Excuse me, would you mind not farting while I'm saving the world?

It's not an issue of the curtains matching the carpet; the problem is matching the curtains to the... I don't know, valances? Because left unchecked, my eyebrows would rival Eugene Levy's for Supreme Overlordship over Planet Eyebrownia. My eyebrows, they are like giant face caterpillars perched above my eyeballs. What I'm trying to say is that my eyebrows are conspicuous. And since I'm not pretty enough for this:



I end up looking like this:



So no, I cannot pull off another hair color.

So I walked across that Grain Belt Bridge into a bright new Minneapolis.

This year is not like the others. There are no cold beers to drink or pools by which to lounge, no trips to the beach to await eagerly. The season is changing or so I'm told, but really all I feel is... nothing much, actually. A certain numbness has pervaded my waking hours and in between bouts of panic over this pain or that, all I've been able to muster is a vague sort of regret for the winter we didn't have.

I'm pretty limited in what I can do these days both on order and in ability. Best I can do is putter around my "garden" and live vicariously through Hold Steady albums, go to bed early and often. It's not a life I'd recommend. BUT! At least it's possibly only temporary, right?


Future zucchini.


Future tomatoes.


TWO KINDS of basil.


Lettuces that I'm not allowed to eat.


Parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, etc.

And lest you think life is all misery and woe...



I still have my playoffs tickets. (So sometimes life is EXTRA miserable and woeful.)

What creeps me out?

My 29-year-old sister has the Tumblr of an emotionally unstable 12-year-old girl. Homework is haaaaaaaard! I'll be alone and miserable foreeeeeever! Manga! Instagram! Boys! Boys! Boys! Emo self portraits! Gotye lyrics! Boys!

Someone really needs to get a grip.

What's brown and sticky?

Mine was not a laughing family. If humor is genetic both branches of the old tree were bereft, not a single shimmering leaf to be found glinting in the jolly sun. And yet despite this lack of natural propensity I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of humor. There are few people in the world, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of humor than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. Indeed, I often tell young ladies, that no excellence in humor is to be acquired, without constant practice.

Sadly, no one taught me, no one attended me. Without a governess I was neglected. My mother should have taken me to town every spring for the benefit of the masters, but I suppose she had no opportunity. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. So, though I am not yet four and thirty, I seek out humor where I may find it. And without fail, I find it in Camilla and the Chickens.

If I'm a Muppet then I'm a very manly Muppet.

I dissected my first frog in the seventh grade. But I wasn't just handed a scalpel and a dead frog, oh no. First I had to reconstruct a paper frog, putting all of its various organs in their proper places. To prove my worth. So reconstruct I did, in three dimensions.



This is not, in fact, the oldest thing I own. Though I do have some of my mother's and grandmother's jewelry, a James Dickey first edition that I never had a chance to give away, an ancient photo or two, I generally fall in the the Things-You-Own-Own-You Camp. But nothing else remains of my childhood except for this frog. This piece of cardstock marks the very beginning of my origin story; they day I jerry-rigged pop-up frog guts was the day I veered off the well worn path of my peers. It was the day I realized that I am a really, really weird human being.

You have no idea the wormhole I fell through.

You're too smart to remember; you're too smart.

Forget the advice I wish I'd received earlier in life; what I need is advice RIGHT FUCKING NOW. About what? ABOUT EVERYTHING. To wit:

Am I really expected to wait until TWENTY FUCKING THIRTEEN for new episodes of Downton Abbey? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THAT? I will literally explode without more Downton Abbey. DOWNTON ABBEY.



What am I going to do if/when The Hunger Games sucks? My entire future happiness depends entirely on this movie. I'm serious. If it sucks, I will never be happy again waaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Should I give Winston a baby sister? What if he doesn't like her? What if she stresses him out and into an early grave?


(this one is for Arlene)

How do I stop showing up to work looking like a hobo?

How do I make that fancy apricot kugel everyone keeps talking about?

What should I read next?

Who's on first?

Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.

We drink and we dry up and now we crumble into dust.

Five things I'm good at? Gosh, I don't know. I'd say I'm pretty adequate at a lot of things, but actually good? I guess breathing would probably be one of those things. Heck, I don't even have to think about it yet there I go on, continuing to be alive.

