My Life and Good Morning, Midnight

On the shelf above my desk, I have begun to place Post-It notes with quotes from my favorite novels on them. The Post-It note that started this project is a yellow one with the following quote from Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys:

"Everything tender and melancholy — as life is sometimes, just for one moment….And when we get to Paris; when – we – get – to – Paris…."

And today I feel this. It is not Paris specifically that I presently ache for, however. I long for the end of the semester, and find myself almost constantly thinking "once the semester is over..." and "when I've finished my term papers..." in a way very similar to that of Sasha in this passage. For those of you who have read this [amazing] novel, you might remember the 4-5 page section where "when-we-get-to-Paris" is on repeat, interspersed between the narration, in an almost mechanical--like a train--manner. The promise of Paris for Sasha while on her honeymoon is not entirely dissimilar to the promise of summer vacation for me. I only hope that my summer does not end in the same disappointment as not only Sasha's time in Paris, but also her marriage at large.

R brought over season five of Top Chef a couple of nights ago (apparently NetFlix doesn't have the first four seasons?) and we have been watching an episode or two each day ever since. I am reminded of how much I enjoy cooking and baking, and how I strove this time last year to try to make a new dessert each week. I made things like sweet potato pound cake and pear crumble and chocolate-raspberry brownies and deposited them in the English faculty office hallway with a note. (The pound cake, by the by, was a HUGE hit). When we watch Top Chef I have a habit of turning to R and saying wistfully, "Over the summer I am going to cook Indian food." Or, pie. Or, cobbler. Or, lamb chops. Or, stuffed poblano peppers. And it's true. This summer I want to cook and bake; I want to try new things; I want to be [at least somewhat] ambitious.

I want to make this:Chicken with Cashew Cream and Mushrooms



And god only knows how many other recipes! I'll compile a list soon. I can even post it here. Expect more "When-I-get-to-the-end-of-the-semester" posts soon.

Saturday Morning Date

This morning, R biked to a class at the community college and called me after it was over. He had the (amazing) idea for us to meet at DeLuxe, the bakery in the neighborhood parallel to mine that we've always meant to go to. So my Saturday began with a short stroll through a beautiful, historic-looking neighborhood and an hour's worth of reading Sentimentalism and enjoying conversation over coffee and raspberry scones.

What a delicious scone! I hope to repeat this date again--especially when it is warm enough to sit outside and enjoy the sunshine!

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Doctor Who and How I Plan to Survive The Next Two Weeks

I have what we might call a very vivid and active imagination. When I go running, I like to pretend that I'm either running from Daleks or training for Torchwood or off to save The Doctor. I used to pretend that my homework was actually homework for Muggle Studies and that I was a Hogwarts student. For the next couple of weeks when I am working on term papers and presentations, I am going to try to pretend that the following scenario is in place:

The Doctor is off on a mission of some kind. He has left me behind because he knows he will need me to come and help him out before the mission is through; he needs me, essentially, to wait for him to call me. He will call me, by the way, by sending a message through a piece of jewelry. It will act like a Portkey. In the meantime, the TARDIS has deposited me at a university as a graduate student in English, because before I started my career as a time traveler, that is what I had intended to do with my life. It is very important that I maintain this guise, and thus I must work extra hard to produce convincingly academic work!

You may laugh, but I need some kind of imagined scenario to get me through the next couple of weeks. Unfortunately, my imagination can't be of much help when it comes to the fact that I would really appreciate someone cleaning my apartment and cooking for me and doing my laundry. And while I'm dreaming I'd like a new apartment, a basset hound, and to wake up tomorrow 15 pounds thinner.

Working Leftover Magic and The Decemberists

Several days ago, pressed for time before I had to leave for my Decemberists concert, and not particularly keen on making a trip to the grocery store, Robert performed what I can only refer to as “magic.” Using meatballs of ground turkey, onion, and ginger that were leftover from a previous dinner, he suggested we chop some cilantro and heat up tortillas and create a new taco. And so we did.

Robert’s Leftovers-as-Tacos
6 ground turkey-onion-ginger meatballs, chopped
2 tbsp cilantro, chopped
1 quarter of an onion, chopped
6 tortillas, either corn or flour
Salsa






Now, you all may know—or at least have guessed—that The Decemberists are one of my favorite bands. Literary almost to the point of pretension, they also have a song that includes a lyric that once upon a time summed up my life: “I am a writer, a writer of fictions. I am the heart that you call home, and I’ve written pages upon pages trying to rid you from my bones.” You may recognize part of this lyric from the bumper sticker that I made for my car out of Waterloo Records decals. And if you knew me in high school, you know how obsessed I was with writing in my little composition books incessantly: poetry, fanfiction, stories. Etc.

I have seen The Decemberists now four times. The first time was in Austin, in 2005. The second time was in Dallas in 2006. The third time was in Memphis in 2007. And I saw them for the fourth time this past Monday, 2011, here in Iowa City.




(dress: thrifted; belt: JCrew; tights: Sock Dreams; shoes: vintage; necklace: via Mum)

It was a good show, for the most part. I thought that Colin Meloy spent a little too much time trying to be funny. I was over the banter. I wanted to hear music. The setlist was completely different than I expected: they totally ignored The Crane Wife, arguably their most mainstream and accessible album, and played a song from Five Songs, their first EP ever, and selections from Her Majesty. I was disappointed not to hear The Engine Driver—it was my first Decemberists concert without it! Ah.

I am not in panic mode, but I think that maybe I should be.

Within the next eight days I have four apartment showings, a 12-page rough draft of a paper I haven’t started to write—that’s due Monday—two discussions to lead on books and essays I haven’t yet read—one on Tuesday, one on next Thursday—and a paper topic to devise. Shouldn’t I be worried about these things? Aren’t you worried for me?

The rough draft: it’s for my Sentimentalism class. My topic, very broadly described, is a call to Modernists to reconsider the relevance of affect studies to their discipline, which I will frame by discussing the use of affect in Mrs. Dalloway and its ethical implications. It will probably involve somehow a discussion of the way that the senses are manipulated and portrayed in the novel. I’m hoping that I can tackle some close-readings ASAP to get a better idea of what I mean by, well, any of this.

