Tag Archives: favorite things

being one with nature &etc;

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{prospect park}

it may not be obvious, but i’m a big fan of dirt.
i really dig the stuff {hyuk-hyuk. see what i did there?} hiking in new hampshire and massachusetts has been one of my new loves since moving to the northeast, behind the burritos at boloco, petting strangers dogs outside the library, and pretending not to have pet a stranger dog after it ferociously barks at me. it wasn’t me, i swear.

i am also one of those people that doesn’t really enjoy going to the gym to feel worked out. i actually kind of hate it. people are too clean at the gym. and also, that freakish breed of women exists there.

you know the ones; the ones with a sephora-employee-level of “smokey eye” on their eyes? i’m sorry, ya’ll, but you should not be trying to rock major eye definition while working on your calf definition. just my #twocents.

just bask in your dirtiness for once, is what i have to say. that’s the one way i feel successful, is with the amount of dirt in between my toes. post-hike shoe removal? sigh. end-of-beach-day griminess? the best. the resulting shower? i could cry at the thought.  it’s a good benchmark, i think. which is why i’ve been trying to romp in new york city parks all the more often like i’m a wild shetland pony or something.

who knew i’d find myself at my delightful dirtiest in new york? the parks of new york have been the background of all my daily, sweat-filled walks, where i pretend the cars rushing on the roads above me are just ocean waves picking up speed.

in this city full of grown women wearing freshly-pressed gaucho pants and fitted blazers, i’m more the type of person that realizes at 4p.m. that she has a peanut butter stain on the crotch of her $5 pencil skirt. and thats exactly how i like it, and exactly how i think i’ll keep it.

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{fort tryon park + the cloisters}

new york city ta-da! list;

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if you’re reading this, i finished up my trek to my new apartment in manhattan.

i’ve got a small litter box clumsily stuffed into my suit case. my lucky mustard yellow flats. men’s evergreen-scented deodorant.

which is to say, i’m ready to rumble.

 

i’m a huge fan of to-do lists. buuuuuuut they sound so dreadful.

ergo, the birth of the “ta da! list” which i think just sounds a lot nicer.
{and subconsciously i like to think it makes me more productive.}

 
…let’s get started, ya’ll.

*eat all the big gay ice cream.

*take a class at upright citizens brigade
*henna-dye my hair.
*swing dance allllll over
{the most fun exercise because you can talk while you do it.}
*eat lots of german food.
{boston only has one german restaurant, so this maedchen needs to get her schnitzel on.}
*doughnut plant!
*learn how to read crochet patterns.
*grow my hair to stevie nicks a la rumours status.
*find a yoga place under $35 a class.
*coney island (!!!!)
*go to momofuku milk bar, please. i daydream often of cereal-milk flavored goodies.
*read lots of german children’s books. yay!

 

{did i miss anything?}

these days;

spring2013

signed a sublease for a charmingly large {that’s what she said, heeey ohhhhh. sorry, mom} one bedroom in upper {upper…upper} manhattan for the summer.

two favorite berries:  pinkberry on newbury.

putting “or whatever” after heartfelt sayings has been my main jam, i.e. “i love you or whatever”, “you’re cute or whatever”, “no, i’ll miss you or whatever.”

edie has been developing a love of fine luggage. baby girl knows what she likes.

the $8.95 thai lunch special at dok bua is both the life and death of me. dumplings on dumplings on curry on dumplings.

fenway has never been more gross and sticky and yet so very much my favorite place, even if i did drop my favorite scarf right into a puddle of day old bud light.

i’m also trying to convince coolidge theater that i can sublet one of their recliner chairs forever, because that’s what success and happiness look like to me.

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kate nash. jukebox the ghost. matt pond pa. all of the paper bags being hyperventilated into. all of them.

the discovery of the one direction store in boston= life has improved a million percent and rising.

my loyalty cards have extended from just cvs to include: panera, petco, dunkin’s, pavement, starbucks, and whatwaslifewithoutfreescones,guys

brother and mother filson and i pillaged the harpoon brewery of its pretzels and harpoon summer. 

