Some Things I Have Learned in My Life So Far

It’s been awhile, friends. I hope you’ll forgive me, and  that you’ve stuck with me here on the blog. It seems lately that the writing well has gone dry after losing Boo. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy that I’m still deeply in pain over that, but if you do I honestly don’t care. Losing a best friend always hurts.
However. In the inestimably wise words of Robert Frost: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” As much as it hurts, as wrong as it feels, my life is going on. I have laughed, I have enjoyed myself, I have worried and fussed over other things besides losing my cat, and generally just kept on living, just like Robert Frost says. So in that vein, I have decided to share just a few of the more pertinent life lessons that I have gathered so far in my twenty-two years. I’ll try to be clever, and wise, and even funny again. And hopefully I’ll make you think, just a bit, as well. I also hope you’ll share some of the lessons you’ve learned so far in your life in the comments.

A Few Things I’ve Learned So Far

— Pets will break your heart. They will. But I have come to realize that I would never, ever, ever trade the love and joy and comfort of my cat, even to avoid how much it is hurting to lose him, and that’s true with all the pets I’ve lost and I can’t imagine not feeling the same when I lose other pets in the future.

— If you haven’t read ThLittle Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, you absolutely and unequivocally should. It is one of the most poignant, brilliant, and gorgeous things ever written disguised as a children’s book. It is also especially beautiful if you have just suffered a loss. I read it the other night without knowing this, and found myself bawling with the bittersweet comfort it gave me. Overall, this book is just going to drop some serious truth on you.

It includes charming and whimsical illustrations.

— The probable number of people who have sang along passionately to “Someone Like You” by Adele while staring at a picture of an old love and crying is mind-boggling to consider.

Adele songs– always relevant.

— If you want to wear leggings as pants… go right ahead. Seriously. Wear whatever the hell makes you feel beautiful and happy, and don’t ever let someone tell you what you should or shouldn’t wear. Fashion is subjective and a matter of personal opinion, not an excuse to put down other people. Be like this guy–comfortable in your own skin, and whatever you chose to put over it.

— In that same spirit, this is a great quote to live by, brought to you by the amazing Eleanor Roosevelt: “Do what you feel in your heart to be right- for you’ll be criticized anyway.” (This is not an excuse to be blind to all advice, help, and suggestions. It’s just a reminder that you can never please everybody, so at the end of the day you have to go with what you believe in.)

— It does not matter how much you love someone, or even if you believe they love you, too– if they don’t WANT to be with you, then it will never work. Falling in love is an act of gravity, a law of nature that you have no control over. Commitment is always, always a choice. Learn this lesson early, and save yourself a lot of heartache in the long run, even if it feels like your heart is breaking in the short term.

So. Many. Celebrities. So little time to creep them all. You just have to fill your stable, and then ignore the studs and fillies that go prancing by. (Until, of course, one of your stable gets married or has a significant other, then it’s time to head on down to the horse auction.) ((Why did I suddenly choose to go with a horse theme here???))

I honest to god hope I never, ever know Damian McGinty, because there are things I've done for this blog with Paint that can't be forgiven.

I honest to god hope I never, ever actually know Damian McGinty, because there are things I’ve done for this blog with Paint that can’t be forgiven.

— Travel. Anywhere you can, any way you can. It will change your mind and your life.

Northern Ireland

Northern Ireland

Paddington Station, London

Paddington Station, London

— The best birth control is working at a daycare.

— It is completely okay if you are girl in your twenties or thirties and you do not like wine; do not let Pinterest convince you otherwise. It is also completely okay if you do not like to drink.

Except the problem where I don’t like wine.

— One of the most disappointing but helpful lessons I learned at a college filled with foreign boys– JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE HAS AN ACCENT DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MAKE THEM SOMEONE YOU WANT TO DATE.

— You’ll know the difference between a crush and love, but there is nothing and no one that will be able to tell you if you truly love someone. Seriously, there’s just no way to tell for sure unless you decide you’re sure. Unlike my entire childhood led me to believe, there is no blurb on the movie/novel of your life that tells you definitively who the two romantic leads are. Thanks a lot, childhood.
Right-in-the-childhood

— Be kind. See Ellen DeGeneres if clarification is necessary.

