On a bad idea and a great date.

o hai blog.

Funny, I intended to keep a good, accurately blogged account of the time spent living with my parents, which I assumed would be short. I assumed I'd have all sorts of free time and all sorts of insights and that I'd take to blogging like a baby wolverine to human flesh (baby wolverines are terrifying and can kill you, right?), but then I actually moved in here, and I started having a life -- mind you, not my own life, not with the kind of social activities that normally comprise a twentysomething's agenda, but a life full of U-14 soccer games and grocery shopping with my dad and staying up far too late with my mother and going to school. Also, turns out running can just completely take over your life. Weird.

So here I am.

And what, besides the beligerance of CSH, has inspired me to blog?

I'm going to a wedding this weekend.

Mind you, I go to many weddings every weekend. The sort-of job I sort-of got with my totally legit college degree happens to be catering waitressing, so I go to more weddings than Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson combined and participate in significantly fewer antics. But this wedding came with far less notice, and is far more happily recieved.

The person getting married is the woman who taught me my first lessons in newspaper design, which is a surprise in and of itself -- despite her extensive religiosity, she's never struck me as the marrying kind. I guess we will all one day hit 26 and make poor choices.

I'm 22 and I can make poor choices now. Namely agreeing to go with the person who asked me to this delightful affair, a man often described as the most persistent problem in my life. That's a thing.

He proposed the idea at 2 a.m., after an hour or so of random catching up chatter, a thing we do a lot -- he calls me exhausted and is reminded of how funny I am, because somehow my jokes are always spot-on after midnight, and I am reminded that I'm a human being. He has that magical superpower, the power to make me feel like myself, which has been a rare feeling since I prematurely started behaving like an adult, an effort which I could obviously not keep up for long.

So every time I drink too much, it's his number I call first. And apparently, it's my number he dialed when he couldn't stand another wedding alone.

Which is both understandable and acceptable to me. It's also exciting. It's been six months. I can't wait to see him.

The big question now is: what do I wear?

On Muderopolis.

So, CSH is in my home this weekend. Not my home as in the basement of my parents' home, where I live right now, but beautiful Minneapolis, Minnesota, the greatest city in all the world, which I inhabited for a time and fully intend on returing to once I get my act together.

Wait, will I ever get my act together? Chances are no, but, you know. I can't possibly live with my parents forever (oh god, I hope I didn't just curse myself).

In any case, here are my favorite things about Minneapolis:


Eating

Forewarning: All the places I eat in Mpls are vegitarian/vegan, so trying to gague my suggestions for CSH's bacon-loving palate was difficult.

Do you want to eat breakfast? Good, because breakfast is the meal most worth eating in the Twin Cities. My personal favorites are the Sunny Side Up Cafe (blue corn pancakes, god's gift to humanity in french toast form -- 2704 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis), Victor's 1959 Cafe (Cuban food appropriate for any time of day, but breakast is my favorite), the Keys Cafe (a little bit of everything, ridiculously charming, 821 Marquette Ave. or 500 Robert St. N.) and, of course, the Uptown bar & cafe (the universe's most glorious caramel rolls and bloody marys).

My favorite place to eat lunch is the Bad Waitress. Because it's more breakfast food. I don't care if that's redundant. I love breakfast!

Easiest and most tasty dinner option: Pizza Luce. If you want to get complicated but still tasty, I eat a lot of Thai food (Sawatdee or Amazing Thailand, 3024 Hennepin Ave.). Chino Latino (2916 Hennepin Ave. S.) is also a serious favorite.

Post-boozing midnight snack will come from Little Tiajuana (17 E 26th St.). Trust me. It will be the most glorious thing you've ever put in your mouth.

Making Merry

Minneapolis Institute of Art.
Walker Art Center.
That's all you need. Really.

Shopping

I know you won't be able to turn down the Mall of America -- nor should you. While it's the world's most vile display of consumerism, it's very convenient because everything's all in one spot. However, CSH will die of delight when she sees a gigantic Urban Outfitters within line of sight from an American Apparel store in Uptown (Hennepin & Lake). I'm just sayin'.

This is certainly not a comprehensive post. I could do an entire post of just my reviews of gay bars. And maybe I should. But CSH needs to know where to get breakfast, and that's a start.

Have fun classics-ing, pretty lady!

On love incarnate and wisdom in Greek.

She has arrived.

Miss MaryJane Sophia Grulke.

And her 15" head.

And a renewed sense of meaning in my existence.

On the smell of childhood.

I've become concerned, friends and neighbors, because my forthcoming niece will never know the smell of a happy childhood.

Now, let me clarify somewhat: I'm not saying that Niece will have an unhappy childhood or suffer from anosmia. I'm saying that one of the key smells of my childhood is gone forever: the scent of Wheatsfield Grocery, beloved food co-op of Ames, Iowa.

What does the defining smell of my childhood smell like? Like bulk spices, mostly, but also local organic produce and a bunch of other hippie shit. Before she was the woman she is today, my mom liked that hippie shit. Or she at least tollerated it, because Wheatsfield was less than a block from the Ames Public Library, and they made a mean dark-chocolate-covered peanut butter ball.

I can't stress enough how much the smell of that place means to me. The most intimate thing I've ever done in my whole life was to take a significant other at the time to the place just to smell it.

And they've ruined it. RUINED IT. They moved the store out of its tiny and ancient storefront next to the library and the art center and put it in a big, new, fancy building that reminds me too much of a whole foods and took away everything that was ever good about it.

That's not true. They have everything they ever had and more (om nom nom nom nom organic kale nom nom kale kale nom nom nom nom. If you don't know how much I like kale, read that while imagining me, like a fat kid, stuffing her face with kale, Fidy-esque cake-style). But the smell just isn't the same. There isn't old hardwood floor, and there's too much deli meat (yes, sigh, they have TONS of meat -- it's still Iowa, I guess). And I mourn the fact that Niece will never know the true scent of a happy childhood.