{and considered going by ferry to do the same at cisco  brewery in nantucket. we don’t mess around}

tardis blue velvet cake for the whovian manfriend. disgust-o-meter went way off the charts this weekend.

slowly but surely the people of boston are getting back to their normal selves;

…which is to say the italian guys in the north end give me discounts on strawberries for my red hair,  and i delight in the drunken conversations had by people on a saturday night on the train home.

 

 

a montreal itinerary;

{this past valentines day weekend i got myself on a greyhound and traveled all the way to montreal. for other itineraries, click here.}img_4083

get to south station at 7am after a valentine’s date of romantic egg sandwiches eaten under the glow of subway lights and alfred hitchcock, which is to say i was under a pretty hefty bagel coma.

promptly down the largest mcdonald’s coffee and delight in all of the artificial sweetener, fake cream, and ambiance. then, take two melatonins.

but actually don’t, because that’s like a big LOL to your body. if you feel the need to shake your right leg in place and scratch your head, but also fall asleep, you’re doing it right.

allow seven hours of talking to patchouli-scented busmates and buying $9 maple syrup at a sunoco in white river junction, vermont to pass. this is very important. do not question me.

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gallivant the city of montreal solo hell-bent on trying new things like poutine and maybe use some high school french (french club president 08-09, hollaaaaaa), but end up speaking english and ordering a fast food tofu green curry on styrofoam plates almost immediately. it happens.
extra points if you accidentally shout “I’D VOUDRAIS A  VERT TOFU CARI S’IL VOUS PLAIT?” when you get nervous.

that also happens.
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delight in the dreamboatiness of josh ritter and fantasize about him noticing your glance across the room, prompting him to say “you want to pull on my suspenders, don’t you? come on over. don’t be shy.”

what actually happens:
1. you forget to get cash out for coat check and the canadian bouncer is really not jiving with you holding your puffer coat the whole concert, but your card shuts down before you can because you’ve only just crossed the canadian border abruptly and are buying erratic things like ear plugs, sketchy hostel reservations, and $9 bottles of maple syrup. you are essentially a terrorist.
2. also, get a nose bleed in the middle of the concert.
3. get one of those delightful chronic uti’s is also a plus (tmi, but i need you all to really understand the gravitas of this comedic display of sad). go to the bathroom eight times, strategically placing the bathroom door cracked so you can still sing along to “bright smile”.
4. forget to pull your skirt down when you return from the bathroom for the sixth time. don’t notice that everyone can see the butt flap on your sweater tights until you go back for time #7.

even so, fun was had.
home girl doesn’t play around. she plays for keeps.

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spend the next morning prancing around mont royal imagining how on earth montreal hospitals and public parks can be sexy. they’ve taken it to an art form, ya’ll.

eat a burrito-sized crepe filled with nutella and raspberries on a stoop near mcgill because you really don’t feel like tipping anyone.

pretend to your instagram followers that you went into museums, because you truly can’t afford it. but pretty pictures outsides and selfies in gift shops count for something.

realize that your southern accent is coming back the more you go north on this continent. it’s probably been at least 11 hours since you’ve spoken to someone, so you spend two hours laughing about “montre-ya’ll” as a pun. this will help in hiking up mont royal, somehow.
this is how you solo travel, ya’ll.

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if you’re ever in the market for a porn version of “dude, where’s my car?” or some disney channel original movie (i’d be all for a “luck of the irish” version personally), fear not; montreal has already done it and it’s playing right around the corner.