— Sports are just a game. No matter how much you love them, always remember this: Just. A. Game. They do not trump human decency.

GRAMMAR MATTERS.

— Don’t overthink things. Most of the time, things are much simpler than you want to believe.

This is one of my favorite things ever.

This is one of my favorite things ever.

Also this.

— Both tea and books possess magical, healing properties.

— You are not infallible, no one is infallible. Never, ever, ever believe that you are always 100% right, because you are not. Accept that you are going to be wrong sometimes, and learn how to admit it. It’s one of the most useful lessons, to own your mistakes.

— You can still get a sunburn when it is cloudy, USE SUNSCREEN.

— You have to love yourself before someone else can love you. Well, at least to have a healthy relationship, you need to love yourself first. I fully believe this; I have spent a lot of life struggling with insecurities and wondering what was wrong with me because no one ever liked me back. Now, finally, I have grown to love myself, my imperfections and my best qualities, and I am a million times more confident and comfortable in my own skin than I ever have been before. I think that translates to a maturity that would serve a relationship well, much more than if I’d been in one previously in my life.

— Cats will never miss an opportunity to put their butt in your face.

— You really should floss your teeth every night.

— You are fully responsible for your own choices. You are not responsible for the choices of others. In the end, you make decisions for yourself, even if it is only how you decide to react to something.

— Hair products can change your life.

— Romance novels are NOTHING to be ashamed of. Of course, as with all genres, there are fantastic books and there are horrible books, but the genre as a whole has progressed light-years since the stereotypical “bodice-rippers” of the past. Seriously, some of the most important things I’ve ever learned came from romance novels.

The answer is yes. Do yourself a favor, gentlemen.

— You will find friends in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times. You will also realize that some people will always be your friend, come what may, while others were only meant to be a brief chapter in your life.

— Eat dessert.

If Emma Stone says it, you should listen.

I call it my dessert tank, personally.

— It is perfectly fine to be in your twenties or thirties or any age, and to be a virgin or to not have a boyfriend or to never have been kissed. Just because romance is absent from your life does not automatically mean something is wrong with you or that your life is lacking or even that you’ll never find it.

I don't get what's wrong with this? My jokes are hilarious.

I don’t get what’s wrong with this? My jokes are hilarious.

— I believe you are responsible for your own happiness. I have known a lot of bitter, angry people in my life, and it has only reinforced this to me. Always try to make your own happiness.

— Unless you’re a sailor, take Dramamine before you go deep sea fishing. TRUST ME, DO NOT MAKE THE MISTAKES MY FAMILY AND I DID ON THE UNSPEAKABLY DREADFUL SUMMER VACATION AFTER SIXTH GRADE IN SOUTH PADRE ISLAND (Incidentally, that’s also where I learned the lesson about getting a sunburn while it’s cloudy.)

— New lesson: Do not go to South Padre Island.

— You WILL make a fool of yourself in front of someone you like. Just accept it, and enjoy the hilarious story you’ll be able to tell your friends in the future. And, if you’re really lucky like me, you’ll humiliate yourself over and over and over again, and provide enough stories to one day write your own book about it. (In case you didn’t know, I am an optimist.)

Sublesson: Daily Odd Compliments are the best.

— You’re probably never going to use cursive or algebra outside of school, but learn them anyway, because learning is always important. Besides, I like to write in cursive, it’s much prettier than my print handwriting.

— Some things are wrong, even if the person in authority is telling you that they are right. (For example, it will always be gif with a “guh” sound, not a j sound. Jif is peanut butter.)

— Take naps if you can. And laugh freely.

–Do not, under any circumstances, get a drastic new haircut any closer than a month before a major life event.

Junior year of college. Worst haircut of my life.

Junior year of college. Worst haircut of my life.

— From what I can tell so far, the golden rule is still the best one to live by.

— Wear bicycle shorts under your dress or skirt. Just do it.

