Still in 1999.

Dear 28,
It's been over 40 hours since my last text message (which was sent to John wishing him the happiest of birthdays). Didn't that feel very much like reconciliation?
In that time I've read a book, enjoyed a 2 hour lunch by myself, curled up some seriously voluminous hair, danced to Otis Redding, had a super terrific conversation (without any text intrusions), found a scandalous $20, and sampled Japanese scotch. But I did not run a mile.

Apparently 1999 was a good ole day, one with many uninterrupted thoughts and conversations. We all know we're on the phone too much. I know I'm a bit over-sensitive when it comes to text messages lately, but a couple days without them hasn't been as tough as I'd thought. I mean it's been sort of awful and I feel out of touch, but I've also been much less distracted. We ate soup dumplings at Cholon. We danced (ok so I danced) to the Temptations at the Horseshoe Lounge (where I chose, literally, 22 songs). We slipped into the Cruise Room and skipped out of the Jet Hotel bar as fast as possible. And the whole time- no phone.

I drew a bunch, wrote down funny things I overheard (including the woman next to me saying that her ringtone is Randy Travis' "I'll love you forever" because she loves country and cowboy art. "It's part of our culture."), and fully enjoyed the real cherries served in my manhattan. Apparently cellphone free life means you're extra good at eavesdropping and able to spot money on the floor with ease. 

The cell phone is back. I had enough overdue text messages to make me feel a little bit cool (more than 2! Wahoo!) and enough emails from work to make me feel a little guilty for vacationing. After the nearly two days without the blackberry, I think I might enjoy phone free time a little more often. What a good vacation.

xo-LP

Back in 1999.

Dear 28,
I'm sitting here at Steuben's sipping a bacon bloody mary (don't worry I'm on vacation so a lunchtime drink is ok) and I don't have a functioning cell phone. I realized late last night that while I remembered to pack two library books, a curling iron (which will likely go unused) and my running shoes (which I have to use, a 5k is less than 10 days away), I failed to pack a blackberry charger.

This photo could have been taken anywhere. but I'm at Steubens. I promise.

In 1999 I didn't have a cell phone. Actually in 2001 I didn't have a cell phone. We would leave the movies in middle school and when it was time for a ride home we'd stand outside Whitey's Ice Cream, where we spent all of our extra money on Mississippi Mud, and use the pay phone to call collect home. And then, when it would ask you to state your name, Becca would say "Mom it's Becca come pick us up." Much like this commercial. Now I can call you anytime I want. I'm not sure I know anyone's number by heart, unless I learned it pre-2001 (I can call my parents, Becca's parents, the Eagles, and the greatest pizza place in Iowa- Salvatores.) So here I am, in Denver, without a way to contact the outside world (other than to email on the Macbook I'm currently typing on. So that's really not true. I'm blogging for anyone to read. I just can't call anyone.) I'm sort of embarrassed to say it's frustrating. I can't send Emily a picture of myself in front of the graffiti I just walked by that said "Smarty!" with stars around it. I can't text Becca asking what time she'll be home. And I can't LIVE TWEET my vacation. (be disappointed. so far I've had lots of hilarious things to say)

Without a cell phone pictures get weird.

Instead I'm listening to the dude next to me, a guy from Chicago wearing a Vikings tshirt, tell his lunch date he has met the keyboardist from the Steve Miller Band, that he appreciated the use of giardiniera on his "weird" cheesesteak, and ask lots of questions about what Guy Fieri ate while he was at Stueben's. His favorite movie is Good Will Hunting. The waiter, also from Chicago, and I had a long conversation about brine and why pickles and olives taste so gross. Without a cell phone to distract me, I can notice so much more about what's happening. So this is how aware of my surroundings I used to be? (I just heard a man in the kitchen use a Julia Child voice to announce an order.)

After all that overhearing, I'm tired.

While being phoneless is frustrating, it's oddly freeing. No one knows where I am or what I am doing. And this nap I'm about to take will go uninterrupted. I think I'll enjoy watching cable television for awhile. (Phoneless vacation is kind of wonderful.)
xo-LP

Palmer Reading.

Dear 28,
I don't believe in magic. Bold statement, maybe, but I just don't.
In fact I wouldn't say I believe in horoscopes or psychics or auras. I added "Get my palm read" to the list as an experiment. (I should admit I do read my astrology zone horoscope thanks to Liz...so maybe I'm telling a half truth. A psychic would know.) After a March of unexpected outcomes, I thought it might be time to see what my palms tell a psychic about my future. Then at least I'll be prepared. 

