The Pink Squirrel

  So there's this whole phenomena of food blogs out there right now, several of which I am a fan of, one in particular, www.oopsiatetoomuch.blogspot.com is a particular fave of mine(probably because it is written by my bestie, but also because she makes beautiful, mostly vegan fare).

  Food blogs are seductive. They usually have really awesome, drool inducing pictures, and they always consist of a generally beloved-by-most-humans thing, food.  It is no secret that food blogs, cooking shows and in particular cooking contest shows have become ever more popular as of late. Phrases like "foodie" and a burgeoning interest in specialty, artisan foods and the 'slow food' movement are suddenly part of our everyday lives...I have a feeling it has a lot to do with the fact that the economy has tanked and now people really need to curtail their spending on the non essential, and what little they can spend they will indulge on a necessity, such as good food bought at the grocery store or a nice meal out. I know personally I don't have much income to spend on say, paying down my credit card debt, but you best believe I eat like a baller every day. Fo'reals.

  I just gotta say it, food is cool. I haven't always held such a high opinion of food...having once been one of those girls that was like really, really concerned with the scale, I for many years denied myself the divine indulgences of snacks and fab and fulfilling meals. And while I'll always be conscious of what I'm eating(I'm still kind of a vegan), I now take the approach that food is not only useful for nourishment, it also gives us a social springboard. A reason to get together, a means for celebration.

  But I didn't start this post as means to tell you all that I am going to be turning meowinginmysleep into a food blog. No sir. No way. Nuh-uh. I do not have the patience, time or money to do that kind of shit. You need to be SERIOUS to do that kind of thing. You need to plate. You then need to make sure you don't start eating it before you get a good picture of it. Lighting, this, that and the other thing. You need to be consistent. Me? Consistent I am not. And while sometimes I do make really nice meals for myself, I am also just as likely to pull together the most half ass meal you could think of. 1 piece of toast with a "chik'n" piccata fillet, 2 pieces of avocado and slab of veganaise and hot sauce. BAM! Dinner. Or vegan alfredo sauce over anything. BAM! Dinner. Half of bottle of chardonnay and a cucumber with hummus. BAM! Dinner. A full bottle of chardonnay, an entire container of edamame (squeeze some lime over that shit and its gourmet), a third of a bag of pita chips with hummus...BAM! Dinner. A six pack of beer and a bowl of cereal 3 hours later....BAM! You get the idea.

Damn, all of the sudden I am so hungry. Must power on.

  I've always really enjoyed making food for others. When I first went vegan I went on an all out spree of cooking for people, forging many a friendship in the process. I am the only person in the entire world who has gained weight as a vegan. And no, for your information, its not because I eat pasta everyday. Not even close. It's just that, when you all of the sudden really have to consider how to make good tasting food without relying on meat and cheese to do all of the flavoring for you, you learn a lot about some really amazing food. And to be honest, going the vegan route has really turned me on to a wider range of food than I had ever eaten before. Wanna learn a lot about different kinds of food? Shun meat and cheese from your diet. You'll be forced to discover what else is out there.

Sorry, I just went on a vegan rant. I won't do it again.

But what I really set out for when starting this post, was to write about the Pink Squirrel.

You deceptive little piece of shit pink drink.

I was out with some of my buddies this weekend and we went to Highland Kitchen, this awesome, little pseudo retro very hipster place in Somerville that is home to my new favorite food, Buffalo Fried Brussell Sprouts. This place is known for making some fancy drinks, and when I saw the name the Pink Squirrel written on the chalk board, I just knew I had to try it.

  I'm usually pretty discerning when it comes to things I'm about to ingest. I like to ask a lot of questions, make sure theres nothing in it that I don't want there, and way back when I began my no dairy odyssey, I was down right diligent. Questions all the time. Now I don't know if its laziness that has set in, or if my mind is getting slower, or what, but for some reason, it was like I didn't even care what was in the Pink Squirrel. I just wanted it. Disclaimer: I was no where near drunk when I ordered this drink. My first beverage was a very conservative PBR tallboy.

