Puppy Love

I just spent an hour browsing online for the perfect hike-appropriate dog harness (brown but not boyish) and then served my dog organic bison kibble with chopped hard-boiled egg and a drizzle of olive oil. This is all very routine. Because I’m casually obsessed with my dog.

I say “casually” because I’m not, like, psychotic-level obsessed, where I speak about Chicken and me as a unit (“Belly rubs are OUR FAVORITE!”) or bring her on dates with me (“Love me, love my dog!”) but I recognize that I’m teetering on the edge when I admit that the only thing standing between me and this purchase is that fact that it’s not available in her size.

So I’m a teensy bit obsessed. But in my defense, she’s very obsess-able. She’s a plump little nugget of spunk and glee and love and it’s impossible not to melt in the presence of something so utterly delighted by life. I tell everyone it’s like living with a Disney character: She’s just so extremely happy (she doesn’t just wag her tail, she wiggles and spins), so extremely playful (she doesn’t just fetch a bone, she stalks it and assigns it a villainous intent) and so extremely affectionate (she doesn’t just lay in your lap, she burrows into your arm and sighs). You can almost hear the orchestra swell behind an adorably nasal “Let’s go EXPLORING!” as she scampers up a mountain path, twirling back occasionally to make sure you’re keeping up.  It’s not just me; Everyone who meets her is charmed. She’s even become a popular coping mechanism when someone in my life is having a bad day. “I need some Chicken Therapy,” my friends will say and they are promptly delivered 6 pounds of ecstatic cuddling.

Of course, that doesn’t excuse my behavior, and I admit that I’m walking a very fine line when I, for example, buy her agility classes (mastering the obstacle course is good for her self-esteem!) or massage circles down her spine while we watch TV (a vet on You Tube said it’s important for joint health!) but I know I’m not alone. So for everyone out there who is wondering if they’ve stepped into Crazy Dog Owner territory, here are some warning signs I’ve identified:

You Might Be Obsessed with Your Dog If…

1.     … Your dog has a beauty regimen.

Here’s is a list of the grooming products I own for a 6lb short-haired Chihuahua:

 

• Pet Naturals all natural, bio-degradable, pH balanced, plumeria-scented 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner with silk proteins for added sheen

• Earthbath all natural, bio-degradable, cruelty-free eye wipes for cleaning tear stains

• Earthbath all natural, bio-degradable, cruelty-free ear wipes for removing dirt and crust

• Earthbath all natural, bio-degradable, cruelty-free hypo-allergenic grooming wipes infused with anti-oxidant green tea leaf extract for refreshing coat and skin between weekly baths

• A stainless steel FURminator de-shedding tool for gently removing loose hair and reducing shedding by 90%

• Canine Calm soothing blend of essential oils to be misted under stressful circumstances (ie: getting her nails clipped)

I want you to know that I know that this is overkill. All of this would be achieved in the wild by rolling in leaves and clawing a tree. But my dog is not in the wild, she is in Los Angeles and so she is lathered with organic plumeria essence. I won’t apologize! It smells amazing.

 

2.     … You sing to your dog

Today I sang a song to Chicken for no other reason than to express that I think she’s adorable. It’s a plucky little tune called “The Pretty Cute Song” and I know it by heart because I made it up three years ago and sing it to her almost daily. Just one bar of it topples her into a trance, tipping her on her side to revel in full-body scratching. I understand that to an outsider this could look deranged but I see nothing wrong with it. In fact, not only do I not see anything wrong with it, I see pure dollar signs as I mull over the marketability of compiling this with “The Car-Ride Song” and “The Breakfast Song” to complete an EP that would positively kill at specialty dog boutiques. We’ll see how much you roll your eyes when I buy a house off of “Let’s Go On a Walk”.