Discussion one: Tuesday, with Zach, for the Art, Ethics, Justice seminar on the subject of a book on one woman’s life-work of performance art. It is a Big, 300+ page book. I have read 15 pages. We meet with our professor on Friday morning to discuss our plan of attack.

Discussion Two: Thursday next, with Jess, for Sentimentalism, on feminism and sentiment; I don’t know what I’m supposed to read yet, haven’t even checked. We must meet with Naomi on Tuesday or so.

Paper topic: Good God, my American lit class! I can’t think of a topic to save my life. The plotlessness of everyday life and how it does or does not translate successfully into literature? Someone narrow that for me, okay?




Coming Soon: The Decemberists concert, some outfits, and term paper topics

Notes on this Fucking Iowa Weather

A week ago, spring was on its way! R and I walked leisurely through the Northside neighborhoods, in search of "for rent" signs for me. We saw blossoms on the trees!




In the days that followed, we sat outside in the sunshine on benches on the pedestrian mall; R read from Benjamin Hale's new novel while I read articles on my tiny laptop on the ethics of affect in Mrs. Dalloway for an annotated bibliography, and a jazz band played swing music for a festival of swing dancers. R even got sunburned.

Then yesterday morning I woke up and walked into the kitchen to start some hot water for tea--I have a cold, by the way--and was greeted by the following sight from my kitchen window:



Yes, dear reader, that would be snow. I didn't believe it. I opened my front door to make sure:



Yup. It was snowing. In mid-April.

I mean, what can I possibly say? 24 hours later, and I'm not sure that it even happened.

My American lit and Mass Culture Class: A Description in Faces










No, it really is like that. I am not even kidding.

The Hardest Part of Graduate School

It's not the workload; it's not the dense book chapters of high theory that I have to read. It's not the strict budgeting that I must perform or the very sudden and very scary enforced financial self-reliance. It's not the midwestern weather. It's not even the ridiculous price of avocados. The hardest part of graduate school is believing that I actually belong here. The most difficult thing is believing that I didn't just somehow sneak in, a desperate attempt on the department's part for some half-hearted diversity, the token hispanic in my year.

This kind of self-doubt is rather self-perpetuating. And I'm sure it affects the way that I present myself in my classes; when I speak, I raise my hand slowly as if afraid of danger and then make a statement that sounds more like a question, my voice inflected, my tone apologetic.

I am amazed--always have been, here or anywhere--at people who are self-assured, who have confidence. No matter how many times that I tell myself that I am curvy and that "real women have curves," I feel fat and berate myself cruelly for every snack, every beer, every meal in a restaurant. Regardless of the enthusiasm that I remind myself is going to make me a great teacher, I feel like I deserve to be some receptionist at a vet clinic in order to make room in this PhD program for someone who can speak articulately about Hegel or Marx and who didn't get accepted just because they weren't a minority.

I blog about this now because I was supposed to go to the gym last night but didn't because I was so distraught over something that happened in class and R convinced me over the phone that I deserved a hot bath and to read something for me and not for class. And so I'm also not going to the gym this morning because I didn't do any work last night.

Go figure.

Sigh.

Yesterday's outfit:



shirt: vintage, thrifted
cardigan: JCrew
skirt: American Apparel
belt: thrifted
tights: Sock Dreams
boots: Christmas present
earrings: Coldwater Creek

p.s. thanks to my dear friend Zach for snapping this shot outside Teaspoons for me =)

It Begins: Apartment Hunting

Wednesday!
In which Robert takes over as fashion photographer, replacing the self-timer and making me giggle:





Shirt: vintage, thrifted
Skirt: thrifted
Tights: Sock Dreams
Shoes: Urban Outfitters
Belt: thrifted

I finally emailed my landlords and asked for a few weeks to look for another, more ideally located apartment, before re-signing their lease. I was mortified to do this, as they appeared at my door one evening as I was boiling chicken and cooking with Robert, and out of a stressed out sort-of paranoia of some kind I nodded exuberantly when they asked if I was planning on staying on next year. However, a moment's pause after their departure was enough for me to remember that:

a) I hate my location, nextdoor to and behind rowdy drunk undergrads and off of a gravel road full of potholes that kick dust up onto my car when it is dry outside
b) I hate having to go to the laundromat
c) I hate how tiny my two closets are
d) I hate the fact that I have neither counter-space nor room for a cart in my kitchen
e) I would be better off living somewhere where I do not have to pay the heat, because I am from Texas and get cold easily and thus spend a fortune on my gas bill all winter long

So yesterday R and I went to look at an apartment on the West side of the river (FYI TX or AR friends, I live right now on the East side, my classes are all on the East side, and all of the coffeehouses and bookstores are on the East side) that has pricey rent but a washing machine and dryer in the basement, heat covered, as well as the charm of an old, old building with large windows, and a bright blue door. I liked it. I didn't love it. It's too expensive to not love it. And so the search continues...

The Return of the T-Shirt

Yesterday I woke up and thought, "Gee--it sure has been a while since I've worn a t-shirt." And dear reader, let me tell you, I used to wear t-shirts all the freaking time. They were pretty much my uniform: t-shirt, and either a hippie skirt or bell bottoms. And later, skinny pants from H&M or a pocket skirt.I decided that the time
had come to reincorporate!




shirt: Decemberists concert
cardigan: JCrew
skirt: Megan Neilson
tights: Sock Dreams
shoes: Christmas present, ages ago
belt: thrifted

Sunday Afternoon at the Dog Park

I am a dog person--and honestly that's an understatement. It is widely known, perhaps, that one of my life goals is to own a basset hound named Porthos, who I shall refer to as "Portly Porthos". Those who have spent time with me are likely aware that whenever I spot a dog I cry out "DOG!"; some of you might have even unwittingly slammed on your brakes in alarm in response. And if I see a basset hound--ohmygoodness. The enthusiasm is immeasurable.

So when Robert suggested that we take his father's dog, Max, out for a walk on a trail surrounding the dog park in Coralville, he did not even receive a verbal response from me. Just one very bright-eyed grin; if I myself had had a tail, it would have been wagging enthusiastically.

It's true that we were both fairly overdressed for the occasion. Robert in his slacks and wool argyle sweater (over a collared shirt, no less), myself in tights, Oxfords, a long ankle-length skirt, and a cardigan over a sleeveless buttoned top.