— Be honest whenever you can, and kind when you can’t.

— If you’re going to drink a lot, do it around people you trust, especially the first time. And for godsake, have someone hide your phone from you.

The problem.

The solution.

— Perhaps the most important lesson I have learned so far: Love may not be all you need, but it’s the most important thing. Love comes in all forms, and whether it’s for someone else or yourself or your pet or your favorite food, love is the rain and the sun and the minerals that nourishes the healthy growth of life. I believe in love above all things.

— And the final lesson I am sharing with you today– make your own rules and learn your own lessons. All the things that work for me will never be exactly the same as the things that work for you. You may never learn some of the things I’ve listed, or agree with any of them, and that is absolutely and perfectly fine. What I do wish could be universal, however, is tolerance when everyone inevitably comes to the realization that no one will ever agree with every single thing we think and believe.

Post originally inspired by 25 Things Every Woman Needs to Know

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The Brief and Tragic Life Of Chef Rowe

So.
It’s been a hot minute since I last blogged. But, as always, I have a hastily concocted excuse that really doesn’t stand up to the reality of the fact that I don’t have a job, or school, and should technically be able to post every single day.
But I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you guys with how absolutely hilarious I am and possibly give you a heart attack from laughing too hard every single day, so really, I’m doing you a favor.

You guys if I posted every day.

I’ll still throw my excuse out there anyway– I’ve started a new book and I’ve been writing feverishly and blah blah blah blah okay you get it. So moving on. I’ve got some exciting news before I get to the theme of this particular post– I ate at CiCi’s Pizza today… and NOTHING HAPPENED. NOTHING.
No mistaken gender, no chance encounters with acquaintances that dredged up humiliating memories from my past. I only ate four (cough five cough) pieces of Alfredo Cheese Pizza. It was completely, totally commonplace.

EVERYTHING WAS PERFECTLY NORMAL. AND PERFECTLY DELICIOUS.

So perhaps the CiCi’s curse has been broken! But don’t worry. I’m still going to expose my humiliation for your amusement.
Now to start my story.
There are two facts you may or may not know about me.
The first fact is that I am a fanatic pinner who is unashamedly and wholeheartedly addicted to Pinterest. Like, it’s bad. I think Pinterest is 64% of what I use my phone for. And I don’t want to brag, but my wedding board is kind of the best. Like, if you’re getting married and need a planner, then feel free to check it out. Because I’m becoming more and more sure that my calling in life is to plan weddings, like Jennifer Lopez in the 2001 classic, The Wedding Planner. And one day I’ll be planning this nice but spoiled lady’s wedding and then meet the perfect guy when he saves me from getting squashed by a runaway dumpster only to discover he is the fiance but then he and his fiancee will realize they don’t love each other and he loves me and I’ll end up with a hot, perfect husband. Except it will be actually a great love story because the guy won’t be Matthew McConaughey.

“I in no way use my physical appearance to distract from a lack of talent.”

Sorry, MM fans. But anyway– my wedding board is pretty much amazing, just saying.

Now, the second fact you need to know for today’s post is that I am a very bad cook. I mean, I can handle the occasional brownie or cake mix, and I love to whip up some pre-packaged cinnamon rolls every now and again. But truthfully, I’m just too scatterbrained to be successful in the kitchen. This has never been a great source of concern for me though, truthfully. I’ve never really been too interested in anything to do with cooking.
But then, something happened.
That something is called my sister started watching Chopped, and forced me to watch it with her.

IF ONLY I HAD KNOWN WHAT I WAS GETTING MYSELF INTO

Let’s just say, things spiralled out of control from there.

So this week I read an article on Buzzfeed called 18 Signs You Are Obsessed with Chopped. I laughed uproariously, gleefully reveling in the knowledge that I was, indeed, obsessed with Chopped (Sign Number 19- YOU WANT TO SCREAM AT EVERY CONTESTANT TO NOT MAKE A BREAD PUDDING FOR DESSERT ROUND SRSLY GUISE THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE DOES). So not surprisingly, a couple days later, I was watching Chopped.  I was also casually surfing through Pinterest during commercials. Perhaps you see where this is going.
Chopped + Pinterest= “Hey…. I think I’m going to bake something!”