  When my boyfriend ordered the drink for me at the very crowded bar, my first sign of trouble should have come with the bartenders cock-eyed, very concerned look for a man who would order a drink called the Pink Squirrel.  It was at this time that I was really, really glad that Adam was not ordering this for himself. I realized that I was in for a very, very girly beverage. Which is fine, because the fruitier, sweeter and more colorful the cocktail, the happier I tend to be. My favorite drinks usually taste like bananas, if that tells you anything.

  And then I saw the martini glass being pulled out, and I was all like, fuck dude. I hate drinks that come in martini glasses.  a) it means its going to be really, really girly and b) it means I'm going to be done with it in like less than 30 seconds.

  But then the real shock came when the bar tender poured what appeared to be pepto bismol into that little ass martini glass. The other people sitting at the bar began to laugh. Adam practically threw the drink at me so as to be seen handling this atrocity of a drink. I'm not exaggerating when I say the color of this was no different from pepto bismol. Light pink, completely opaque, seemingly viscous and frothy on top. Ewww. And it was at this point that I was really mad, cause I knew that this drink obviously contained dairy.

  I made a resolution this year to quit being such a bitch about the whole dairy thing. I can't tell you how many times I've sent food back into the kitchen because it came out with a little bit of cream sauce, or a sprinkling of cheese. I should have realized then that I was just trading a negligible amount of dairy for a mouthful of hard to see (and prove) disgruntled kitchen spit.

  So here I was, with a bar full of people and my friends laughing at me as I had to down this shameful, shameful drink. It didn't even matter what it tasted like, because the visual was so disconcerting.  Shoulda stuck with the tallboys.

  Well, from here I moved onto the Dorchester, a very tasteful (and tasty) drink thats really just glorified boozy lemonade with a  couple of cucumber slices in it to remind you that you're drinking a $7 cocktail and your feeling all fancy in your fancy shoes. Why its called a Dorchester I don't understand. And why Dorchester isn't pronounced 'Dooster' is another one that I still can't quite wrap my head around.

Behold, The Pink Squirrel.

Cheers!

No Jean Policy

You know what I really hate about house painting?
Kind of everything.
But what I really hate about it is that you just never win when it comes to getting dressed. Now don't get me wrong, I am very grateful to be a chick that knows how to do something, and I have always been very impressed and satisfied with my own handy work, so I'm not totally down on the trade, its just that...for the past couple of years I have for the most part gone to work feeling really really gross. And it doesn't matter if the clothes I am wearing were just washed and that I had just taken a shower and was feeling all fresh faced. I looked gross.


And it always shocked me how no matter how yucky I looked and no matter how I hid my hair in my hat and wore really baggy clothing and never put on a stitch of makeup, that men on sites would always look at me like I had just walked in there with a cocktail dress and a pair of high heels. Ok, thats not how they really looked at me, but I would definitely get checked out, and subsequently, ugh, hit on. I know this seems like an asinine(bratty?) thing to complain about, but being hit on at work just sucks. Especially by the 48 year old plumber whose been wearing the same Bruins t-shirt for the past 4 days in a row. Or the dude that you know is married with three kids and thinks that finally his wacko fantasy of meeting a cool young chick on the job site is going to pan out (yeah that scenario was actually presented to me once). I once sparked a big controversy on a job site because this sweet, but hopeless kid was buying me candy and wasting a lot of his time talking to me, and the rest of his crew found out. It was like no one could work for the rest of the day, and they did their best to make sure that I couldn't either. It was just a circus. A big fuckin 20 dudes + 1 girl circus. Oh, and I almost forgot, my very first GC while working as a decorative painter, guess what nickname he gave me and decided to use for 4 months? Booty girl. Guess who never decided to say a fucking word to him that it was completely inappropriate and unappreciated? My Boss. Thanks dick head.

And I realized later on that I totally should have spoken up, but I had just gotten the job and was concerned about being "that girl". Really wish I had said something. Or at least brought a recorder with me to work. I could have made so much money. I could like seriously be sitting on the beach writing this right now. Man I fucked that up. 


It was on that very same job that I had the delight of only having a port-o-john at my bathroom-needs-disposal. 20 dudes + 1 girl circus. Sweet jesus was a freaking joy. What a freaking awful unbelievable disaster. And you know what? Technically, legally, I should have had my own bathroom on site. But you know what? I didn't want to be that girl.