But that was part of the fun. We walked Max (pictured above; he's the one on the left) across an awesome pedestrian bridge that reminded me intensely of Little Rock's own Big Dam Bridge and passed cyclists, and walkers in shorts and t-shirts and tennis shoes. We got thrown a few looks, but I'm going to assume that it was just because we made such a strangely well-dressed and adorable couple, holding hands and walking a very large and fluffy sheltie.

We didn't actually go into the dog park, because Max doesn't really get along with dogs that are his size or larger. However, we did stop on a grassy hill and watch the dogs at play while Max drank from his water cup and took a break. I saw a beagle--I think--and was appropriately thrilled. I'm sure I had the absolute goofiest grin anyone ever did see plastered on my face. We took a nice turn through a neighborhood up an almost dirt-road hill from the dog park and discussed aspects of each house that we each respectively either did or did not like. When Max next desired a break, I took the opportunity to bound enthusiastically onto the playground in the middle of the community.




Robert had explained to me with his Planner Knowledge (which in case you were not aware, is something like a super power of sorts)what type of community this was, but I have since forgotten the technical term. But it had its own playground and gazebo, and the houses had driveways in the back rather than the front, to encourage a sense of community with people talking to each other from their porches and the street.



He managed to take some pretty great photos of my playground escapade. I have no idea how he did it, but I'm a fan of the color accent of my mustard top.

After a while we began to get hungry and Max exhausted, so we deposited him at the car with the windows down and his water container in the back seat, and got dinner at a nearby restaurant in whose parking lot we had been utilizing on the other side of the pedestrian bridge. Thunderstorms rolled in just as we were leaving, concluding what had been a sunny Sunday afternoon that seemed and still seems to me to have been the perfect entrance for Spring.

Recipes I Want to Try Soon


100-calorie Southwestern Casserole


Ancho Chile Shrimp Quesadillas


Butternut Squash Mac and Cheese

on the subject of my school library, and, a to-do list

This is a terrible place to spend time. I'm sitting at a tiny wooden desk with a divider in the middle, industrial grey-brown metal bookshelves to my left, ugly white-painted crinkly brick wall to my right; the wall is interrupted by a large square window which looks out onto the roof. I'm eating a turkey-swiss-cucumber-sandwich with an apple and folk are eyeing me disdainfully. Perhaps in a sunnier atmosphere, people would have sunnier dispositions?

Screw them. I'm going to enjoy my pistachio cookies from Trader Joe's now.

It drives me crazy to think about how beautiful the library at Ohio State was. When I went to visit about this time last year, I toured the facility and was incredibly impressed; this, I thought, is what a library is supposed to look like! It was re-built very recently, naturally. The top floor is walled almost entirely of windows, with squishy armchairs and small tables scattered about--an English grad student's dream. Imagine my dismay when I visited Iowa a week afterward and walked into the dreary grey-brown interior, poorly lit and oppressive. I didn't even make it up from the first floor; I just had to escape.

The utter despair that this library inspires generally rules it out as an option for camping out to work on term papers. However, the truth is that here in Iowa City, there aren't all that many go-to places for this purpose. My favorite coffeehouse closes at 7pm; my second favorite has shoddy Internet and vastly overpriced coffee; my third favorite has no Internet access at all. I'm very particular about the space that I occupy when working. I'm beginning to wonder if the best spot might be my own apartment, intensely cleaned and better organized. I need to fix my printer and purchase a coffeemaker. I despise these logistical issues, because I have such a difficult time venturing back and forth between the logistical and the purely academic; in other words, it is hard for me to segue-way from picking up a new USB cord for my printer, dropping my laptop off to be fixed, into reading an article on the use of narrative with regards to history.

I need to:
-harass the Benefits office about my mysterious lack of health insurance
-get a new USB cord for my printer
-drop my big computer off at ITS to get the hard drive backed up/fixed
-drop my little laptop off and get the keyboard fixed
-vacuum the living room
-Swiffer the kitchen floor
-clear off the armchair/futon
-organize my desk
-put away winter clothes, summer clothes
-take clothes and donations to Second Act/Salvation Army
-take recycling
-take books to Haunted Bookshop
-either sign my lease or make my excuse about still looking
-buy new shampoo and conditioner at Walgreen's

and, of course, do my schoolwork!

This Summer I Want to Make My Own Tortillas

Last night for dinner, Robert and I made the last of the chorizo and red potatoes and assembled breakfast tacos.

Now, if you know me, you know that The Breakfast Taco and I go way back. If my mother ever were to inquire as to what my father and I wanted for breakfast, the answer was always breakfast tacos. Always. I distinctly remember making breakfast tacos at our cabin in Eureka Springs two summers ago; we cooked multiple meals, but that it the only one that I can remember. And I remember bowls of breakfast potatoes and of crumbled bacon on our kitchen table; I remember my father and I both passing up the bowl of yellow scrambled eggs. Only my mother and my dog, Sadie Beagle, wanted anything to do with the eggs.

Yes, that's right; I did not eat eggs in my breakfast tacos. In case you didn't know, dear reader, eggs are kind of a big deal--in fact, kind of the main part--of a breakfast taco. I mean, it's what makes the taco a breakfast item, yeah? My dad and I always complained about the Austin establishments (Rudy's BBQ for instance, and Flipnotics) that had breakfast tacos available for take-away on weekday mornings, but pre-mixed the filling so that eggs were inevitably involved. I grew up having to usually get my breakfast tacos at a sit-down restaurant, with the exception of some VERY noteworthy places on the upper east side in high school (read: KEN'S TACOS--or Alonso's, which I heard recently is no longer in existence, sadly). My taco of choice was bacon, potato, and cheese.

I was reluctant to try chorizo on my breakfast tacos from Ken's, despite the fact that I was sure it would be delicious because Pez, my debate coach, ate one almost every morning. But Pez had once said "Ah... heart attack in a flour tortilla" as he ate his breakfast in front of me, and what can I say? It kinda stuck.

Two and a half years ago, however, I went to Barcelona for a weekend with Alex. And I felt adventurous and daring. So I tried chorizo.

Oh my god. Dear reader, if you have never tried chorizo--try it. Do it for me. Do it for yourself.