I found Sister Star (I know. Awesome.) through google and called a few days ahead to make a couple appointments for Tone and me. She's offering a special package deal right now that includes a palm reading, a tarot card reading AND a psychic reading, but I stuck with the simple palm reading. (Tone, known to go big, went for the super sized reading, of course.) Sister Star's office (do you call it an office?) exists in a little room to the side of her home. We were greeted by the faint smell of smoke and incense as Sister Star, dressing simply in black pants, a dusty black fleece and her hair wound up in a clip, gestured for us to sit on a bitty love seat. In front of us, a glass table with crystals and what appeared to be a wand lay ceremoniously beside a deck of tarot cards. Beside me there was a money tree (seriously) and pictures of the Pope sat atop glass cases and presided over us from the wall. (That surprised me. Didn't know the Catholics were down with psychics. Seems like they'd prefer Jesus.) 

Sister Star allowed me to ask her questions, both about the reading and about her life as a psychic (which I loved). She was born with her gift and believes that some training on the science of palm reading and understanding auras helps, she relies heavily on her psychic ability. She, regrettably, can't predict her personal future, but has visited a psychic once in Vegas. "She was very, very good, but I can't recall her name." Sister Star grew up in here in Des Moines and has been doing readings for over 25 years. 

Sister Star spoke calmly as I held out my hands and she surveyed the damage. While sharing specifics of the reading is "not encouraged," Sister Star provided some interesting insights, talked about my chakra and told me that I need "focus" about 6-8 times. That was a given- I've needed focus since 1983. (And I got rid of the focus just this year. Not funny. I know.) She spoke of future predictions, auras and again, said I need focus. In case you need a visual to read along with Sister Star, I've included my palms. Should you be a palm reader and reading this- let me know if you see anything Sister Star might have missed. I guess you don't really know if a psychic is good for a few months, or even years, but if you're looking for an interesting adventure and willing to hear a couple things you may or may not want to hear, go see Sister Star. If only to see the money tree.
xo
LP

Pete Peterson and the night we boxed to Adele.

Dear 28,
On Monday Jenni and I trained with UFC fighters.Seriously.
I'm not much of a fighter. I do like to argue, but I can't say I've thought much about hitting something or someone when I'm angry. (I'm not even that great at being angry... I'd say I'm better a crying or whining. Or singing angry fighter songs.) After a couple weeks of pent up frustration though, boxing it out sounded oddly appealing. Jenni googled "boxing class Des Moines" (a far less complicated sentence than I would have used) and landed on RoundKick Gym. In his email, Pete Peterson told us we get a free trial class, to wear shorts/tshirts and that the class was barefoot. That's pretty much all we knew before tonight- other than the address of the Urbandale Gym (we actually had to print out directions to get there.)

We walked in after a short sit-in-the-car-and-give-each-other-a-pep talk moment to find a real gym filled with vein-popping-muscly dudes. The floor was covered in blue mats, a boxing ring sat in the back and it smelled like a middle school gym. Had we done our research and actually poked around on the RoundKick Gym website, we would have learned that fighters (like real MMA and UFC ones) often train in Muay Thai Boxing, that Pete Peterson is a serious badass and that "Thai training methods develop devastating power, speed and superior cardiovascular endurance."

Pete greeted us asking "did you girls bring clothes?" and then pointed us to the women's "locker room" where we broke down into a fit of giggles. Only two other ladies were in the room when we arrived, one an obvious fighter with her hand wraps and toned arms, the other a high school girl who sat in the corner hiding behind her bangs until class started (when class did start, the fighter woman thaiboxed with a man who will be in a fight in April, keeping up with his kicks and shuffles and the other girl boxed with cheetah print gloves). At promptly 7:15pm we bowed with the group of nearly 25 (mumbled "Sawadee" with the pleasant muscle man next to us- a sign of respect and a traditional Thai greeting- although I believe we used the masculine version of the word instead of the lady one) and jump-roped using these fake jump-ropey cord things for three whole minutes, and then, well then we punched each other. 

We were clearly the least trained thaiboxers in the room-- certainly not a class for beginners-- but Pete kindly gave us several combos to try out, including a few that included kicks. We slipped our hands into seriously sweaty gloves and pads-that-you-punch and began to jab and hook and bob and weave. Around us dudes were doing foot grabs, spinning elbow jabs and sweating, a lot. Pete demonstrated how much more a kick using your shin hurts than a kick with a foot (I have the bruises to prove it) nearly knocking me into the man dummy (an actual plastic man thing). Near the end of the class we'd finally mastered the punching sequence and even Pete said "if I had three hands I'd give you three thumbs up" in reference to our kicking form. 

I'm pretty sure I have some battle wounds (Pete said dudes think that is cool) and Jenni and I certainly experienced something we'd never have seen before. It might be the most badass I've ever felt- must be the gloves. Sawadee.
xo- LP

In like a lion.