3.     … You alter your productivity to accommodate your dog’s comfort

Have you ever denied yourself a trip to the gym because your arms are pinned numbly under your dog as she snores contentedly on your lap? Have you ever thought, “It’s OK, I’m sure I can reschedule that conference call…” because your phone is across the room but your dog is curled in The Cutest Position Ever with his head resting precariously on your tilted wrist-bone and you just can’t bear to disturb his slumber? Well then you might need to reevaluate things. Not that you’ll find any judgment here. For the record, I am barely typing this with one hand because Chicken’s dozing head is lolling heavily on my right forearm and if I shift it will ruin her nap.

4.     … You prioritize your dog’s preferences over your own

Similarly to #3, I recently drove in 100 degree heat with the windows rolled down, sweating furiously but resolved not to turn the air conditioning on because Chicken, suspended above the passenger seat in her doggie skybox, was enjoying the wind on her face and I didn’t want to spoil it for her. While on this drive, the following three thoughts crossed my mind:

“I should take a detour down Sunset so she can watch the Jiffy Lube mechanics...”

“It’s probably too hot for (the neighbor)’s yard turtle to be out… I’ll walk her a different way just in case so she’s not disappointed…”

“I wonder if (her doggy friend) is available for a hike on Wednesday? Oh, wait, I’m not available for a hike on Wednesday… Well, maybe I can work something out so they can see each other…”

OK so maybe I go out of my way to indulge my dog from time to time. What’s the harm? It’s not like I’m pre-chewing her food or anything. These little adjustments barely affect my day. Giving up my favorite fuzzy blanket when we watch TV, now that affects my day and I will assert myself more on that… just as soon as she stops looking at me with her ASPCA eyes and adorably making a cave out of it. 

Do any of these apply to you? There’s no shame if they do; I’m just trying to create a little self-awareness before you wake up one day and realize that you have a standing appointment with Patrice Ryan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take Chicken to pick out her Halloween costume!

Living Out Loud

Last week a guy I work with approached me on set and told me he’s been thinking of matching me up with his friend. “What’s your type?” he asked.

My mind went blank.

“I… huh. I’m not sure,” I faltered. “I don’t really have a type. I mean, everyone has a type but I’m, I dunno… chemistry driven? It’s a personality thing. Like, it’s… well… definitely someone creative. But not angst-y. And funny! But not funny like he’s insecure and needs attention. Wry. I like quiet guys... Introspective. But he can’t take himself too seriously. I have three brothers, you know? He has to make fun of me. But not in a mean way! Someone nice. Someone who’ll bring me flowers and then throw me in the pool. Does that make sense? But I mean, none of this is a deal breaker. I'm open to whatever. Someone who loves his mother - that's really what it comes down to, right?”

He blinked at me and pressed his headset to his ear. “They’re calling me to camera,” he fibbed as he jogged off.

I deserved that.

If I’m not comfortable identifying the partner I want then how on earth can I expect to meet him? And make no mistake, this is a comfort issue – I know exactly the kind of person I’m attracted to, I just can’t say it out loud because of the neurotic playlist that paralyzes me every time I’m put on the spot. “I don’t want to sound demanding. I don’t want to be the girl who’s too picky. Best to be vague, to be general, to not sound exclusive. What if I say his/ her friend isn’t my type and I hurt their feelings? Don’t be too specific. You are single, after all, and beggars can’t be choosers. And what is a ‘type’, anyway? Be grateful someone wants to set you up and thinks you’re worthy of their friend. Don’t be selfish.”

And on and on.

The scary thing is that this is not limited to my love life. The more I reflected on it the clearer it became that this same damaging monologue loops when someone asks me what I do for a living. “Don’t say acting – no one takes that seriously. Don’t say you’re a writer – it can come across as pretentious. Don’t say anything about comedy - people might think you’re high maintenance…” I’ve now invested nearly a decade of energy into judging all the good things I want for myself so it should come as no surprise that the net gain is disappointment and frustration. What a way to go through life! It’s completely absurd when you think about it. What kind of business class teaches, “The cornerstone of a flourishing company is total concealment of your goals so as not to come across as selfish”. When was the last time that Forbes evaluated the nation’s most accomplished women and determined, “The common denominator of their success is that they embrace any opportunity, whether or not it aligns with their interests, so that their colleagues don’t find them picky!”