But, I digress. My main point was that I did not eat eggs in breakfast tacos. I just didn't do it. That is--until a few weeks ago. Robert had made scrambled eggs one morning and I tried a few bites, doused in salsa. Then I tried a bite sans salsa. And then on another morning I had an entire serving of scrambled egg--seasoned with chili powder--all to myself. And I bravely suggested that on my birthday we make breakfast tacos with egg in them.

So, the tacos that we had last night (and then this morning) were leftovers from my birthday. I want everyone to know that the chorizo was actually cheaper and had less calories than the bacon OR the sausage. I don't know what that says about its authenticity, but hey--I'm in Iowa. I'm not gonna be too picky.

Last night before we made our delicious "extremely early breakfast" as R called it, we went to a spoken word performance that was being held in honor of Cesar Chavez's birthday. Both of the performance poets were of hispanic heritage and the majority of their poems reflected this both in subject manner and in language. The performance was quite politically charged, and some of the poems I could tell were meant to be touching--and were, really. But I was stuck on one poem that was about a woman's grandmother who taught her how to make tamales and spoke to her in Spanish when she was growing up.

You might be aware that I, too, have a Mexican grandmother who speaks to me in Spanish. And if you didn't know that, I do know that you probably know that I don't speak Spanish. It's the great irony of my heritage; my grandmother raised her children to assimilate into the World of the Successful White Man, and did not speak Spanish in her household. When my mother asked her to speak in Spanish to me when I was a child so that I might pick it up as a skill, my grandmother refused. And now that she is in her late 80s and has Alzheimer's, she remembers little English and tries to speak to myself and my father, when we visit her in the nursing home, in Spanish. And we cannot understand her.

So I spent a great deal of the poetry slam reflecting on my complete lack of a history. I am hispanic, but I know no Spanish, and I have no idea where in Mexico my family is from. When I asked my grandmother about making tamales several years ago, she scoffed at the notion that anyone would actually want to know how to make them because they are so time-consuming and tedious. She would not share her knowledge, her stories.

In my Ethics class we have been discussing the ethics of history and memory and nostalgia, and one thing that I read in an essay by Adrienne Rich stands out to me; she writes that those without histories cannot go forward without some sort of knowledge of where they have been, and thus those without histories ought to create their own. I'm struggling with this notion at present, but what I do know is this: this summer, I am going to make my own tortillas, and I might spend a day making tamales so I can learn for myself of whether or not they are worth the tedium.

My Boyfriend Likes Noodles and Romantic Comedies

Why is it, I wonder, that as media-consuming humans we watch thousands of films and yet, when we sit down on a city bus and try to name them before arriving at home, we cannot remember a single one?

Deep philosophy going on over here in my neck of Iowa City, guys.

But, really. What is this strange (and oh-my-god-frustrating) phenomenon? Last night Robert and I wanted to watch a movie--because not everyone can survive on watching several episodes of Doctor Who every night. At first we were going to watch something I had never seen before, or that both of us had never seen before. We caught the bus from the mall in Coralville (after being uninspired by The Gap, but getting work done at Panera's) and on that ride, and the ride from downtown Iowa City to my neighborhood on the free shuttle, we tried to name potential films for our viewing pleasure that evening. We did not come up with anything.

But, luckily, there is such a thing as a Netflix queue, and so we decided to look at mine. Unfortunately, all the films available for Instant Watch are dramatic foreign films that appear in my dad's 1000 Movies to See Before You Die book. And while I am sure they are quite good films, and while I am sure that I do want to watch them at some point, they just didn't have the feel for an evening spent on the IKEA futon before bedtime with one's significant other. I feel like they might be more like the kind of films one watches on purpose on a weekend afternoon between homework assignments. I have fairly specific categories for films.

Because I know you are all in suspense, I will tell you what happened next. Robert began to list off various films and then look them up to see if we could watch them "instantly" if I responded favorably.

"What about You've Got Mail?"

I blinked. I grinned.

"Okay. So... I've seen it. BUT. BUT. I LOVE that movie. LOVE it. Can we watch that one? Please? I love that movie!"

When he seemed surprised at my boundless enthusiasm, I sighed. "Come on. It has a dog and bookstores. How could I not love it?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is essentially Lauren in a Nutshell.

If that amuses you, you are in good company. Robert laughed, and, long story short, we determined to do whatever was necessary to procure the film for the evening. (Which ended up being quite an adventure, actually, as we ran out to the library before it closed and checked it out very quickly, only to return home and realize that the magnetic strip was still on, and so R had to valiantly run out again--this time in pjs--to get them to pry the strip off five minutes before closing time). Please join me in my utter delight that as we watched the film, it became clear to me that not only has Robert seen the movie a few times and enjoyed it enough to purchase it (he has a copy out in Coralville), but he seems to have it memorized. This is not an exaggeration. And no, lady-friends, you may not have him. Hands off.

In other news, I (we? is it absurd if I start using "we" too often on my own blog?) have decided to eat more at home in order to save money and lose weight (the latter is obviously just me, by the way). On Tuesday night R and I made a delicious meal (at his enthusiastic insistence, and with a bountiful supply of leftovers) of peanut noodles from this recipe which we adapted as follows:

Peanut Noodles
* 16 oz. thick sobe wheat noodles
* 1 recipe peanut sauce
* 1 cucumber, cut into thin 1” strips
* 1 handful cilantro
* 1 package beef stew meat
* 3 generous shakes of red pepper flakes
* ginger to taste
Directions

Boil noodles according to package directions. Rinse, drain and return to the pot.
Meanwhile, stir-fry the beef with the red pepper flakes and the ginger. When done, toss with the peanut sauce and the noodles until all noodles are evenly coated.
Serve, garnished with cucumber strips and cilantro.

Peanut Sauce

* 1/4 cup peanut butter
* 6 oz. coconut milk
* 1 small bunch cilantro, cleaned, stems intact
* 2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
* 1 small piece ginger, peeled and chopped roughly
* 2 tbsp soy sauce
* juice of one lime
* 1 tbsp rice vinegar
* 2.5 tsp Asian chili sauce
* 1 1/2 tbsps honey

Directions

Combine all ingredients in a food processor or blender. Adjust spiciness to taste by adding more or less chili sauce. If the sauce is too thick and needs to be thinned out, add a little hot water.


!!!

