I love Norman Bates, and I don't care who knows it!

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/10/31/384/

Things Spied at Central Market the Other Day

The seafood department: carnage, wide-eyed and glistening, iridescent and unblinking, rainbow-hued and sparkling on mounds of crushed ice

Prickly pears

Barrels of squash in more varieties than can be comprehended, spilling over like replicas of other planets

Banana leaves

Mushrooms like sea anemones

Forbidden rice

Impending insanity.

Austin continues to be delightfully autumnal (at long last).

I’m gearing up for participation in National Novel Writing Month (aka NANOWRIMO) this November, a form of madness in which one attempts to generate at least 50,000 words of creative fiction in thirty days. I participated in 2009 and spawned the doomed novella Autobiography of a Tick (what with the vampire craze, it only seemed right to present a counterpoint from the perspective of the less glamorous bloodsuckers), which won the Boise NANOWRIMO chapter’s contest for the best first line:

I am a tick; ticks are not glamorous like vampires.

I dwell on this small victory herein because I realize it’s highly unlikely that I will successfully complete NANOWRIMO this time around (success being defined in this case as writing the requisite number of words, which is the beauty of NANOWRIMO—concerns for quality go out the window, freeing one up for a writing frenzy unfettered by the inner critic), what with the forty-hours-weekly gig, and the extracurriculars, not to mention my fondness for showering and sleep.

But! By golly, I’m going to try—and who knows? I might even end up with a working (if appalling) first draft of something.

We’ll see!

I think I’m going to be a pause for Halloween. This will consist of waiting an uncomfortable amount of time to respond if anyone asks me what I’m supposed to be, before saying, “A pause.”

What can I say—this costume is within my price range.

I love Spartacus the Cat.

Spartacus, aka the World’s Biggest Scaredy Cat, has finally realized that the people and dogs he spies from our third floor balcony are significantly below us and therefore in no position to come after him. He’s now having a grand old time playing the nosy neighbor, pawing and yowling at the door leading to the balcony and sticking his head between the rails to peer down on the comings and goings of our neighbors.

As a guilty single mom, I have to make sure I cover all my bases, which is why, after declaring my undying love, I give him the same speech every morning before leaving for work:

“No girls, no wild parties, and don’t burn the house down.”

So far it seems to be working.

Ouch, ouch, my finances! But no regrets.

It’s actually chilly in Austin today (translation: sixty degrees).  For the first time, I’m wondering if leaving all of my jackets in Boise was such a great idea. Not that I had room for them in the car, regardless.

This observation was to be followed by a snarkier one addressed to a Panzer tank with one of those “Coexist” bumper stickers plastered to its backside, something along the lines of, “Hey, Jack/Jill (as the case may be), if you’re so interested in ‘coexisting’ how about you make life bearable for people who have to share the road with you, huh?” But then I went and committed an act of near vehicular homicide myself, so oops, I guess if that person’s name is Pot, then just call me Kettle.

In other news, I perpetrated many crimes against frugality today when I spent a quarter of my first paycheck (sadly, I do not exaggerate) at Central Market, a.k.a The Emporium of Earthly Delights and Financial Ruin. I rationalized doing this because 1.) it was my first paycheck! and 2.) I was required to pick up this paycheck downtown (don’t ask me why), and Central Market was kind of, sort of (not really at all) on the way back home. I am hereby and forthwith self-banned from this place (once again) and pretty much from going grocery shopping ever, ever again. Realizing mid-shopping trip that this was my last shopping trip ever, ever, FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE allowed me to further rationalize the purchase of such things as (in addition to practical, working-stiff lunch supplies, which in no way constituted the bulk of the damage to my bottom line):

Miniature pumpkin cheesecake with a gingersnap crust

Crab cakes from the seafood department

Homemade mashed potatoes from the prepared foods department

Pumpkin and sage ravioli

Café du Monde chicory coffee and some fancy Italian stuff, too

Fresh-squeezed apple-lemon-ginger juice

Pear and crystallized ginger muffins

A loaf of spelt bread (beginning to suspect that wheat and I are not such fine old friends)

Red lentil dahl

Honeycrisp apples

Aged cheddar to go with the above

Edamame hummus

Real apple cider (hard and soft)!

