Kicking Ass and Politely Requesting Names

I hate gyms. I hate working out just to work out. Running on a treadmill makes me feel like a fucking asshat. Exercise machines make me feel dirty and stupid. When I was in high school I was in amazing shape. I know, I know...everyone has their boring "when I was in high school" stories. It's been ten years...eleven years!!! But I still think back fondly about my amazing ass and tight abs. I never went to the gym, though. I took aerobics class at school instead of P.E. (yeah I went a school in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, so what?) and I kicked ass at it. During the summer, I would roller skate around the man made lake in my town everyday. Going back even farther, during jr. high I would wake up at 5 a.m. on a freaking Saturday to run 5k races!!! I don't even know who that girl is anymore!

I used to be fiercely competitive and constantly active. I've always been skinny, so it's never been about weight, it's just the amazing feeling you get when your heart rate starts to rise and you start to sweat. I love that. Somewhere in the last ten years, though, that drive has all but disappeared. A couple months every year I'll become determined to start exercising again, last year's trampoline resolution, for instance. It always ends the same way, though. Me preferring to take a nap when I get home, rather than work out.

Well the month of pointless determination is upon us! Today at lunch, I joined a gym. I know what you're thinking, "Georgia, I thought you hated gyms! Also, damn those jeans look good on you." Well you're right, and also thank you. But! This gym is different! Not only is it NOT a chain gym (which I fucking loath), but it has all these crazy amenities, and it's super cheap! Here are some things I'm excited about:

• There's a sauna, and a steam room, and a jacuzzi...IN the women's changing room!!! This means I get to lounge around naked with other women! Actually, that's kinda gross. I saw "bush" when I was touring the changing facilities. If that's not a friendly welcome, I don't know what is.


• I played racquetball for the first time at this gym with a friend who's a member a couple weeks back when I accompanied him as his "guest". Racquetball? I fucking love it. The best part though, is that the walls of the court? they MOVE! If you want to play squash instead of racquetball? you just press a button and the wall MOVES so you have the correct size court. WTF??? I have a feeling I'm going to spend the first half of my workout pressing the "move the wall" button and giggling incessantly.


• There's a running track on the roof! I'm sure I'll never use the track, as running isn't really my thing anymore, but just knowing that if I want to, I can do so on a roof makes me happy.


• It's so high tech, that at the end of every month you can get an email telling you how much you worked out that month and what areas you need to spend more time in! That sounds a little intrusive and Orwellian to me, but again, I like knowing it's there if I get the urge to make everything in my life public.
  

Anyway. Expect "before and after" photos of my fat-skinny self. I can't wait to see what I'll suddenly claim as my new workout routine next year. I'm thinking cross-country skiing? Or alligator wrestling? How about hula hooping!!!

Domestic Tuesdays - Fake It

I don't use cookbooks very often, preferring to print my recipes out so I can take them to the store with me. Or, more accurately, carry them around in the notebook in my purse for months and months before I finally admit that I'm never going to make "halibut with carrots and leeks" or "pappardelle with mascarpone-porcini sauce"or whatever and throw them away to make room for new recipes. When I saw an ad for the recipe book Cooking With All Things Trader Joe's, though, I knew I had to have it.

My favorite recipe from the book so far, Red Curry Fish, isn't up on their website, but it's so damn good, I wanted to share it with you. It's by far the seemingly fanciest thing I've ever made, in fact I made it for my mom and grandma when they came to my apartment a couple weeks back, but it's the fracking easiest dish I've ever made. Five ingredients, including the fish...that's it! And it tastes amazing. Want to impress a guy/girl that you're trying to trick into sleeping with you??? This is the dish for you! Hell, I put the moves on myself after I make this, it's that damn good.

It starts with a bottle of Trader Joe's Thai Red Curry Sauce and about a pound of fish fillets. The cookbook calls for halibut, which is not only delicious, but also really expensive, so I use snapper or mahi mahi, which both work fine. Someday I want to use shrimp, but that day isn't today.

Curry Sauce posing with my favorite wine glass.

If you don't have a Trader Joe's nearby, I'm sure you can find something very similar to this curry sauce at any grocery store, or an ethnic market at least. Start by placing one cup of curry sauce in a saucepan large enough to fit the fish, over medium/high heat. Once the sauce starts to boil, add the fish to the pan and spoon the sauce over the fish.

There was a great photo here but I accidentally deleted it while I was finishing this post at home, and the original photo is on my office computer.

