Utter goofball; unapologetic, serene, and sincere in the manner which my senses partake of the world at large. But I never stop thinking, never never, and the gears are always churning and observing and taking my own self far too seriously.
I like to think myself equal parts beer-swilling homemaker; reflective, considerate, mindful hedonist-of-sorts; and an actual grown-up, I can't deny it. Beer goes with baking unequivocally (unless it's a quickbread cinnamon roll, then I get coffee), I'm honest to a fault and/or infuriating degree if you keep asking me shit, and I dutifully do the dishes and buy vegetables and clean the catbox and will (almost certainly) eventually get a Real Job. Unless I can find a way out of it (which goes only for that last one).
There is potential for growth within the discomfiture of change, which I like to think I'm approaching with a good pair of shoes and a healthy attitude. And possibly a slight buzz.
Also: ridiculous amounts of attention to detail. By now I simply cannot help it.
Living it without scrimping on the basics, which include but are not limited to decent bourbon, food cooked by my hot little hands in my hot little kitchen, toys to play with and books to keep me smart, and all my damn fabric.
Thinking some about what I want to do with the rest of it, which as it turns out is a lot of piddly shit stacked alongside a lot of deep shit: both arenas which I suspect (or just fear) that most people aren't so mindful of, really.
Otherwise? mouth-breathing when I add too much spicy to the red beans and rice; pretending to sew; actually sewing;
flapjack-flipping between big things and little things;
feeling more about science than I have since I was in about the fourth grade; not practicing other languages enough; daydreaming about ice cream; ironing with specific and terrific accoutrements.
I am fortunate enough to have experienced some of those elusive Perfect Moments in my life so far: I humbly try to be one of those people who keeps [her] eyes open for their potential, wherever they might end up. Hint-slash-caveat: perfection can be simple like a geometrically exact circle executed with a worn paintbrush, or heavy-handedly nicked and patina'd and bumper-car-bumped around within a finite set of preconceived requisites, or evenly wave-revolution-drizzled with chocolate-flavored stripes like a little debbie fudge round. Learn it: know it: live it.
Punctuation = breath. Just can't get enough, right?
Approaching the acme of rough 'n' tough buttercream: it's like the brief plateau that exists between velocity girl and electric wizard. You'll just have to trust me that it does, in fact, exist.
Which is to say, these are the things I wish people first noticed about me. Let's be honest, it's the quart of sangria I'm twin-packing in a Foam Dome.
I'm a sucker for both a challenge (Gogol' and Emil Jannings, horizontally slicing a genoise for petit fours, pattern matching up to and including uneven plaids) and easy fluffy nonsense (Disorderlies and hot tamales, kitschy candle holders, pb&j), with an undeniable need to indulge in occasional bits of the slightly raunchy (more Frank/less Dweezil Zappa, RTX, Lust in the Dust).
You know, a healthy mix.
I'm still flexing my muscles toward being a pedant because there are some benefits therein, and human perspicacity tends to travel in cycles after all. I believe the alternative to actively pursuing well-roundedness is basically being a git*, which I'm not into. But really, it's stuff I did in high school and college, and then the other stuff that I wish I'd done in high school and college. I'm not a one-trick pony, I'm just an older imprint, not-very-strayed-from catalog of tricks that I'm fighting against becoming too dogeared.
*not to be confused with The Gits.
I sort of want to proclaim my affinities for some amalgam that might be cubed into moody sugar, but that just makes me think of blueberry bubblegum which must be pretty awful.
A good dictionary.
Maybe acrylic paints, the super cheap-o 89¢ ones.
Plus I quote random instances of recorded media WAY too often for my own good but I was a latchkey kid in the eighties so, you know, it happens.
I saw a guy for a while who claimed to be a star wars fan, but when I unsolicitedly said to him once, 'you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy' he looked at me with his dank little dim pretentious eyes like I'd just recited some fucking eighteenth-century slavic folk poetry with a ukrainian accent. That should've been a bigger clue to me, so in hindsight? Et voila! now it is.
Just don't be a total wankfest. I'd tell you to try and keep up because my brain can move at a frenetic and occasionally quick-cadenced pace, but upon greater consideration I'm kind of a slow burner. So maybe nevermind that one.