Amanda… why are you rolling your eyes???

Eagerly I began searching through the pages of Pinterest, my eagle eyes peeled for some sort of unique, delicious, life-changing dessert. A dessert that my family would beg me to make for years to come. I had bright, glittering visions in my head of people asking me to parties just so I could make this dessert– of my friends wheedling me shamelessly to get the recipe and then passing it down among their families for generations to come.
I’m an adult, I thought emphatically to myself. It won’t be like when I was younger and didn’t know what I was doing. I watch the Food Network now. I know what I’m doing.
I continued to pump myself up as I scrolled through recipe after recipe, never quite finding what I was looking for, but just KNOWING it was waiting there for me. Suddenly, something caught my eye. Something… intriguing. Something with berries.

I’M A LITTLE LASS WHO LOVES BERRIES

(Side note: if you’ve never seen this commercial then I pity you. Go watch it right now. I’ll wait.)
Not only did it have berries, but, even better, it was French— I couldn’t even pronounce the name and I had certainly never heard of it.
PERFECT.

BERRIES

BERRIES

Eagerly I clicked on the link, and found I even already had the necessary ingredients! IT’S FATE, I thought to myself. This recipe just had that certain je ne sais quoi that told me it was meant to be. With bubbling enthusiasm, I rushed into my kitchen, ready to unlock the Chef Rowe that I just knew was there inside of me.

JE T’AIME, KITCHEN!!!!!

I began feverishly heating ovens and cracking eggs and beating mixtures and boiling milk and mixing mixtures and buttering pie pans. Finally, it was berry time. Now, technically the recipe calls for fresh raspberries, but it said you could just use berries. We didn’t have any actual fresh berries, but scrounging in the freezer did reveal that we had both frozen raspberries and frozen cranberries. Really feeling my culinary creativity at this point, I daringly decided I would mix the two together for my magical French dessert. I skillfully de-iced the frozen sliced raspberries (slightly mushy, but I was baking them, everything was going to get mushy anyway!). Then I washed off the very cold, whole cranberries. Briefly I wondered if I should slice the cranberries up but the recipe said nothing about slicing cranberries (to be fair, the recipe said nothing at all about cranberries specifically, which leads me to believe that the originator of said recipe never dreamed someone would try to use cranberries for it). So I thought, why bother?

Naaaah!

Cheerfully I spread the whole cranberries and the mushy remains of the sliced raspberries in my carefully prepared pie dish, and readied myself to finish the prep for my delectable dessert by pouring the mixture I had so slavishly whipped up. I tipped the bowl over, and started pouring.
As I did so, however, I noticed two things.
1. The cranberries were not remaining docilely on the bottom of the pie dish like they were supposed to– instead, they floated to the top like so many taunting little apples to a very inept participant in a game of bobbing for apples.
2. I had too much mixture and not enough pie dish.
Frowningly I regarded these unexpected problems that had cropped up, my complete lack of experience in matters of cooking leaving me with no idea of how to address the situation.
But I was obsessed with Chopped, damnit, with an actual Buzzfeed article as evidence! I had a creative, talented, generational-recipe-creating chef inside of me! I could do this! I could!
So gingerly I began picking out floating cranberries, taking about half of them out and depositing them into a cup. Then I proceeded to try and pour more mixture/batter/stuff into the dish. I managed to get most of it in, but there was still a troubling amount left.
So now I was stuck both with not enough berries AND not enough mixture. Even to my nonexistent cooking instincts, this seemed to be a problem. So again, I applied my brilliant brain to the problem.
Why would the cranberries be floating? I asked myself. And then suddenly, it dawned on me.

The cranberries were floating because they were still whole which meant they still had air inside them. All I had to do was let the air out, and everything would be fine!
Oh, Readers.
I honestly don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to just take the cranberries out and slice them up. That would be the logical thought, wouldn’t it? That’s probably what you thought I was going to do. It’s probably what you would have done yourself. Oh, but Readers, never, never forget– I am not normal.
My solution to the floating cranberries?
Stab them with an ice pick.