Ludicrous. And it stops here. Today I ask for what I want.

I want an artistic guy who enjoys laughing and being barefoot to love me and play with my hair and go on road trips with me. I want to write scripts from my pajamas. I want to bring my dog to work. I want to make enough money to take my family on vacation. I want to make enough money to adopt children. I want to start singing again, for no other reason than pure enjoyment. I want a yard with a barbeque grill. Better yet, I want a farm with horses. I want to drink good wine. I want to solve a Rubik’s cube. I want to swim more and read more and play the piano more.  I want to clean less. I want to travel by boat whenever possible. I want to take a business meeting from court-side seats at the Lakers. I want to have my own non-profit. I want to play Patricia Clarkson’s daughter on a Jason Katims show. I want to write a book and turn it into an Emmy award winning Comedy Central series. I want to take ballet. I want to have a signature pie recipe.

There. I said it. I’m not gonna lie, it feels very unnatural and I’m fighting the urge to explain-away everything I just wrote but other than that it’s rather liberating. Try it! What do you want? 

Me, Me, It's All About ME!

Last night I did a writing exercise to discover my authentic voice and discovered that my authentic voice is a pretentious asshole.

The goal was to articulate the things/ experiences/ people that I gravitate toward in order to create an overall picture of who I am as a person. The result was a list that could make Stuff White People Like turn pale and in the light of day I’m completely ashamed. And how does my authentic voice handle personal shame? With ridicule, of course! Below are some highlights from the exercise, followed by my reactions.

Instructions: Think about things and experiences in your life* that are and are not “you”. Be specific. (*The exercise gave a list of prompts: Types of people, academic subjects, music, vacations, places to live, etc.)

My Original Answer for “Clothing”

Rompers, maxi dresses, jeans and tank tops, very little jewelry. Anything comfortable and unfussy yet feminine. I like to wear things that I can be silly in, move easily in, get my hands dirty in – nothing too precious. No bandage dresses!

My Day-After Response

How nice that you get to wear things you can be silly in while the rest of the world goes to work in a suit. By the way, they like it. Because they’re successful. You know what people who wear “unfussy things” do? They rent apartments in their late thirties. Also, the reason you wear very little jewelry is because YOU DON’T OWN ANY.

My Original Answer for “Types of Work”

Peace Corps, teaching, writing. Anything cerebral, artistic, socially conscious. I like work that encourages reflection and allows me to connect in a meaningful way with others, which I value above all else. No work that doesn’t allow creative thought or freedom of expression.

My Day-After Response

Allow me to freely express myself: Remember when you recently hit your head and had to pay out of pocket to go to the emergency room for a CAT Scan and you consequently suffered eight weeks of stress dreams while you waited for the hospital bills to arrive? Right. So imagine what would happen if you tripped in six-inch heels and could no longer meaningfully connect with a ligament in your knee. You know what you should value above all else? Your health. GET A REAL JOB.

My Original Answer for “Leisure Activities”

Road trips, spa time, hiking, reading, cooking, camping, live music, drinking wine with loved ones. Any activity that allows me to clear my mind, indulge, exercise my curiosity, laugh.

My Day-After Response

Oh shut up. You know you’re watching Netflix right now.

My Original Answer for “Vacations”

Europe, Greece, Costa Rica, Thailand, South Africa. Beaches, mountains, eco-tourism. Any place that would lend itself to exploration and fish-out-of-water experiences. No cruises, pre-packaged tours or all-inclusive resorts that take the spontaneity out of travel.

My Day-After Response

That’s funny; I could swear that the last major vacation you took was to an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic. Uh huh. And you loved it. You even bought a piece of jewelry at the fake bazaar they staged on the resort grounds and you still wear it to this day because it reminds you of the LOVELY TIME YOU HAD. But by all means, be spontaneous and go run off to Thailand! Oh, that’s right – you can’t. Because your passport has been expired for five years. Because you can’t afford international travel. Guess your fish-out-of-water experiences will remain limited to trips downtown, like the time you paid for soy jerky at the Japanese market but left without it in your bag and got so frustrated trying to explain it to the cashier who spoke no English that you finally gave up and just ate the cost. Happy trails!

