Before we get started, I want to show you something I love more than anything in the entire world. Words can’t explain. YOU MUST SEE TO BELIEVE.
Oh. My. God. I’m dead. That was the greatest thing that’s ever happened in the history of civilization. I am not joking. This is beyond serious.
How many times have you hit repeat? I’m up to nineteen already.
About fifteen minutes ago, I met Anne Rice. Like, I was standing next to her and discussing her work. It was a big deal. It was major. Do we still say major? If I believed in using the word epic, I would insert it here, but I don’t, so I won’t. Stop saying epic, please. I told her what an honor it was to meet her and how much her flawless novel, Blackwood Farm, meant to me. She thanked me graciously, said that my compliments were very much appreciated, and smiled warmly at me. I consider that an open invitation to become her best friend. Don’t you? My sister met her son, Christopher, and is currently devouring his latest novel. It looks rather intriguing, but I’m not sure how I feel about snakes in vaginas. Anyway, Anne signed a copy of her newest book for me, and I’m already in love with it — not even five pages in. This series of hers on werewolves is really rather excellent. It’s tasteful. So many authors and writers make their monsters so very monstrous, but Anne finds their human side. A great talent she is, she’s a national treasure. She’s also so tiny and so cute and I love her hair and I want to dye my hair that color of grey and I want to be a published author like her. She’s my hero.
“Royals” by Lorde:
Yesterday, as we drove through the lovely Wisconsin foliage right on the border of Minnesota before crossing into my favorite Midwestern village of Stillwater (why don’t we say village here? Let’s bring that back.), the most mesmerizing song came on the radio. It was “Royals” by Lorde, who I had heard of, but had never bothered to listen to. It was amazing. The beat mesmerized me. I can’t get over it. I haven’t stopped listening to it since I downloaded it onto Spotify. It’s the best song ever. The lyrics are something about accepting life as it is and not trying to live up to exceptional exceptions — at least that’s what I got out of it. I don’t approve of this kind of acceptance, I believe in grandiose schemes and elaborate plots for success, but it’s such a pretty song!
Water is one of my favorite things in the world. I love to be in it. I love to be around it. I love to drink it. I love to see it. I love to hear it. Water is everything. All my life, I’ve dreamt of having a nice pool where I could swim laps in the summertime to work on my fitness. I dream of living near the sea, whether in San Francisco or Sarasota or the South of France. Probably not Sarasota because of the rapid rising of the sea, though. I drink water all day long. I don’t understand people who don’t. When I don’t drink my four or five liters of water each day, I feel like I’m going to die, like my blood is going to seize up, like I’m nothing but a withered husk of myself. I think water is absolutely delicious and would gladly have it with every meal. Lavender lemon spritzers are also lovely, but there’s just something so perfect about water. It’s refreshing and I find it absolutely delicious. Drink more water.
Veggie Burgers at Burger King:
I’m still not over the veggie burgers at Burger King. They’re simply the most amazing thing in the entire world. I’m not exaggerating all that much. They’re truly incredible. I don’t know why. It makes no sense to me that I, of all people, could enjoy something from such an unhealthy dining establishment. The flavor is ridiculously well developed for a veggie burger and I can’t praise it enough. I’m creeped out by tomatoes and lettuce at fast food chains, so I just get the burger with cheese. I would happily eat them every single day for lunch. If I lived within walking distance of one and had a reasonable lunch break, not the twenty minutes we are allotted at the school, like animals, I’d go there so often. I’d grab one for a snack on my way home. I’d sneak away for one. I love them with all my soul and heart. Go to Burger King, reader.
When Pop-Up bowls first came on the market, I was deeply intrigued, but never did get any. I don’t eat buckets or butter, so I refused to go purchase one. I have always preferred Simply Salted by Orville Redenbacher anyway. Amazing stuff, that. Go to the shops. When I was putting away my groceries the other day, I realized that my box of popcorn was a Pop-Up bowl! Well might you understand my excitement. I jumped around for joy. Not for the popcorn really, just for the fact that I wouldn’t have to wash a bowl. I effing loathe dishes. So, I cheerfully popped a bag, grabbed a wedge of fresh mozzarella, and gladly munched away whist watching The Colbert Report. I love that show. I also love popcorn and mozzarella. The greatest part of this all was the conclusion, when I just threw away the remains. It was amazing.