Robert recommends that anyone who makes this recipe in the future enjoy it with one to three bottles of Heinekin:

Springtime Approaches, and I Want to Buy Clothes

I haven't shopped for clothes in months, with the exception of the blazer I bought in Madison.

Here are a few things I wish I could spend the money to buy online:


"Sugar Work Skirt" from Anthropologie



"Kick Back and Relax Dress" from Mod-Cloth



"Chelsea Crew 'Malibu' Heels" from Ruche

Of course, there is much more. Ruche has a good 20 or so dresses that would be on this list if they hadn't gone out of stock. Urban Outfitters has shoe and skirts that I want, but somewhere in the world is a $100 giftcard from my mother to there that I need to find, and until I do I won't be shopping there.

And now onwards to Hemingway-as-literary-celebrity...

A Writer of "Fictions"

I've been working more and more on a short story that I started last month. I'd like to finally finish one, and revise it, and do something with it. Even if that "do something" is make a zine with some of my poetry or nonfiction memoir essays. I just want that sense of accomplishment, that I did completed something for myself and of my own volition and not for a grade or because it was assigned to me by someone else.

As some of you may know, I used to write a shit-ton of poetry. I had entire composition books full of it. Since I went to London two and a half years ago, I have written progressively less of the stuff. But every now and then when I am reading Adrienne Rich or Muriel Ruckeyser, I get inspired to start again.

This post is just to say, don't be surprised if Pass the Hat starts getting updated again.

I have many talents:

I have many talents:

For instance, I can read very quickly whilst multi-tasking. I can put together creative outfits. I tell good stories. I write long letters. I could probably win a breakfast taco eating contest. I make delicious pancakes. I suspect that I might be a pretty good kisser. I look good in hats.

But there are also some negative talents to my name. And let's be honest--we all have these, the tendencies about ourselves for which we are not proud. A particular one of mine is that when I have to speak in front of a great number of people I get very nervous (in case you didn't know, I am actually quite shy), and consequently I talk incessantly and somewhat over-lightly (if that's a word). This past weekend I co-chaired a conference and at its conclusion I had to speak at the awards ceremony and thank the many sponsors. In my nervousness I managed to say, when thanking the bagel supplier: "Incidentally, did anyone manage to have one of the rosemary bagels? Because I had one and it was just about divine. In fact, I had three." And I went on a mini-spiel about these rosemary bagels. Just like that, my face burning with embarrassment.

But there's a darker talent of mine, I'm afraid, of which I feel compelled to confess. I was reminded of this specific "talent" of mine on Saturday night when several of the Jackobsen committee members, their significant others, and myself and my significant other went to George's, a small bar up the street from the IMU where the conference had taken place. In a nutshell? I drank too much, one of my co-chairs drank too much, and he thought it would be permissible to kiss me when were smoking a drunk cigarette outside. Instead of slapping him across the face, I made the mistake of feeling sorry for him, and when we went inside I continued to be nice--and by nice, I mean drunk-Lauren nice--to him. Instead of standing up for myself, I called Zach drunkenly and asked him what it was about me that makes it seem okay for men to take advantage of me in such a manner. I cried, and I drank more.

What's the "talent" here? I simply do not stand up for myself. I convince myself that these things are my fault and that I deserve them. Well, that's just absurd. And, it ends now. This type of self-loathing, this compete lack of self-worth, I can do without. I deserve better from my self.

Duncan Sheik and a Serious Case of the Wednesdays

Duncan Sheik and a Serious Case of the Wednesdays

and there are so many reasons I could give you why I should be down
there's not enough money or time
and my love you're not around

but its a lie it's a lie - don't you believe it
if you're fine then you're fine - it's all how you see it
oh, there never will be no conspiracy of happiness

--from the song 'On a High' by Duncan Sheik

That previous post was so optimistic! But... it's dwindling. This song by Duncan Sheik is just all up in my brain today. I'm feeling that first stanza I've got up there, and trying to convince myself of the second.

This Levinas response paper is not coming along as well as I had initially thought that it might. I'm not sure what my mental block is. I understand the ethics. I understand how I want to show that they are illustrated in Rich's poetry. I like the ethics. I love Rich's poetry. So, what's the problem?

I've been getting up at 6am all week in order to squeeze in an extra 2-3 hours of productivity. Yesterday I managed to type out a page. This morning I went to the gym instead, then returned home and proceeded to spend an hour and a half trying to figure out what to wear whilst eating my morning bagel and peanut butter.

For those of you who are not aware--and that ought to be the majority of you--I sometimes will take an unearthly amount of time to get dressed in the morning. I will just hit these moods where I am convinced I do not look good in anything. This morning I had intended to wear a pair of maroon skinny pants from the H&M in Oxford Street that I got in London 2.5 years ago--but they were pretty tight, and not exactly flattering with the top and the shoes I had planned on pairing with them.

FOILED.

After this my bed became a mess of hopeful tops, skeptical pants, and even wistful cardigans. I tried just about every pair of pants in my closet. Then I tried pairing a top with one of about three skirts. When I finally decided on a dress, it took my 25 minutes to choose which cardigan to wear over it, and whether I wanted the belt on top of it or not.

I suppose I ought to have known then that today was just going to be one of those days. After all, it is a Wednesday. Wednesdays are notoriously difficult, aren't they? Agonizingly close-but-not-close-enough to the weekend for those of us with five-day work weeks. But I have a conference on Saturday to co-chair, and am not even looking particularly forward to my weekend. Usually I like Wednesdays myself, because I don't have class on Fridays, and because I get done with class around noon, and so have a very leisiurely 36 hours to do my reading for the next day.

But it's this bloody response paper that's throwing me off!

Seriously, I can't stand these mini-assignments in the middle of the semester. I much prefer the giant term paper at the end, because at the end I can simply stop doing the reading in my other classes. But not in the middle. Not when I still need to get some participation points.

And besides, the weather was so nice--50s, 60s--for almost a whole week until today. I just about froze walking from the bus stop to class because of the icy wind blowing at all of the layers I thought I was going to be able to put away into my trunk. Not yet. It might snow this weekend. If it snows I will fucking cry.

-It's cold.
-I have run out of money and gone through $450 of my savings. I am broke.
-I haven't had time to work out.
-I want new clothes.
-This conference is a pain in the ass.
-My apartment is a mess. I do not have the time to clean it.
-I am sleepy.

