Vers l'absurde

Sunshine and burgers.

Why I love LA:

1) NO humidity. I can be outside without feeling like I'm under a sweltering blanket of hot moist smothering heat.
2) NO bugs that threaten to send me spiralling towards death with their evil bites.
3) NO allergies. This is the first time in 2 months that I have felt safe not taking Claritin in the morning.
4) NO shitty Boston drivers.
5) NO crappy weird twisty randomly one-way usually unlabelled Boston streets.
6) In-n-Out trumps all other fast food.
7) Vanilla ice blendeds from Coffee Bean are the perfect non-alcoholic summer drink.
8) The beaches here are real beaches, not weird pockets of coastline covered by rocks.

The tip of the iceberg.

Admittedly, I do like to stir the pot, but it still amuses me every time I do it when I don't mean to do it. Long story, but let's say that my fake date which didn't end up occurring with my friend's fake boyfriend (everyone has one now, it's the thing to do, you see) has resulted in fast-spreading gossip (and we're out of school now!) where my friend's fake boyfriend is dating several girls, all of whom seem to be me.

Confused? Heeheehee. It's only amusing if you're in on the joke, you know.

Anyway, those messes above? PACKING. I HATE PACKING. There are very few things I hate more than packing. Mosquito bites of death, perhaps. Being stuck outside in Boston right now without AC too. And not getting fed on a regular basis. But not much more. Packing bring out my best procrastination skills. On the left, you have the shoes I'm bringing home with me because I have determined that I probably won't get around to wearing them in the next two months. I have double that amount at home which fuckhead brought home for me last summer because I figured I wouldn't wear this year, and I have a fair number left in my closet here in case I feel like wearing them at some point this summer. Imelda might be my middle name. And on the right are all my formal skirts and dresses (and my white coat, which will NEVER be worn again, yay!), rolled up because who knows when I'm going to get the chance to unpack them and they'll be less wrinkly this way, right?

I haven't even gotten to purses yet. Or winter coats. Or regular every day skirts. Or socks. WHY do I have so many socks?

Good thing I have 2 more months in which to pack up 7 years of an East coast life.

Note: the furniture? That's all my roommate's stuff. I'm telling you, I live in a grandma-inspired mausoleum.

And I'm off to LA for the Fourth of July! See y'all from a much happier coast!

Pork chops and patheticness.

Et alors, it was time for another dinner party last Friday. Tweedle's back in town (she moved to NY after graduation), and we had these pork chops that we'd been wanting to cook for forever after seeing Food Porn girl cook them on her show.

But first, an appetizer. You know, because you tell my friends 7:30 and they really don't all show up until 8:30. And Tweedle and I were watching Law and Order: SVU (I am obsessed with that show now, I tell you. Almost as obsessed as I am with the Food Network). And really, you need something to take the edge off of the gut-wrenching crime.

So we made baked brie with pesto. And by made, I really mean we took a wheel of brie, made some slits in it, poured some pesto on top of it, and baked it in the oven until it was all gooey and yummy and heart attack good. And we drank that Belgian Red ale with it - great combination! And I really liked the cherry flavours - the more cherry than ale description was spot on, and even though I'm not really a beer/ale drinker, it was really darn good. It opened up as it warmed up a bit, releasing more of the cherry flavour. It's a good thing that that Belgian Red isn't available here (dammit, only available in Wisconsin), because I'm not kidding when I say I'd be drinking it an awful lot, and it's not like we need to further enable my alcoholism.

Finally, the rest of our friends came over, and Tweedle and I regretfully pulled ourselves away from the TV to prep and make the pork chops. Here is the recipe for the pork chops. It's ridiculously easy, and I'll note where we tweaked the recipe in my following description.

The mise-en-place, of breadcrumbs, beaten eggs, and parmesan cheese. Our breadcrumbs weren't seasoned, so we added some dried herbs (basil and parsley) for colour, some salt and pepper, and some cayenne. This recipe is very interesting, because it asks you to coat the pork chops FIRST in cheese, then egg, then breadcrumbs, rather than coating them with egg first. I was initially skeptical of this, but it worked out really well in the end.