Now, you might think that was a joke, one where I thought up the stupidest, most ridiculous method of getting air out of cranberries and then threw it out there for a laugh.
But.
I’m.
Not.
Joking.

Even what I’m pretty sure is Mr. Bean in an Elizabethan ruff makes more sense than what I’m telling you.

I won’t attempt to explain to you the difficulty of trying to stab tiny individual floating fruits, bathed in a slippery mixture of eggs and milk and other things, with an ice pick. Because it just makes it so much worse. Because why, at any point, did my brain not kick in and say, Sara, this is one of the most foolish things you have ever done. Stop immediately. 
Instead, I stabbed about fifteen cranberries before deciding that would be enough, and pouring the rest of the mixture in, which now fit! And in blatant disregard of the utter, unacceptable absurdity of the entire situation, my brain instead decided that since the mixture now all fit in the pie crust, I was doing something right! So I then proceeded to shove all the extra cranberries I had taken out back into the pie dish.
And hey!! They fit, too!!! Chef Rowe was back on top, triumphantly overcoming the baking tomfoolery that had so briefly stymied her.
I cheerfully shoved the whole thing into the oven, blithely ignoring the fact that the liquid hovered precariously close to the edge of the pie dish and that floating cranberries had erupted like zits all along the top of the dish. Then I skipped off to watch some more Chopped while I waited.
I won’t describe what emerged from the oven, because I think this picture says it all:

I’ll just leave that picture there for you all, without commenting.
But what I will share with you is that while I was trying to take this out of the oven, I burned my arm quite badly.
That’s right.
I LITERALLY BRANDED MYSELF WITH MY OWN STUPIDITY.

Sigh.

Sigh.

At this point, Readers, I’m just going to take advantage of the convenient fact that I never have to see your faces while you read this post. And I will especially enjoy this fact when I tell you that even after stabbing cranberries with an icepick and scarring myself– I WAS NOT DETERRED.
I convinced myself that the problem was simply that the pie dish hadn’t been big enough, and I hadn’t used fresh fruit. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was like, yeah, probably should’ve cut up the cranberries. But hey, c’est la vie, you live and you learn! And there were endless amounts of recipes on Pinterest just waiting for me to try.
So the next day, I determinedly began searching for another recipe, and finally find one I thought was perfect. My burn still smarting, I was especially excited by the fact that you didn’t have to bake anything. No sirree. Because I was going to make a mousse.

Blackberry Cheesecake Mousse, to be exact.

Berries and cheesecake? SIGN ME UP.
But this time, I was determined to be smart. This dessert was going to go RIGHT, by god. So I forced my sister to go to Walmart with me to make sure I had fresh ingredients, including fresh fruit. I scampered around, collecting my things, only to realize to my utter frustration that Walmart was simply out of blackberries. Just completely out.
Scowlingly I stomped to the car, with my sister soothingly suggesting we just go to the grocery store Homeland, which was sure to have them. Somewhat mollified, I agreed, and I hurried into Homeland to get my prize, already intent on making my delicious, SUCCESSFUL dessert.
Quickly I scanned the entire fresh produce area, and then did a double take. Not only were there no blackberries in sight, there wasn’t any other kind of berries. Instead, Homeland had about six types of grapes AND NOTHING ELSE.
In a building anger, I rushed over to an employee and asked them if they had any fresh blackberries. When they told me all they had was what was on the produce wall, I huffily snatched up a bag of frozen blackberries, paid, and grandly exited the store.
When I got home, I grudgingly began to prepare everything, acknowledging that the frozen blackberries would do fine, because they obviously had not been frozen in the freezer for who knows how long like yesterday’s fruits had been in our freezer. Finally, it seemed that things were going right. I began tossing and stirring and scraping things into the mixing bowl of our mixer, gradually feeling my good humor and completely unjustified optimism return. I added the last ingredient, and triumphantly turned off the beaters. It was going to be perfect, I just knew it.
Except when I went to scoop a bite out to taste, I realized that my mousse was not, in fact, the least bit moussey. Instead, it was a bit runny and already the ingredients seemed to be separating. Again, Chef Rowe was facing a potentially devastating setback. My mind began feverishly running through ideas to salvage the situation, when suddenly, it hit me.