If you have a house with an attached garage, know that I don’t intentionally mean to offend you, but I think your house is dumb. I think it is hideous when monstrous garages eat up the architecture of a house. Nobody lives in their garage, and garage doors are démodé. I’m offended artistically by them. They make me puke in my mouth. They make me want to pass out in shock and revulsion. I just don’t understand why a homeowner would want to have their filthy, poison creating machine inside of their actual house. I don’t deny the necessity of a garage or even the convenience of one attached to your home, but it’s so gross! Besides the grossness of it, I hate the way they look. Houses are so uninspired anyway these days. They’re actually pathetic. Each day, on my way into work, I see this house getting built and I can’t even imagine living in it. It’s completely constructed out of plywood. There are the usual beams and supports, of course, but I can’t understand spending so much money to live in a box of plywood. It’s incomprehensible to me. Besides that, the entire front of the house is a massive set of garage doors. Tasteless.
Whenever I’m away, I eat everything. I’m disgusting. I’m constantly hungry and want to consume all the foods. I want everything. I’m not even hungry and I want to eat. I haven’t been hungry for days, but I was convinced that I was starving to death. I ate Mexican and Chinese and fast food and Pizza Hut and so much cheese. I should probably die from a calorie overdose. Now that I’m back home, I can get back into my normal routine and not feel like I’m about to have a heart attack. I love my rather simple diet. I’m not an extravagant cook, though I’m fully able to be. I love easy, wholesome meals. I’m basically Martha Stewart and Ina Garten’s love child. How fabulous is that? Truly, there’s nothing better than going out to a really nice restaurant and having several courses, preferably at Django, but I don’t want to do all that cooking for myself. I don’t want to wash up after all that. Dishes are the end of civilization. Anyway, I’m currently disgusting and overweight from my trip. I managed to gain seven pounds. SEVEN. It’ll take me a week to get back to normal. If only I didn’t travel so often. #firstworldproblems
Not Living in Paris:
Though I know it’s only a matter of time before I live in a Parisian apartment (all the plans are there, they’re just waiting to be put into motion by something I can’t control), I can’t stand that I’m not there now. I’m constantly amazed by thinking that there are actually people lucky enough to consider it home. I’ve only spent about five months of my long life there, and I consider it home more than Iowa, where I have stagnated for decades. I had no choice in the matter, of course, I’m only now in the time of my life where I can choose where I live and that’s where I want to be. I need to find some way to sustain myself once there, though. I don’t really know what I could do. The government is supposed to be very frustrating — not the way everybody bitches about it here, it’s just cumbersome: lots of paperwork, incomprehensible rules, and sad workers amongst other horror stories I’ve heard. But I don’t care about all of that. I’d be happy to take part in it. I want nothing more than to wake in my apartment, hurry across the chilly herringbone floor to the kitchen for an espresso and take it to one of the tall windows with the antique cast iron grill and look out over the grey city, listen to the conversations, hear the birds, watch the cars, maybe see the Seine or the Eiffel Tower or Notre Dame in the distance. Once awake, I’d put on something simple and chic and buy my daily poppyseed baguette and then hurry back to make my plans for the day. I imagine I’d work at home somehow, maybe writing, maybe blogging, maybe doing anything. I don’t know, I just need to be there. It’s awful being homesick when you’re supposedly at home.
Whenever I go to Wisconsin, I’m alarmed by how vital its cities are. It is astonishing to me that you could go to the downtown area of a moderately sized city and go shopping at boutiques and have a wide choice of restaurants. Here, where I live, there’s nearly no such thing as an economy in small towns. You have to drive forty minutes to Des Moines if you want anything more than Walmart, and let’s be honest, I do. The city I work in has nothing to offer. Businesses regularly put themselves out of business. It’s sad. I wish we were more like Wisconsin, aside from all the camouflage. There’s so much camouflage and casual wear. Nobody dresses up for no reason! It’s horrifying.
Amazon Canceling My Order:
I’ve been waiting for Jennifer Saunders to write her memoirs since I was in Paris years ago reading her comedy partner’s autobiography, Dear Fatty, in my unbearably chic apartment overlooking a quaint street right off the Bastille. Oh, those glory days! Why aren’t they here to stay? I’m really on a Paris kick lately, aren’t I? Well, she finally wrote a book and I preordered it the day I could. I waited patiently for weeks and weeks and then Amazon kindly emailed me yesterday to tell me that they wouldn’t be fulfilling my order. Bastards! I’ve never been so gutted in all my life — not quite true, but nearly there. In a unhappy rage, I clicked over to the British version of Amazon and ordered the book and a Tom Daley calendar, too, until I discovered that the shipping was going to be fifteen pounds. Fifteen pounds! Madness. I’ll be completing that order when I get paid on the first, I suppose. I must have Bonkers and I must look at Tom. Let’s do that now:
It’s a crime that I don’t live in London. I’m so ridiculously British.