(Those dishes above? NOT MINE. Those are my gay roommate's. My dishes are better-looking. He is the antithesis of gay style, and his decorating tastes run more along the grandmother type than cool and sleek. You should see the apartment. It's like living in a mausoleum.)

Here's the dredging in action. (Ugly plate. His.)

And here is a plate of prepped pork chops. Do note how thick the pork chops are. These aren't your mother's pork chops - apparently, all of us had mothers who made those thin bone-in pork chops, which were inevitably cooked to death. Nonono. This recipe makes nice thick juicy boneless pork chops. (Prettier plate. Mine.)

Just look at them. Thick and juicy. Mmmm. (Get your mind out of the gutter. I know it went there.)

The nice cheese/egg/breadcrumb crust cooked rather rapidly, and since we were afraid of it burning while the inside remained undercooked, after about six minutes on each side, we popped the pork chops into the oven to continue cooking while we cooked the rest of the pork chops on the stove.


And here's a plated pork chop, with a light salad that included candied pecans and dried strawberries. The cheese/egg/breadcrumb crust was perfect - thick, it probably helped to keep the pork chop itself moist while it was cooking.

(Another prettier plate. Mine again.)

Dessert? Those yummy chocolate chip cookies. Hey, DDJ, all my friends are in love with you (via those cookies) now.

Then we went out drinking, and let's reiterate how men are stupid as evidenced by the pathetic pickup lines we got:

Scene: Standing outside the bar
Stupid Male #1: It's last call. Would you ladies like to join me and my friends for one last drink? There's Grizzly over there...
One of us: Grizzly? Is that the one with the tattoos?
Stupid Male #1: No, the guy with the tattoos is Monster. His tattoos go up as far as... [And then the Stupid Male proceeds to roll UP the hem of his shorter-than-knee-length linen shorts, up so high it was like, STOP NOW BEFORE WE SEE YOUR CROTCH!]
Another one of us: Well, I have to drive home now, so no thanks..
Stupid Male #1: [Takes the keys out of his pocket and waves them] Take my car. It has police lights!

Scene: Walking home
Stupid Male #2: Hey, would you ladies like a ride? This is a rental!

In the case of Stupid Male #1, I am NOT making up the name of his friends. They apparently were really called Grizzly and Monster. And the guy looked so normal until he opened his mouth. And in the case of Stupid Male #2, the car was some wretchedly ugly bright yellow 70s-looking thing that was definitely NOT a rental. Oh, how the heart flutters. And I wonder why I'm still single in this city, with these wonderful choice men.

Happiness in all shapes and sizes.

When I woke up Thursday at FIVE AM (for the second night in a row) because the itchy sensations from my ginormous mosquito bites were just TOO much for me to handle, I decided that yes, perhaps I should go see the doctor to make sure that my leg wasn't about to fall off. I swear, I'm not exaggerating when I say that I was about to cry from a combination of the frustration of not being able to sleep and the sheer painful itchy factor. No more of this homeopathic crap for me. No more of this trying to suck-it-up-for-crying-out-loud-it's-just-a-couple-of-mosquito-bites bullshit. I wanted drugs, and I wanted drugs like TEN hours ago.

So I went to my doctor, and felt much gratified when she looked at my gigantic hive with a little bit of alarm. See, the biggest one was 15 centimeters by 10 centimeters. That is honking big, especially when you have NOT been scratching it (never have I ever demonstrated so much self-restraint - incidentally, the next biggest was eight cms in diameter). So she gave me some super-powerful topical steroids and some super-strong pills which have alleviated some of the pain, because my hives LAUGH at the mere suggestion of benadryl. And by laugh, I mean they get like ten times bigger. Did you know that some people can be allergic to topical benadryl? I feel like I'm one of those lucky people.

(I think the pills work quite simply because they knock you out, and if you're FORCED into sleep you can't really scratch now, can you?)

And then she told me, that in some cases, instead of building up an immunity to mosquito bites, some people actually get worse and worse reactions each time s/he gets new bites. And while she didn't say it, I feel that this culminates in anaphylactic shock. AWESOME. I AM SO LOOKING FORWARD TO IT.