So I'm listening to Antony and the Johnsons and drinking Earl Grey out of my Eeyore mug and wearing wool tights beneath baggy yet too short pj pants with the super-frumpy wool zip-up sweater that Robert loaned me yesterday after he deemed me not layered well enough to walk home from Fair Grounds after the cold front hit. My living room is like one giant self-pity-party at the moment.

Sorry to complain, all, but today I am in one serious funk.

On Overcoming Stress and Mental Road Blocks

On Overcoming Stress and Mental Road Blocks

Yesterday I wasn't getting any work done at Fair Grounds, even after disabling the wireless on my laptop. So I walked home in the brisk and breezy mid-50s in my knee-length skirt (no tights--possible mistake) and listened to a playlist I had made several days ago to reflect the feelings of slow change and windy days.

I opened the screen on my door and played my music loudly enough for me to hear out on my mini-porch and changed into some rolled-up jeans and a black spaghetti strap top (which I had to fish around in my boxes of summer clothing for). Then I sat out on the top of my steps and smoked a cigarette with one hand and typed up my paper's introduction with the other. It was incredibly relaxing.

I've generally been fairly suspicious when friends or acquaintances of mine say that they smoke cigarettes to relieve stress. I've also generally been a non-smoker except for the occasional cigarette when drinking with friends; I avoided buying cigarettes of my own until I was spending so much time with J that I felt like I should contribute to his supply of them. So I ended up with half a pack of cigarettes to my name even after we parted ways, and as it turns out, I did feel pretty de-stressed yesterday afternoon as I was smoking one.

When it got too chilly to sit on the porch I retreated indoors to my living room floor and poured myself a glass of leftover red wine from some evening a couple of weeks ago when Robert and I made dinner. I was actually quite productive.



The moral of this story is... well, here I am amidst a very stressful week. I am co-chairing a conference on Saturday and have meeting after meeting this week to get ready for it. I have the regular reading for my classes, as well as this 7 page response paper on Levinas due. I must begin to flesh out term paper ideas in the next two weeks and have a gigantic pile of books from the library to peruse. I also need to make time for the gym and for doing my laundry and cleaning my kitchen floor. I have been dreading this week since last Wednesday when I looked into my Snoopy planner and started to try to plan gym times.

But, you know what? So I wasted almost 4 hours at Fair Grounds. I was weighed down by god-only-knows-what mental blocks. But when I stopped thinking about how much I needed to do and stopped berating myself for my lack of productivity, when I calmed down and drank my wine at a leisurely pace as I went back and forth from the book in my hand to the Word document in front of me, I was able to actually get into a rhythm with the work. By the time Robert came over to help me start making dinner I was in a great mood and ready to enjoy the evening guilt-free. Which, believe me, I did.

And now I have gotten up at six o'clock in the morning, because I feel like it is the responsible thing to do. And I want to be the girl who does that responsible thing. Here's to a productive day of positive thoughts.

Tis the Season for Bicycles and Politics

Tis the Season for Bicycles and Politics

Oh, spring! Dost thou truly approach? Today, for the first time since early November,
I brought my bicycle out of my apartment, climbed atop its black saddle, and rode it. I rode a zig-zag route to the library with my father's old, retro mustard shoulder bag draped over my back; I cared not for the traffic on the main street, and in my boots, tights, dress, and cardigan, I listened to an apt playlist with my chartreuse headphones and then cursed the heavens when I found that the library did not in fact open for another hour, at noon. Spring break hours, you know. I then rode up a tremendous hill--huffing and puffing all the way--and arrived at Fair Grounds, the fair-trade and about 85% vegan coffeehouse that I've begun to frequent due to its distinct lack of both undergrads and shoddy wifi.

Here I am reading Adrienne Rich's poetry and inventing ways to dissect it with Levinasian ethics for a 7-page paper due next week.



But it's not really thinking about ethics. I'm thinking instead about politics, and about relationships, and about how I am going to need to become acquainted with the previous in order to maintain the latter.

Yesterday R and I had a very serious conversation about politics and how I don't have any. And I wonder if I actually don't have any, or if it was just always easier to act as if that were the case. After my brief stint as a libertarian in high school, I decided that political discussion just made everybody into complete dicks and that it was against my nature to risk offending anyone anyway. When I dated Austin and he told me that he wouldn't allow me to get an abortion if I ended up pregnant, I realized that there are things that are worth offending people over and battled him over the phone for hours.

Since then, though, politics have only ever come up in obnoxious, self-righteous ways in literary discussions and I had mostly been annoyed by them.

But I'm not an idiot. I know that they're germane to just about everything. Being in Madison really highlighted that for me. I've been telling myself for a little while now that I need to start reading the New York Times again, as we get it for free in both the library and EPB. But after talking with Robert about it, I guess I've decided to finally stop thinking about doing it and just actually doing it. It's true that I call myself a feminist and that I will probably work in public education someday. It's true that I believe in access to efficient public transportation,and the ability to safely walk or ride a bike through a town or city. Having lived in Arkansas and meeting people who were actually taught that condoms don't protect one frome STDs so one just shouldn't have sex at all, I am fiercely set against abstinence-only sex education. Things like this. It turns out that I don't not have politics, I just didn't advertise them.

I even meant to pick up a NYT today, but, as I've already mentioned, the library was closed when I biked there earlier. Now, I leave you with a poem by Adrienne Rich:

Peeling Onions

Only to have a grief
equal to all these tears!

There's not a sob in my chest.
Dry-hearted as Peer Gynt
I pare away, no hero,
merely a cook.

Crying was labor, once
when I'd good cause.
Walking, I felt my eyes like wounds
raw in my head,
so postal-clerks, I thought, must stare.
A dog's look, a cat's, burnt to my brain--
yet all that stayed
stuffed in my lungs like smog.

These old tears in the chopping bowl.

Post-Birthday... Not Quite "Blues"

Super-quick life update:

At the tail-end of January I left a note on the table of a man I had been eyeing for months, off and on, at Java House; it read "I admire your argyle". I was quite pleased with myself, feeling like the heroine in an indie romantic comedy. I'm not sure if I expected it to work or not, honestly. I mean, men that beautiful inevitably already have thin, gorgeous girlfriends who know how to walk in heels and wear eye shadow, right? Men that beautiful are not interested in young-looking curvy girls in cowboy boots... But a couple of days later, he approached me at Java and introduced himself and got my phone number. I mean, what?!? How did that happen? I had to pinch myself. Repeatedly.

