Tag Archives: home

dear disney;

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{while i was at home last week i got to go to my beloved disney…
which also means i dropped at least $30 on necessary nonsense}
 

dear disney,
just take all of my money.
you deserve it.
from your meatloaf and 50′s diners.
to your mickey-shaped ice creams.
and your phineas and ferb pillow pets.
and your steven tyler yowling at me while i flip on roller coasters.
{i’ll forgive the elderly people of cruise ships.
the toddlers with wet pants.
and the people that belt at the american idol experience! “ride” for now}
consider it my “i was born in orlando and must pay my bi-yearly disney tax by buying $30 stuffed platypus” payment.

just take it. all of it.

sincerely, me.

mother-lover;

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my mother is a well-loved lady. when i was little i was always so startled by how many people would stop her in the grocery store, and told myself if half as many people stopped me in the grocery store to talk to me, i’d be content. ’cause then i’d be technically half as cool as my mom. achievable goals, ya’ll.

she’s a sassy little lady. and the source of 80% of my brother and i’s jokes. recently the forces of my older brother and mother collided with boston. hilarity ensued mostly because we all can drink and my mom has a habit of thinking of the worst {but best} business ventures and ideas for projects ever. some include the following:

1. glow-in-the-dark toilet seats for pregnant women when they have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
2. a party favor business called “do me a favor”
3. the new pope should’ve come out on the balcony and proclaimed, “what up, bitches”.

on our weekend of borderline infamy, my brother said the following to my mother:
1. “it’s like you want to get smacked, mom.”
2.”dont be a dummy.”
3. “if i wrote where the red fern grows, you would have been the gross bad guy that killed one of my dogs.”
{and five minutes later}
4.”…i just realized you killed my dog.”
5.”is {what you’re about to say} actually funny or is it ‘i laughed in swingblade’-funny?”

what this all translates to, is “i love you, mommy.” my mom is just another perfect piece to the crooked, weird puzzle that is somehow depicting the 100 piece set of chubby pugs in a red wheelbarrow that all puzzle companies seem to have, that i call my family. i think she’d be the crafty, chubby pug, giving personal advice to the pope about her new patented glow-in-the-dark toilet seats in the back.

but that’s just me.

{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.

december favorites;

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a maniacal amount of grapefruits in my fridge.
how cute beantown can be….even in her soggy dreariness.
reinbeers. naturally.
grizzly bear slippers….naturally.

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roommate christmas: a gnome necklace. a star wars violin solo book. bacon t-shirts. hilarity ensued to the tune of  “the imperial march”.

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einstein cup giving me the strength to get through finals, a paper on disembowelment and poop in the inferno (literally), as well as a paper on nymphomania and  in british literature. am i insane and just don’t know it yet? could you let me know? thanks.

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finding my roommate like this one night. exploiting it. u kno i love you, rubes. xoxo

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dumpling dates with my favorite latin lovah*~ 
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crocheting on the t as a means to preserve what little sanity i have from writing papers about poop. so far, so good.

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4a coffee getting all of my money. and they also get a show and dance from me as well, which is only natural when i’m frazzled at 9am and just want a iced coffee in my mouth asap. 
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otto’s slices with this lady talking lady-talk. which only means we scared all pizza-eaters within the five feet radius of our bar stools.


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new additions to the picture book collection. best line? “i’ll sit on your cold feet. and you sit on my cold feet. and i’ll sit on your cold feet…and you sit on my cold feet…”, of course.


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loving on this nugget. exploting this nugget. putting antler’s on this nugget. putzing around the house with my bear slippers, running after this nugget. oliver, you are my fur boyfriend through and through. thanks for the keeses, even if i am the worst.

happy holidays, ya’ll! eat all the cheese balls. and kiss all of the strangers. and drink all of the pink sparkly liquids! xo

all of the thanks;

thanks to having enough time to read books for pleasure this semester….err, i don’t actually have the time to do it, but i stubbornly assume i do…and then don’t do required readings. so, um. whoops. but thanks.

thanks be to louis c.k., sangria, and fresh skeins of yarn. that is all i need.

thank you to eight minute “cleaning lady” version of  fleetwood mac’s “sara” (“i wanna be a star! i don’t wanna be a cleaning lady!”= my new mantra for post-grad life.)

thanks to the hello kitty house slippers that make me forget i have the worst circulation in all the land. #anemicgirlproblems.

thanks be to the lovely state of massachusetts. your weather confusion, subway performers, and creepy churches keep me smitten with you despite the snot-filled, 27 degree bike rides i endure each morning.

thanks to the bulldog upstairs that really isn’t supposed to be upstairs. even though my landlord doesn’t know about you, i’m glad i get to pet you illegally every other morning or so.

thanks to the right to vote. and the eight year-olds that tried to sell me quiche as i waited in line at the elementary down the street. classic brookline, massachusetts.

thank you insulting bowling alley personas, and salty tasty burger fries.

thanks to the tea selection at the tj maxx down the road (whatever, it’s so good!) and the odd stares i get from my friends when i tell them i have to “stop by tj maxx to get more tea.”

thanks to all of my coffee mugs for looking so damn cute in my  pantry alcove.

thanks for having a dreamy apartment with a freaking pantry alcove.

thanks for three weeks and a plane flight being the only barrier between loving on this nugget.

thanks to the dirty jokes my mother texts me each morning. you are the best way to wake up.

thanks to you, dear reader, for sticking around for my rambles. i adore each and everyone of you. really and truly.

word to your mother;


if there is anything i live for, it is the text messages i receive from my mother. poor boston, you’re going to have to deal with both filson women in less than two weeks. i feel like i should notify the police of her arrival time. can you tell that we’re related?