Wine, wine, wine!

Have I mentioned that shopping at Central Market while hungry is the shortest road to Chapter 11? Especially when you have a splitting headache, have already practically overdosed on OTC meds, and are therefore seeking a distraction from the splitting and the achiness of your head?

Combine these factors and you have a surefire recipe for temporary insanity. There again, I suspect I’ve been temporarily insane for the last thirty-two years.

It’s downright autumnal outside: the Lone Star flag snapping in the breeze, billowy white clouds across bright blue skies, goose bumps and deep breaths of cold, clean air, the riotously colorful scarf I acquired when I visited Austin in the spring wrapped around me, warm and familiar.

Ma! Ma! Are you looking?

I hope so!

http://blog.awcaustin.org/2011/10/27/riding-off-into-the-sunset-for-freelancers/

Minotaurs, cocktails, and sphincters.

Tonight I attended a Freelance Austin shindig at this swanky place, and at long last had an occasion to hand out my snazzy new business cards—because, people, I am a real live writer-pants, and I have the vintage typewriters on quality cardstock to prove it! And look! They had rocks in the bathroom sinks (I’m thinking of starting a new blog devoted entirely to documenting the bathrooms of Austin establishments, since that seems to be my deal anyway)! 

I drank a Texas Wildflower (Luksosowa Vodka, Grapefruit Juice, St. Germaine, Barcode Lavender Bitters) and two French 76s (Citadelle Gin, St. Germaine, Lemon, Champagne), and ate goat cheese, and delicious French fries, and sat on a lovely patio and pondered the absurdities of compulsory (if congenial) valet parking, and how much I was likely bringing the property value down.

Prior to that I took myself to an early dinner (salmon, mashed potatoes, green beans) at Whole Paycheck and had several occasions to reflect on how many people in the building would have instantaneously lost twenty pounds if they had unclenched their sphincters and maybe gotten a sense of humor (translation: laughed at my jokes, which were an attempt at a lighthearted spin on the panic induced by overwhelming choice and labyrinthine setups that I invariably experience in this store. Which makes me think—wouldn’t it be great if, by way of a greeter, Whole Foods had a Minotaur stand guard at the front door? He could stomp his hooves and lower his horns and snort when he caught you doing unseemly things like not composting your leftover prepared foods in-store, or, I don’t know, entering with genetically modified snacks in your handbag. Of course, I realize this is akin to saying, wouldn’t it be great if Whole Foods were reasonably priced and not so maddeningly sanctimonious about everything they do to Save the Planet [and part the self-righteous* and credulous from their cash]?).

Although dinner was delectable, I passed many places on the walk back to my car that I should have tried and will hereby opt for those instead of Sanctimonious-R-Us. Or Sphincters-R-Us (excepting the awesome Prepared Foods staff). I find myself in an unfortunate phase where “sphincter” is my favorite word. This too shall pass. In the meantime, sorry.

*Of which I am clearly a member, and I do understand the appeal of this place for food-lovers, and people with special diets.

Feeling cantankerous? Get thee to the kitchen!

http://eatdrinkbesolitary.tumblr.com/

"We've got the cure for what ails you," they say. I doubt that, but I'll take the placebo...

I did manage to expand my as-of-late paltry circumference to include a visit to Apothecary Café & Wine Bar. It met my criteria for the evening’s outing in that 1.) it was not my apartment 2.) it was not the library 3.) it served alcohol and 4.) I did not accomplish anything remotely productive there, unless you consider pleasure reading and liver pickling productive—which, come to think of it, I do. Damn it! But three out of four isn’t bad.