Cover and cook for about 6-7 minutes, or until the fish flakes easily with a fork. At this point, I take the fish out and put it onto a plate, because it makes finishing the sauce easier.

Add about two tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro, and two tablespoons basil (I use the frozen cubes of basil from TJ's cause when I buy fresh herbs, I never use them and then I forget to throw them away and my fridge ends up smelling bad), and one tablespoon fresh lime juice, and pour that yummy mixture over the fish.

I was gonna put a photo of the sauce being poured, but it kinda resembles barf, so I'm not going to do that...you're welcome. Here's a photo of me taking a sip of wine from my Mom/Wow glass, instead.

I normally serve the fish with jasmine rice, but, ummm, I forgot this time! Instead, I made the yummiest vegetables ever: sauteed green beans and fennel!!!

I made sauteed fennel for the first time recently, and although I was skeptical at first, I fell madly in love once I tasted it. It smells strongly of anise/black licorice when it's fresh, but once you cook it, the flavor is much more subtle. Using only the bulb, chop the shit out of that fennel. Remove the stems from the green beans after rinsing.

This was a photo of me doing something related to cooking, but I looked weird in it, so I changed it to this photo. I'm vane, I know.

Over medium heat, add two or three cloves of chopped garlic in two tablespoons of olive oil for about a minute, then add the fennel and green beans, cracked pepper and salt to taste.

Cover, and let that awesomeness steam for about ten minutes, or until everything is all brown and caramelized.

Trust me when I tell you that you're going to want to get a loaf of crusty bread to go with this meal, unless you want to be licking your plate after you're through. The curry sauce is amazing and the veggies go really well with the fish. (sidenote: have any of you LA-people ever gotten a baguette from Jon's Market??? Holy freaking hell. That was the best baguette I've ever had.)

Bon appetite, bitches!

Beating Off

When I moved back to Los Angeles two years ago, I needed something in my life to be excited about - something that I had never done before so I could define myself as this new person, not the girl that had been in a relationship for five years. That something was drumming, and after a couple lessons from my good friend Micah, I was hooked.

For some reason, I always had it in my head that I'd be a good drummer. Nevermind that I had tried and failed at about half a dozen previous instruments; there was something about drumming that made sense to me. I took to it immediately.



I bought my own drum kit, and started taking lessons from a wonderful teacher. Drumming always seemed like a math equation to me, even though I admittedly suck at math. There was a pattern to it, a "this + this = this" kinda thing. Once in a while I'd play with some friends at a party, practicing my beats while they'd play along with guitar and bass, etc., but I didn't have anyone to play with that was at the same level as me. Enter my band - Hardstark.

Hardstark consisted of myself on drums, my lovely friend Yuko learning keyboard, and the beautiful Eliah on guitar and eventually singing. The aforementioned Micah was part of the band in that he came to every practice, and in the beginning basically taught everyone how and what to play. He had a stake in the band in that Eliah was his girlfriend so while Yuko and I paid him for his time in tacos, Eliah hopefully payed him in blow jobs. Tacos and blow jobs? Who wouldn't want this job???

The night Micah told me that Eliah had broken up with him, I knew Hardstark was over. In solidarity with Micah, I couldn't go on playing in this band, and expecting him to come to practices even though he was trying to get over her. So we stopped playing together. Sometimes I think of where we'd be now if they hadn't broken up, as if I'm the child in the middle of her parent's divorce.


I kept going to my teacher once a week, and I was getting better with every lesson, but eventually I was low on cash and the drumming thing didn't feel like it was going anywhere...like there was going to be any outcome to it. I still had my kit, but it became more furniture than instrument.

Last week I decided I needed to do something about that. I needed to give it one more go before I gave up and sold my drums. So I went on Craigslist and emailed some bands that advertised looking for a drummer. I got a response from a punk band who wanted to try me out, and over this past weekend I learned a few songs that they have been playing.


It was easy, honestly. Basic punk beats are no big deal, and I had a lot of fun dissecting Psychotic Reaction by Count Five. A couple hours before my try-out on Sunday night, I stopped by Micah's house and we jammed for a bit. I wasn't nervous, partially because of the half tab of Xanax I had taken, but more so because I was confident that I could do this.

To make a long story short, I totally choked. Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be in this band anyway - they weren't "my type", if you will, but it was still super embarrassing because I sucked SO BAD. I couldn't keep time, I kept stopping and fucking up. Oh my god, if I gave more of a shit I would have been mortified.

