i make silly handmade things

You might have gathered by now that I am an old lady. I bake, I am the crazy cat lady, and I knit. As of late, I have started stockpiling my knitted things to sell on Etsy and in fact have listed said things on Etsy. But I swear, I am not selling a darn thing. Not even when I get Etsy showcases, not when I spend $5 on facebook ads, nothing.

I can't decide why that is. Perhaps my stuff costs too much. But here's the thing - yarn is expensive and knitting takes TIME. I mean really I am probably making like $2 an hour on my stuff after you subtract out the yarn costs. And further, I am always stalking the knitting section and let me tell you, people are selling some stuff on there that looks like it was made by a drunken baboon for like $150.

So what is the DEAL, man? I've signed up for the Etsy Holiday Boot Camp, which is supposed to indoctrinate me into this mess and tell me how it is that I'm supposed to be like some little woman in a hut in Mongolia, making my living from my knitting.

If you're feeling a little chilly (not likely around here since it's like 95 degrees still) - go grab a scarf! Got a bebe or a friend with one? Buy a blankie! Okay, shameless plug. But seriously - Pretty in Purls - go there, you know you need some hand-knitted items.

I'm baaaaaaaack.

I know, you're so excited. I have been busy with stuff, y'all, stuff that has not involved the hours of being chained to my computer like law school requires. So let's have a mini-update, shall we?

First, me and PB got ENGAGED! Woo! That involved a really fun trip to Savannah in August. Specifically, we got engaged on 8-9-10. Naturally, that would mean we're getting married on 9-10-11. So I have been maniacally trying to plan a wedding before I get sucked in by terrible things like law school and the evil bar exam next summer. So let me say, this will not become a wedding planning blog, I swear. Mainly because if I were to do all of it and then write about it ad nauseam, I'd probably go crazy. Also because I've already done all the big major crazy stuff.

I guess there really is no second. I'm back in the throes of law school, except it's 3L year, which means if I ever gave a crap before (let's be honest, I don't think I ever really have) I sure don't now. In fact, I was talking to Lia earlier and explained my feelings about graduation. Basically, I don't have any interest in going. I feel like law school is sort of like a bad relationship, and when I get out, it will be a big sigh of relief. We'll part ways, we won't see each other anymore, it'll be a little awkward when we meet in passing, but it will be over. I feel like graduation is sort of the big screaming fight in the high school parking lot that leads up to that point. And I'd rather not, thanks. I'd rather just roll quietly into the next phase of our relationship.

Oh well, probably the whole family will put the brakes on that crap and I'll have to go anyway. We'll see!

Expect to hear from me more since I'm glued to the computer more now. There's no more keeping the laptop in its little hidey hole and being outside, being at the beach, sitting on the porch, drinking lots of wine. Okay maybe there's still drinking lots of wine. But now that happens while I do homework. With the computer. Which = blogging! Woo!

don't shoot

Here's something you might not know about me. I like being a little kindergarten tattletale on occasion. And so, on my way home from my inordinately late and long sentencing law class this evening, I noticed the car in front of me weaving all over the place, turning a right turn signal and a left turn signal in rapid succession and then not turning anywhere, nearly cutting in front of a tractor trailer and causing imminent death and peril for everyone. And good lord, he just generally cannot keep junk in the lines. So, I pick up my handy little phone and I call the po-pos. Because shit man, I would have done a traffic stop on him in a skinny minute. No sense wasting perfectly good traffic stop opportunities. Stopportunities, if you will.

Well there is absolutely nothing the police in my little town love like taking a drunkface in, so what I think is going to be an easy little recitation of a license plate number turns into Giant Crazypantsfest 2010, in which the operator has me giving her a play by play of where I am. "Okay, tell me as soon as the light turns green. Where are you now? What about now? How far have you gone?" So then she really blows me away with, "Just pull in behind the officer and stay in your car when he does the traffic stop."