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meet up with lovely blog soul-sister, emily. and delight in all things kitschy and dairy-filled (foreshadowing*~).

suddenly your mind is filled with all kinds of exclamation points: accordion players! french things! kitschy thrift stops with clear coffins with a dead jesus inside of it (really, this happened. it was right below the cash register)!!

bike baskets outside of erotic movie theatres! erotic bookstores! erotic lingerie stores! i was significantly disappointed on not finding an erotic bakery, but you win some you lose some.
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and then the inevitable happened. seeing as emily and were those types of girls: the kinds who ordered virtually ordered all the same things at all the restaurants we went to, we got lactose-sick off of a plateful of omelet du fromage, sadly enough.

we hobbled from shop to shop, through creepy jesus-sarcophagus-filled thrift stores to  shop-dog-filled shops, but realized a nap in our hostel bunk bed was what the doctor ordered.

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seeing as we had been calling out things as “so0oo0o instagrammable” (you know what i’m talking about: lattes, cats, flowers, clouds, anything fluffy/sparkly/alcohol-induced) all around the city, we decided to strike the most instagrammable poses; that of us crouching in pain inside a metro station. we tried to make a statement and i think it worked.

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{feed the mackenzies} orange-glazed cinnamon rolls;

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one month into my gender studies class and i’ve realized the following: i sort of find the “women’s protein” powder i bought a few weeks ago hilariously sexist, and i’m an inherently domestic lady.

which probably stems from the fact that nothing excites me more than “NEW CANDLE FROM TJ MAXX DAY!”, one of my new favorite holidays that i’ve recently been celebrating. it almost rivals my love of my favorite month, february, which i’ve come to call “BAKE EVERYTHING IN A HEART-SHAPED PAN MONTH!” 

things baked in a heart-shaped pan thus far? cornbread x2 , guinness cake, two-layer carrot cake, and….these orange-glazed cinnamon rolls. or what i called them during the four hour baking process, “those bad boys”.

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i zested (and giggled).
i pretended this recipe was entirely my own. ahem. putting two recipes together counts as a new one, right?
i put dough on top of my radiator for it to rise for two hours because my apartment has the tendency to be a drafty siberian tundra.
i cursed the rising dough for the two-hours of rising time. and put on my bear slippers to combat the tundra.
i giggled more when i made a ginger dough man. i think it helps the dough rise or something.

oh yeah, and maybe telling you the recipe would help:
{i adapted from this one for the dough and this one for the filling. i just added orange juice to the  first recipe’s glaze.}

1.mix the dough. let it rise, as you silently weep over how easy it was to use bakers yeast for the first time. around two hours, or so.
2. knead again. weep again. rise again.
3.after you’ve kneaded your ginger dough head and made it talk like sloth from the goonies for 15 minutes, and chased after  your roommates with it, it’s time to fill and bake those aforementioned bad boys.

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slove love chunk. mackenzie love orange-glazed cinnamon rolls. it’s a similar kind of love, hence the heart-shaped pan. 
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last step is obviously to insert your face into one of these bad boys. and bask in the glory under the glow of your newest tj-maxx candle.

and spend your sugar high imagining j-schwartz is praising your baking prowess.

and that totally original cinnamon roll recipe that you totally made up yourself. or something.

all the happy tears;

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{josh ritter at cabaret du mile end, montreal. february 2013}

we interrupt this blog of corgi lovefangirling, and nerdy gifs to bring you an overly dramatic post about the first love of my life, josh ritter.

guys, i got to see him the flesh this weekend in montreal. my years of adoration and dreams of one day touching his suspenders are over. i was ten feet away from him for two hours of my life, and it was all i could dream of and more. if anyone cares to know, he was only singing to me. it’s whatever. sure, i didn’t get the butt pinch and suspender grazing night i was planning for due to the montreal metro, but i will still tell my grandchildren that i got a handful of his goofily-decorated suspenders and he complimented my silly glasses and he gave me a wink or four from the stage. please don’t tell them otherwise.