If that's not nature's way of telling me I'm allergic to the great outdoors, I don't know what is.

Incidentally, lying on your back in attempts to take pictures of your inner calves so that you can derive great glee in scaring one's mother is a rather tricky task indeed. If you don't get the angles right, your leg looks fat. And there is no excuse for fat legs in pictures, bugbite covered or not.

And no, no matter how much you beg or whine, I am NOT posting pictures of my bugbites, because they're ugly and there are to be no ugly photos on this website.

But enough of my talking about how one day, there will be that fatal mosquito bite that will kill me. Let's move on to happier matters. Such as receiving large surprise packets in the mail!

Mosquitos are evil.

I hate the Northeast. More specifically (or broadly), I hate places that have mosquitos that bite the living crap out of me. I don't know what it is, but guaranteed, I sit outside for 5 minutes, and a damn mosquito will find me. And I am dreadfully allergic to their bites, because one teensy bite swells up to a hive a good five inches across (I know, I measured because I am a dork like that).

Last night, we barbecued at my friend's house. We were outside for one measly hour, and now I have 10 bites on my legs. 10!!! One damn bug even bit me on my TOE, and let me tell you how miserable that is.

I was going to post pictures of the lovely hives, but then decided against it because it's sort of gross. Nothing, incidentally, alleviates the pain aside from showers. Do not try to sell me on benadryl, because I have fun benadryl pens and sprays and pills, and I still itch SO much. And I have all sorts of topical creams and they don't help either. It's to the point where the pain caused by these stupid mosquitos is the only thing I can think about. It actually hurts. It's causing delirium. I cannot wait to get back to LA where mosquitos don't exist. Earthquakes? FINE. My parents have land in Palmdale, maybe there'll be enough earthquakes so that California breaks off and that land will become shorefront property. I'm okay with that. But, ah, to be able to walk outside and not be a feeding ground for mosquitos - that'll be the day.

And so, I leave you with pictures of my most recent favourite ad campaign. We were going to try to steal the posters off the T, but there were too many people around. So I had to settle for pictures. I worked in advertising for a summer, and was continually amazed at people's creativity (me, I was on the account management side - you know, something that doesn't require so much brain power). I loved advertising, but was told by one of my supervisors to NOT get into it for various reasons. And really? It pays poorly, and there's no way I could've lived in NY off the measly salary.

But I love ads - paper ads more than multimedia ads, but that's because I'm old-fashioned like that. I appreciate good layout and witty text. And this latest ad campaign for Mohegan Sun is great indeed. If only I could get that "Duchess of Oysterland" one for my apartment (hint, hint, you know, if any of you knows someone who worked on the campaign. I know you can take the posters. I used to do this when I worked in that ad firm). I would love it so much.

A night in numbers (okay, and words).

Because I know that y'all like to see outfits, on the left is the dress I wore to the wedding. I bought it about 3 years ago at Barneys, and it's been one of the best purchases ever made. Amazingly versatile due to its conservative cut combined with the fun wedges of sheer panelling in the skirt portion, it's been worn to tons of weddings and nights out on the town since. And on the right are the gold shoes - again! can you ever get enough of gold shoes? I can't! - largely in the same place where I took them off when I got home.

And for some stats:

Number of times FB's father asked me if I was wearing my Kentucky Derby dress: 1
Number of times FB responded for me to the above question: 1
Number of times I was asked if I was FB's parents' daughter-in-law: 3
Number of times someone told me they liked my dress: 5 (including FB, good FB!)
Number of times someone told me they liked my shoes: 8
Number of times I told someone I liked her shoes: 8
Number of people who asked where FB and I met: tons
Number of people who cooed when either one of us responded "in Paris": the female half of the aforementioned "tons"
Number of people who probably think that FB and I are truly dating: everyone at the wedding
Number of people seated at our table (including me and FB): 10
Number of freaking i-bankers at our table: 7
Number of drinks I had: approximately 8 (or maybe 10, but who's keeping track? I certainly wasn't!)