First of all, I did not sign up for some bad episode of Walker, Texas Ranger. Can't I just give you my phone number and you call me if you need me to back you up on that reasonable suspicion? But fine, whatever, I started this mess, so I pull in behind the traffic stop in which FOUR POLICE CARS are involved. Jesus guys, I didn't say he was Osama bin Laden, I said I thought he was effed up a little. Not the same.

So, I sit there waiting on Officer Skippy to come over and set me free, amongst the police cars which seem to be multiplying by the second. He comes over to the car, says he "needs to get my information." And he needs my license for this. Okay, sure, check me for warrants, I know that's what you're doing. Whatevs. I'm clean, yo. Well, just to be nice, I decide I am going to comply with all laws, and I tell Officer Skippy, "Just so you know, I have a concealed weapon permit and I do have a gun in the car."

Well OH MY GOD, call the SWAT team, because the girl with the cupcake taker in the passenger seat at 9:30 on a Wednesday night clearly dreamed up this whole plan to pop a cap in somebody. Also, this whole time, I am thinking that Officer Skippy looks like one of those Woolly Willie toys, because he is entirely bald but has eyebrows the size of caterpillars. This makes it hard to take it seriously when he starts backing away, shining the light in my face and clutching at his gun.

At this point, Officer Skippy has a look of panic on his face. Seriously, am I that terrifying? This is great. And he's all "Where exactly is the gun?" whilst he looks panicked and shines his flashlight around the car. So I inform him of The Ominous Gun's whereabouts. Then I realize that I am probably going to give him a coronary because my wallet (and thus my license) is in my giant law school bag behind my seat. It's seriously the biggest tote bag Lands' End makes, and I know that a) reaching behind the seat and b) fumbling in my giant lawyer bag are collectively going to send Skippy into such a fit that he just shoots me.

So this whole time, I am trying to use my best soothing voice, kind of like what your dentist does when he's explaining what she's going to do, and you both know it's going to suck, and that this whole sitch is real awkward. "Okay, nowwwww I'm going to reach behind the seat. Nowwwww I'm going to look in here for my license. Could you pleaseeee shine your flashlight in the bag so I can see? [and also so you can see there is nothing with which I can shoot you]" So finally, I give Skippy the license, all the while he has one hand on his gun and one on his flashlight, looking all poised to shoot me at the first move.

AFTER ALL THAT, another cop comes back and goes "Eh, I don't smell it on him, I don't think that's enough to get him out of the car." WHAT? Sure, maybe he isn't drunk but jeez guys, you have a witness who just told you a 10 minute story about this dude's shenanigans on the highway. You have at least enough to get him out of the car.

Well, finally about the twelfth police car shows up, pulls alongside me and I realize it's an old family friend of ours, who, thank God, recognizes me. So at this showing of trust, Skippy at least backs off from the car and seems to be breathing normally again, though boy howdy, that hand is still planted firmly on that gun. At this point I'm thinking, oh goodness it is 10pm, I am starving, and JUST SHOOT ME ALREADY.

The moral of the story is, I a) tried to be a good, concerned citizen (okay so I also like it if someone gets busted) and b) I tried to be a good little concealed weapon owner and follow all of the gosh darn rules and regulations by telling Officer Skippy about it and c) I am treated as if I might entirely go cray cray on anyone at any moment and d) no potential drunkfaces even get pulled OUT OF THE CAR. BAHHH.

Also I am too tired to make wine slushies, so I have no report for you all on how that went. But, perhaps tomorrow since I have no class, I will have loads of time to sit around, watch SVU, and make/drink wine slushies. Sounds like a plan to me.

somebody fetch me a wine slushie

Can we talk about how pleased I am that exams are over? Okay, let's talk. I'M PLEASED. The feeling of "I may have failed almost all of them" has somewhat worn off, to be replaced by the "screw it, I'll just take it again if I actually failed" feeling, accompanied by the "what the heck, let's make wine slushies" feeling.