But back to getting dressed.

For like one day out of my entire painting career I've felt good in my clothes. And its that first day when you show up with clean jeans and a fresh sweat shirt or t-shirt, and about 1 hour into the job you either a) wipe your dirty ass hands on your pants b) have some smart ass paint you with a dripping brush on purpose (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE), c) you completely muckle yourself with some kind of paint product and it just completely and very quickly goes downhill from there. You can't get paint out of your clothing. And theres no point. Face it kid, you're always going to look like one of the boys. A dirty ass boy.

So when I got this office job last week and they told me that there was a no jean policy, I quite honestly nearly jumped for joy.

Which is weird, because it meant I had to go and spend some dough on some real clothes. See, since being laid off, I've been kind of living in pajamas, gym clothes (of which there is hardly any distinction from pajamas), and sweat shirts and sweat pants covered in paint. It honestly does not matter when your unemployed. I'll go the entire morning without even putting a pair of pants on. Why? BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER WHEN YOU'RE JOBLESS. Who is going to know or care that I didn't wear pants today? Sometimes its easier to not wear pants.

See the person, the very kind benevolent person, who hired me for this position, totally understood my previous job experience and explained to me with great hesitation that there was a no jean policy in the office. What did she think I was going to do? Where my disgusting-painted-holes-in-the-kness-jeans to an office job? Come on, dude! What was even funnier was that when she called me to come in and interview for the job, I was in the midst of painting a living room. So knowing this she invited me to come in, and that she would explain to her office director that I wasn't usually covered in paint. Ha. I wouldn't even go to 7/11 for a dutch master and a lotto ticket looking like what I did when she called me. I promptly left the job, got home and took a damn shower and put on some real clothing. I have one outfit that is suitable for job interviews, so I wore that, natch.

So anyway, I just wanted to speak to how important it is to feel good in your clothing. I don't usually like to be this materialistic or shallow, and for a very long time I took pride in "being one of the boys" and being all like "nail polish, ewww",  and "shoe shopping? puhhlease", or "hair cuts? who do you think you are?", but honestly, if it makes you happy, then hell, it can't be that bad. And you know what I've realized after 2 1/2 years of looking like a bum?  Dressing up feels goooood. I'm all like "dammmmnnnnn giirrrrrrllll, you lookin' good in that camisole cardigan set."

Ring makin'

Sometimes you're really lucky in life.

I'm lucky because 1) I'm good with my hands and 2) I have very good friends who love to share their wisdom of making things with me.

So tonight I had the pleasure of hanging out with one of my dearest buds, DD. DD and I have been trying to organize a jewelry making night for quite some time now, so finally tonight, with the moon not particularly shining brightly over head, and the stars aligned just right, and the schedule prepared just so, in spite of the very scary elements that are rain sleet snow and ice, DD and I were finally able to make jewelry night happen. Tuesday. Who knew?

We had all the ingredients necessary for a good night of crafting, namely the cabernet I brought over. DD has a wonderful little jewelry studio that he created in a loft space above his garage. I'm a craft nerd so I was very much impressed. We began with an introduction to the studio, he showed me all the tools and all of the things we'd be using to make my ring.

This is a picture of my ring after I cut and shaped it. We attempted to solder it the first time but to no avail. I have never used a torch before to do anything, so this was all very exciting to me, even if unsuccessful. At one point, the ring was a pink hot mess that was near collapse, but we were able to bring it back to life and tried once more, and, success!

So after we gave it a good cooking and got the solder to actually melt, we threw it into some sort of chemical bath for a few minutes. When it came out, it looked like this white plastic piece of crap on the ring measurer.

So then I hammered the shit out of it and it turned all beautiful and silvery again. Like most of my art work, I never start things out with a real idea of what its going to look like, so I had no idea that I was going to end up with a hammered metal ring. But this picture shows the ring at its final size, alls I need to do is soften and file the edges, buff, clean, blah blah blah. As you can see on my fingers, I ended up with a lot of fine silver dust all over me. It made me feel very special and expensive. Seriously! I was like a glittering, silvery goddess in there. You couldn't even look at me straight on.

3 hours after the beginning of the process, I had an amazing, beautiful little sterling silver ring, made completely to suit my right ring finger. Right's got a new ring, and she's all sorts of ecstatic.