I'm not giving up the drums though, I'm going to keep trying and plan on resuming my lessons. Something was off last night, and I think it has to do with them not being friends of mine, of not being comfortable. I miss playing with Hardstark. I miss being able use the excuse that "I have band practice tonight" as to why I can't hang out. I miss being in a band. I'm not ready to give up yet.

Thanks to my lovely and talented sister, Leah, for the photos.

If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother

Something troubling has been happening to me, the closer to 30 I get. It's something I swore would never happen, but I've been noticing bits and pieces of it breaking through the cracks for a couple years now. I can hear it in the tinkling of my laughter, the warnings I give my friends about using their iPods while walking alone at night, and the nurturing way I treated my ex's daughter when she was young...even in the way I baby-talk my cat.

Just like she always told me I would someday, despite my vehement denials, well, I'm becoming my mother.


The first time I ever noticed this is in the photo below.

The way I'm standing, the expression I'm giving the camera...that's my mother, through and through. I remember staring at this photo, taken on New Years Eve three or four years back, and just being stunned. Before this, I had never considered myself to be anything at all like my mother. We were connected to each other through a mother/daughter bond, and because I was her "baby", but have always been like oil and water in all aspects of our personalities. We loved each other of course, but we struggled to get along.


It isn't just the way I look, of course. When it comes down to it, I "look" more like my dad than I do my mom, but the gestures and the personality that make me who I am are so obviously yet unconsciously mirrored after my mother's, that it freaks me out sometimes.

This isn't an inherently negative thing, mind you. My mother is beautiful, and I should be so lucky to look like her.

But Jesus, when the "oy" you elicit when you heave yourself off the couch is like having a hologram of your mother in the room with you, well it starts to get a little overwhelming. It is troubling, because it's a sure sign that I'm getting older. She always teases me about it, and I'd never admit how often I see her in myself. Nor does she know that when I go to a party, or interact with people and situations that make me nervous, I conjure her personality because she's just so damn good at playing the "confident woman" part. I know there are worse things to be than my mother...but man, I hate when she's right.

Thanks to Jonah Ray for letting me use his awesome photos (my new main blog photo was taken by him, as well).

Domestic Tuesdays - Nomless Edition

It was pointed out to me that, because of the vague name, Domestic Tuesdays doesn't need to solely feature posts related to cooking. Indeed, as the domestic little bitch I claim to be, I am mediocre in not just cooking, but other domestic-related activities as well! Lucky you!

Parting ways with a long-time, live-in boyfriend two years ago, I realized just how little I had in the way of personal effects when I was able to stuff the entirety of my belongings into a rented minivan - with room to spare. No furniture to speak of. No kitchenware aside from the mish-mash of quirky vintage glasses I had collected. A treasured painting bought for two bucks, and an old department store ad featuring a bra-clad pre-Gilligan's Island Tina Louise, both procured at garage sales. That was about it.

Since then, between the three times I've moved and the various furniture I've collected at thrift stores, as hand-me-downs, and a couch used as payment by a former roommate who was lax in the area of bill-paying, I've amassed enough creature comforts to make a cozy little apartment. Now comes the tough part: decorating.

The idea of "DIY" frightens me. I have a manila folder tucked into the bottom drawer of my dresser labeled "DIY Projects", and there's various print-outs and magazine clippings of cute little projects that would add a charming, homemade touch to my apartment...but I'm scared. Although I'm creative and confident, I am by no means artistic. You would not want me on your team in a serious game of Pictionary. When playing a drawing game a couple weekends ago with some artist acquaintances, I was passed a sheet of paper when the timer went off and was expected to add my own flare to the increasingly schizophrenic-looking drawing that was taking its beautiful shape on the page. I drew a duck.

So if painting something is out of the question, and with little money to spend, what's a girl like me to do in order to get some attractive wall hangings in her damn abode?? Enter my postcard collection.
This large batch of postcards from all over the world and spanning the 1900's was given to me by the stepfather of a friend after I found out he had a garage full of 'em. I've always loved old postcards, so he gifted me with a huge box of them, and when I baked him a batch of spicy chocolate chip cookies to thank him, was given yet another box of postcards. Yeah, so I have a lot of postcards. I always had the vague idea to collect some vintage frames and hang them in a purposely scattered manner, but when I saw that done at my friends house, and how good it looked, I knew I had to conquer my fear of DIY and get it done.