No, seriously, I am totally making wine slushies. At the first feasible opportunity. Maybe tomorrow night, since I have sentencing law class until 9pm or some other ungodly time. Though I actually like sentencing law class because dear sweet Jesus, it's just about filling out the forms right. And there might be case law about it, but the whole point is, none of that really matters. You just FILL OUT THE FORM.

And as I was previously a sentencing form monkey for the entirety of last summer, I can FILL OUT YO FORM. Seriously, I have few talents, but besides standing on my head, rolling my tongue in a vile yet fascinating manner, and drawing a real pretty palm tree when I'm bored, I can figure out your prior record level lickety split. It is refreshing to finally be the one person in a law school class who actually knows what's going on. Let me tell you, I usually don't know what's going on in law school classes unless it involves crap I want to buy on etsy, how to make a delicious appetizer (or wine slushie) or what Mariska Hargitay wore last time she was out and about (because I completely want to be her.)

Let's now turn our attention to something else (disjointed alert.) I really, really hate thunderstorm warnings. Not so much the thunderstorm warning itself, but the warnings that come on tv. Why must they always sound so ominous? Like for example, ruining my viewing of The Good Wife is a thunderstorm warning scrolling across the screen in all caps, telling me: A SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING IS IN EFFECT FOR THE FOLLOWING COUNTIES...UNTIL TUES 11:15 PM. EXTREME CAUTION SHOULD BE EXERCISED IN THE VICINITY OF THUNDERSTORMS. STAY INDOORS, AWAY FROM WINDOWS AND CONSIDER POSTPONING TRAVEL UNTIL THE THUNDERSTORM PASSES.

But you know what's even worse? When the awful emergency alert noise and the creepy computer voice come on. Boy, that is enough to get me taking shots in the kitchen. I just cannot help but picture my obviously imminent path to being interviewed by a tv news person following the horrible carnage of the storm. I will somehow find myself in a mangled front yard, bra-less in a wifebeater, having somehow lost the majority of my teeth, saying "It sounded just like a freight train a-comin'."

Also, the newscaster is wearing a blue suit. A light blue suit. Is it wrong if I say I want a light blue suit? Seriously, I do. Y'all tell me where I can find one that doesn't look like it came from the Alfred Dunner line.

And with that, it's reading one more case, then up at the ungodly hour of 6am for class. If you see me on the road tomorrow, I'll probably growl at you.

i got Clay Walker's sweat on me.

I promised you and myself that Friday night would be epic, and alas, children, epic it was. We loaded up in the boyfran's car and headed over to the big country bar where he was playing, at an appropriately early time. Like really, the time when the old scary people who take line dance lessons all week and show up at 8pm to Boot Scoot Boogie are there. But before we got there, we all found ourselves desperate for un baño, so we stopped at CVS.

Let me give you a little background about this particular CVS. It is in the absolute worst part of town one could ever hope to find oneself in at 9pm on a Friday night. Or really, at any time, any day or night. I was really surprised when Skippy the pharmacy drone let us into the locked hallway where the bathrooms are in the first place.

Lawyer School is over by this particular CVS and thus I have found myself stopping at various places in those parts for coffee/gas/a honey bun and having to pee (because that's about every 3.4 seconds) and getting really annoyed when the clerk is all "We don't HAVE a bathroom." But I guess if people were doing the crack in my bathroom, I'd go all private on it too. But, perhaps since there were four of us, perhaps since PB is a rather imposing person and Skippy looked like a Weeble, or perhaps because I had on a whore island skirt, we were allowed access into the inner sanctum that is the CVS bathroom.

And in that inner sanctum, was the following (2 page!) note on both the wall over the toilet and the inside of the door by the paper towel dispenser. I particularly like the guilt trip at the end about the poor overworked CVS employees.

Then we were on the way out and someone was standing in front of the cash register, talking to her friend, the clerk. The conversation went something "Man he got SHOT over here, his belly was all laid open like SHPLOEKWOWWW [insert gesture of making a 6 inch hole in her abdomen.}" And so, we left the CVS on that note.