But I don't want to take too much credit, not because I'm humble or anything, but because DD is an awesome, AWESOME teacher and did a great job explaining the process. DD only began making jewelry this past fall and is very obviously a natural at it. I've seen a lot of the things that he has made and its really very beautiful stuff. Anyone who is willing to go out and create a little sanctuary of a space to make work in is a pretty serious crafter, and the fact that he is really really good at it just makes him tops in my book. Plus, he's a very thorough, patient and skilled teacher, and I'm grateful that he was willing to take me under his wing tonight and help me make a really neat ring.

So lets all lift our glasses, be them coffee mugs, tea cups, wine glasses, tin cups filled with whiskey, vodka tonics, what ever, and toast to DD.

I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet a Woman

I began serenading my friend with this classic of a Britney tune while out for my birthday this past Saturday. He's the type of guy that really appreciates a good Britney reference, so it was totally appropriate.

I'm not sure though if I believe this, but I'm sort of concerned that I'm in the awkward age where I'm definitely not a "kid" anymore (to be honest I never felt like a kid either, but thats a whole other post for another day), but am I really an adult either? It's not that I don't think of myself as a mature person. I make adult decisions every day, and good ones at that. And I know plenty of people, who are a whole lot older than me, that make terrible, terrible decisions all the time. Its just that, I don't feel like an adult yet. Which is weird...because all of the evidence tells otherwise. I'm reasonable. Responsible. I clean up nicely. I use sulfate free shampoo and conditioner. Sometimes I take vitamins. I trade recipes with other ladies. I watch the View. I know how to put on make up(I think). I bought a practical navy blue blazer because I knew it was the right thing to do. I use that spray stuff on my shoes to keep them from getting messed up in the rain. I think about(but never do)making contributions to WBUR. I'm particular about the wine I drink, and even own those nifty little wine stoppers. I listen to Bonnie Raitt.  I bring reusable bags to the grocery store(if and when I remember to). I'm an excellent tipper. I bring an offering when I go over to a friends place. I send out Holiday cards, and birthday cards on time. I pay lots of bills...I...no longer feel compelled to eat all of the ice cream sandwiches in the freezer just because they are there until they are all gone. I don't even eat chocolate after 9pm because I'm concerned with falling asleep at a reasonable hour. I eat salads. And I now, all of the sudden, I love seltzer.

Maybe I am an adult.

So this is kind of funny...as I'm writing this my boyfriend asks me what I'm going to write about, and makes a comment assuming that I'm going to write about the shelves that we just put up. Am I really that predictably boring that I'm going to write about fucking shelves?

YES!

So then I tell him that no, I'm going to write about the perils of realizing you're an adult. To which he makes a terribly distorted and horrified face (mind you he's 7 years older than me) and says "Is it because of the shelves? We could take them down."

See we were really excited about getting these shelves up in the kitchen, and we're now very enthusiastically talking about where else we can squeeze in more shelves around the condo. Shelves! They're not just for throwing your shit onto anymore! But actually, thats exactly what they are there for, and its why we put them up. See, a few months ago, I did a very adulty kind of thing. I moved in with my man. Ya wanna talk about adulthood? Try living with your boyfriend or girlfriend. You talk about the most boring stuff sometimes, but really, all those boring things are so awesome to talk about with someone other than your self. I used to sit in my room in my past apartments for hours, throwing my voice around the room in an attempt to mimic a two person conversation about the lighting, or where to hang the paintings. And although it kept me entertained, it also made me sad. Cause I was talking to myself. 

So now I have someone to discuss domestic shit with on a daily basis. Sometimes we get on a roll about a certain product that we're really digging these days for its many utilitarian uses, and its great low prices and high value and shit, and I have to stop and ask when the camera crew is going to arrive, because we're clearly rehearsing for the filming of a very bad and very lame infomercial. I'm kidding, but only kind of, in that way that I'm not kidding at all, because I, Hayley Ryan, am turning into a domestic goddess.

And its a this very moment, that I have realized, I'm not a girl. I'm a woman.