If it hadn't been for FB's friends who blabbed to my friend, I would never have thought that Saturday night was a date at all (although he did call me like five gazillion times about the wedding). FB acted as he does every single time I see him. Hm, maybe does that mean that every time we hang out it's a date? That is certainly something to ponder.

On that note, should I refer to Nicky as FB, or FRB, which would stand for Fake Real Boyfriend?

The wedding itself was lovely - the ceremony was held in the bride's childhood church in Porter Square, and the reception/dinner was the lovely Hahvard Club in the financial district. Given that it's on the 38th floor, we had AMAZING views of Boston, further accentuated by the setting sun. I really am going to miss this city, it's so pretty (I've always said that I could live here, given the right home, husband, and job).

I have to say, I suppose that everyone did assume we were dating because really, you only bring people you're dating - and dating seriously, most of the time - with you to weddings. And it's not like when people ask you where you met, you can respond, "In Paris - oh, but we're only friends," especially when you know each other so well you can finish each other's sentences. "But we're only friends". It just sounds.. I don't know, mean. (Yes, we did meet when we were both studying abroad in Paris. Yes, it makes a quite lovely story. Yes, we went shopping all the time and hung out a lot with each other, and everyone thought we were dating then too. I really don't know what it is about our dyad that just screams relationship, because WE ARE ONLY FRIENDS DAMMIT.) It would have sounded mean and cruel and it really would have been too much of an explanation to straighten everyone out. (Although, we did straighten out the daughter-in-law comments because hi, let's not go too crazy here.)

Because of that, because everyone and his/her mother thought that FB and I really were a couple, it wasn't like I could hit on any groomsmen, because I didn't want to be that skanky ho at the wedding.

And really, the whole event was fine. I let the dating comments amuse (bemuse?) me, and the night wasn't uncomfortable nor awkward, but the very opposite. It was actually very enjoyable, and FB and I are very comfortable together, borne out of the fact that we're probably each other's closest friend of the opposite sex. Hey! It is like we're an old dating couple! Haha!

Oh yes. In profile, and actually in most lights, he looks like a young non-sullen Sean Penn with a slightly squarer jaw. Being an ex-soccer player (played throughout college, and did a couple of pro years in Europe - although, now that I think of it, you know I've never actually watched him play soccer), he's also in wicked good shape.

Additionally, I forgot that there IS one career that I hate more than that of the legal profession, and it would be investment banking. There were two tables of "young people" - one full of med students, and one full of bankers. And which table were we seated at? Of course, we were at the banker table BECAUSE LIFE IS CRUEL THAT WAY (and I guess it makes sense, FB works in venture capital). As I listed in my stats above, I was blessed to have sat with a table with 7 other bankers. And the other two non-bankers? They were the fiancées of two of the bankers, and didn't talk at all, yippee yay! Actually, I don't know what's more boring to talk about - law stuff or finance stuff. At least I can yap on about the finance stuff, as at one point I had considered going into i-banking myself, and thus learnt all the lingo and even read Liar's Poker (you know, the standard MUST READ for all bankers) and can quote from it if necessary. When law stuff gets brought up, my eyes cross with boredom. And in both cases, you can leave it to me to attempt to bring the conversation back to pop culture, because I HATE TALKING ABOUT SUCH BORING MATTERS.

But hey! YAY for open bars!

(Oh, and I sent him a text this morning - because I forgot to ask him on Saturday night as I was, uh, a tad tipsy - why he was scared I was going to back out, and he said it was because he thought I was still mad at him for not going to the BBQ. That's not what his coworkers said, but I am beyond done trying to puzzle out the differences between what he tells me and what he tells others. Anyway, he's off to Europe for a couple of weeks, lucky bastard, so I won't have to deal with this for awhile.)

It just gets more fascinating.

Hey! New news! Apparently, Fake Boyfriend might have actually been a real boyfriend!

Confused? So am I! So are all my friends! But let's go back a little.

Scene: Prom.
FB: Hey, what are you doing the 18th of June?
Me: Probably being drunk, why?
FB: You're coming to a wedding with me then.
Me: Cool! I love weddings!
[An hour or so later]
Me, recounting wedding info to friends: But hey, is it kosher for me to go home with someone else? It's not like I'm going to sleep with FB, and weddings are great places to get laid.