Writing my Collective post is definitely not one of those things. I can't ever seem to think of anything to write about, or on those increasingly rare occasions I do come up with an idea I can never actually put any meat on those bones. Oh! Putting meat on my bones! I've very good at that. In fact, I've eaten THREE DONUTS in THREE DAYS and managed to gain, like, thirty pounds in the process. Go me.

My nose has been just a continuous snot faucet for almost an entire year now, which means I must have gotten very good at creating mucus. In fact, I am probably the all-time world record holder in boxes of tissues used in a single day.

It's pretty well documented that I am the exact opposite of a champion sleeper, but when I DO sleep, I excel at having very specific nightmares (there's the one where I'm in trouble with someone at work, and then there's the one where I realize at the end of the semester I've skipped all my classes and have no idea what day I have which class, where said classes actually meet, and how to speak, like, French or whatever). So that's been fun.

And jigsaw puzzles. I'm very good at those.

The Matthew Crawley penis situation.

My family's on-ramp to the information superhighway was opened in 1995, a year you might remember as my junior year of high school. I, however, remember it as the year Mike Krzyzewski (spelled entirely from memory, after all this time) took a leave of absence from his coaching duties following back surgery. And I remember this because I used my internet driver's license for one thing and one thing only: scouring the Duke University men's basketball message boards.

There is literally nothing else to say about this.

I'm hardly online at all these days; I try to catch up on the day's news, read (if not comment on) whatever you all have written, skim the recaps of whatever television programs I happened to watch the night before. Mostly it seems I just want to build a blanket fort, crawl inside with my Kindle and hide out for a while. Which, of course, I can't do; I've got hockey tickets and dinner reservations and parties to attend, not to mention that Winston would likely destroy any blanket fort within minutes of its construction. What a tiny jerk.

DON'T TELL ME WHAT I CAN'T DO.

“I’ll be back. You sit there and insult yourself,” she said. But to that point I had not been insulting myself, nor was I planning to.

Nor have I ever.

And later, “Well, thanks for the compliment.”

“You’re welcome! (And I’m amazed you took it!)” she said.

“I’m not THAT stubborn,” by which I meant, “sometimes it’s easier to agree than disagree.”

“You are indeed complex,” she replied. “Many layers. Much intrigue.”

But even I am not that stubborn.

When the sun shines, we'll shine together.

I do not own a smart phone; what I own is Lindsay Weir after her summer following the Dead around. I own wasted brain cells and wasted potential. I own a one-season wonder. I own obsolescence.

This week's topic is our favorite phone apps I think? But needless to say my phone does not support apps. It barely supports phone calls. Barely, but it does. Texts as well, and super-grainy pictures of Winston sitting in my lap. Like this one!



Oh wait. I have just been informed that this week's topic is, in fact, favorite websites. Well, that's a horse of a different color! (Brown. I've always wanted a brown horse.) So, without further ado, here are my top five favorite websites for your clicking pleasure.

The Facebook

The Facebook is this place where you connect with your creepy former high school classmates who are now all tea baggers inexplicably obsessed with the fact that Casey Anthony lives two doors down. It is also the medium in which my sister chooses to pick fights with me. It is also where I play Farmville.

Yahoo!

Did you know that the Internet is home to an almost endless supply of information? Because it is. And Yahoo! is the website I use to search for information on the Internet, especially now that Google is evil. It is also where I manage my fantasy hockey team.

Amazon

Amazon is where I buy things. ALL THE THINGS.

The Weather Channel

Did you know that some television stations also have websites? No, really, they do! And did you know that some television stations show nothing but weather? And that these television stations also may have websites? I know, WHAT A WORLD. Well, this is one of those websites. It's perfect for finding out when you need an umbrella-ella-ella or a winter coat. Except for when it's wrong.

in kat's kitchen

And for my final "Did you know?", did you know that I have my very own website? Well I do! It's where I share lots of my very own recipes on how to cook food. It's also where I curse a lot. I'm classy like that.

Looking upwards with wonder.

In 2011 I saw exactly two movies (I'm predictable; I bet you can guess which ones), and for both I walked into the theatre with no expectations. So in 2011 I was never disappointed!