Now before you all send me hate mail, take it easy. I'm all for girl power and stuff. I definitely don't think that women belong in the home at all(the world would be a better place if all the women went to work and all men stayed home anyway, am I right?), and I certainly don't sit around making my man sandwiches and folding his socks all day. In fact, some times I purposefully miss match his socks just to get a rise out of him. I'm that kind of a domestic goddess. Which I guess makes me kind of childish. See, not really an adult yet. 

But I discovered something about adulthood years ago, which makes it much easier for me to accept that sometimes turning into an adult never really even happens anyway. I began to notice, through observing the "adults" around me, that adults are really just old looking 19 year olds.  (19 year olds are def not real adults but can do everything adult can do:  they're are legally responsible for themselves, can purchase smokes and porn, and we all know that if you really desire the ability to buy alcohol, that you don't actually need to be of age. Just resourceful.) It began when I was in college and all the influential people in my life who had always held some kind of standard around me began to let their hair down. I had finished high school and made it to college, and all of the sudden it was like we were all on the same level. And believe it or not, I'm not just talking about my parents. When people older than you suddenly realize that you're beyond the age of being impressed upon, they become terribly obvious in their own faults. When your young and impressionable, its like they owe it to you to be good people. To take it easy on the language, to have a positive outlook, make it seem like they make good decisions around you, to NOT tell you that story about the time they were studying abroad and almost arrested while smoking weed on a park bench(oh wait, that was me!). Anyway, I told my mom that story when we were both of age to just be ourselves around one another. Cause you know what? Adults are equally as idiotic as teenagers, and they can be just as mean, selfish, indulgent and petty, too. They just allege this bullshit sage wisdom, because they've  "been there, done that".

So I guess its a good thing that I'm a fantastic bullshitter. Because I'm pretty sure that is precisely what will make me a good adult. 

25 and Alive!

This Sunday, on January 16th, I will be turning 25.

I am going to continue living till I am 100 years old. I've had this in my mind for years now so I don't think its out of the question, or that crazy. The power of positivity, right? I exercise on the regular, I eat immaculately, and "I don't smoke" (very effectively said with air quotes) and "I'm not an alcoholic".

Sorry, I had just had to pause to take a massive gulp of wine, which I spilled on my face and onto my lap. Common occurrence 'round these parts, nothing to see here...

So I'm going to make it till I'm triple digits deep, at least. I just know it! I come from a long line of good genetics, my people live fairly long lives, and with the curve of me being young at a time when advancements in medicine and technology are only getting more and more progressive by the hour, I think the odds are in my favor, and in many of our favors, to live longer and longer lives...right?

I'm digressing slightly, because I set out to write about the experience of turning one quarter century, not about living a century. I've been excited about turning 25 now for quite some time...I know you're supposed to look forward to every year, but something about 25 just sings to me. This is going to be my year, I'm putting it out there. This year is going to be awesome. Things...something....will happen for me. I already have it pretty good, but I know its going to get better.

I don't like to predict, or assume things about my future. However, I'm in the mood for some self prophesizing(yep, made that word up). Here is a list of the top ten things I'd like to see happen in my 25th year.

#1. Make buckets and buckets and buckets of money.
This year I'm going to make money hand over fist.  I don't know how, but I am confident that this year I'm going to be a self made rich person lady. I'm gonna be taking private jets back home to Long Island, where I will walk the streets of my humble home town and just hand out money to all the homeless people. And as I walk, people will approach me. They will want to know me, because people always want to know people with money. I will eat fresh sushi everyday, sometimes twice.  I will wear a pair of underwear, and instead of washing it for reuse, I will simply toss them into the garbage can and wait for my maid to throw them out. Better yet, I won't even throw them in the can. I will do that very lazy move where you pull of your pants and your underwear off at the same time and just leave them where they lie, for my maid to decipher with. And if she dares throw away my pants, along with the undies, that bitch is fired.

#2. I will adopt two white cats. They will be identical twins, and only I will be able to tell the difference between the two of them. They will be boys, and their names will be Chip and Barry. They will be perfect and they will meow on command. They will also be hypo-allergenic. They will enjoy play dates with other cats and joining me on vacation. They will never pee in my bed. I will get them when they are only three minutes old and I will nurse them to adulthood, ensuring that I get as many minutes of cute kitten time as possible, and they will obviously come to work with me.