i remember hastily listening to him in german class my senior year. one ear bud shoved in my ear, the other in my lovely friend estefania’s earbud. we listened to “the temptation of adam” with half the sound but all of j-ritt’s signature manboy charm. i’ve since watched live at iveagh gardens in 28 awkward parts on youtube, and am always in the process of just can’ting (as in “no, i just can’t”) whenever i maniacally spend hours just staring at him smile so gleefully in his signature vests and schoolboy smile. i should have been conjugating verbs, but instead i just got smitten. it happens.

guys, i’m still sobbing inwardly over how i got to see this man in the flesh on friday. i’m still shaking with the words of “new lover” and running past bouncers to get out of checking my coat for two canadian dollars, because i am the cheapest person on the face of this earth and hellbent on getting a good spot in front of my lover boy before everyone else. and it was worth it to hold my puffer coat to see those man-boy dimples, so big you could hide something inside of them. and he’s still the only man who can make me cry about a puppet romance.

he was perfect. i just, ugh. i just still can’t. i will be over to the side in a dark corner, just beside myself with the same schoolboy smile on my stupid little face.

smelling my syllabi;

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guys, school started up again this week.
i’m happier than a jack-rabbit on speed that was just given a can of mountain dew. and i’m jumping on a personal trampoline. don’t know how the trampoline got there, but it’s there and i’m pleased. ugh, now they gave me a kazoo.

i already have a strain in my arm from raising my hand too much.

i want to hug all of my syllabi. and smell them. is that bad? i hope not, because i just hugged all of them.

i got new pens and a new notebook and a gender studies professor that asks us to sit on the ground in a circle and talk about feelings. and lady-parts. and more feelings. i kind of think i love her already.

i’m also taking two poetry classes(!!!!!!!!!!)

(i have to scream into a pillow out of joy every time i remember the aforementioned fact.)
guys, every time i think i am not going to apply to six-year ph.d programs, and get
really strong bifocals because of too much reading in poor lighting, and stress-eating noodles in libraries, school starts again and every poem is like a present and yesmyroommatesandmotherandboyfriendcannotstandhowdisgustingiam
andyestheyhavetoldmemanytimes.

now if you’ll allow me, i have to go spoon all of my textbooks. they are very needy and i must attend to them.

{berets and bongos} 96;

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{buddy brews. tampa, fl. january 2012}

“i woke in a gold dress
you in jeans.

morning filled
wine bottles

in the kitchen
ashine with

fine mica glitter
of fish scales and salt.

it was quiet.

we coiled in scarves
outside –

me sugar, you milk.

you said: that went well,
don’t you think?

sun behind you

i kissed the hole in the light
and said, yes.”

-rebecca lindenberg, “aubade”.

seven year old selves, a playlist;

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{click above picture of three year-old mackenzie for playlist, because seven year-old me had an unsightly white girl ‘fro}

like i said before, the sads don’t typically prey upon me in the winter, i’ll admit. but i also have a pretty unfair advantage for combatting the nasty little case of blues that seem to hover above  most people post-january 1st by having a conveniently late-winter birthday (ahem, march 7th. ahem. i’d love this sriracha sauce iphone case, ahem).

but sometimes, like most people who live in cities where the days look the same at 4am as they do at 4pm, it hits me. it really does. it sneaks up and settles in and asks to stay to take the chill off in my living room and i’m sometimes to nice to shoo it away from my threshold.

and i’m all about honesty on my little space on the internet. i get bummed, despite tales of lady-dates, dance parties, and lit-up bicycle rides. i get sad.  i feel like andre the giant is sitting on my chest at times. i wish i didn’t have #anemicgirlproblems and could feel the tips of my fingertips when gallivanting out in the cold. you know, the usual. nothing out of the ordinary. we all get it.

