Archive for the 'The object of my obsession' Category

I promise not to speak of this again. At least not until July.

February 5, 2008 | Filed under: Humdrum, The object of my obsession, Whoopdie Doo

“Football is, after all, a wonderful way to get rid of your aggressions without going to jail for it.” ~Heywood Hale Brown

Actually “Boring as Shit. But Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give a Damn” would have been a little more apt. A collection of text messages that Metalia has sent me during this football season. This will surely send me to some special blog hell but I cannot help it nor can my phone continue to be 98% full of text messages. Also OH MY GOD do people not use the phone to talk anymore? I have text messages that say “OK”. Someone spent 47 cents to be in agreement with me. The hell? Anyway, that is not the point yet sadly there is no point except that I feel compelled to save these messages for posterity’s sake and because Metalia is fucking hilarious. It’s good to know that I have a friend who can appreciate my screaming “Go fuck your mother” at some 200lb man who can’t hear me while chain smoking because the nerves, people. The NERVES. And really, I have nothing more unless you want to hear all about Potsdam, New York. Also; look forward to all of your burning questions being answered. The ones about my hair, my makeup, and why I think drinking two bottles of wine is acceptable (see: POTSDAM). Riveting, my friends.

*******

Haaa! Was literally going to my phone to text you about the game…and boobs.

I can’t believe they’re going to win this BOOBS I’m so happy BOOBS (Yeah, I’m using “boobs” like “stop” in an old-tyme telegram)

I know! My ass is clenched. I’m so stressed. That may have been too much info. but I can’t help it! This game is making me crazy!

I am honest-to-God PACING THE FLOORS.

“FUCK!” Works…so does “You big bunch of Green Bay twatsicles!*” (Apropos because of the frigid temperatures you see)

I actually cannot breathe.

They should take Tynes out back and take care of him, like an old racehorse past its prime

Me too; he’s just so dashing and…wholesome.**

Things I may or may not have done this morning; Went to your Flickr set of Giants training camp. Specifically the pic of u and Plax…and kissed the screen for luck.

Fuck yeah!

Maybe I’ll name my unborn child Steve Smith.

I’m partial to Tyree…or Tynes now.

Fucking Pats.

I keep telling myself that Plax is due for a big play.

I TOLD YOU MY BOY WAS DUE!

Are you watching? My secret boyfriend Spitzer just ripped on Boston and now YOUR lovah Schumer*** is kissing the Giants’ collective ass.

*Borrowed from Danny

**In reference to my not so secret crush - at least not anymore - on Mitt Romney. Just because I’d rather have my eyelashes removed with a plier than have him as President, doesn’t mean I can’t find the man good looking. So there.

***I was joking when I mentioned Schumer. Seriously. Mitt’s the only man for me.

The 50MM Story

January 23, 2008 | Filed under: Fotografias, The object of my obsession

“I think a photography class should be a requirement in all educational programs because it makes you see the world rather than just look at it.” ~Author Unknown

Once upon a time, in a land far far away there was a girl named Heather (And boy did she have some kick ass eyebrows).

 

Heather had recently procured a lovely Sony Alpha DSLR camera for her 24th birthday. A camera that she would make sweet, sweet love to if it had all of it’s parts. With the purchase of the camera, Heather did what any aspiring (but completely shitty for she knew that she wasn’t Ansel Adams or a Shutter Sister.) photog would do; she took it on a trip to Paris to give it a good work out. With her trusty 18-70mm and handy 70-300mm, she took some semi-quality shots.

Upon reentry, Heather learned from her friend Angella something about aperture and f-stops and so her lust with 50mm lenses began. So one day, Heather decided to take a trip to the famed B&H photo warehouse of love. It was here that she decided to give up her first born child for a lovely new lens to play around with.

Later that day she put her new lens to the test by showing off her lunchtime drinking skills.

 

Then she drank some more as she was apt to do.

Each time she was impressed by the 50mm’s depth of field and she subsequently fell in love. Heather carried that 50mm with her everywhere to practice. And like any good love story, there were some minor setbacks and difficulties, mostly on her part. For the lens and camera were doing what they were told to do and still Heather felt like something was missing. She longed for another trip to Paris which would bring ample opportunity for vacation and photography practice at the Tuileries Gardens and perhaps a jaunt down the Champs Elysees. But since Hell had yet to freeze over and lotteries had yet to be won, she instead went to Oklahoma City.

When she returned from Oklahoma City she still felt unsettled. For Heather was a neurotic girl and longed for a quality capture. But because life had caught up with her, she was unable to give her camera and 50mm the attention that it deserved. And that my friends is what eventually leads to the demise of any relationship: lack of communication. Heather finally picked it up again during a trip to Washington, DC and at first she was feeling rather bad ass. For she had the perfect subject(s).

 

But remember Heather’s drinking and her lack of communication? Well Heather drank some wine and then had some more all the while ignoring her camera in exchange for the sweet nectar of Primitivo. She didn’t communicate with her camera. She didn’t change the settings. She might as well have been at a kegger with a disposable point and shoot. Which is why when Heather’s friend Amy said “Please, oh please, take a picture of my darling, beautiful boy” Heather made faces and laughed and took photos with a fuzzy head and a pissed off camera whose settings were not in order and produced this (shield your eyes).