The atmosphere of most wine bars seems to be devoted to nothing so much as evoking a return to the womb, and Apothecary is no exception: a warmish, dark red interior in which edible and imbibable succor is offered. Of course, drinking in the womb is bad. But once you’re out of there, it’s a whole different ballgame. After all, you need something to take the edge off, and bleach is a little extreme. Accordingly, wine is a happy compromise. I passed a perfectly pleasant few hours here, with attentive yet unobtrusive service, a relaxed, seat-yourself setup, the Gorgonzola and honey crostini with walnuts and arugula (it’s nice that happy hour specials apply to Saturdays, which means I enjoyed this for two dollars less), two glasses of Pinot Noir (to which Happy Hour also applied, with a dollar off per glass until seven), and a glass of Vinho Verde Rosé, the latter being a pleasant surprise in that it was not repugnant, despite containing the dread Rosé in its appellation. The best circumstances under which to brave Rosé, it turns out, are those in which you have already downed two glasses of Pinot Noir whilst absorbed in dark tales in a womblike environment. 

So there you have it, in a nutshell. A good wine bar is like a return to the womb, if the womb were equipped with mood lighting and a soundtrack, served elegant snacks and wine, and allowed you to emerge from it at a time of your choosing. All in all, a good wine bar is an upgrade from the womb. Having visited one tonight (a wine bar, that is), I hereby officially declare the evening a success and give myself permission to bunker down once more in my uneasy little slice of the bizarre biosphere (everything is brown and the people are surrounded by invisible electric fences) in which I currently make my home—until I am driven out into the world once again.

That does it.

As I watch another day slowly cede its sky time to encroaching twilight, I needs must solemnly swear that tomorrow I will have an experience that does not take place in my apartment or the library, and that does not involve grocery shopping, doing laundry, writing projects, or in any other way being remotely productive (or, ideally, sober—ha ha, j/k).

Blarh de blarh blarh cakes.

Not much to report, alas—I'm finding that this working stiff business really cuts into my city and regional exploration time. I ended up ordering pizza from Pizza Hut tonight, after calls to several locations of this establishment confirmed that I live in the sphincter of Austin with respect to attempting to get anything delivered (and in other respects, but I already have a whole other blog devoted to screeding). Sometimes tempeh just doesn't cut it, and for those nights there are pizza and overpriced gas station wine of dubious quality (I don't care if the label says it's from Chile, aside from the whole fermentation thing, this wine has less character than dish water But it’s still wine, and that’s something!).

I think I'm getting into the swing of things, and acclimating to the idea that I actually have to accomplish something on a given day in addition to going grocery shopping, or doing laundry or the many things that, let's face it, don't take a whole day to accomplish (except for when you have become as obnoxiously spoiled as I have). What this means is that I look forward to attempting a life after hours soon—and of course documenting the whole thing in excruciating detail here. 

Here is what you need to know.

Vultures are plentiful in central Texas, and they seem so apt when hovering overhead during the evening rush hour when people are frantically catapulting themselves in their giant hunks of metal toward home, or wherever they're going to reclaim their Real Lives with what’s left of the day, and the sun burns your left ear through the car window, and the vultures maintain their stately, unhurried pace.

Scavengers know how to bide their time.

A lesson to the rest of us. 

Ed Wood meets Bollywood.

I’m obsessed with this right now, even though (or, more likely, precisely because) I know it’s wrong. I blame it on the Bollywood classes.

Why life needs to be more like this video:

Life needs more space travel

Life needs more shiny futuristic costumes

Life needs more billowy pants

Life needs more synchronized dancing and dance-offs

Life needs more spotlights

Life needs more expansive arm gestures

Life needs more dance moves that involve punching and karate chops

Life needs more Technicolor outfits

Life needs more avant-garde headgear

Life needs more billowing steam

Life needs more human pyramids

Life needs more go-go boots

Life needs more reinforcements marching in step behind you when you come a-callin’

Life needs more spontaneous levitation

Life needs more blue highlights

Life needs more scenarios where people hug in the end then take off in their spaceships once more

Is this really too much to ask for?

Cantankerous kitchen capers and a dangerous overlap.

http://eatdrinkbesolitary.tumblr.com/

And yes, at the risk of the two blogs becoming indistinguishable from one another, I swear to God, if my next living situation does not orbit sane, there's going to be a body count. There's not enough yoga in the world for this.

