Today has been a day of samples. Which means I’ve tried out two. I slopped down some floor paint to see if we liked the color, it’s sort of a medium blue/gray? I think it’s too close to the lighter blue/gray we have on the walls. We’ll see, it might dry differently. Next up is the pickling stain I’m trying out on the beams and ceiling. I like the pickling stain! It lightens up the wood and makes it paler, instead of the golden-yellow  it currently is. We’ll see about the floor paint. I know, my life is riveting.


I do not have fleas or poison oak, in case you were wondering.  I have an itch for change.  It happens every year.  It happens around January-February, when the winter has been long and dreary and the fun of Christmas and holidays have gone.  I get itchy and restless and nothing is good enough.  I pick fights with Nikolai and I fidget, color my hair or cut it.  This year we did a quick weekend at the coast with friends in dreary winter, so that forestalled the itch.

I have it now.  I have been mentally prepared to be purchasing a house and moving, but that change isn’t happening, which is having an odd effect of making me crave change because I was prepared for some and it hasn’t come.  I know what my cure will be, though.  Well, I have about three options lined up in my mind.  I’ll either dream about them until the itch fades, or the house thing will actually happen (no it won’t) and take up my need for change. First option: meet with a tattoo artist to consult on the next tattoo I want.  I have had vague ideas for a few years now, and I would like to make them a bit more solid.  I need to at least find an artist I want to work with first, and that’s fun.

I could start hiking every weekend or after work on nice days.  I could sign up for a few more parkour classes.  I could sign up for some crazy classes at my dance studio.  Mostly I want to do the tattoo thing.  Probably because I have three tattoo projects in line in my head, and I want to do them in order so I have to get started.  Someone, chime in!  Give me an opinion!

Tonight, for (I think) the first time, Nick and I cooked together.  AND IT WAS AMAZING.  We used a mulligatawny recipe from The Pioneer Woman that used chicken, onions, and apples with curry and cream.  We worked together, people!  I chopped things, and Nikolai stirred things, and we both measured things, and after an altercation about rice, we arrived at a new favorite curry soupy thing.  This is big for Nikolai, because he doesn’t really like soups as are soups.  He likes chilis, chowders, and other thick things.

I’m just busy being amazed that we shared a kitchen and cooked a dish together, because as previously noted, we have issues in the kitchen.  He can cook up great things alone, I can whip up deliciousness solo, but we’ve not often shared and made a thing together.  BUT TONIGHT IT WORKED OH MAN.  Rejoice with me, my chillens.  Er, friendends.  Okay, like my three readers ever. I DON’T EVEN CARE WE COOKED TOGETHER.



Also curry is delicious.  That is all.

I was on the receiving end of a burst of ambition last week.  I decided (for a number of reasons that will NOT put in print) that I wanted to get back to where I was pre-wedding.  Single, happy, alone, without Nick all the damn time, also there were pets that I could cuddle.  Okay, okay I’m teasing good grief.  Pre-wedding I was exercising daily (except for weekends) and not eating very much sugar.  I would no white flour or simple carbs, but. . . nope.  However I had in effect shrunk my stomach and was eating smaller portions.  All was well.  And then. . .I got married and was shipped off to Disneyworld for a weekish.  It was very nice, (although I plan to disillusion any and all virgin brides I encounter in the future) and we had a lot of fun walking around.  However meals were included, and Disney is convinced a single person can eat two or three servings of pasta, one of meat, one of veggies, a juice or other non-water beverage, and a dessert as big as my two fists together, all in one sitting.  Even Nick, eater extraordinaire couldn’t finish it all.  Which meant I was eating maybe half.  Maybe.  Anyway, I stopped going for my daily walk.  Then we came home and I moved for the first time in my life.  I am not joking.  I moved out of my mother’s house, the house I came home to from the hospital, into my first apartment with my new husband.  So I spent a month pouting.  And then I spent another month not wanting to leave the house because my new neighborhood was larger than my old one, and therefore was scary.  And people might see me walk.  And then shank me.  And then in an attempt to fatten up my husband, I started cooking.  And then eating the leftovers because the turkey butt wouldn’t eat them, he’d go for a freezer burrito first.  But he’d eat cookies!  So I made cookies all the time.  Are you seeing the problem here?
Anyway, I set myself three goals, that I’m not sure I want to say here.  Because then I’ll have to tell you if they don’t happen, or if they do.  And I’m not fond of accountability, man.

Every new year, I get fidgety and twitchy, and experience the burning need to change something about my appearance, drastically.  This year, it manifested in my hair.  It is now red.  Eep!


pay no attention to me totally sneaking a bite of caramel corn.

I think I take it back.  I don’t really want a new job that is a five minute drive away.  I don’t really want a full time job that pays well and will make a crazy difference in how Nikolai and I live our lives.  I don’t really want to get to work by 8am and behave myself and learn new things and make mistakes and disappoint people and wear grown up clothes instead of jeans or corduroy.


No, it’s not just that I’m scared of something new and changes and stuff.  I would never let fear rule me like that!  Don’t talk to any of my high school teachers, though.  They might try to tell you something just ridiculous about how I’m a perfectionist and can get totally frozen my panic that I won’t do a project just right.  They might even say that I prefer getting a bad grade because I didn’t do an assignment rather than do the assignment and not do it well.  But they’re high school teachers, and teenagers have melted their brains.  Their word can’t be trusted.

I’m better at irony than Alanis Morrisette.  Irony is my husband working on Labor Day.  Irony is anyone working on Labor Day, the holiday created to celebrate the working man and his contribution to society.  This was, of course, from the time where women rarely worked outside the home, so it’s not rude to say “working man” and “he” because it was mostly true.  Also the coal miners got Black Lung and the gold miners got Sparkly Lung and it was a harder, more bleak time in our nation’s history.  Anyway, Nick worked today and I thought that was more than a little ridiculous.  However, he’s expanding what he’s doing at work so maybe we won’t have to move to Florida to settle his need to have something change, because seriously, Hurricanes, Humidity, and H’alligators.  How much clearer can I get?  No one wants me to sweat that much.  It makes my thighs unhappy.  I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.