Dear 28,

That last week in February it snowed big heavy flakes. You know the ones that coat the trees in thick sheets of white. Many early to bed evenings buried in blankets, falling asleep during Boardwalk Empire and a whole lot of leggings. (Don't judge. Leggings are amazing. Maybe they aren't "pants" exactly, but leggings, leggings are the best) It seemed I was driving a lot in the mornings when the plows had yet to clear the streets (Bill Stowe I don't blame you for waiting until 730 to clear the way, it's still and quiet and a pretty kind of chilly in the early hours). That cozy winter cocoon didn't stick around long though.

Thus far March has been much like the eve of Spring should always be: volatile. The grass appears to get greener by the hour, the skies are flooded with sunlight and suddenly dyed gray with rain clouds, and each of us gets a little anxious. They say March always clamors in like a lion.

Those first couple bits of the month slipped calmly past while I was studying basketball teams in an effort to compose an infallible bracket and eagerly learning horse race betting jargon, realizing I'm very unlucky in the casino, but felt like one charmed lady outside the walls of Prairie Meadows.

But then, preoccupied by decadent views and simply addictive consumption of The Hunger Games series, early March became mid-March, outta nowhere. That week I soaked up salty breaths of ocean air and cozied up to the bar (and the scallops) at my favorite spot in San Diego, daydreaming of (finally) dragging travel companions to the coast. My apologies to the many of you who were begged to accompany me on my next venture west that night-- as a Pearl Preferred Member I got two bobbers this time. (and 2 bobbers means 2 bourbons) But to be clear, you are definitely still invited.

As they say, beware the ides of March. (I'm all about what they say. They know everything.)  I journeyed to the east coast of Iowa for a few days, hosted a festive Irish brunch and wore a summer sun dress in month three of 2012. I watched hours of the Kentucky Derby of Basketball, sampled mint infused bourbon, laughed until it hurt at some fun answers to a great question game and nursed an over-analyzing-brain-pain. And that was just four days. On the mend following those fateful Ides, I'm craving an outlet. I want to run, draw and write all at the same time just to feel that flood of emotion turn from awkwardness to something neat and clearly defined- so it'll be done (see- I'm blogging now.) With less than two months left (GASP) in my 28th year, I've got a lot of work to do. 

They say March is in like a lion and then out like a lamb. Here's to a gentle end to one wicked month. 

xo-LP

I'm not tryin to be rouxde.

Dear 28,
R. Kelly shows up a lot on this blog. (Here. Here. and here again.)  Today is Mardi Gras- the fattest of Tuesdays. And to properly celebrate, I made a gumbo. (and pimento cheese. and a very pilsbury version of a kings cake.) I also decided tonight I'd like to illustrate an R. Kelly themed cookbook. Our Kelly can perform at the book release.

 I searched the interwebs for a just-right gumbo recipe, even browsing the comments of several recipes (seriously- read the comments. so helpful). Most of the comments from actual New Orleanians (1. is that what the people of NOLA are called? 2. I am only assuming the anonymous comments are from true New Orleaners) point out that "real gumbo is tomato-less" or that "this would never be served in my Louisiana kitchen" and other such criticisms. So I googled "authentic gumbo recipe." That lead me to an ultra-informative gumbo hub. I chose to make the Chicken and Sausage Gumbo and prayed to the MardiGods that I could master the roux (after reading this incredibly helpful how-roux)

The many stages of the roux.

Several things were learned in this gumbo making process. Now I shall list them.
1. I need a heavy bottomed pot. (which immediately makes me think of this song and giggle) I have an old pasta pot that Mar and Den gave me that is in great shape, but is intended to boil pasta and steam veggies, not hold a swirly roux for 35 minutes. The roux is simply flour and oil that's stirred for a looooong time until it magically gets smooth and dark like a deeply brown peanut butter.
Maybe I'll purge the pasta pot and invest in a dutch oven. I think most people get those from wedding registries or something because whew they are pricey.
2. Roux is the perfect word for wordplay.
3. Tony Chachere's Original Creole Seasoning is the only way to go (thanks Nick) and also tastes delicious sprinkled on cottage cheese if you get hungry while making gumbo.
4. I tend to get flour on my face and cannot avoid crying while cutting onions. Oh and I really dislike the smell of Tabasco sauce.
5. A wooden spatula type utensil is really your best bet when stirring the roux. It covers a lot of surface in the pot (whether fat bottomed or otherwise) and helps the roux not to burn.

The Trinity. Amen.

6. Celery + Green Peppers + Onions are called the Trinity.
7. Making your own chicken stock is so easy. Not only do you control the salt content (see I'm sticking to your diet too Mr.), but that pasta pot with the colander in it works perfectly for chickenbone+celery+onion+carrot+wholepeppercorn boiling. A sense of accomplishment follows submerging a chicken carcass with aromatic and flavorful veggies. (that is sick)

So much was learned in a 3 hour gumbo makin' adventure!

