that I am on Team Beatles and am an easily entertained sap, so it should be no surprise that I fucking loved this movie. It inspired several thoughts:

1. Evan Rachel Wood is really dating Marilyn Manson?
2. Selma Hayek might be the hottest woman alive.
3. Once, when L and C-tina and I were much younger, C-tina dressed up like a boy, L and I donned defunct dance costumes and videotaped a rather racy and strange interpretation of "Oh! Darling." I cannot, for the life of me, remember why we would to this, but it confirms that we were truly odd girls.
4. I am hopelessly and eternally in love with every Beatles song ever.
5. I would marry Jim Sturgess. He just looks so lovable. And he's British. And he sings. I don't know.
6. I would name our children Vera, Chuck and Dave. But seriously, is it weird that I'd name them Sadie, Jude and Lucy?

Other thoughts: yes, the movie was certainly cheesy, the narrative trite, the performances imperfect, but somehow, all of those shortcomings converged to create a truly endearing experience. It's like you just overlook the ridiculousness of it (uh, hello, Bono? Eddie Izzard? Joe Cocker?) with the same enthusiasm when you plunged headfirst into your parents' worn copy of Rubber Soul. Growing up with Beatles songs in the 80s/90s prevents one from properly contextualizing some of the sentiments. As obvious as it was, it was good to re-hear the lyrics (especially a heartbreaking rendition of "I Want To Hold Your Hand") with a new voice in a historical, although fictional setting. Dumb as it sounds, this movie truly added depth to my understanding and enjoyment of Beatles music. Also, it confirms The Beatles are undoubtedly superior to most everything out there (yes, the Stones) and that their music not only transcends time, but is more than capable of propelling a narrative and compelling genuine emotion.

I've spent the rest of the weekend in this sort of nostalgic fog listening to each album, surprising myself that I do like vinyl better even though I claim it shouldn't make a difference. I want to fall in love to "Something." I want to break up to "I'm Looking Through You." I want to get back together to "Don't Let Me Down." I wanna get it on to "And I Love Her." I want to get married to "Here There and Everywhere." I want to sing "Mother Nature's Son" to my kids. I want to dance around like a dork to "Your Mother Should Know." I want to make dinner to "Her Majesty."

Let it be. That I am a dork.