I started with some basic wood frames from IKEA. They were 3 for $1.99 and I bought two packs of them. I decided to paint them all one color, although I think I'll buy more in the future and use a complimentary color. I bought a tube of paint and a cheap paintbrush, costing about $12.
I watched a movie while I painted, all the while trying to keep my cat from sticking his curious nose in the paint and from padding across the wet frames.
It didn't work.

The frames turned out well though, after two coats of paint. Then I picked some of my favorite black-and-white postcards and put them in the frames. Aside from using a different color paint, I think I'll add some color postcards to the mix next time. I have some awesome 1970's postcards that are wonderfully faded from age.

Next I pissed my neighbors off by hammering nails into the wall at 11 o'clock at night.

The end result was okay, but I think it looks a little bare still, but at the same time it's nice to have something hanging in my bedroom that I put my time and effort into. Maybe I'll conquer this DIY fear after all?


At least I have good company.

Messy

Had I not been unmotivated and, well, lazy on Friday, I would have posted an entry that went something like this: "Right now, as I sit at my desk and type this, there is a woman in my apartment whose sole reason for being there is to freaking CLEAN the ENTIRE apartment, from top to bottom. This makes me endlessly happy." Friday was a lesson in patience for me, as I was so incredibly excited to get home to my newly clean apartment and just bask in its tidiness. I'm not a messy person, mind you, not in the least, but having had a cleaning woman in the past, I know that there's a level of immaculacy that can only be achieved when someone is being paid to do the job.

I got the name and a wholehearted endorsement of the cleaning lady from a friend of mine. I trust this friend's opinion as she is equally anal in her obsessive tidiness, so if she says this woman does an amazing job, than I have no reason not to believe it. It wasn't a very large expense, but I've been trying to save money lately so I chose a clean apartment over the facial I wanted, manicure and pedicure I needed, massage I desperately yearned for, and Forever 21 shopping spree that I...okay, I did that last one anyway. I'm not a rock, okay??

On Thursday evening I met the cleaning lady at my house for a quick overview and to give her my keys. My apartment is tiny, and as I said before, already quite clean, so I didn't think she'd have a huge job ahead of her. In fact, I thought she'd be relived to finally get an easy job, as I know how messy other people can be. I showed her the cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink, she offered to do my laundry which I declined, but accepted her offer to iron, showed her where the vacuum was, and agreed to let her throw out anything in the fridge that was spoiled while she was cleaning it.

When I drove home from work Friday evening, I was giddy with excitement. I planned on finally taking a bath in my tub, something I'm not a fan of with shower/bath combinations. I was sure she'd have scrubbed the ever-loving hell out of it though, so I wouldn't have felt like I was sitting in a bacteria bath. I thought of how beautiful my old, dark wood floors probably looked; shiny and clean. All the little nooks and corners where cat hair collects? Those would be sparkly too.

But...but when I walked in my door, I was confused. It took me about three loops around my apartment before I got angry. The kitchen hadn't been touched. My broom propped against the stove was the only evidence that anyone had even been in the kitchen, but the floor hadn't been swept, so it didn't make any sense. My vacuum had been moved, but the one rug I have in my house looked just as dirty as it had when I left that morning, and the fuzz from my cat's scratching post was still confettied around the couch. The papers on my kitchen table had been organized, my small bathroom had been wiped down a bit, but the mirrors hadn't been cleaned and nothing in the house had been dusted...just a few things moved around for posterity, it seemed. The few blouses and dresses I had left out for ironing had been hung back up in my closet, slightly less wrinkled and still damp from the steamer.

Then here's the weirdest part. Lying in my cat's bed - was a knife. I'm not kidding. Inexplicably, she took a kitchen knife from my utensil drawer, and somehow left it lying in my cat's bed when she was done doing -- whatever she did with it. Really...wtf??? It's almost funny...okay, well it IS funny, but I'm still out my facial/manicure/pedicure/massage/second Forever 21 shopping trip money.

I tried calling her but she hung up on me when I asked her what happened. When I called back, she agreed to bring me my money back, but I haven't heard from her since and my phone calls are going unanswered. I tidied my house a bit on Saturday...it only took an hour or so. I've decided that I can live without a spotless house. I'd rather have a little dust hiding under my bed, than the possibility of my cat spooning a knife.

