Inspirational bit

A friend reminded me of this brilliant Middlemarch quote the other day, and it just resonated with me for so many reasons. And so, I share it with you. (That George Eliot was one smart chick!)

Somebody I used to know

Holy shit, this song is gorgeous. The lyrics almost make me wish I was nursing a break up. (Yes, I typed that.)



Enjoy.

Lost dignity and icy substitutes

Maybe I should own one of these.

So if you've been in whining range of me in the past month or so, you probably know that I'm dealing with a strained muscle on the back of my thigh. And if you've ever visited me anytime, say, ever, you'll know that I'm also one of those people who is unable to keep ice cubes in my freezer.

This confluence of events is what led to me spend some quality time this month sitting on a bag of frozen shrimp fried rice, which I'd arranged so it was pressed oh-so-delicately onto the offending area.

If someone had told me a year ago that running would eventually lead me to spend time -- even briefly -- sitting in my underwear on a bag of frozen food while the dog stares in puzzled judgement, I would have politely declined to sign up for this silly adventure.

But now, it's just part of training. (Loss of dignity is, apparently, also included.)

Of course, while skivvy-sitting atop the improvised ice pack, I couldn't help but be entertained by the various frozen food items (bagged, I swear!) I've retrieved from the freezer in the past year to ice knees, ankles and shins. In fact, if you put together the frozen peas, corn, broccoli florets, shrimp, scallops, fried rice and raspberries it'd would probably make some kind of really good meal.

Maybe I'll eventually invest in an ice pack. Or, you know, remember to make ice.

Did you know...?

That it's PI DAY!? 3.14, baby. (Extra nerd points if you celebrate at 1:59:26.) (Yes. I typed that.)

Pi Day is all sorts of awesomesauce and I plan to celebrate with some some of pi(e) -- probably of the pizza variety.

But heads up BEWARE, people. Tomorrow's Part II of the Noodles Nerdathon. Why? Here's a hint.

My life.

Weird things happen when you live by yourself. I've lived solo since 2002, with the exception a several month period that basically reassured me that should I ever get married, my husband I will each need our own houses.



This was so spot on it, made me basically snort out a kidney. Not featured: having extended monologues with your pet.

Smiles.

'Nuff said.

Ear Worms

I'm still mulling over a super-introspective running post, so for the time being, I thought I'd let you listen to some of the songs I've been loving recently.

First up: Old Enough, by The Raconteurs, featuring Ricky Skaggs and Ashley Monroe:




Continuing the Ashley Monroe theme (don't you just love her old-timey voice?) here's the Pistol Annies singing Hell on Heels.




Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons:




And last, but God knows, not least: Alison Krauss & Union Station's Lie Awake, which is a track on their newest album. Which, P.S. you should listen to RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

Ferrous Wheel

Image via ThinkGeek.com

How is it possible that I *don't* own this tshirt? ThinkGeek.com, I think I love you.

The Least Amish Amish Craft Fair In History

I found myself in Indiana's Amish country this past weekend and on my way back to Chicago I took a side trip to Napanee, Ind. That's how I wound up at Amish Acres, a sort of Colonial Williamsburg knockoff of the Amish variety. Except, you know, without any actual Amish on site.

They happened to be having an arts and craft festival that featured some truly hideous things. (One guy was selling carved wooden signs that said "Tequila makes my clothes fall off." Like I said, TOTALLY. NOT. AMISH.) But amidst the calico and spice dips and rag quilts (side bar: rag quilts? No. Just no.) there were some cool pieces of folk art.

And thus, I present to you, a selection of the non-heinous items at The World's least Amish Amish Arts & Craft Festival.

Spoon art.

Carved wood gnomes. GNOMES, PEOPLE!

There were lots of letter pictures.

I'm bummed I lost this artist's card, but her mixed-media work was cool

A dala horse.

Reclaimed metal turkey! Gobble.

Reclaimed metal flowers. I ALMOST bought one.

This was the most Amish thing there.

Unitedish States of ... Something

As viewed by hipsters:

Created by HaleyForEtsy

As viewed by New Yorkers:

Via Funny or Die

Click to enlarge. (That's what she said.)