My Original Answer for “Types of Homes and Home Furnishings”

Craftsman bungalow; mid-century modern beach house; turn of the century farm house. Something stylish and with character but simple, airy, fostering quietude. Mid-century furniture with comfortable touches: Plush couch, feather pillows. Global flair. Prints, textiles, art. A home that is sophisticated but warm, that makes my guests feel loved, that tells a story about my life. No cookie-cutter McMansion in a housing development. No vertical blinds. No complete bedroom sets bought from a furniture store. Nothing impractical that can’t withstand wine being spilled on it.

My Day-After Response

First of all, you’re writing this from an IKEA couch, so get over yourself. Second, unless you are Robert Frost you do not have permission to use “quietude” in a sentence. I love that you don’t want anything cookie-cutter and yet what you’ve described could be torn from the pages of any given Anthropologie catalog. Also, you know what would best tell the story of your life? THE STORY OF YOUR LIFE. Maybe stop giving your writing away on Blogger and go get published, ya think?

Ugh. Don’t you just hate people like me?! The list goes on but I’ll spare you further ego-babble. Besides, I’ve gotta wrap this up. I have to go to yoga so I can center myself before walking my rescue dog to the farmers market to pick up organic free-trade coffee and slices of handmade lavender soap.*

Seriously, though, I can’t be the only person with an obnoxious dreamer living inside my head. We all have this weird duality, right? One side of the brain that idealizes itself and the other side that tears it down? Tell me I’m not crazy and that you experience it too… How does the snob inside of you see yourself?

*Ok no but really that’s my typical Sunday. How can something so delightful look so gross in print?!

YOLO

This Labor Day weekend I had plans to attend an outdoor screening, do a little prep work for an upcoming job, and go bar hopping in Venice Beach.  Some work, some play, close out the summer with a couple friends and a glass of rosé. Simple.

What I did instead was drop everything to party in Palm Springs for a night, come home, and then drop everything to party in Vegas.

3 days. 16.5 hours of traffic. 800 miles.

Because YOLO.

I don’t know where the YOLO obsession originated. It was engaged sometime around my last Vegas trip in July and when I think about it the first thing that comes to mind is my friend Anastasia (a 100lb blonde) throwing her arms around gangsta-rap style and bellowing, “You Only Live ONCE!” so I guess I have to credit her with planting the seed. And I suppose her craving for excitement struck a chord with me as I stared down my four-year anniversary of moving to LA and was feeling a little stagnant. I used to be a YOLO-er. My twenties were a veritable YOLO-coaster, so electric and full of experiences, whereas inventorying my thirties leaves me with depressingly little to brag about. Two breakups. Unstimulating work. Travel that largely revolves around holidays and reunions and other people’s fortune. I look at the last 7 years and see the spontaneity-loving adventure-junkie in me cooking dinner for one and fretting about retirement.

I needed to YOLO. So I did. And it was awesome.

We booked a room at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs on a whim Thursday evening and were poolside with cocktails in hand less than 24 hours later.  We met a fantastic group in from New York City and enjoyed an unforgettable night drinking and laughing and bonding with people we’ll never see again. “That was too much fun!” I moaned on the drive home the next day. “We have to do this more!” Anastasia nodded. “YOLO,” she affirmed.

I got home at 5pm on Saturday and dropped my suitcase. I browsed the refrigerator and contemplated take-out options. I showered. No more than 30 minutes had transpired since I walked in the door from Palm Springs when I glanced at my phone and saw a text from Anastasia. “How seriously are we taking this YOLO thing?” it asked. She had a friend in Vegas with a suite at the Palms. He had room to spare. Did we want to come?