Har har.

So I guess I'll flip this bitch upside-down and present the following list of things which will likely disappoint in 2012:  

•  The Hunger Games 
• I'll Be Your Mirror 
• Tim Tebow 
• Barcelona 
• Me 

Things that probably won't:

• The new season of Game of Thrones 
• My fantasy hockey team 
• 

Out of the darkness, and into the fire.

The future is distressingly inscrutable and to my woe I've no knack for prediction. But this year began exactly as did last year, namely inauspiciously. And this year continues as last year, in that I still can't figure out how to write. So what is going to be different about 2012? I'm not buying any more goddamned houses, that's what.

What's fixed can always be broken.

Timely, this, for I've not slept in many nights, and tired I am. When one shares one's bed with another the insomnia is doubly stressful, for not only does one fret about not falling asleep, one also frets about keeping the other awake. Oh, I am weary, and since seven this morning a steady stream of contractors has marched up and down my stairs, and all last night I thought with relish how I'd like to blow this house to smithereens.

So that's how you can spend your wakeful nocturnal hours: taking a sledgehammer to these hateful, hated walls.

Current Favorite ___________

Yeah, I got nothing.


(She swings, she misses)

Well, things at Collective HQ are a little glitchy this week, as you can probably tell from Heather's post on Monday and Abigail's lack of post yesterday (don't worry, it's a-comin'). I myself have been trying to get a guest post out of Winston for the last two days but he's been a bit uncooperative on account of being real sick. So in lieu of any words from this kid here:



perhaps you'd like to read some of his antics here. And one day, ONE DAY, maybe we'll get our collective asses together.

How to Bake a Pie

Bottom Crust:

For two weeks at least where I went so too did The Sound and the Fury, yet not once did I read beyond the front cover. I carried that book like a shield from place to place, from home and back again. But it wasn't protection I needed, it was something to hide behind. It kind of worked.

Sunday afternoon I moseyed on down to the hardware store, bought a big ol' bag of dirt, repotted my choking mint and overcrowded basil. In a smaller pot I sowed a few chervil seeds and with the rest of that soil replaced the summer's wildflowers with what will hopefully be a tiny garden of arugula and winter lettuces. Three flights up I've hoarded myself a bit of earth, and though I'll never be able to live off the fat of the land at least I can look forward to a peppery salad.

It's a little thing.



Filling:

A half peck of New York State apples I found waiting for me on my desk, "Mr. Mitchell agreed with me that you should have these," he said after I looked behind with one eyebrow raised. I half expected to find tiny little hearts carved into the skin of each one, but in my relief at finding them all unbruised there was perhaps a twinge of disappointment just the same. Joe as ever was slightly less subtle. "Where are the cookies?" he hollered, no hello after his long flight from Atlanta, no how's life, how's the house, how's the boyfriend. "I'm protesting," I replied.

Because, as ever, I am.



Top Crust:

"Do you still post on your food blog?" Seth asked next morning; "apparently Kristen's still checking." [ed: Hi, Kristen!] And golly, how to answer that. In my head I post every day but things have a way of getting in the way. My intentions are good but like everything else I do the execution leaves room for a great good amount of improvement. I don't know, I just miss my old kitchen I guess.

I'm running out of excuses.



Bake:

Once upon a time the hardest decision was what to make for dinner. Protein, starch, veg. Glass of red or white. He threw a wad of cash on the bar and left to sign some daycare papers, I pulled on my sweater as the cold air rushed in behind. Our last warm day has come and gone and too late I've realized I ate hardly any peaches this year. I've half a peck of New York State apples but nary a peach in sight. It's not the same.

But nothing's ever the same, not really. Except for when it kind of is? I broke another office personality test last week, NO TALKING, NO TOUCHING this one hollered at me. "I can't tell if I should do the complete opposite or use this as an excuse," I whispered. I mean, I don't know, sometimes it's all about the path of least resistance.

(He said we'd always be a part of one another's life, but I guess that's just one of those things you say.)

Triple Lindy

The transition from green to yellow is surprisingly quick, the light dimmed so suddenly that one day it just happens, every hour of sun is squandered on the inside, leaving life solely illuminated by fluorescence and cathode rays. The rain rolls in one night on a rush of wind and in my stubbornness I refuse to unpack the umbrella, preferring for the moment the shock of cool water against my face. The rainy season has arrived.