Scene: A couple of days ago, on the phone.
FB: You know the wedding is this weekend, right?
Me: Yes, you keep reminding me. Like every time I talk to you.
FB: So what are you wearing?
Me: This Diane I have that I haven't worn in awhile. Ooh, and my gold shoes!
FB: Not your Kentucky Derby dress?
Me: No, that one hurts like hell.
FB: What does this dress look like?
Me: It's brown, and cream, and gold. And there's some sheer panelling around the sides. Why?
FB: Well, I was going to wear a black suit, but I can't wear it if you're wearing brown. We'll clash.
Me: Dearie, we do not have to match. We'd only have to worry about coordinating if we were getting married, which we're not, and then if we were getting married, the coordination of outfits would have happened a long time ago - not to mention, I'd be wearing ivory, and almost everything goes with that.

Scene: Last night, at a bar with FB and his work friends, celebrating his last day of work.
My friend: Hey, so one of the girls said that you two [me and FB] had a "history".
Me: A WHAT?
My friend: A HISTORY.
Me: Like, we have a history of FRIENDSHIP, but since we're still friends it's not a HISTORY?
My friend: No, they mean a HISTORY like in DATING.
Me: We NEVER dated.
My friend: Well, that's not what everyone else thinks.
Me: It's what I KNOW. Sleeping together ONE TIME does not a relationship make. But hey, in this quote-unquote history, am I cast in a positive light or a negative light?
My friend: Positive, not like you're a stalker. And, well, it puts that whole bicoastal comment his friend made into context.
Me: NOT DATING. [pause] I need another drink. What the hell does he go around telling people that makes them think we're dating? Did you know that our hairdresser in Paris thought we'd moved in together?
My friend: Oh, and the wedding you're going to on Saturday? It's a date.
Me: It's a WHAT?
My friend: A DATE. Have you suddenly gone deaf?
Me: I almost wish I had. What the fuck is a date about this weekend? Where the hell is the bartender?
My friend: And all his friends say that he's scared you're going to cancel last minute because you'll realise it's a date.
Me: It is NOT a DATE. But no wonder he calls me about it like every single day.
My friend: There you go.
Me: But... but.. he promised me that there'd be some tall strapping 6'4 blue-eyed athlete there because everyone's from North Carolina. Does that mean he's pimping me out?
My friend: You two apparently have a really open relationship!
Me: Let's go back to the fact that Saturday is a DATE. It is NOT. I am going because we are FRIENDS and I am cute and can make good conversation.
My friend: Well, that's not what he's been telling everyone, and it's not what he thinks.
Me: What the HELL is wrong with him, I swear I'm going to smack him upside the head. [pause] Hey! I wonder when we dated? Was it this year, or was it four years ago? Because I probably cheated on him whenever it was!
My friend: And he knew about it. You two do have an open relationship.

If I wasn't so nice (and didn't love weddings so much and didn't hate other people who cancel last minute), I'd so call him tomorrow a couple of hours before the wedding and tell him that I'm cancelling because I'd like it to be a date, and isn't it so sad that it isn't? Heeheehee. But hey! It's a good thing one of my friends made me an "emergency kit" for graduation composed of peach vodka and tonic that I didn't consume over graduation. It might be time to tap into those reserves.

And hey! My horoscope said that this weekend, an old flame would either come into my life or that I'd be attracted to someone who wasn't my type (covering their bases, are they).

And for the food..