These things made me giggle.

 

Random selection of my nerd humor, courtesy of one of my pinterest boards. You're welcome.

In which I make a to-do list

My I-Want-To-Make-This-Awesome-Thing-Right-Now list is getting bitch-ass long. (Yes, I used bitch-ass. Your point?)

Anywho, since I am spending more time thinking of things I want to make instead of finishing the projects I have to do (I'm looking at your quilt back, Modern Gal.) I thought I'd show you some things on my crafty to-do list.

I want to make this super-awesome quilt using Anna Maria Horner's latest fabric line, Loulouthi. I like that the big blocks show off the big patterns, and mean that the quilt wouldn't take very long to put together. (I like to plow through projects, not spend years on them. I am all about crafty instant gratification.)

(Photo by Pins & Bobbins; Pattern by Stitched in Color.)


This awesome needlepoint pattern. Keep in mind, I don't needlepoint. But I grew up watching my mom do it and I've been dying to learn and this kit by Modern Needleworks has me drooling, in large part because nothing about it says grandma. And because it's a full kit that has the pattern painted on the canvas. I may be a math nerd at the office, but I refuse to stitch things that require me to count to recreate a pattern. (I'm looking at you Counted Cross Stitch.)


A version of this pillow by The Rebel Homemaker, with warmer colors in the panels.



Anything that could even come, maybe, possibly, sorta close to look as awesome as this stitching by Prints Charming.


And, last but certainly not least, this kick-ass crewel sampler made by Alicia Paulson. The practical among you will point out that I don't know how to do crewel. I will grit my teeth and stomp my feet and say, so?!? And then figure out how to learn.


So that's some of what I've been drooling over. What are you and your fingers itching to get into?

On books and tree rings.

I’ve spent the past few days puttering around my condo during staycation. Staycation during the winter means you don’t really LEAVE the house. (Have I mentioned I love staycation? You can stay in jammies for days, people. DAYS.)

The pragmatic side of me knew I had to use this time to organize, which is how I found myself spending a good solid hour tidying my book shelves. Before you fall over the fact that I spent a full-on 60 minutes playing with books floor-to-ceiling shelves, you need to know that at my core I’m a word nerd who’s never once been without a library card or a list of books to read. (Sidebar of a true story: I was such a delinquent book returner in my youth that in kindergarten my mother gave me a lecture about my overdue books, telling me that one day, if I continued my wayward habits, they’d destroy my credit rating. Take this time to imagine the blank stare a pig-tailed six-year-old gives to someone after this lecture.)

But I digress.

While I was moving shelves, sorting books, dusting and declutterring, I realized that in a way my bookshelves tell the story of my life. From photography to progressive theology, bookshelves are like tree rings that tell a story of a tree and its environment. There’s my entire collection of Paulo Coelho’s works translated in English, which I managed to accumulate after a friend gave me The Alchemist as a college graduation gift. There’s my father’s old photography books, that he gave me to me when I got my hands of my first SLR. There’s some of my favorite children's books, both from when I was kid (hello, Misty of Chincoteague) and some I’ve picked up along the way because I wanted to have them on my shelves. (Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.) There’s vintage sewing books, feminist theory, Irish literature and some American poetry anthologies. There’s the Jodi Picoult I love to read on vacation along with books on yoga, journalism, politics, public health and tons of fiction that I just haven’t been able to part with over the years. (I have a rule that book collection cannot expand beyond the confines of the shelves that hold them, so I always prune a few times a year.)

There was a New York Times essay a few years ago that talked about how bookshelves can be used to judge a perspective date. It was snarky and sometimes snotty, but at its core is this pretty important truth that we are what we read. Or, maybe it’s that we read what we are.

I guess for me, the books I hold on to after sending off a pile to Goodwill are the books that sort of mark the stages of my life.

What do you think?

Soupapalooza

Hello, blog peeps. Fast question:

What's your favorite soup recipe? May I have a copy?

(More explanation to come later.)