Of course we did. In no time, I made a reservation to board my dog, added to my already packed suitcase, bought champagne and Smart Waters and set my alarm for 7am. We drove from LA right up to the valet at the Cosmopolitan, put bikinis on in the restroom and marched straight for the pool to commence another whirlwind night of dancing and laughing and making memories.

It was magical. And not because of the drinking or the partying but because of the joy that comes from shedding expectations, engaging all your senses and living in the moment. The thrill was intoxicating and I spent the grueling 7.5 hour drive home brainstorming ways to harness that recklessness constructively in other areas of my life.

“I need to YOLO my career!” I announced.  “I’m going to take creative risks!” 

“I have to YOLO my friendships!” I insisted. “I’m going to edit myself less!”

“I want to YOLO Los Angeles!” I declared. “I’m going to get more involved in my city!”

The possibilities were endless: YOLO-ing our vacations, YOLO-ing our love lives, YOLO-ing our health. Just talking about it was invigorating, and I felt the dormant adventurer in me begin to rise up again.  So now my challenge is to nurture her by  taking that first step and putting this enthusiasm into action. Because as I experienced this weekend, YOLO begets YOLO. Once you break out of your comfort zone and flex some liberation, you can’t help but want to continue and the growth that follows is precious.

Join me if you dare…

YOLO!

The Best

I recently had the pleasure of tagging along to LA Magazine’s Best of LA party, celebrating local front runners in food, culture, nightlife and more. How thrilling to stand among those who elevate my beloved city! How depressing to recognize that I’m not one of them.

“And what are YOU the best at?” asked LA’s Best Chocolatier*. I gulped my wine. I joked. I changed the subject. Apparently I’m the best at evading uncomfortable questioning. And although in the moment this was passed over for a conversation about artisanal butter, I have not forgotten. It’s been two weeks. I should not care this much but I do. I need a hug and a promise that I actually contribute something, if not to the world or even Los Angeles then at least to my immediate surroundings. So after 14 days of obsessive reflection and a considerable amount of alcohol, here is what I’ve come up with:

The Top 4 Things That Heidi is Best At

1.     I am the best at picnicking.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, I am a picnicking MACHINE. You need a lightweight weatherproof blanket? Stakes that hold your wine glasses? Flameless candle? Travel Boggle? Table-in-a-bag? I have all of this and more, not to mention a keen palate for haute lawn-dining cuisine like stuffed grape leaves and prosciutto-wrapped dates. Next time you’re seeing Othello in the park or an outdoor screening of Chinatown, swing by my getup for some pinot noir in a polycarbonate glass! Unless you actually like sitting on your sweatshirt and eating Dominos. In which case, we can’t be friends.

2.     I am the best at listening.

People smell it on me, I swear, and it’s always been this way. From the depressed prom date at age 16 who drove us to the beach and unloaded all his self-loathing on me to the alcoholic writer who just last year cried after kissing me because he missed his ex-girlfriend, I have an incredible gift for attracting the one person in a crowd who needs counseling. Only four days ago while working on set, a security guard sat down next to me, told me her little brother had killed himself two weeks earlier and we processed her emotions together for a solid three hours. And the thing is, it’s not a burden. It’s totally natural. Something in my DNA is incapable of walking away from a lonely heart and everyone in the world seems tapped into this. Once, while slumping bleary-eyed at an empty airport gate waiting to head home from Vegas, an Autistic-esque young man sat down next to me and confessed that he was nervous about leaving for college. We explored his anxiety, I got a free geology lesson and he professed his love for me as I boarded the plane. What can I say? I’m the best listener.

3.     I am the best at faking a foreign language.

I love traveling. I do not love being an American tourist. And so, my snobbery has birthed a fool-proof method of faking the mastery of a language. I learn a handful of salutations, a bit of time, money and restaurant-related vocabulary, the questions How much and Where is..?, the Groveling Phrases (various incarnations of please, thank you and pardon me) as well as the verbs To Be and To Go. I round these out with a blessed knack for mimicking accents and pronunciation, feign deafness when someone asks me a question I don’t understand et voilà! I’m fluent! If I had the wherewithal to develop this and license it to Rosetta Stone, I’m certain I could make a gazillion dollars. But I don’t. I’d rather use that time to travel.

