elise navidad

My gift to you--a couple of snaps from the local Kidd Valley. Those vinyl seats are so pretty!

in other news

It's Saturday! Man do I love weekends. Sleeping in, some cuddles, hot java, a run through cool mist to do some writing. I stopped in at ETG for coffee and said good morning to my barista buddies. To their credit it was solidly past noon and yet they did not blink, they just said morning and hooked me up with the uzhe, drip coffee, boiled egg, cinnamon roll. Hell yeah.
Some funnies here.
And just when I despair over fb, cool friends share the headsup on a couple of new to me bands: Disclosure and GRiZ.

sie haben miteinander etwas zu tun oder...?

words from the ladies'

Words of wisdom from the ladies room at Rebar.

recipe

Don't think I've said much about my grampa Bill. He was a tough old guy, worked on oil rigs in western Kansas most of his life and gardened and cooked in his spare time. The man had a way with candy--the holidays were a glutten fest of fudge, divinity, peanut brittle, and his fruitcake. A little fruitcake goes a long way, but I dug up the recipe the other day and with some customization--candied citrus from DeLaurenti and a splash of rum--I think it'll be delicious. Also, the recipe card is spotted with batter and was handwritten by my Mom, which makes it extra special. Miss you Momash.

my friends

Today I can't say enough about my friends.
Growing up homeschooled and super religious, I didn't really have friends. There were people around all the time but church people mostly. Super religious adults, many of them oddballs--anti-government nuts, Bible thumpers, misogynists, creeps. Some okay ones, but not many. My sisters were around. My parents. Our house was not the kind of place where people hung out. There were too many rules, too much judgment. One minute teen-age you was cooking dinner and the next your father was freaking out because the food you were cooking him burned and he had asthma and you ruined his dinner and he almost died from smoke inhalation. My sisters and I had each others' backs and we hung out a lot and probably saved each others lives--we truly did--but I didn't have friends in my life really, people who chose to like me and accepted my weirdness and teased me but loved me anyway.
Flash forward to now and I'm lucky enough to have friends, good friends, and lots of them.
I don't take that lightly. It's a treasure.
There's the couple who I've traveled the world with, gotten drunk and stony and giggly with, laughed through Manhattan and Miami and London and Seattle and Vancouver, who give me kisses and hugs and manhattans and lots of love.
There are quirky ones, the drunk poet who thrashes through life with an abandon that I envy; the intellectual artist who texts me the occasional sonnet; the dark-eyed bartender-painter-poet; the bohemian MC making a living in kitchens and onstage; the hunky charmer, making art and music in a basement studio on the hill.
There's my football friends, the short-short writer usually shaking off a hangover to talk writing and sports in a dark, noisy sports bar; the super fit pal with a colorful fashion sense and wry shoot-from-the-hip sense of humor and million dollar smile.
The traveler, a lovely bright-eye always down to drink whisky out on the town or split a bottle of wine over a quiet night in, pragmatic and prepared and a frequent angel.
There's my hipster cool friend, a photographer who knows the right drink and the coolest technology and loves nothing more than packing a house with all of us and her lovely partner for friendcation.
There's the fun-loving single mom, my girl, a tequila aficionado with a smile and a laugh that warms my heart as much as her cooking.
There's my bearded bear buddy, one of my favorite partners for a night of barhopping and heart to hearts over LIIT's and vintage pornos on a firelit deck.
There's the single dad pal who I went through the divorce wars with, who keeps me honest and chauffeurs me to trivia nights and the movies and sometimes just to the liquor store.
There's the wild-haired musician I met at a gay club with magical cooking skills and eyes like melted chocolate.
And so many more--I could go on for pages and --
I feel so lucky.

seems like

Seems like this could apply to writing too:
http://chesireclam.tumblr.com/post/67316204630/stridersknowbest-geisttotend-no-but