You’ll be proud, at least, that my solution did not involve icepicks in any shape or form. Instead, I decided to quickly whip up a white cake mix, and then use the blackberry quasi-mousse to top it with, a la my favorite dessert at Olive Garden:

Strawberry dolcini ;akjd’gja’ej j[iejaiwgnan;wgnh HEAVEN

It’s white cake with like strawberry sauce and then like some kind of magical fluffy white chocolate mousse and honestly I could just drown in a pool of this and I would die completely, blissfully happy.
So, just make a white cake and put my concoction on top of it, and voila– instant classic.
Since this was Sunday night, that meant we were having dinner at my Nana’s house, which just happens to be next door to mine. So I grabbed a cake mix and my mousse stuff, and trotted over to my Nana’s to finish dessert. I mixed everything up easily and quickly, because, after all, even I can make a cake mix without messing it up. I wisely remembered to turn the oven on before I did this so that way it would preheat as I made the mix. I went about my way with restored spirits and a spring in my step. When the mix was ready, I went to pop it in the oven only to discover to my surprise that it still wasn’t done preheating. I frowned, but fatalistically accepted that there had to be SOME delay– obviously true genius only grows out of struggle. But after a few more minutes, I began to grow concerned about why the oven wasn’t done preheating. Finally, I opened the oven to peek inside, only to be reminded abruptly that my Nana stores all her extra pots and pans that don’t fit in her cabinet inside her oven when she’s not using it.
In utter shame I began removing piping hot cooking ware and shoving it anyplace I could find where it wouldn’t melt something. Very quickly after I removed everything out of the oven, it reached optimal baking temperature, and I shoved my cake pan in with a great breath of relief. Twenty-seven minutes later, I popped out a completely acceptable white cake out of the oven, and I began cutting it up and putting it into little bowls so I would be able to top it with my mousse, which had been put into the refrigerator where it had surely been firming up and taking on proper mousse-like qualities.
With a burning desire to just be done with the whole endeavor, I pulled my mousse out of the fridge– and discovered that not only had it not firmed up, but the ingredients all seemed to be trying to disassociate from each other, much like I now decided I wanted to do with baking in general.
I had no choice but to plunge ahead and serve it up.

Bon appetit...(it's okay, I think it looks like someone threw up blackberries too)

Bon appetit…(it’s okay, I think it looks like someone threw up blackberries too)

The taste at least was acceptable, though by no means a recipe to pass down the family. I’m trying it again now and it just seems kind of…off. But at least it didn’t taste like berry flavored eggs, as my first dessert attempt had.

And that, my friends, is how I quit my brief, inglorious stint as Chef Rowe.

PS I know this one was a really long post, but thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoyed it! I certainly would prefer that SOMEONE got some enjoyment out of those two days.
And just in case you are interested, here are the links to the two recipes I so defiled. If you attempt them, I wish you much better luck than I had!
Dessert 1: Clafoutis
Dessert 2: Blackberry Cheesecake Mousse

Cat-Lovin’, Beatboxin’, Cupcake-Gorgin’ (The Less Well-Known Journey Song)