4.     I am the best at hurting myself.

And no, this is not figurative. I actually, physically hurt myself multiple times a day. I don’t know if it’s some sort of medically valid spatial/ depth perception issue but I have a particular talent for getting up from dinner and banging my knee on the edge of the table top as well as cutting corners too closely when I walk and slamming my shoulder into the wall.  In my apartment alone I have bailed out for no reason in the tiled courtyard, tumbled down a flight of concrete stairs, slipped in the shower and hurt my knee, slipped in the shower and hurt my elbow, slipped in the shower and hurt my head and tripped into an old bookshelf in such a way that I embedded an industrial staple into the bottom of my heel. I also nail my forehead on the corner of the freezer door at least three times a week. My parents praise this as a natural affinity for physical comedy. Boyfriends generally fall somewhere on a spectrum of bafflement to full blown annoyance. All I know is that my body hurts all the time and I have more than earned an endorsement deal with Band Aid.

OK, so these aren’t exactly noble contributions but they’re all mine and I’m going to stand proud. Because it’s either that or cry. Why not join me? What sort of insignificant nonsense are YOU the best at?

* Love. Go there immediately.

DIY

I love crafts. 

It started around age 5 with Play-Doh and Shrinky Dinks and has since evolved into a full-blown obsession with creating. On any given day you can find me tweaking my favorite brownie recipe, tending my houseplants or practicing a new embroidery stitch. I've taken on everything from stained glass art to jewelry making to knitting and I dream of a day when I'll have space for quilting and gardening. In a perfect world I would spend my days mixing my own organic cleaning agents, reupholstering vintage chairs and aging homemade cheeses… The fact is, nothing makes me happier than working with my hands. 

However. 

I'm terrible at it. 

Not that the final result is bad- somehow I always manage to more or less achieve the expected outcome - but the process of getting there is always disastrous. Which is fine. I'm used to it by now and it's pretty common knowledge that all of my crafty undertakings trend more toward Lucille Ball than Martha Stewart so imagine my surprise when I was recently praised by my good friend, Melanie. I had just mentioned in passing that I was planning to make my own almond milk that coming weekend. 

“Every time I talk to you, you’re sewing pillows or making a soup from scratch.” She cooed. “You’re so domestic. I love that about you.” 

There was not a hint of cynicism. Not a trace of mockery. There was genuine admiration in her voice and in that moment I saw myself the way she sees me: Betty Crocker in a checkered apron, lovingly placing pies in the window to cool. So radiant. So competent. So hilariously wrong. 

To my dearest Melanie who always sees the best in me, I offer the following chronicle of a recent Sunday afternoon, when I endeavored to spray paint my coffee table while also preparing homemade nut butter: 

1:00 Begin by roasting nuts for butter. Set oven to 450. Spread a cup each of outrageously priced raw organic walnuts and almonds on a cookie sheet. Add a quarter cup of flaxseeds, which hop and bounce and scatter all over the floor. Hear dog coming to eat seeds off the floor, lunge to keep her away, spill entire sheet of nuts on the floor. 

1:06 Vacuum kitchen. 

1:13 Start over. Put fresh batch of nuts and seeds in the oven. Set timer for 10 minutes. 

1:22 Carry table to the courtyard garden. Realize that even though “drop cloth” was noted on Iphone calendar, Wunderlist app, a Post-It taped to the front door and a napkin laid out on my wallet, a drop cloth was never bought. 

1:23 Stare at drop cloth-less ground.

1:24 Struck by genius idea to improvise with garbage bags. Congratulate self on creative brilliance. 

1:25 Cut up garbage bags. Decide to tape them together with masking tape. Do not have masking tape, only painters’ tape. Same thing. 

1:27 Not the same thing. 