Domestic Tuesdays - The Money Shot

There are some things that are so perfect in their simplicity, that to screw with them is to ruin them. Coffee with flavored creamer is an abomination, in my opinion, as are noodles in a bowl of matzo ball soup. I once had a "BBLT", the second "B" standing for brie cheese. It was delicious, don't get me wrong, but the only acceptable (and in my mind, necessary) addition of a letter in that delicious acronym is "A", which of course stands for "avocado".

The best BLTs I've ever had, and I've had a lot of BLTs, are the most simple - no frills versions. Homemade, sturdy white bread (the only time I ever eat white bread), good quality mayo (again, the only time I really eat that crap), ripe tomato (also not a fan), lettuce, and of course perfectly crispy bacon. The only changes I make are subtle ones.

Avocado is one of my very favorite foods. When I was little my mom would cut one in half and sprinkle pepper over the cut sides and I'd eat the avocado right out of the skin, and I've never met a guacamole that I didn't like (and eat all of). Yeah, I have no idea why I'm not obese either. If a BLT is like a blow job (I have no idea how it would be, but lets pretend), than avocado on a BLT is the money shot at the end (I hope my dad doesn't read this blog anymore). Sure, you could have one without the other, but they go so well together, so why not whore it up and combine the two, you dirty little so-and-so???

Lets pretend that I actually had crusty white bread when I decided to make a BLT last weekend, and not just my normal bullshit "whole grain oat for hippies" crap, mmmk?

While the bacon is cooking on the George Foreman grill (or if you're not awesome enough to have a GF grill, in a boring old frying pan), toast the ever-loving-hell out of a couple pieces of bread. Although I hate restaurants that use wording like "nicely toasted" in their menus, a good BLT does, in fact, require bread that has been "nicely toasted". Besides the addition of avocado, the other small tweak I like to make is this:

Oh hell yeah. Add about a teaspoon of crushed garlic to about a tablespoon of mayonnaise and stir those bitches together. Sure you'll have terrible breath afterward, but if you're making it at home your clothes are going to stink like bacon, so you might as well go all out.

So you have your bread "nicely" toasted, the garlic/mayo is down, avocado spread and lightly peppered, and your bacon is sufficiently crispy and excess grease patted off with a paper towel. You're ready to assemble.


Does that not look freaking perfect??? I think BLATs are #1 on my "last thing you would eat before you die" list. What's yours?

My Stomach

In solidarity with Her Bad Mother and Loralee's posts about what they love/hate/tolerate/ignore about their stomachs, I thought I'd do the same but from a never-had-a-baby perspective.

My stomach:

The first thing I want to point out about my stomach, the first thing I see when I look at that photo, is my Scar (above my bellybutton). The reason I capitalize the word "scar", is because in a lot of ways, that Scar is a being all its own. On my list of "things to blog about in the future" (yes, I have a list of things I want to blog about...don't laugh), "my scar" has been on the top of said list since I started blogging two years ago. I guess the subject is just such a huge thing to tackle for me. How do I properly describe the way that my Scar has affected my life, and that you can tell how much I've grown as a person by the fact that the thing that once caused me the most embarrassment, is now something that I feel comfortable posting a photo of on the Internet?

Close-up

The story of the Scar starts when I was about 13 years old. I had a mole on my stomach. It wasn't a huge mole, it was small and I rather liked it actually, but my doctor was afraid it would become cancerous, so he wanted to remove it as a precaution. I remember every single thing about that surgery; how tightly I clutched my mom's hand throughout, the pressure from the blade but the lack of pain from the drugs, the idiot doctor who showed me the damn thing once he removed it. My mom told me that I turned a very distinct shade of green when I saw my disembodied mole.

Anyway, after the surgery, I remember keeping a close eye on the stitches. I didn't think twice about the scar that started to form, thinking it would go away once I healed. When I finally showed my mom, it was too late. Turns out that healing "keloid" runs in my family, and though it skipped my mom and my siblings, I was the bearer of the genetic trait that makes scar tissue overproduce.

Over the next few years I became more and more self conscious of my Scar. If I ever wore a bikini, or a top that showed my stomach, I would cover the Scar with a bandaid. When I'd disrobe around a boyfriend, my hand would immediately and unconsciously move to cover the Scar and I'd stumble over my words to explain what it was. In my mind it made me disgusting and unattractive. When a particularly cruel friend commented that it looked like I had a piece of chewed gum stuck to stomach, I'd think of that analogy every time I saw myself naked. It was an obsession, really. My Scar: the thing that made me grotesque.