Tonight I'll actually eat the gumbo, now referred to as "I'm not tryin to be rouxde Gumbo," so a full flavor report will have to come later. A few bites last night were pretty tasty, but the real test is this evening when it's served over rice while Cajun tunes fill the stoop.
I can't decide if I'm more excited about the completed gumbo or the hand drawn recipe card with a clever R. Kelly title...
xo-LP

A hot mess.

Dear 28,
I'm a collector, but not much of a nester.
At least that's what I like to think of it as. Really I just have a whole bunch of stuff. In 28 years I've amassed so much stuff, too much stuff. I mean really-- Look at all this stuff? It's everywhere. Piles of stuff. I'm beginning to feel weighed down by the stuff.

I have a dresser full of craft- a dresser that sat in my sister Kate's baby room back in 1989. I have a closet filled (over filled honestly) with just winter clothes. There are things I haven't touched in months (a sewing machine specially designed for paper, you know, that I just had to have), heaps of belts and scarves, bins loaded with clutches (one to match each dress if I tried), and a sweater I wore in 2006 (or about 5 sweaters).

I considered doing this Whole Living cleanse back in January to kick off 2012 in a new and refreshed way. But I couldn't get past step one: Set Goals. I love lists, but "setting goals" for a cleanse seemed silly. Obviously I want to feel healthier or lighter or have smaller thighs or something like that... but "life goals" to motivate me through a cleanse? Psh.

I can't avoid caffeine, alcohol and sweets for 21 days... (I'm sorry Caeli if you're reading this)... but I CAN cleanse the stoop of junk. Same premise. Different space. Organizing is surely not my strength and I'm a sentimental hoarder (oh a ticket stub from a movie in 2001? oh I remember that horrible movie I went to see when I still wore tall socks and sneakers and smiled at the football kicker. must. keep. that.), so purging my home of stuff won't been easy. 

But let the spacial cleanse commence.

Any tips on keeping a small space decluttered?

xo-LP

ps- since initially writing this post I've cleared out the dresser of craft. I can't dump all this great stuff into the trash-- so you want a bag of craft? let me know. 

If I'm being honest about the whole thing.

Dear 28,
The blog and I are going through some issues. At first it was a love affair founded in adventure, and words, and fulfillment, and lists. We documented funny stories and saw new places. We took photos and posted them, even if no one really cared to see what I did on a Thursday afternoon. The blog and I- we had an unbreakable bond.
But now, we just can't seem to connect.

Remember how much fun we used to have? Sigh.

I'm living a rather "domestic" life currently (not my word of choice, but it has been described this way by others.) I get up at 7am on Saturdays and make jam. I spend time browsing cookbooks (like way too much time) and get home from work excited to tie on the red-polka-dotted waist apron and dance about the kitchen with my IKEA microplane while Brian Williams serenades me with today's news. I have recently gone to bed at 8pm on a Friday. (Please don't repeat that) The last photo I took was (gasp) on my blackberry and of a Electromyography machine. (The nerves appear to be better. So all is good under the skull hood.) I get pumped up about manicures and winning scratch tickets.

Look. Look what we've become.

There's still hope for the blog. I still live a semi-interesting life and, as my friend Adrienne does so well, I could go on an adventure everyday. I've got a whole list to conquer. I could be training for a 5k (for real this time). I have several books to read (ok it's time I become a reader again. Watching One Tree Hill has taught me nothing. Reading is a good alternative to Dan Scott.) I could tell you all about the food I'm obsessed with cooking. There's lots ways to reconnect.
So if I'm being honest about the whole thing, the blog and I are going through some stuff-- trying to redefine our relationship and all. But we'll work it out. We've gone through too much together to give it up now.
xo-LP

For the Lovers.

Dear 28,
A holiday based around hearts and love notes and secret admirers and flowers...sigh. Valentine's Day is one of my favorites. Last year I spent it on the couch with gatorade and medication, this year I'll spend it aw-ing over hearts and love notes and secret admirers and flowers. Sigh.

Sending love. And singing this. All day.

xo-LP

In a drought.

Dear 28,
My creativity has been bottled up and left unwritten about over the last few weeks. How people blog daily is beyond me. I'm going to (yet again) apologize (mostly to myself, and Jen) for the blog drought and get back in the habit of writing. I mean there's all this to do in February:
- Craft a tip for Danny's awesome project.
- Get these RecycleMe Iowa postcards out the door.
- Celebrate Valentines day.
- Make my 22nd grocery list. (I'm obsessed with cooking lately. obsessed.)
- And then there's that big list.
- A bunch of movies still need to be seen (Although not 10, still need to cross off #3)
Still can't believe we're already into month two of twenty-twelve. February is full of plans.
Like my plan to not buy coffee unless I have a meeting there, or my plan to send mail everyday, or my plan to wear my glasses more, or my plan to host a dinner party. So many plans worth blogging about.
Next post coming sooner than later.
xo-LP