Oh, Dear Readers.
I’ve done something that I feel so guilty over, that I had to confess it to you all.
Don’t be too alarmed, however. I didn’t break any laws (that I know of), so don’t worry I’m about to put you in a moral quandary where you wonder desperately if it’s worth reporting a random blogger to some sort of authority figure.
But it’s pretty bad. My only excuse is that, I am most definitely sick. It’s part of the reason I’m still awake at two in the morning even though I feel somewhat miserable (one of the most apt words to describe how I feel when sick). I just can’t sleep for the coughing. So, not only can I excuse it by being sick, but also because I’m sleep-deprived.
My sister, Rachel, is an early childhood education major at the same college I attend. She’s actually almost exactly five years older than me , and she already has one degree. She’s now getting a second, because she’s just that smart. Haha or in reality, because she got the wrong degree the first time and couldn’t do anything with it.
Anyway.
Well, tonight she made cupcakes for a children’s class she works with as part of one of her degree classes. She was so overwhelmed with all the things she needed to do, that she asked me to ice said cupcakes for her. I was somewhat disgruntled by this, because I have an intense, overwhelming love of dessert, and I mean-spiritedly didn’t like the thought that those kids were going to get all the cupcakes while I did all the work. For a dessert lover, making and not partaking is rather difficult. Cue the perfectly apt Zooey Deschanel/Jess from New Girl quote:
dessert

It bewilders me how people can not like dessert. It’s a running joke in my family that no matter how full I am after having eaten, I have a separate “dessert tank” that’s always ready and waiting.
Well, tonight at dinner, I was denied one of my favorite desserts, a vanilla shake from a particular restaurant. I was already feeling resentful because of this, and then my sister basically guilts me into icing her cupcakes. Can you just imagine me, in the state I was in, icing STRAWBERRY CUPCAKES without being able to eat them?
But then, miracle of miracles, my sister informs me that there’s enough for my mother and myself to each have one. I ate mine before I even started icing. But I wanted another. So it was still torturous icing those cupcakes. Then, as in a dream, my sister tells me, “Oh, I only need sixteen for my class. You can have another if you want.” I finished icing those cupcakes in record time. What followed was a very bad thing.
I ate not one, not two, but three more cupcakes. In a period of about four to five minutes.
But there, I’ve confessed it. I don’t want to remember that it happened any longer. So moving on.

I realized that, in my last post, perhaps I should have gave some explanation of why my blog is called, somewhat strangely, Boots and Cats. It’s not, as I’ve just realized it might appear to be, a reference to Puss in Boots in any way. Not that I don’t love an Antonio Banderas-voiced feline as much as the next person, but the reasoning is a little more obscure.
Last semester I was hanging out with some of my smart college friends, and we somehow came to be discussing how, if you say “boots and cats” very quickly, it sounds like you’re beatboxing. You can try it yourself.
In the meantime, I worked very hard to make a little video for you all of me attempting this. I unfortunately discovered you must pay for the WordPress upgrade if you want to be able to embed something like that. So next I cleverly thought, I’ll just make a YouTube video and link it. Annnnd…. Success!
Here: http://youtu.be/N5L0QWgT1n4
I apologize for the terrible quality, my repeated sniffling, and my ham-handed attempts to show you my cats. As you might have guessed, I am not proficient in the making of the videos.
Now, as to how this relates to blog naming. One of my friends, after a rather pathetic but enjoyable period of us beatboxing via this method, had a sudden epiphany and pointed out to me that it would have been the perfect name for my other blog, in which I recently had raved about how much I love to wear tall boots. I also happen to be a (proud) Crazy Cat Lady, so the cat part made perfect sense. When I decided to start a new blog, it was the obvious choice. And thus, Boots and Cats was born.

Now, it has come unpleasantly to my attention that, no matter how whimsically perfect my page theme looks to me, for some strange reason, one stray balloon lurks over the midst of my post. With some scrolling, it can be moved, but I find this very annoying. However, none of the other free WordPress themes appeal to me nearly so much. So, I put the question to you all- do you mind the balloon? Or shall I keep trying other themes? Please sound off in the comments, it would mean so very much to me. And also, I would absolutely love if anyone wanted to make a video of themselves “boots and cats” beatboxing. I would certainly proudly display it in my next post :)

Farvä´l,
Sara

PS My closing, according to this very professional-looking site I googled, supposedly is Swedish for “Farewell.” It also says the word is “outmoded, often used in a melodramatic way.” I quite liked the sound of that. I am planning on ending each post with a closing in a different language, so feel free to comment with any other language closings you may know!