i sometimes think the origin of this sense of sads we get is when we get disconnected from whoever sits comfortably at the seat of your soul and monitors the goings on of things. i’ll notice i get disconnected to the little seven-year-old mackenzie that inhabits somewhere between my heart and my spleen (whatever, it’s prime real estate there). she’s the original, core mackenzie. she’s a fledgling mackenzie, but still the most authentic. the girl who knew more about  the proper way to attain skinned knees (rollerblading into mailboxes because she didn’t know how to stop, real talk),  than how to order replacement books of checks (ugh, the worst).

she gets angry when she doesnt get to break free and crunch on the snow, watch a disney channel original movie in the safety of her grandma chair, and eat a spoonful of marshmallow fluff right from the jar. spunk without inhibitions and thoughts of compensation, consequence, or outer perception. and she’s been bogged down lately. and its time to shake off the dust and get seven year old self to stretch out her legs, preparing her for another round of roller-blading mishaps.

so, if you’ll excuse me, seven-year-old mackenzie is getting very impatient waiting for me. classic seven year old self. so classic.

{adventures in lady-dating} ghost-touring;

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i am stubborn to a fault. whoa. shocker, right?
i have a good idea of what i like, how i like it, and usually stick to it. and for me, some activities are best done solo. i once missed out on steve martin tickets because i waited for people to get back to me and i still have night terrors because of it.

i am also a firm believer in lady-dates. taking yourself out to dinner. concerts in cramped concert halls with a bright orange wristband confirming your existence because friend’s instagram photos won’t. and that’s perfectly fine. buying that “for two” groupon that might make you stick out in a group of 11, where you have to say “#12 isn’t coming” when they take a roll call. but you’ll smile as you say it. it was on purpose.

enter: that time i went on a groupon date by myself. in salem. for a ghost tour.


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unlike most of my lady-dates, this was quite accidental. my roommate hannah and i had been planning this groupon date for months. i got a coupon for a groupon (aka. a groupon coupon.) which made all of my ghost tour dreams come true at a price of $5. i am cheap date. and derive much satisfaction from this fact. i also got to take the commuter rail and i have a not-so-secret obsession with taking the commuter rail. that purple train gets my heart bumping, for sure.

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about thirty mins before our date, as i was nestled in my cushy seat gulu gulu cafe (dog-themed! modeled after a cafe in prague where the owners met and fell in love! all the wifi!)  in salem, poor hannah had to cancel because she had been spending the weekend in the fetal position and speaking was arduous without the need to vomit coming soon after. homegirl got a rain check and i trudged on through salem after getting lost in a graveyard with the ghost tour guide on the phone with me for a combined total of twenty mins (over the course of three phone calls. i really really wish i was joking)
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after i freaked out my tour guide, and squeaked out that i bought the groupon for just me (and a group of groupon biddies raised their eyebrows in my general direction), she handed me what seemed to be a “barbie ghost tour” device and a bejeweled pendulum and on we pranced through a graveyard.

so far, so good.
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we ended up going through a bunch of graveyards, and in the bottom of a basement of an former firehouse/present day insurance office (where apparently there was a puppy ghost who had a history of thumping his spectral tail at ghost-hunters. needless to say, i focused all of my energy the entire two-hour tour trying to find ghost puppies. not even lying.

being honest, the tour was a total hokey-fest. i should have known it when my tour arrived wearing leopard yoga pants and uggs, with her best friend who sat behind her and laughing quietly from time to time, staring down at her own pair of uggs to hide her chuckles. i got heckled by a really drunk woman in a graveyard, who stumbled out of a salem bar and asked me if i was a ghost hunter and if she was on tv at that very moment in time.

it felt like an episode of “the office” , but i was the only one aware of  the cameras. totally worth the five dollars, two hours of my life, and eyebrow raising at the unseen camera like i was jim and pam. it got the “mackenzie lady date” stamp of approval.

{tune in to my next adventures in lady dating post, where my dear friend emily and i take on montreal, 24-hour bagel shops, and i will attempt to touch josh ritter’s suspenders at his concert…coming to a blog near you ~ mid-february.}