What event would not involve eating? And so we pick up our story graduation evening, after everyone had showered and napped. Refreshed, it was time to tackle dinner. Tweedle and I cooked for our families, since going out that night would have been a near disaster. Our requirements were that things were easy to put together and would require a minimum of preparation work, as we were making many dishes, and did I mention how hot it was that day? I'm telling you, we were confit. Anyway. Since we all like appetizers, that's what we focused on. We ended up with ten dishes, only eight of which I'm showing you here because I don't know where the pictures of the remaining two went. And thus, left to right, top-down, we have:

*Roasted asparagus. Well, here it's unroasted because the green against the purple cutting board were just so pretty. And we were frazzled, and some of our asparagus might have burned in the oven.
*Everyone's favourite bacon-wrapped parmesean-stuffed dates. These got a tad burnt also, but there is nothing wrong with extra-crispy bacon. Yummy.
*Roasted baby purple potatoes and red peppers. Another not terribly complicated dish, but again, it was all about the colours of the foods. Purple potatoes are just so pretty.
*My personal favourite, cucumber slices topped with chevre, smoked salmon, and capers. Yes, I lined up the capers down the center of each little bite. Sometimes I'm anal like that. If we had had dill, I probably would have mashed some into the chevre, but we didn't. Again, I like the way the pale pink of the smoked salmon contrasts with the pale green of the cucumbers.
*Salad with avocados and poached figs. I always forget that I like figs, probably because I have them so rarely. These dried figs we poached in a combination of grapefruit and pomegranate juices, and they smelled so good.
*Won ton. These were surprisingly easier to make than we had thought. We had considered deep-frying them, but I hate the residual deep-frying oil smell that lingers in the air for days afterwards. And again, we might have had a little accident where someone wasn't paying attention to the pan and some of the won ton got stuck. Oops.
*Guacamole with blue corn chips. One of my friends from med school came up to Boston for the festivities, and this is what she made. I don't know what she puts in it, but her guacamole is the best.
*Crostini topped with chevre, proscuitto, and cracked pepper. Nothing more really needs to be said about this dish. I would have liked to rub each individual crostini with garlic, but Tweedle can't stomach uncooked garlic, so we had to do without.

Not pictured are the meatballs (fried in bacon fat, yum, with a spicy tomato sauce) and the apple crisp we had as dessert. Also not pictured are the numerous bottles of wine and champagne we went through.

And now my life has returned somewhat to normal. Not having a schedule really messes with me, and I do rather like knowing what day of the week it is.

Pomp and circumstance.

If there is one thing that Hahvard is good at, it's at matters dealing with tradition. You don't break with tradition, and while it may seem so interminably drawn out - in the end, it's all good and fun. Well, sort of.

We had to be at school at 7:15am last Thursday morning so that we could line up to process over to Tercentenary Theatre, otherwise known as this large plot of grass where many many chairs are crammed together so that in the case of an emergency, you're basically screwed because there are so many people.

This is the line of us walking over. For some reason, our school did NOT get a bagpipe lead-in. I was very disappointed.

And so we walked, and walked, to what avail? So that we could stand in the blisteringly hot sun from 8-9:45am, just milling around while everyone else collected.

Just look at that sea of hoods.

And we waited, and we drank, and we bitched and moaned because for crying out loud, those robes were HOT. It was like death. And the fact that it was well into the mid-80s and humid at 8:30am did NOT help. Whatever liquids were taken in were immediately sweated out. Yucky.

Finally, we got to walk to our seats. You know, after hanging around outside doing nothing but sweating for almost two hours.


It's like we were one gigantic can of sardines. Overeducated sardines.


Even though we were hot and sweaty, it did not stop us from checking out the other schools. Law students? Cute (Yes, we sat across the aisle from them, because I am apparently destined to be plagued by law students for the rest of my life). Med students? Cute. School of public health students? Cute, but they have fake Canadians (long story). Design students? Cute. Ed school? NO GUYS AT ALL.

Dammit. I'm always choosing the wrong profession.

Then the ceremony started. Words were said, but I wasn't really paying attention because I was so focused on how to make myself cooler , temperature-wise. But I videotaped it all, so it doesn't really matter that I wasn't following along.


Every time your school is mentioned, you wave things. The business school waved flags (usually, they wave money, which I think is more amusing). The law school waved gavels. The Kennedy school waved globes and a newspaper, while the graduate school of arts and sciences had only globes. The Extension school waved genie lamps (not sure where that came from). The divinity school had halos attached to their mortarboards, whereas the design school had buildings attached to theirs and waved drafting paper. The damn public health people waved plastic fruits, which really hurt when they threw them. I got beaned by a cauliflower, my friend by a tomato. The medical school had water-filled latex gloves, which looked like udders. And being the ed school, we waved children's books which we later gave to schools. Because we're nice like that.