We got to the bar, and I was quite pleased to see the fabulous Mr. Walker's bus and band trailer right there in the parking lot, ready for photo opportunities. See? I'm real excited (and also sweaty, partially because I am throwing myself at a sketch of Clay Walker, partially because it is 900 degrees and humid out.)

When we got inside, we ran to the beer cart and then were immediately excited to see that there was pretty much no one in front of the stage and that we could totally be at least second row if we wanted. So J and I practically hog tied PB and her fiance and camped out there with our beers. Except for how we got tsk-tsked by one of the 4 million bouncers who clearly think they have a really important Public Safety Career, because apparently one can't have alcohol on the dance floor? So, tails between our legs, we stood awkwardly near the dance floor while we had one more beer, and then J and I could take it no longer, because those old ladies were not going to get between us and Clay.

We ended up very sober and on about the third "row," though it was just a clump of randomsters standing about. I nearly had to take a few bitches out, however, because a) I NEEDED TO BE NEAR CLAY and b) we all stood there for a whole hour, beer-free, before he even took the stage and I was not letting some little hussy by me who had been back by the bar enjoying the adult beverage of her choice the whole time. There was definitely some awkward shoulder-wrestling as I tried to play defensive line and keep those hofaces back where they belonged (though a few slipped through the cracks, I was largely successful in this effort.)

And see how close we were?! AMAZING TIMES. If sober times. But I mean it's kind of like pre-gaming for church, it just felt wrong to be drunk in front of Clay anyway. Also I think while he was flinging his towel into the crowd, some of his sweat got on me. Of course, so did a lot of OTHER people's sweat, which was super gross times. Not as bad as the scary, 300-lb. meth-mouth man with patchy facial hair, huge man-boobies, and his shirt alllll the way unbuttoned who rubbed all over J the whole time. Oh, and who also lit up a cigarette while people were literally pressed against each other!

Don't you wish you could have high-class nights like me?

apparently I do monthly blog posts?

Yeah, I'm in the middle of exams, I am generally lazy, and oftentimes, when I open this thing up to do a blog post, it feels too much like homework. So, there are my excuses. I hope you liked them.

I am a big nerd, no joke. I like reading, I like grammar, I knit, I listen to NPR. I could make quite a long list of reasons why I am a giant nerd. But this whole Star Wars Day thing? That is too nerdy to be tolerated. Lia kept seeing facebook/gchat statuses proclaiming "May the 4th be with you," and upon her diligent Wikipedia research, she determined that this was related to the horrifying nerdiness that is a Star Wars holiday. Guys, let's bring the turbo-nerd stuff down a notch. That is just TOO MUCH.

Since my last monthly post (I swear I'll be better about that after next week), was about orange cake, and I didn't give you the recipe, I will today! Consider it my gift to you. It turns out amazing, it did not crumble into 938475893 little crumbs when I cut it, and best of all, YOU USE CAKE MIX. Folks, I am not ashamed of cake mix recipes. Let me tell you, cake that you make with a cake mix turns out more moist (even though I hate that word) and delicious than anything you can throw together with butter and flour.

So, without further ado, here is the recipe for fantastical orange cake:

Cake Ingredients:

• 1 box orange supreme cake mix (Duncan Hines is the best)
• 1 small box orange jell-o
• 1 cup water
• 1/3 cup vegetable oil
• 2 eggs

Filling:

• 1 16 ounce container sour cream
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 orange (juice and pulp) OR 1/2 cup orange juice with pulp (that's what I did)

Icing:

• 1 cup filling mixed with 1 8 or 12 oz. container of Cool Whip

Directions:

• Ignore the ingredients on the cake box and mix above cake ingredients together, blending well. Bake in 8-inch round pans as according to directions on cake box.
• Cool layers completely (SERIOUSLY, they have to be totally cool) and split layers.
• Mix filling ingredients, and spread generously between layers as you stack them. Reserve one cup filling for frosting.
• Frost with cool whip and one cup filling, mixed together.
• Let sit in refrigerator for at least 24 hours before cutting. Refrigerate any leftovers.