1:28 Tape inexplicably not adhering where it needs to yet adhering everywhere else. Bag bunching and gathering and puckering and ultimately resembling a deformed spaceman. 

1:29 Curse. Wrestle. Surrender.

1:30 Take plastic bag spaceman to the garden; lay it on the ground, rest table on top. Plastic bag spaceman is actually performing better than expected by bubbling up and protecting surrounding bushes. Genius restored. 

1:31 Prepare to spray. Shake can as directed. Pop plastic security tab off nozzle. Aim and spray. 

1:32 Realize plastic security tab was not a plastic security tab. It was an innovative spraying mechanism that has now been broken off. Paint foams out the bottom and splatters all over self, the garden and the table so that table is now stippled with paint. Must avoid uneven coating! Step back to inspect malfunction, spewing paint all over concrete walkway. 

1:34 Curse. Curse again. Realize mid-cursing that paint is drying on the concrete. See hose coiled in the garden across the walkway. Turn on water and flood the paint splatters, to no effect. Curse. 

1:35 Reach angrily to turn off the spigot, slip on the slick concrete, trip on the coiled hose and fall through a cluster of Birds of Paradise, crushing them and hitting head on my apartment window. 

1:36 Curse. Question the logic behind wearing a strapless mini dress to paint furniture and send up a silent prayer that the events of the previous thirty seconds transpired without witness. 

1:37 Regain bearings. Note a trace of smoke. Burning. Food burning. Food burning in apartment. 

1:38 Race inside and instinctively pull smoking tray of charred nuts from oven without a mitt. Holler, sending tray to the floor. 

1:39 Curse. 

1:41 Run scorched hand under cold water.

1:43 Fire alarm sounds. Need a broom to wave smoke away. Do not own a broom so wave Swiffer back and forth in front of the alarm, accidentally hitting alarm, sending it to the floor and breaking it. 

1:45 Bandage burned hand. Vacuum another $21 worth of nuts and start over for the third time with a fresh batch. 

1:56 Return to the table outside, which is now splattered with drying paint. Plastic bag spaceman has kicked up in the breeze, stuck to the tacky surface and is drying onto the table. 

1:58 Anchor plastic bag spaceman with three pairs of flip flops, sand table and re-spray with second can of paint. 

2:13 Table is coated and drying. Renewed belief in abilities. Return to kitchen to finish nut butter. 

2:14 Place roasted nuts and seeds in food processor. Blend. 

2:19 Keep blending.

2:28 Worry that food processor was not intended for this purpose and might short circuit. 

2:32 Open brand new jar of $10 local, small-batch wildflower honey and add three tablespoons to the completed butter. 

2:33 Test a sample. Butter is delectable. Swell with pride. Wasted materials, burned hand and broken smoke alarm are a distant memory.

2:34 Fantasize about quitting desk job to craft custom artisanal nut butters for neighborhood eateries while setting the jar of honey back on the counter. Miss the counter entirely. Watch in slow-motion as $10 jar of honey plummets to the floor and shatters. Honey everywhere. Glass everywhere. Dog trots over to investigate. 

2:36 Wash kitchen floor. 

2:43 Wash dog.

2:49 Vacuum kitchen floor for the third time in 2 hours.

2:58 Wash kitchen floor again. 

3:06 Jar nut butter and refrigerate. 

3:01 Check to see that table is dry. It is! Bring inside the house. Inhale three painful, paint-fume laden breathes and immediately relocate coffee table outside apartment door to aerate. Subsequently live without coffee table for 4 days, using a small chair as a substitute. 

3:09 Shower. Scrub paint-encrusted fingers with nail polish remover. Open a bottle of wine to toast crafting success but decide to nap instead.

I wish I could tell you that this was an unusually blunder-full day but it wasn't. This is entirely typical and anyone who has ever lived with me can attest to that. But no matter! The nut butter was amazing and I've gotten many compliments on the coffee table. Next up is making my own multi-grain bread and rehabbing a bookcase I found on the sidewalk. What could go wrong there?