Are you there, readership? It’s me, Allison.

I wish I could tell you I intended to seek out another fabulous Austin adventure this evening, one that would help point me toward the True Meaning of Texas, but alas, my newly employed bones are crying for rest. Being productive for eight hours in a row is something I’ve had the luxury of becoming unacquainted with, and my reintroduction to the concept has proven a tad draining.

So then, tonight it’s lentil salad (documentation forthcoming here), the excellent and affordable Blanco from the Duchman family winery, and some blissful, uninterrupted alone time with the mooshies, in which I shall help no one and shelve nothing (not that I don’t adore doing these things during the work day—libraries are Good Places). I have a to-do list, and I might take a stab at felling one or two of the intended tasks. Or not.

If I were doing anything tonight, it would be going to see her play here, because I adore haunted chanteuses and she’s amazing.  

Bylines, lists, and business cards.

Look, Ma! Another byline, my first with the estimable Professional Writers of Austin, which, by the way, if you are an Austin-based writer and you haven’t joined yet, you really should before your failure to do so has you reaching for the bleach, which is the sort of thing writers do when they don’t affiliate themselves with other writers and thus doom themselves to the ravenous abysses the plying of our solitary craft invariably summons:

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/10/13/294/

And hey, while you’re at it, check out the masthead. See any familiar assistant editors?

My horn doesn’t toot so much as it screeches.  

I have started making lists again. I had thought that my abandonment of such in recent weeks (months, even? I doubt I could ever go that long without making a list) was an indication of progress, a step in the right direction toward being less uptight and less prone to rages when things don’t go according to plan (which is, of course, always). Never mind that. There’s nothing like a simple list to take a frenetic flurry of ideas, plans, nagging tasks, and of course the infuriating tasks that slip into consciousness and flit back to the periphery like sly eels wending their way through the ocean’s murky depths, ensuring they are only ever actually remembered after they need to have been accomplished, and always, always when you are in no position to do anything about it, and make it all seem attainable, achievable, the previous eels now bowling pins lined up and waiting to be felled by the velocity of your ambition. Lists make picket fences of what seemed protruding fangs. Lists, lists, glorious lists, how I love you so.

Speaking of love, my Moo business cards arrived in the mail today, and I love, love, love them: a series of beautiful vintage typewriters on good, solid paper. They make me feel like I need to live up to them, like I need to be the sort of writer who deserves to have them and hand them out. In fact, I love everything about Moo: the timeliness of the delivery, the quality of their wares, and even their marketing shenanigans, which could have—and in so many other hands, would have—ended up being self-consciously cutesy and therefore insufferable, but manage to be genuinely adorable (Little Moo, the Print Robot! Awwwwww! Or is this some deranged permutation of a biological clock rearing its ugly head?). They’re not the cheapest kids on the block, but they’re not the costliest by a long shot, either, and to my untrained eye, it seems to be a good value for the money. No more shredded Moleskine pages by way of business cards for me!

Cantankerous kitchens and topple tumblr.

http://eatdrinkbesolitary.tumblr.com/post/11344140318/bellicose-bread-pudding

Also, while I am probably the last person to realize this, and I'm sure anyone I could possibly warn would only look at me bemusedly and wonder why I was cautioning them against the ills of something whose ills they were able to immediately discern and therefore demonstrate the requisite good sense to avoid it, I cannot caution all y’all strongly enough against using tumblr.

Use of tumblr will magnify any unlovely quality of which you are in possession a thousand-fold. It will have you spewing venom, breathing bile, and screeching daggers. And all that when you’re still only mildly irritated by how dazzlingly user-hostile and inconvenient this website is. I won’t even get into what happens when mild irritation cedes to profound rage, which, friendos, is what you will inevitably experience if you ever have anything to do with tumblr. Ever. EVER.

You are thusly warned: STAY AWAY FROM TUMBLR.

That is all.

This PSA has been brought to you courtesy of Schadenfreudian analysts everywhere.