Lots of love (and soup),

Noodles

Fa-la-la-la-laing

My calendar says September. My mind is on late December and the Christmas holidays. The season sneaks up so quickly, especially when I have the comical idea in my head (and with the best of intentions) that I'm going to try to do handmade gifts for my best girlfriends.

So what am I doing right this very moment? (I mean, other than typing this blog, smartass? Don't make me come over there.) Making up my holiday shopping list. Relatives, 'rents, girlfriends, and church friends are going on there and everything from fresh-baked bread and cookies to something Amy Butlery and AWESOME are on my list.

Of course, I'm me. So I'm freaking out about how I'll get everything done in time. And budgeted accordingly. But, whatever. I LOVE the holidays. I love the smell of the kitchen and the way my condo smells when I come home to my fresh(ish)-cut tree. I love the colors. The smiles. I love the time together with the people I love the most. I love caroling on the church porch. I even like the snow and the cheesy animatronic window displays at Marshall Field's Macy's.

Mmmmmmmmm.

So before I get it in my head that I'm going to bake some sugar cookies RIGHT! THIS! SECOND!, I thought I'd ask where you are in your Christmas planning? Are you one of those obnoxious people who's done by July? Are you a Christmas Eve at the mall type person? Handmade? Latest gadgets?

Scene from my life.

Who: Me and my across-the-country co-worker bff.
What: A scene from my life. Or, why you should never get between me and my coffee fix.
When: Today, roughly 2 p.m.
Where: My desk.
Why: Because I'm an asshole.
How: IM conversation.

And, scene!

Me: So, I know I'm trying to be all mindful and not material and shit, but the effing coffee shop didn't give me my double-tall, extra-hot, non-fat latte.
Me: Instead, I just walked back to my desk and found out that all I got a regular Chai.
Me: Fuckers.
Her: So you're being the opposite.
Me: Yes. And I want my latte back. I'm bitter.

....
(At this point, we veer off topic. And I continue my amazement/bafflement/ashamed-at-my-own-materialism rant after discovering our church's young adult volunteer and his five housemates live on a $550 monthly household food/toiletry budget and they each get $100/month to cover ALL their incidental expenses. While living in Chicago. Then we talk about her two friends who've been laid off. Then we feel shitty. And grateful for what we have.)
...

Her: We really are lucky. This isn't shit to complain about.
Me: I know. But I'd be EVEN LUCKIER if I had the caffeine I needed.



This is why I'm an asshole. A tired, uncaffeinated asshole.

WHEEE

Thanks to my love of my DVR, and the fact that I haven't regularly watched live TV in probably three years, I'm way out of the loop when it comes to commercials. Like... waaaaaaaay out of the loop. Which explains why when a coworker showed me this video at the office this week, I about peed my pants.

For the record, I hate to be the dumbass who sends some link that everyone saw three months ago. But at the risk of being that person, OMG. WATCH. THIS.




You are welcome.

In which I eat scallops and die happy

Every since I came back from Hawaii I've been fighting a losing battle with a newly developed food craving for scallops.

SCALLOPS, y'all. Yes. Scallops.

Not, like, coconut. Or chocolate, or fresh fruit, or any of the normal things people crave. Me? I want scallops. (For the record the last Great Noodles Food Craving was kale. But leafy greens don't have the staying power that the NECTAR OF THE SEA DOES.)

Specifically I want sea scallops finely seared with a bit of clarified butter, Tabasco sauce, and salt and pepper to taste. (Also: scallops? BAH. Crappy. Knock. Off. Food.)

And no, I'm not pregnant. I'm just a Maryland girl at heart with seafood running through my veins. If anything, I blame genetics.

So on that note, off to go sear me some dinner. Y-U-M.


P.S. Of course, one of the many problems with this new addiction of mine, aside from its apparent weirdness, is the fact that sea scallops are effing expensive. At Whole Foods, a pound will run you $19.99. I know, I know, it's Whole Foods. But they're SO DAMN GOOD. I'm currently plowing my way through a pack of frozen sea scallops from Trader Joe's that I bought for the lovely price of $12.99. SCALLLLLLLOOPS.

P.P. S. What are you craving lately?

Logging off? Confessions of a...