Keep in mind, though, that it wasn't as if I was a particularly confident person to begin with. My Scar was one of many things, albeit the most constant and intense, that I was convinced made me ugly. Once I started getting over those other things, and coming to terms with the fact that I was who I was and *gasp* I even liked myself a little bit, my Scar became my last and only thing I really wanted to change about myself. My large eyes, my sizable front teeth, my A-cup breasts...these all became things I embraced about myself. But the Scar...I couldn't look past the Scar.

I've had many, many painful treatments that promised to help shrink my keloid scar. The treatments consist of multiple shots of steroids or poison directly to the scar, and multiple visits are needed for each treatment. In high school I had the worst acne I've ever had in my life due to the side affects of one treatment. It was humiliating and took months of treatment itself to heal.

There's no affective treatment for keloids, though. Some people respond positively from the injections, but that's rare. I once heard that the reason there's no treatment for the scaring is because it's a predominately African American affliction, and since there's a large percentage of African Americans without health insurance, there's not much money to be made in finding an affective remedy for it, so there's no funding. I can't tell you had sad and angry this made me. I'm lucky. I have a thumbprint-sized scar on my stomach that only hurts once in a while (that's another problem with keloids; they hurt), and two small-but-ugly bumps on my leg from shaving cuts. It could be so, so much worse (do a google image search for "keloid" and you'll see what I mean). That solidarity helped me to get over my unhappiness with my Scar, and even start to like it.

I don't hate my Scar anymore. Like the second thing I notice about the above photo, my hourglass hips - which are sizable for a petite girl such as myself, I find my Scar something that makes me unique. I pointed my hips out to my mom once, complaining that they were too big and gross and "look how they make me have a 'muffin top' when I wear jeans!!!", and she responded incredulously by saying "Georgia, that's called WOMAN!" From then on I didn't mind them. Like my Scar, I find them sexy and part of what makes me "Georgia". Oh also, I like to tell people that I got stabbed when they ask me how I got the Scar. The look on their faces are priceless.

Your turn. What do you love/hate/tolerate/ignore about your body?

Not To Roam

When it comes down to it...when you take away the weeks of anticipation and online research and dreaming about all the adventures you're sure to have...well when you get past all that, I'm not really a huge fan of traveling. Sure there is a never-ending list of places I want to see and experiences I want to have, but when I get to those places, and are having or supposed to be having those experiences, I can't help but think to myself that I would have been happier just staying at home.

Due to a mother that worked full-time just to make ends meet, I didn't travel much as a child. The only out-of-town trips I took that didn't involve a 45 minute drive to visit relatives in Los Angeles, were those spent with my dad, and the two weeks every summer spent at a camp for Jewish kids in Malibu. Both those experiences, despite my love of both my dad and Jewish summer camp, were lessons in patience, aching homesickness, and the delicate art of severely overpacking only to wear the same outfit throughout the duration of the trip.

I'd miss my home; my bed with its pink comforter and my bedroom walls that were plastered with multicolored star and rainbow wallpaper, my cat, my books and friends, waking up to the sound of kids playing t-ball across the street on Sunday mornings. Leaving my home has always been an ordeal for me, because I am a homebody at heart. I like feeling as though I belong somewhere. I like familiarity and routine.

As for my trip to New York over the weekend? Well it was lovely, for sure. It snowed! Aside from that synthetic crap they sell at those kiosks in the mall during the holidays, I hadn't even seen snow since I was a little kid (on a winter trip with my dad, actually).

I really did have a nice time. I took an obscene amount of naps and ate an embarrassing amount of delicious and artery clogging food, both of which are definitions of a good trip, in my opinion...but...but I missed my home.

Before this trip I entertained, in the back of my mind, the possibility of moving to New York someday. Now I can say with complete certainty; it just isn't for me. It was just so unfamiliar, which I know can be attributed to the fact that I've only been there once before, but it was more than just not having any ties to people and places...there was nothing there that pulled me in. There was nothing that felt warm and inviting, nothing that made me feel conspiratorial and invincible and unique, all of which I feel in Los Angeles.

The unfamiliarity was stifling, and I missed my little bedroom with the twinkling Christmas lights that are hung behind my vintage scarves, my bookshelves, my cat, my friends and my city. When I'm asked to go on a trip, I always say "yes" because I want to have new experiences and know that I should take risks...but there's always an overwhelming part of me that just wants to stay home and read a book.