We started hanging out every couple of days and talking when we saw each other at Java House, and then we just sort-of progressed into dating from there. So, meet Robert: he is a pharmacy tech at the hospital, though he is and has been looking for a job in urban planning. He was in the Master's program here at Iowa for urban planning, but dropped out because he just didn't mesh with the program itself. An Iowa City native, he lives just outside of town and usually comes in by bus. He lived in Portland for a time several years ago and loved it. He is also into jazz music. We drove up to Madison this past weekend for a mini-break during my spring break, and spent three days reading at coffeehouses, wandering through used bookshops, weaving through protesters, and eating at restaurants. On Sunday night we even heard a Latin jazz band at a bar, which was something new for me and super-exciting for him. (We don't get many jazz bands playing here in Iowa City). I had a great time just being out of Iowa City--despite how much I do love it here--and being with Robert and getting to know him better and holding his hand while walking down unfamiliar streets.

I'm learning some things about myself, as I feel like one inevitably does when one is with someone new. But this feels different, like I'm learning much more and more quickly. Perhaps this is because Robert is older than me--now that I've had my birthday, by 7 years--and already has much about himself figured out. He is into politics, knows what he believes, and is willing to fight for it. He knows what he wants for a career, and what he wants out of the city he will live in. He is very honest with himself, I think, and straightforward about his needs and wants. Naturally, I in turn have begun to sort-of evaluate myself. I feel hopelessly naive and ignorant when he discusses politics and get rather bristly, defensive, due to my engagement with it in the past. I think he is frustrated that I'm not registered to vote, and just last night we had a bit of an argument that ended with his saying that it's just naive for me to try to avoid politics because they are present in every thing and every aspect of life.

I think I know what I want, on some levels. I know that I want to be an English teacher. However, I've been so unhappy academically and intellectually this semester that I am beginning to have my doubts about whether I belong in the PhD or the MA program. If the teaching is what I really want to do, what am I doing discussing Levinasian ethics as applicable to poetry about the Mississippi delta post-Katrina? I want to be teaching Jane Eyre, accompanied by Wide Sargasso Sea. And don't even get me started on my utterly useless American Lit and Mass Culture class; we had to turn in a syllabus for our "dream class" before spring break and I spent a great deal of the week before it was due staring at a blank Word document sputtering, "But... my dream class is in British literature..."

Anyway, I knew a part of grad school was going to be taking classes I didn't care to, in subjects not pertinent to what I want to study and teach, but it just seems that they have all unfortunately fallen in the exact same semester so that at the moment I an not intellectually invested in any of my three classes. This is particularly dangerous as we approach term paper season and I am struggling to give a shit about a paper topic. Sigh.

So, I'm 23 now. And I wanted to update this, my blog, and begin what I hope is a routine of updating it more regularly. I picked up a zine in Madison put together by a young mom, each issue comprised of written accounts of her every-day experiences and it has inspired me to want to keep an account of mine. After all, my life is pretty exciting, right? I'm a pretty engaging writer, yeah? So we'll see how this goes.

I REALLY DO WANT TO UPDATE THIS BLOG.

Goals Starting Now

1. I am going to update my blog at least once a week with notes on my life, recipes, and outfits.

2. I am going to put my schoolwork first and foremost over any social life.

3. I am going to become exponentially more self-sufficient.

4. I am going to budget the hell out of my lifestyle.

5. I am going to eat well and continue to work out.

6. I am going to stay in touch with friends outside of Iowa City.

7. I am going to be the person I want to be and not just the person who wants to be the person I want to be.


...Stay tuned.

This past weekend I made black bean and sweet potato enchiladas for a potluck at my friend Zach's apartment.





A medium sized group of English grad students came over and watched the first and third Indiana Jones movies.




It was a good time. I forgot how much I kind of love young Harrison Ford.




Zach says that there are a handful of men that dudes stereotypically try to model themselves after. For example, Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart. He suggested to me that Harrison Ford is also one of them--but I'm not sure. Wouldn't it be more specifically Han Solo or Indiana Jones? And I think I would go for Han Solo over Indiana Jones any day... despite Indy's being, yes, a college professor.

Anyway, back to the pot luck: the enchiladas were a success. I helped Zach make the guacamole that Alex and I used to take to the caf for burrito night at Hendrix. Bethany made these fucking amazing shortbread cookies with rosemary that just blew everyone away. I could get used to these pot luck-y functions: I get lots of compliments, I don't have to eat leftovers for a whole bloody week.

On Sunday I spent the day at Java House, being super-productive with Carmen, John (a first year)'s roommate and also a fictionist in the workshop. We then made some curry and a salad for dinner at her house and watched three episodes of Doctor Who and talked to Gizmo, the dog they are dog-sitting, with British accents.

All in all a pretty decent first weekend--although, I will admit, there were times when it was quite trying. I am not at all free from my insecurities. I need to work to get past the notion that if I am not spending time with others that it is a failure of some kind on my part.

Woke up today to this wintry mix:



Last night I made sweet potato and black bean enchiladas for a potluck over at Katy and Joaquin's house. The enchiladas were accompanied by brie and raspberry jam on crackers, a blue cheese and spicy sausage pizza, homemade bread, and a lamb skewer. And a good amount of PBR and whiskey. Later I got gloriously drunk with Jeff and apparently said everything with a British accent for hours on end. I don't quite remember.

At 8 when I woke up to get some water I had a pounding headache that Advil luckily took care of and went back to sleep. For breakfast we made leftover bacon with applesauce oatmeal pancakes, which I am sure is not helping my diet. Then again, neither is all that whiskey I drank. Oh well.

of strange color matches and karaoke night

hat: Forever 21
cardigan: JCrew, thrifted
tights: MP via Sock Dreams
shoes: Naturalizer
dress: thrifted, Blue Velvet ATX
necklace: Parts and Labor, ATX
belt: JCrew outlet

I'm not sure that lime green and bright yellow are supposed to go together, but DAMN IT they are going to be going together in this outfit, which is comprised largely of wool. Wool tights, wool cardigan (new today from Second Act--on sale for FIVE DOLLARS). Wool coat, when I leave the apartment.