Back in college it used to rain so much this one time Pete picked me up in a canoe; we spent the entire day drinking beers while he paddled me about. Sometimes we just drifted where the streets would take us, but mostly we just laughed and laughed. He ran Hood to Coast this year so thoroughly he's taken to Portland, It reminds me of New Orleans he told me a few weeks ago, and that's as good a reason to take to a place as any I suppose.

After the storm my best friend and I compared notes and succeeded only in making us both horribly wistful for days spent commiserating over lunch trays at Bruff. I lost 15 freshman year--I always have to be different it seems--but gained more than I can count. My friends, yeah, and myself. So now, at the start of yet another school year, I'm planning my own return to campus. Flights and hotel are booked, football tickets are in hand. But this time my companions will be rooting for the other team. You can go back, but it's never quite the same.

Especially when your cat has smothered the entire damn city.

A Cape May address, your new one I guess.

I felt the earth move under my feet. I felt the sky tumbling down. As Rayanne Graff would have said, it was a time. And incidentally, it all started with a haircut.



We snaked through the flats of Oyster Creek at a drift lest our wake finish off what the earthquake started. Dilapidated shacks perched lopsided on stilts atop the still water, rendered more lopsided still not an hour before. His first impulse when it all happened was to head for the open water, and eagerly we followed, until we found ourselves invading this foreign country, cowering under the angry glare of the seagulls keeping sentinel. On the bay the wind was fierce but here the air was disturbed only by the wings of a thousand greenheads; every inch we gained cost another painful welt on arms, legs, neck. All for nothing.

Back on the bay the engine stalled out and we were left adrift....



Home again and there was much and more to clean up, to sweep up and shore up and make up. And that right there is the meat of my adult life; whether physical or intangible, I've been a worker bee buzzing about my hive, tending to my colony and buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, waiting in line at the grocery store to buy the last loaf of bread in the city, searching in vain for a lantern by which to play Yahtzee, tying and severing knots. And when the storm came all was quiet but for the steady drip drip drip of rain drops in my living room.



Sunday morning I awoke to the sounds of trumpets and tubas and trombones, my stomach in knots, my hair matted and tangled from the 50-mph winds.The sun was bright and the leaves were shaking in their trees, and I was positively crushed by the weight of it all.



A week later and I still can't get my hair to lay right.

Wild Blue Yonder (#A2ADD0)

I remember watching you dance on the sand, the Pacific blue (#1CA9C9) and placid stretching across the horizon while your shadow (#8A795D) grew longer and longer with the setting sun. In that light your black (#000000) hair looked brown (#B4674D), your white (#FFFFFF) skin tan (#FAA76C) and glistening. Later that night we found ourselves a bar and I watched you dance there, too, while I leaned against the antique brass (#CD9575) rail and sipped my cocktail. You were a wonder.

I remember how you liked to read me trivia from the bottom of your Snapple caps; "the pink flamingo (#FC74FD) isn't born pink," you'd tell me eagerly while I laced up my sneakers. "Fascinating," I'd reply. "Salmon (#FF9BAA) mate for life," you'd tell me, just to see if I was paying attention. "And then they die," I'd reply.



Most of all I remember your eyes, gray (#95918C) and sometimes green (#1CAC78) and always watching me until I'd blush (#DE5D83) with embarrassment or guilt or whatever it was I felt for you then. You thought you had it figured out but now I think we both know how wrong you were, and looking back I can pinpoint the exact moment I found my canary (#FFFF99) in the coal mine. I once pointed out an inchworm (#B2EC5D) steadily making its way up a tree and you looked right through me, like I was the vast emptiness of outer space (#414A4C), like I barely existed at all. That's when I knew.

The memories are bittersweet (#FD7C6E). "I thought you were an orchid (#E6A8D7)," you'd said the very last time we spoke; "I thought you were this rare exotic thing. But really you're just a dandelion (#FDDB6D) after all. Common. Plain old yellow (#FCE883)."

Nope. I'm not. I've every color in the god-damned box.