{some background: oliver is my mother’s weenie dog. he is a handful and we make fun of him and his short t-rex arms often. and my mother and i frequently reference gilmore girls. rory gilmore is my apparent alter ego.}




TTYL, cambridge;


{mass ave. and holyoke}

{safe little unicycle, mount auburn street}

{dining hall, harvard}
 
{view from weld dorm, harvard}

{petsi’s pies, green street}

to my dearest home for the last year,

i will miss all of your denizens;

the toothless and the fully-toothed. the strange men who yelled, “YO RAGGEDY ANN!” at me when my hair was long, red and crazy (and i miss my cantabridgian hair too. hair, grow back please?)

the cat-callers, the jay-walkers, the strange men who tell me they are “the archangel gabriel” outside of my church.

the curbside magicians, the rude hipsters that never got my jokes at the middle east club, and the various two-year olds that laughed at my story-time readings.

the biddies who lunged at me drunkenly in dark alleyways, the freakish quantity of harvard ph.d students that asked for my digits (i.e. five and counting… my friends make fun of me), and the asian tourists who always mistook me for a harvard student and asked to take pictures with me (i.e. at least 3-4 times….my friends make fun of me).

‎(oh, and celtics-jersey-guy who only came to my job to talk to me about sesame street; he deserves a shout out).

i will miss having the mere ability to be able to throw a rock and most likely hit four different bookstores, eating bbq seitan sandwiches at clover on the daily, and my very favorite “milk”shakes at my favorite vegetarian diner (don’t remind me, i’m already sobbing).

on to new adventures, i go. i’m off to the land of cute jewish grannies, a synagogue on each corner, high- quality bagels, coolidge theatre, and the land of the kennedys. and while i’ve joked that, when i move out, i will be singing my own version of this song (except it will be re-titled “goodbye central square (covered in used needles)”, bike rides from brookline to you will be plentiful, i’m sure, my dear cambridge.

sincerely,
your former occupant, who will always be cantabridgian-at-heart.

i just bought a ticket;


there is something weirdly noble surrounding the idea of traveling; the sacrifice of certain pairs of shoes left at home and the inevitable awkward foot tan that will come with it. the forgoing of certain pleasantries so you can afford another museum in new york city. another styrofoam container of steaming dumplings from a corner shop in the lower east side.

a particular book you’ve been scavenging for months in a little university book store, the clerk shocked that any girl is buying a thick poetry anthology in the summer time. the inevitable baby wipe shower you will administer when you know your b.o. is insulting the man next to you on the bus. the fact that  one of your mom’s first reactions to your arrival home is that she can see how bad your underarm hair has gotten.

when i told people about my trip, i was somewhat shocked at their reactions. reaction number one= “oh, so how are you getting down the east coast? biking?! “ which flattered me, but my white girl calves could definitely not handle 1,000+ miles. even if i did google-map a bike route for it, i’m not that cool. reaction number two= “white girl, you’re crazy.” and reaction number three= “three weeks of traveling?! who are you doing it with? by yourself? girl, you’re too cool” which made me shake my head.

because… i’m not that cool. holding up your debit card to your face so you can see the numbers to type it into the megabus website does not make anyone cooler. fact: my tickets from bos–>nyc–>philly–>d.c.–>durham, nc =  a whopping $43. $43 to get me through five states. i’m not scrooge mcduck over here, dishing out gold from my velvet coin purse. i mean, come on. i just made a duck tales reference.

i read a quote a few years ago that was along the lines of “all those people who traveled the world were just people who bought plane tickets” and it really stuck with me. i don’t think there is any sort of illusion that makes one type of person a traveler, and the other not. i think one group is just used to popsicles for dinner and not opening a bar tab because they know that they’d rather have the money (that might, just might, end up getting stolen by french gypsies. but oh well. it’s a story?) to try fresh ceviche with the cook’s mother’s recipe in spain. or go to a punk concert at an ethiopian restaurant in d.c. or take those trapeze classes off the pier in santa monica.

for me, it’s the ability to string a story after a trip that really makes me see how cool a person can be after travel. not the fact that they decided to take the plunge, but what they did after they did what a lot of people can do if they make sacrifices. jealousy is usually (and thankfully) a foreign concept to me.

but i do find myself a bit envious when i see photos pop up with travels to prague or buenos aires or thailand. because i usually imply coolness to their journeys. but i don’t know how those people live their lives. they might be traveling in “hermetically sealed pope-mobiles” for all i know. they might have napped a lot while on their two week trip to new zealand. they might have said no to things a lot more than they said yes. they just bought a ticket.

you can have just as much fun (if not more) in your own town and have a larger variety of shoes to choose from, and whether or not you are in london has nothing to do with it. or you can travel. but that still only means you bought a ticket. it’s the resulting stories of the old cigar shop clerk in university city with the weird, near-pornographic post cards. and new bus stop friends that gave you a hug and told you “god bless”. and the somewhat-annoying-yet-endearing greenpeace canvassers you talk to for fifteen minutes about brooklyn.

it’s those stories that are noble. not the travel.

a vlog gone awry;

what meant to be a vlog filled with updates and bad puns and being happy to be home, went awry as soon as my mother decided to bait the dogs on my stomach as i watched the vampire weekend performance at pitchfork online…

…where i definitely described my $33 cab ride home with a toothless (and sweet) husband and wife as my drivers. who held hands the entire time. and gazed longingly into each other’s eyes the whole time. and smiled the happiest toothless smiles you ever did see.

hope, guys. hope.

in a way, i find this to be an altogether more realistic update on things. much more realistic. let’s be real, guys.