 

When Heather finally uploaded the photos and noticed that Amy’s sweet, sweet boy was the same exact color as Bert, she got upset. She cried and threw herself on the floor and gave up on dreams.

But thankfully Heather (shockingly enough) had friends; Lori and Angella. And Lori and Angella both helped to bring Heather and her SLR - the one that she gave her second born for - back together. Deep down inside Heather’s friends new that despite their respective faults, that Heather and her SLR were meant to be. And with a little communication and editing that they were meant to be and with a little communication and editing Heather and her SLR - Buddy - could do anything. For love, really does conquer all.

 

The End.

When in Rome

January 6, 2008 | Filed under: Invierno, The object of my obsession, This side of the Hudson

“There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you…. In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.” ~Ruth Stout

My piss poor behavior in the presence of snow would lead one to believe that I’ve spent the majority of my life in Maui. Actually if that were true, the snow would be met with a little awe and wonder instead of pure disdain. The snow falls and my mood plummets to the darkest depths of despair while I think about the scraping and the shoveling and my inability to drive 70 mph without slamming into a guardrail. The first time it snowed I hung up on my mother and had to leave work four hours early so that I would have ample time to try and not die on my way home. All the while muttering, “I hate this fucking place and this shit” for 11 miles. I am such a breath of fresh air some days, I know.

At some point over the past weeks though my begrudging attitude towards the fluffy white stuff has abated to a mild dislike. I actually hummed the other day while shoveling my car out and didn’t complain once when it was 4 degrees even though I was sure that once I returned home, I’d be missing my nipples. Still! All was good. I suppose a brief “Come to Jesus” discussion with myself about how whining is unbecoming on a woman in her mid-20’s helped me to accept my fate. I live in Upstate New York where it will snow for five months straight. No amount of yelling or throwing up the middle finger towards drivers, who find turn signal usage superfluous during a snowstorm, will really change my current situation.

 

My parents are from the deep-south and if they can deal with snow then I surely can go five months without shrill whining about it. Though I think right now they’re debating whether or not to get my DNA tested for I have taken my whole ‘acceptance’ thing to a whole new level: I am OBSESSED with snowshoeing. It’s like when I spent hours trying to find my new camera I am now spending hours a day reading about how to HIKE in the fucking snow. I am so obsessed with the sport that a frown crept upon my face when I learned that it would be 60 degrees on Tuesday because then the snow would melt. The snow cannot melt it must be here and readily available for me to trek through. In fact I’m currently sitting here getting a little giddy (hence the rambling) about the next big snowstorm. Who cares about snow emergencies and digging my vehicle out of three feet of snow when the trails will be covered?? I told my mother all of this with such enthusiasm that she congratulated me and informed me that it would be a cold day in Hell before she ever went out there with me but is quite happy that I’m no longer blaming her for ubiquitous snowstorms and am instead facing them with joy.

 

What can I say? ‘When in Rome…’ and all that jazz. My new shoes arrive on Friday and I really couldn’t possibly be more thrilled.

Red Velvet

October 30, 2007 | Filed under: "The Pot Licker", The object of my obsession

“Chocolate remedies adversity.” ~Jareb Teague

I hate linguini and spaghetti, but love fettucini and penne. There is something about the size and shape of the noodle, that keeps me from slurping up a bowl of spaghetti and marinara with fervor, but point me in the direction of farfalle with vodka sauce and I’m rolling around a carbohydrate filled bliss. Only recently have I noticed that shape and size dictate what I will and will not eat. I won’t eat sliced up carrot but will eat the stick version. I don’t like mashed potatoes but love mashed cauliflower yet will roll around in a vat of French fries and will vomit at the sight of raw cauliflower.

It didn’t reach real concern until recently when I wouldn’t eat cake and looked at a three layer chocolate cake with complete disgust. I suppose the size of most cakes seems unmanageable so I tend to be turned off by all of the layers and the frosting. Despite this anyone who has been reading this site for seven minutes will notice that I have a thing for cupcakes. Not just a minor little crush on cupcakes but an OMFG I’ll stop everything I’m doing to run out and get one…or four. I love cupcakes, because they’re small and bite sized and never imposing or constantly threatening to turn my butt into a pile of cellulite. I love that I can buy just one and be OK with what I have, which is a stark contrast to everything else in my life. Cupcakes make me happy.

Given how strong my love is for these sweet little treasures, I tend to leave the baking aspect to the pros or at least to someone who doesn’t feel like the need to inquire about adult supervision while baking. Because it was my birthday, I decided to test out baking much to the dubious laughter of my mother who kept repeating ‘from scratch?’ over and over again. I can understand her concern though given that the last time I used an electric mixer she was at the helm while I stood by her side waiting to consume what was left of the batter. My mother never has time to actually bake but when she does she makes chocolate melt in your mouth. I’m pretty sure that I did not inherit that gene and it’s the fear of being forced to consume something that tastes like paint chips and goat cheese is what precludes me from ever baking something I really like. It could either go really well and I could fondle my mixer or it could go really poorly and I could end up abhorring my beloved red velvet cupcakes.