Confession: I'm an Internet addict. I tweet. I Facebook. I check email within 30 seconds of its arrival. I use AIM. Gchat. The office internal IM system. Hell, I don't even think about going to the store without my phone and its ability to offer insta-Google. Why would I? You never know when there could be a produce crisis and I may suddenly really need to know the difference between kale and Italian kale.

I've been thinking a lot about how wired I am and how it fuels distraction in my life, in part because I just finished reading A.J. Jacobs' latest book, "The Guinea Pig Diaries." In one chapter he spends a month doing nothing but "unitasking" because he says we've multitasked ourselves away from our ability to focus.

In the 18th century, there were things like "attention athletes" who spent hours and days focusing on ONE THING and one thing only.

"Oh, to be born in the golden age of attention," he writes. "When Lincoln and Douglas could have three-hour debates, or the faithful could pray without ceasing for four hours. When people would look at a painting for an afternoon. Paintings! They're like TV, but they don't move."

Today, though, the average U.S. student gives up working on a complicated math problem after only 9.5 minutes. (Because he writes it better than I ever will, I'll keep quoting.) Jacobs says the "culture of distraction changes the way we think." It, literally, reroutes our brain, which makes us anything but the brightest, happiest, conscious people we wish we were.

So, what the hell happened to us? Turns out we basically started screwing ourselves out of the ability to focus sometime around the Industrial Revolution. That's when, as Jacobs says, "we began to fetishize speed and equate quickness with intelligence."

Personally, I can barely sit in silence without my mind suddenly doing the mental equivalent of crunking. Prayer? OMG. Try to find time to sit and quietly reflect? Pashaw. Ride the bus and just focus singularly on the beauty of Lake Michigan? Such effing effort. That's when my brain suddenly decides it MUST comes up with an 8-point plan on how to clean my floorboards. Floorboards, people! Right! This! Very! Second! (This is hysterical because, well, a solid 80 percent of the time you can't even SEE my floorboards, what with the giant mountain of clothes everywhere. But that's beside the point. Or maybe it IS the point.) Hell, I can't even talk on the phone without doing something else: emailing, typing, cleaning, lounging in a bubble bath, walking the dog, cooking dinner, driving my car. I do, however, draw the line at toilet talking. Because, I'm sure you REALLY wanted to know that.

My point... my point... where was I? Oh, right. Yes. Focus. Technology.

In essence, we've (and me, specifically here) somehow acquired this cultural ADD and then proceeded to magnify it with our increasingly wired lifestyle.

I know I do.

Once a few years ago when I was felled by a particularly violent stomach flu, I spent the night crouched on the floor of the bathroom holding on to my Blackberry so I could tweet and text my woe. In between heaving.

Sure, I was never a Focus McFocuserson. Hell, Currer Bell once nearly kicked me out of a Zen meditation group because I couldn't stop fidgeting. But I swear, with each passing day it feels like it's harder and harder to do one thing -- and do it well from start to finish without interruptions

Do you feel that way, too?

All of this is swirling around in my brain today while I was a) at work; b) at lunch; c) riding the L; d) trying on my FABULOUS new prescription sunglasses; e) did I mention they were fabulous; f) basking in the sun on the ride home; g) walking the mutt dog; h) watching 2 episodes of NCIS while eating dinner and sorting fabric scraps and mocking SATC2 for simply existing.

Yet somehow, in the midst of all the noise of my mind, I came across this: 8 reporters at The Washington Post tried to unplug for a week. They nearly lost their minds. Then they wrote about it.

Think about it: no e-mail. No iPhone. No quick Googling. No YouTube to see the latest Greyson Chance video. I don't think I could it. A full-on wired hiatus. A technological Sabbath.

It makes my busy brain hurt to think about.

I wonder if I could even go a day. Could you? I wonder how I could become better at quieting my my monkey mind that bounces all around like a 3-year-old riding the wave of a raging sugar high.

I guess what I'm saying is this. My name is Noodles. I'm wired. And I'm an addict. And I bet you are too.

Image found here.

Nothing but rim.

Spotted on my walk home from the L.


That's a lot of stolen bike. But one mighty U-lock.