However, there are some important childhood smells that Niece will get to experience:

1. Opa-smell: the scent of my paternal grandfather (her great-grandfather, weird). A combination of old-former-secret-smoker house (my grandmother covertly smoked in the kitchen for many years, and it's stuck around), moth balls (those who love beautiful fabrics and yarns know the importance of smelly things), Brut cologne and metal shavings (the man is a master tinsmith). This smell is so evocative of my childhood that I've many times considered taking up smoking to keep the house the same, and worry about every little thing that might change it.

2. Faj's pizza-smell: My father (a man I affectionately refer to as Faj, which is an inside joke so complicated that I made it and still don't completely understand it) makes pizza every Friday night. He's the kind of stay-at-home dad that would be incredibly successful today: every part of the pizza my dad makes is hand-crafted whole food, veggies grown in our backyard garden, homemade sauce and crust, local cheese, all that hipster bullshit. Mind you, you're going above and beyond if I can call shenanagans on your manner of eating. Which is a thing that can be attributed to this practice. Our family has consumed pizza almost every Friday night I can remember, and my internal clock is set to become hungry for pretentious crust, sauce, cheese and toppings at the end of every week. And since my elder brother and I are such achievers and live with our parents-in-law and parents (repsectively), Niece will get to experience the warm, yeasty goodness of the classic scent of my father.

3. Cat. Well, Chloe shits all over my bedroom, so she's moving to St. Louis with the niece. As a person whose father has consistently loved his pets more than his own children, cat smell (which I now find repulsive) was an essential part of my childhood. And that's probably for the best. Fathers should love the most smelly thing that lives with them. Just like I love Abby and everything weird and smelly about her the most.

4. Arts and Crafts supplies. You can't tell me you haven't ever smelled a box of crayons, or paint, or beads, or glitter, or mod podge, or a nice new heavyweight paper. And girl is crafty like ice is cold -- I'll be passing that onto Niece.

If I have anything to say about it, Niece will experience the proper important smells of adolescence/young adulthood too: locker rooms, high school art rooms, national parks, unwashed hair, gigantic communal pots of vegan curries, house parties, dorm rooms, other people's sweaty bodies, books... I can't wait. CAN'T WAIT! She needs to hurry up and get here. And then she needs to take her time growing up, so I can live vicariously through her. And so the tiny shoes fit her longer.

On a completely unrelated note, look what my father, a man who certainly loves me, bought me yesterday:

My dad loves me SO much. And I love 25 Larabars SO much. They are assorted flavors, including cashew cookie (my favorite), coconut cream pie (SO tasty, SO bad for you), chocolate coconut chew, gingersnap, key lime pie, and lemon cookie. I'm eating them ALL. RIGHT NOW. (Not true. I eat them when there is no vegan food in the whole city of Des Moines. And they save my life.)

On blogging.

The great and powerful Amber Jones once texted, "I may start a blog because I don't have time for therapy." She's a smart lady, that Amber Jones. That must be why I adore her. In any case, there are a lot of things I don't have. Like a job. And the appropriate terminal degree I need to do a job I'd actually want. But a thing I do have is Internets, thanks to Al Gore, and being of Generation Facebook dictates that I have a compulsive need to be heard, so here it is! Lisette blogs.

What will I blog about? Probably the same stuff I twitter about, but with more words. And pictures!

For example, here's what I have to say today:

Well, last official day of spring break. Ah, that day when you evaluate what you have done with your spring break and realize that most of it was spent laying prostrate on your couch thinking about how sore you are. To be fair, I did get a great deal of running done this week (three 4-mile days, one lazy 2-miler and a day off), and in the process of delivering fliers for Run, Rock and Stroll (Des Moines' Best 5k/10k, benefitting the Heart Connection Children's Cancer Programs), I got hit on by roughly 10,000 creepy guys working at the front desks of health clubs and made a new BFF (the manager of several of the local Nutrishops -- saw her repeatedly, we're tight).


Speaking of my new BFF, I keep having life-affirming conversations. I got woken up at 1:30 in the morning to hear a drunken voice I hadn't heard in awhile but definitely needed to hear on St. Patrick's Day. My brother unexpectedly reminded me that I don't deserve to be on the JV team when it comes to things that are important to me, and that I need to do something about the way I'm being treated when it comes to the hard work I do and the impressive skillz that I possess. Also, Caleb and I have been watching bootleg DVDs of Season 4 of Boy Meets World, and if anything is life affirming, it's sure as hell Boy Meets World.

Also, holy eating, I need to get my act back together when it comes to my diet... this week got a little off-track. While my flourless vegan chocolate cake may contain more legumes in a serving than most Americans will consume in a week, it also contains a whole package of chocolate chips. I fastidiously keep daily Calorie counts (yes, I am well aware of how eating-disordered that is, and yes, I know I am predisposed to those, genetically if not just socially, but, well, there are things I like to know), and, according to Fuhrman, my anti-allergy diet guy, I should be banking about 500 less than I am this week. I've gained 7 lbs. back since my trip to Kirksville, which was the begining of my backslide -- all that booze. It was necessary for my own mental health (Kirksville is a hard place to go back to, especially when you illogically want to stay), just like the cake was this week (Facebook is a cruel, cruel mistress, taunting me with the things I'd rather not see -- especially not with all those rounded corners). So stop hatin' on my countin', I'm being healthy. Back to being less fat, though.

God, I love Boy Meets World. So great.

Well, there's that. Consider me bloggin'. But now, I should sleep or something, so peace out, blogosphere. Consider me outie 5000.