#3. I will start my own business.  But it won't be business-y. I'm basically going to sit around in my studio creating greeting cards and stationary, and someone out there will realize I am a visual genius and make is so that all the stores want to sell my stuff. I will be the toast of the stationary world, and I will have my own warehouse to produce and ship out all of the stationary, and everyone will want to work there. Why, you ask? Because I offer competitive pay and full benefits, obvs! And also because my stationary is going to KICK ASS. Everyone will be allowed and encouraged to bring their cats to work, Also, everyone will be allowed to wear whatever they want, if anything at all, and there will be unlimited free fountain soda and a very nice looking salad bar. Nice salad bars are awesome.

#4. I will meet Mo Rocca and we will become best friends instantly.

#5. I will produce and star in the long awaited and highly anticipated stage production of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robot. This should have happened during Playfest when I was in high school, but I guess shit doesn't always work out the way you want it to. Yeah, still annoyed by that one. Oh hey, I'm 25 now. Still mad.

#6. I will learn how to play guitar and will make a You Tube video of me doing an acoustic version of Eminem/Rihanna's song "Love the way you lie". The video will go viral and I will become an internet sensation over night. Everyone will know me and I will be asked to do the talk show circuit. At the MTV Music Video Awards, I will surprise everyone by introducing Eminem and Rihanna's performance by doing my own acoustic version before they come out. I will make a political statement with my performance by coming out dressed up as a salad.

#7. I will get my own show on NPR and although it won't do well on air, it will become a podcast phenomenon. The show will be about pop culture, but I will mostly just be doing impressions of other more famous NPR personalities. The show will be cancelled, but the fans will bring it back and I will continue only in podcasts. My show will become raunchier and more subversive. I will be an underground hero. NPR will be mad at me, but I will always love them, forever.

#8. I will go on vacation with Adam to South Dakota to do more camping in Custer State Park. On our drive out there, we will see a large hill and we will go dig a hole in it because we have a feeling. We will discover a completely preserved dinosaur skeleton of a variety that has never been seen before. Adam will fulfill his dream of becoming an amateur paleontologist, and I will be happy for him.

#9. I will pack a small bag with all the essentials and get on my bike. I will ride it all the way to San Francisco. It will take a very long time and I will want to give up many times, but I will not. At every town I pass through, bystanders will line the street urging me on. They will all be wearing t-shirts with my face on the front and line on the back stating where they were when they witnessed the bike riding phenomenon of 2011.

#10. I will be a guest host on the View, and after one appearance, they will get rid of Elizabeth Hasselback and invite me to a be a regular host. My life will be complete when I use whatever clout I have to get The Talk cancelled.




A girl can dream, right?

I'm handy.

Righty and Lefty are my two best friends.

I'm sorry to any and all of you who thought you were in my top tier...it's just that there's only so much room at the top and I have priorities. See, I need friends who can do things for me, get shit done, keep me company at any time of the day. Make me meals, do my laundry, drive my car, you get the idea? And no one gets it done like Righty and Lefty.

Now before all you perverts go off the rails with my last statement, I reckon that you take a step back and really think about it. This isn't about that. This is about honest to goodness handiness and its my talents and abilities. Whose more important to you than your right and your left? They didn't come up with the phrase "Right Hand Man" for nothing.

I often marvel at my hands, hours on end. I just sit and I stare. I bring each hand really close to my face so that I can't really see much of it at all, I just feel its marvelous presence in my face. And then I stretch them forward, turn them over some, glancing from side to side. My hands are my most prettiest asset. They never have fat days and they rarely look sick. My fingers are long but not large, my nails are square but feminine. They are double jointed so my fingers take a graceful bow towards the outside of wrists when fully extended. They're really quite exquisite.

And fascinating.

They're little characters, these two. Sure they're mostly made of sugar and spice, but these things have grit, personalities, cojones! And like any set of twins, they're vastly different when closely examined.