I have to get through my PR exam on Thursday, but on Friday, I am SO EXCITED to be going to see Clay Walker in concert. Most of you are probably scratching your heads. But for some reason, when I was little (and I mean little little, like 5) I developed a terrible, unhealthy crush on Mr. Walker. You just watch that video and learn why my little 5-year-old heart had to have him. Or just get really disturbed, whichever. Anyway, I am feeling like I might get there 5 hours early and stand next to the stage and pant a lot until he comes out. And then I'll ask him to marry me and promise to have his babies and wash his underwear.

I'll let you know how that goes/what PB thinks of all these shenanigans, since he'll be there too. Maybe it will be a big fight between PB and Clay. Actually, that's kind of hot. Maybe I'll bring chocolate pudding and set up a wrestling ring. CLEARLY FRIDAY NIGHT IS GOING TO BE EPIC.

in which there is CAKE!

Today is PB’s 23^rd birthday! God, 23 seems old, even though I’m 22. 23 seems too close to MID-TWENTIES, and I am so not ready for that. But at any rate, today is The Day, and so I spent yesterday afternoon creating a birthday cake. Like a real cake, one with layers and everything, mainly because I feel sheet cakes are only alright if they are from K-Mart (yes, K-Mart) and whipped cream icing, and I didn’t feel like risking my life at K-Mart to get said birthday cake. I just cannot bear the old sheet cake you threw together in a foil pan (unless it is a Paula Deen butter cake and unless it had to travel 6 hours in a car to get to its destination like Lia’s cake did). I just think it looks like Fido’s hind end.

To begin the process of birthing The Real Cake with the Layers and Everything, I first put on my fantastic apron that I got for my birthday from my dear friend J.

Mainly, an apron is a confidence booster, because who wouldn’t feel like Betty Flippin’ Crocker in that getup? But also, I am not one of those people who can cook without making a giant mess. I don’t mean a few dishes in the sink, y’all. I am talking about dirtying up every dish and utensil in my kitchen because I will invariably pick up a spoon/knife/spatula, stick it in whatever sticky/messy mixture I am concocting, and then promptly decide that everything about it is just WRONG for what I need to do. Furthermore, I will make the stickiest, most terrible mixture in the world and then promptly get it on the walls, the floor, the counter, in my hair. It’s great. The apron helps with this. Minimally. But mainly, I feel fantastic whilst I wreck the kitchen.

Making the Real Cake with the Layers and Everything is a serious process, like I said, which makes it difficult for me because I am neither patient, nor do I have any sort of manual dexterity. One needs both of those things. First, I baked the layers, which smelled like delicious oranges (as it was an orange cake, that was not a screw-up). Then I let the cakes cool in the pans for a bit. But apparently for too long, because then, dammit, one of the cakes stuck to the bottom of the pan and OH NO, I thought it was all going to be ruined.

But I flipped them out onto wire racks, swore a few times, and everything seemed to be alright. I could cover that crap up.

Then the real test of patience comes in, in which I must wait for the cake to cool before I split the layers. Now this, my friends, might be easy for you, but for me (as I am clearly faint of heart), this is the true test. So I get out my fancypants Henckels serrated knife, and I take the plunge. I try to hold my mouth just right. And JUNK FALLS APART. I mean literally, there are cake crumbs on the counter, I am swearing at the cake, I am touching the cake for 2 seconds and then jumping back, afraid I am making it worse. Now children, there are no pictures of this part of the process because whilst I built those layers, the sweat was on. I ended up picking cake particles off of my (freshly cleaned) countertop and putting that cake back together like a jigsaw puzzle. I am hoping this does not result in absolute bedlam when I try to cut it tomorrow when we have people over for PB’s birthday.

But on the outside, it turned out beautifully:

I’ll let you know if it crumbles into a million and one pieces when I cut it. Fingers crossed!