Tons of freaking people.


Afterwards, we processed back to our respective schools to receive our diplomas, aka stew in the sun some more. Bored during the ceremonies, we discussed which of our friends we'd eat the first if we had to (I do not know how this conversation transpired). And then we decided that we'd be confit, because we had been cooking in our damn fat all day long. I paint such a pretty picture, don't I.


This is back at the ed school. I'm glad that my diploma envelope wasn't empty.

Afterwards, I immediately went home to shower. I have never been so gross nor sweaty in my life. Then we watched the afternoon ceremonies from the comfort of my AIR CONDITIONED home. Larry Summers spoke. He was boring. John Lithgow spoke. He was funny.

Tomorrow (or whenever I get around to it) - graduation dinner pictures! Do you think that we could do anything that did not involve food? Hah!

It is supposed to be 87 degrees today.

Good ol' tractor fun.

This is Tweedle's backyard. Rather apt for a lowbrow BBQ, isn't it, given that the weeds are definitely mid-calf high (thanks to all the lovely rain!) and that there is just Tons of SHIT everywhere. We're not even sure where it all came from - previous tenants, perhaps. I would like to point out the plastic sandcastle with the legless flamingos. And the pitchfork. And that couch? It originally had a mattress on top of it (that's what that large white mass is), both of which where thrown out the second-story window last November for whatever reason. And they both had been sitting there, festering in the wet conditions, until now. Yes, there was fuzzy stuff on it. I didn't get close enough to see what else was a new part of the couch.

I also liked the picture of the neighbour's backyard, where the sprinkler is atop the statue of the saint. Did I mention that Tweedle lives between a church and a funeral home? In purgatory, between heaven and hell, I like to say. Oh, and there were services going on next door, amidst the sounds of our loud country music.


We posted lots of signs everywhere before people showed up. Nice little warnings and advisories, you know, to help people out. My favourite sign, which I didn't get a picture of, was posted above the Brita, saying "dehydration = death". These are important things to know.

Unfortunately, we didn't end up getting that gigantic glass sun-tea container, because really, we didn't know what to do with it afterwards. So instead, we had a big thermos full of mystery punch, which is guaranteed to knock you flat on your ass. There is still lots of mystery punch left, which we've frozen in little water bottles for graduation.


If I could figure out how to post videos, I'd post them of the tractor racing we recorded, because it was really funny. Unfortunately, nobody did any tractor pulling, which involved tying a piece of string to the tractor and placing a shot of mystery punch on top. Whoever spilt his/her own shot first was supposed to drink everyone else's. I think it was just a little too complicated, and having tractors hurtling down the driveway was funnier and required less effort. Instead, here are the tractors on the fence, where we put them while we drank out on the sidewalk. So if you were driving down a street in Cambridge around 2pm, and saw a bunch of people on the sidewalk holding plastic cups and acting rambunctious - yes, we were drunk.


It was really hot, and seeing that we all started drinking at 1pm, by the time 5pm rolled around I was hot, really drunk, and cranky. And the otter pops I had started wolfing down weren't helping matters at all. So I went inside to take a nap. Unfortunately, I have mean friends who barged in on my nap and took pictures (maybe because I took pictures of them passed out earlier on, who knows). I would also like to point out how tan I am now, as opposed to the translucent shades I was due to the lovely New England winter. Tan. Mm.

Yes, my skirt has a bustle. Just because it was low brow did not mean that I was going to dress like it was. Besides, I'd have worn this skirt had the BBQ stuck to its original theme, the Alice in Wonderland one, so I decided to wear it anyway even though the theme had changed.


We, however, did have some white trash wear. There were cowboy hats, fake mullets, fake missing teeth, and my particular favourite, beer can earrings.


Here are the obligatory pictures of food. FOOD. YUM. That nasty pink stuff is ambrosia. I did not taste any, because, ew, look at it, it does not look good. Everything else was, though.


Sad little lost drunk tractors.