The plans for tonight are to eat dinner at The Motley Cow, an upscale Iowa City restaurant that my friends and I have been ogling longingly for months upon months. We decided it was time that we resigned ourselves to the pricey entrees and tried it out. After this, we are heading down to the American Legion and meeting up with some Workshop folk for karaoke! The American Legion is a close relative of the VFW, for all of you readers with Conway, AR experience. Only, there is dancing. Like, a ton of it, and to Madonna and Hootie and the Blowfish instead of the electric slide. It is kind of one of my favorite things ever. Recently (read: for the past month) I have felt increasingly desperate to just get whiskeyed and sing and dance my little Lauren heart out. So tonight, it is going to happen. Brace yourselves, friends whose cell numbers I have who can receive text messages.

You think it's like this, but it's really like this:

A new year. I want to resolve to update this blog regularly. I love reading blogs and I want to have one, so why is it so difficult for me to commit to one? I think that sometimes so much will happen that I will get exhausted just thinking about writing about it. Which is certainly the case, I feel, for the past month or so.

I wrote my final papers. Grades posted. A, A-, and a B.

I was in a pseudo-relationship with Jeff, a 27-year-old poet from the Writer's Workshop. After a packed month full of Workshop gatherings, bars, and karaoke-ing mixed with the final papers, we decided (well, he proposed and I accepted) to take a few steps back. We'll see where that takes us when the semester starts back up again.

Winter break: spent 2.5 weeks in Austin amidst a very gloomy house. Strongly suspect parents are having marital troubles that are almost solely on my mum's side and originate from the age difference between them that becomes more and more pronounced as time goes by.

Took the train back to Iowa City, where I am reading and redecorating. Waiting for the others to return.

Trying, always and again, to lose weight.

Snow.

Quinoa Soup with Avocado and Corn

3 cups chicken broth
1 cup quinoa
1 cup frozen corn kernels
1/3 cup chunky salsa
1 ripe but firm Hass avocado, diced
1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1/2 lime, juiced

1) In a large pot or Dutch oven, heat broth over high until it comes to a boil. Add quinoa. Drop heat to medium-high. Cook (still boiling) 15 minutes.

2) Add corn and salsa. Stir. When it comes back up to a simmer, kill the heat. Remove the pot from the burner. Add avocado. Stir gently. Salt and pepper to taste. Add cilantro. Stir again. Squeeze in lime juice.

Notes: Adapted from here , my quinoa turned out much less like a soup and more like quinoa with stuff in it--and was DELICIOUS. It is more filling than it appears, so, consider it 4 servings. The lime juice helps the avocado to not turn brown, so it keeps fine in the fridge as leftovers for a few days after making it. And, bonus: LESS THAN 300 CALORIES per serving.

I was Jane Austen for Halloween. The dress, though you cannot tell from the photograph, is floor-length, and I am wearing brown riding boots beneath it. I carried a copy of Persuasion at the beginning of the party, just for clarification, but it wasn't really necessary simply because everyone knew me and I'm just the type of girl who dresses up as Jane Austen for Halloween.

The feast was this:

First course: Mulled wine and slow-cooked bell peppers stuffed with a turkey-prosciutto-carrot-celery-onion mix
Main Course: slow-cooked lamb in a red wine tomato sauce with rosemary and thyme
Dessert: slow-cooked rice pudding and apples dipped in dulce de leche

It was a huge success, and I did have a lot of fun cooking it. However, it was incredibly time-consuming on a Sunday afternoon and I wouldn't want to repeat the feast-party concept more than seasonally.

We watched Hocus Pocus. Have you all seen this gem of a film? I hadn't seen it since my pre-teen years, most likely, but when I was growing up I was obsessed with it (for whatever reason). I had not realized then how actually creepy it is; the way that Sarah Jessica Parker's witch character breathes the word "boys!" whenever they are mentioned just made us all uncomfortable. After the film we watched a collection of Michael Jackson music videos; we meant to only watch "Thriller," but once we got started, we couldn't stop.




On the left is my friend Annmarie as Pippy Longstocking, and in the middle Lisa as a viking! She is trying to chop off poor Jane Austen's head.

30 for 30

-Pick 30 items of clothing (not including coats or accessories).
-Wear a different outfit each day for 30 days using only these 30 items.
-No shopping allowed!

The Lauren Line-Up



1. Quack's t-shirt, from Quack's Bakery in Austin, TX.
2. 80's sleeveless tee with zipper, from Second Act Vintage in Iowa City, IA.
3. 80's button-up shirt, from Second Act Vintage in Iowa City, IA.
4. Powell's t-shirt, from Powell's Bookstore in Portland, OR.
5. Button-up shirt, from Second Act Vintage in Iowa City, IA.
6. Collared button-up tee, from Gap.
7. 70's polyester button-up with yellow flowers, from Second Act Vintage, Iowa City,
IA.
8. Long-sleeved v-neck tee, from street vendor in Brussels.
9. Turquoise scoop neck, 3/4 sleeve, from H&M.
10. 3/4 sleeve boatneck tee from American Apparel.
11. Hunter scoop neck tee, 3/4 sleeve, from H&M.



1. Wool cardigan, Urban Outfitters.
2. Silk/cotton cardigan, Gap.
3. Wool sweater vest, Etsy.
4. Wool button-up sweater vest, Second Act Vintage, Iowa City, IA.



1. Skinny-leg jeans, Gap.
2. Skinny-leg jeans, Odille via Second Act Vintage, Iowa City, IA.
3. Straight-leg boot-cut jeans, Gap.



1. Pocket skirt (mustard), American Apparel.
2. Pocket skirt (sand), American Apparel.
3. High-waist skirt, American Apparel.



1. Weird dress, Buffalo Exchange.
2. 90s dress, Blue Velvet Vintage, Austin, TX.
3. 60s/70s dress, Second Act Vintage, Iowa City, IA.
4. Criss-cross dress, Buffalo Exchange.
5. Denim jumper, Good Will Store.



1. Navy/black ankle-Oxford-boot-things, Salvation Army.
2. Cowboy boots, distant Christmas.
3. White ankle-boots, White Rabbit Vintage, Iowa City, IA.
4. Black ankle boots, Naturalizer via Dillard's.