I ended up with 36 – oh my God, no one ever needs 36 cupcakes. I brought them in for work and I don’t even know 36 people and yet they went rather quickly – perfectly made red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. Given my own misgivings about my baking and that I only had two (one to taste test and one the next day. I’m actually sick right now) I wouldn’t really say they were the best ever or that I didn’t get to work and shove one in my mother’s face and demand that she TASTE IT NOW before I ended up giving my coworkers salmonella. But word on the street is that they were excellent and here I was holding out hope that I didn’t end up with Cajun style cupcakes.

The recipe is from Smitten and was used to make a three-layer cake so I just went with it and like I said, got 36 cupcakes. I’m only one person and my roommate is training for a marathon so her diet has been consisting of fruit and vegetables, not chocolate dyed red.

Red Velvet Cake and Cream Cheese Frosting (anything in bold is my two cents)

Time: 90 minutes, plus cooling
Yield: 3 cake layers (32-36 cupcakes)

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
3½ cups cake flour
½ cup unsweetened cocoa (not Dutch process)
1½ teaspoons salt
2 cups canola oil
2¼ cups granulated sugar
3 large eggs
6 tablespoons (3 ounces) red food coloring or 1 teaspoon red gel food coloring dissolved in 6 tablespoons of water
1½ teaspoons vanilla
1¼ cup buttermilk
2 teaspoons baking soda
2½ teaspoons white vinegar.

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place teaspoon of butter in each of 3 round 9-inch layer cake pans and place pans in oven for a few minutes until butter melts. Remove pans from oven, brush interior bottom and sides of each with butter and line bottoms with parchment.

2. Whisk cake flour, cocoa and salt in a bowl.

3. Place oil and sugar in bowl of an electric mixer and beat at medium speed until well-blended. Beat in eggs one at a time. With machine on low, very slowly add red food coloring. (Take care: it may splash.) (All over your counter and diswasher and cabinets) Add vanilla. Add flour mixture alternately with buttermilk in two batches. Scrape down bowl and beat just long enough to combine.

4. Place baking soda in a small dish, stir in vinegar (it’s like a science experiment!) and add to batter with machine running. Beat for 10 seconds.

5. Divide batter among pans, place in oven and bake until a cake tester comes out clean, 40 to 45 minutes. Let cool in pans 20 minutes. Then remove from pans, flip layers over and peel off parchment. Cool completely before frosting.

Cream Cheese Frosting
Adapted from several sources

Makes 6 cups

8 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter room temperature
3 cups confectioner’s sugar, sifted
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Place cream cheese and butter in a medium bowl. With a handheld electric mixer, beat until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add sugar and vanilla. Beat, on low speed to combine. If too soft, chill until slightly stiff, about 10 minutes, before using.

Test shots

October 22, 2007 | Filed under: Fotografias, The object of my obsession

“I think a photography class should be a requirement in all educational programs because it makes you see the world rather than just look at it.” ~Author Unknown

I bought a new camera on Friday. A Sony Alpha A100 to be exact, a choice that I did not come to lightly. In fact it took about seven months of decision making and reading reviews and I swear to God that due to my decision making by committee, if anyone ever does actually propose to me, I won’t be the girl that jumps up and down screaming yes. I’ll be the girl that says “Can I get back to you on that one?” and then makes a list only returning with an answer four months later.

Part of the decision making process was figuring out why image stabilization and having a camera body larger than the size of softball, are necessities. Something happened to me prior to birth, some genetic defect in a chromosome that caused my feet and hands to be roughly the size of those of an orangutan. My father and I did an experiment today when I he gave my camera an incredulous look because it’s not a Nikon. My hands are larger than his and he is unable to palm a NBA regulation size basketball; therefore a D40 and Canon Rebel were out of the question unless you want my middle finger to be in each shot. So a Sony it was.

The test shots were to see whether or not the camera actually worked and to see if I could use the lens without breaking it or pulling it off the body. The shots weren’t to test the validity of a bit of noise at high ISO or white-balance. Especially since I didn’t find out what ISO means until 27 seconds ago when I started taking pictures of my new Converse in low light. I pretty much just wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t have to go anywhere near Best Buy’s half ass excuse for customer service anytime in the immediate future.

There will be a string of shots of The Great Thomas the Tank Engine Track Redesign of 2007 (redux); which has no rhyme or reason but after a few glasses of six-dollar cabernet sauvignon and a two year old without pants, a lot of things are really entertaining. More than half of the shots are out of focus except for one of Amy lying on the floor, in the fetal position after Jason ruined all of her hard work. It is a lovely way to remember her by since I won’t see her again until January. The only other shot I enjoy is a photo of trees in the deep woods behind my father’s house in East Bumblefuck, NY. This shot is the only thing that kept me from pulling over on a highway to take a picture of the river and the surrounding mountains. It looks like someone threw the brightest reds and oranges all across a cerulean blue painted sky and sadly it will be over far too soon.