Righty is my bitch.
She's tough and rugged. From an early age she wanted to be at the forefront of every activity, game and chore. She's the first one to jump up when I need to get something done, or to grab something off of the shelf. She's typically the more messier one, covered in paint around the finger tips, markers and pencils on her broad bottom edge. In true tomboy fashion, she prefers her nails short and NEVER painted with polish.
Righty is home to my most distinguished digit, my right ring finger. I remember when I was young and constantly writing or drawing with a pen, the knot on the inside of the finger was large enough to cause alarm. But I loved it. It was special. It was my writing and drawing bump. I called it bumpy(I'm just kidding, I'm not that crazy).  A bump that in no doubt was a direct cause of Righty's rebellious nature. To see her hold a pencil is to stand in the shadow of a twisted, crooked genius.  Righty grips her pencils like an inexperienced psycho wields a gun, with reckless abandon and no style.  I've never met a single hand that holds a pencil the way Righty does. It's as though she was raised by a pack of wolves. Teachers marveled at her, they tried to correct her. Righty stood her ground.
And despite all her triumphs, much to her consternation, she's never won a game of arm wrestling...which she blames on my arm.

Lefty is...different.
She looks like a masterpiece. Adorned with jewels to boot. She's the only one of the two that has a constant decoration, a ring passed down from my mothers lefty. It's a family thing. She's the girlier of the two, her nails are kept long, she gets less dirty.
Devoid of strange finger bumps (due to life lived mostly as a bench warmer), she's the less scarred of the two, save for one squarish nick on the back of her hand. And she prefers to think of it as her beauty mark, because Lefty is an optimist. She knows that no one is perfect, she couldn't live up to that kind of expectation. This is because Lefty is my more humble hand. She's always been more than obliged to let Righty do her thing. She sits and watches, studying the way Righty does it. She claps with Righty over their many combined accomplishments. Lefty can do a lot, but theres a lot that she can't do. Lefty can't snap. She can't really draw either, but the kid tries.  She doesn't like to hold sharp knives, and scissors are uncomfortable. Hand shakes are messy, high fives are disasters.
But I have a lot of respect for Lefty. Despite her many disabilities, she keeps on keeping on. Sometimes in this life you have to respect your limitations and embrace what little you can. Lefty is a phenomenal typer. She's great on the assist - the way her and Righty do my hair, as a team, is nothing short of an everyday miracle.  What she lacks in nimbleness she makes up in strength. She's my quiet fighter.

I was once told, when I was just a young thing, that my hands look like they have never done anything. I've been called a lot of names, I've been told and have discovered a lot of disappointing things about myself, but that statement, that was a bit much. These hands? Never done anything? Are you kidding me? They never stop. You should have seen what they did last week alone. They went on an all out home improvement bender. They grouted the tile, they've never even done that before and the team work that they exhibited was nearly tear inducing. Lifetime Friday night special kind of shit. They sanded and stained shelves, they painted the living room, and at the end of the day, they even made dinner. And they never complained once. Never asked to have gloves put on them, to take a break. They never said they didn't want to do it, that they grit of the sandpaper was to much, the paint too smelly, the tack clothes too sticky, they just went for it.

I've used these two my whole life, and they're strong as ever. Years of house painting, a life time of crafting, a decade of cooking and the successful completion of a long list of duties, chores and pursuits. And they've never let me down once.

Righty, Lefty and I, we're going to do okay in this life. I just know it.



Check these puppies out!

Meowing In My Sleep

I was awoken this morning by nothing short of divine intervention.

Although I'll admit that at first it felt like divine irritation. After passing out around 2 am, I woke up with a wave of nausea at precisely 5:17am. A night of buddies and polynesian drinks will do that to you. I tossed and turned, drank my glass of water, and continued to toss and turn. My mind was racing (with what, who knows). My teeth were clenched and grinding (a pressing problem these days). In spite of feeling the comfortable warmth of my bed, and the surrounding windstorm that is my two fans, with my toes feeling about the very soft flannel sheets, sleep would somehow evade me for another couple of hours. And then, about an hour into the ordeal, something wonderful happened.

Adam meowed in his sleep.

It's really quite impressive to hear someone make noises unrelated to sleep while fast asleep. Snoring is one thing. Wheezing and whistling noises are another. Now I always thought that to hear someone speak the language of humans while at sleep was an entertaining as it could possibly get. Wait till you hear someone meow, because that my friends, is hilarious. So when he did it twice, I knew it to be a sign. And thusly, meowinginmysleep was born.