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Since my first Valentine’s post was not very romantic (one might recall a certain writer being ‘fuming mad’ at her husband) I’ll share this story and beautiful piece of artwork.

The story of how my husband and I eventually ended up in wedded bliss is a bit too long to recall entirely and I would not do the proper justice to in one post. Suffice it to say that my parents nicknamed him ‘the stalker’ when we were in high school. And yes, we did go to the same high school, we were in the same small class in fact, but no, we were not friends.

It was due to my husband’s ardor, which began in 7th grade (as a direct result of a certain pair of shorts in gym class according to him) and continued through senior year, that I quite literally never spoke more than a paragraph to him throughout those six years. His obsession with me was well known in both of our circles and unfortunately, to all of his girlfriends. I would imagine there were a couple of discussions regarding my cankles and/or the sweater I wore nearly every day in those circles (In my defense it was the only way I could spice up our school uniform).

My senior year I was fortunate enough to go on our high school Europe trip. And since I know both of my parents now read this blog- I, Jenny B., for the record, thank you both. Surprise, surprise my husband was also fortunate enough to go on the same trip. We covered France, Switzerland, Austria, Germany, and a small country in-between Switzerland and Austria called Liechtenstein. This trip was one of those life experiences that are burned less in your memory and more in your heart. Although I cannot remember every detail in my mind it only takes a second to remember how it felt.

In Paris, France we visited the Louvre. It is truly a wonder. I am convinced that anyone, even among those who have not been exposed to or like have in interest in art, would feel a reverence for the sheer mass of the human experience encased in that building. It would take at least a week to just view everything completely; in my case I only had a couple of hours.

It was in those hours that wandering alone I came upon a gallery and was drawn to a painting. I stood for a bit staring at it and whether he sought me out or if by some centripetal force he, my future husband, (also alone) found me. He came up behind me to view the painting as well. We proceeded to have a brief two to three sentence discussion about the art and then I went on my way to discover more.

Three years later, when we reconvened Stateside, this time as a couple he presented me with a tube. And in that tube was a copy of the painting. That he remembered was touching, that he took the time to search, find, and purchase it was and is love.

(I searched for an hour and cannot find it, please check back)

Drink

I have never been a big drinker. This fact is not based on principle, religion, creed, sexual orientation, holistic or nutritional values, socio-economic status or a lack of trying. I am not a big drinker because I have not found a large number of palatable options.

First and foremost, I hate beer. There is something about hops, barley, and the fermenting process all rolled into one that does not appeal to me.

Second, I do drink wine, but my favorites have titles like “Jammin’ Strawberry” and “Radical Raspberry”. These are hardly reputable sources. The strawberry bottle even comes complete with a picture of a huge strawberry on the label. The winery does this for reasons twofold: one, to really bring home the point that what I am about to purchase is not really wine and two, to thoroughly embarrass me and anyone who dares bring a bottle to the liquor store counter.

The first time I became truly inebriated. I was in clubbing in Madrid, Spain and drinking a large quantity of screwdrivers. At first blush that statement may sound slightly glamorous. Then you take into account that I was on a trip with my college singing troupe and that the drink itself is mostly orange juice. There is more to the story involving blacking out, walking through a park in the middle of the night and locking myself in my hotel bathroom, but I digress.

I was around 25 when I discovered the wonderful Martini and joined the world of adult drinkers. I have finally found a drink I can order at restaurants (I have yet to find Jammin’ Strawberry on any wine list). Martini’s are so important they even have a glass named after them. It is a very shapely sophisticated glass- everyone knows that I am a fancy adult whenever I am holding one.

This weekend go out and have a wonderful and tasty Martini. Just do not raise your glass. They may be fancy, but the glass was not meant for toasting, raising, or generally moving unless it is to your lips. Fancy it may be, but practical it is not (unless you can afford to loose half of your $8 drink).

The Martini comes in a vast variety of flavors to suit your mood and will knock you on your ass faster than any beer I know. A fact that somehow makes me feel that even though I may not be aligned with the majority of the consumers of alcohol in my dislike of beer, my drink is tougher, despite the fancy glass and fruit garnish.

Personal Recommendations: Strawberry Martini with a splash of champagne, Pomegranate Martini (with fruit compote), and a Lemon Drop Martini

Listen

You would think this was an appropriate post because Valentine's Day is this weekend. In reality I am fuming mad at my significant other at the moment. Marital bliss aside, this is a great song.



Artist: John Legend
Song: Stay With You
Album: Get Lifted

Do

In more ways than one I could be considered a late bloomer in life.

It was up until my early twenties that I relied on my ‘natural beauty’ to carry me through in life. Unfortunately, nature may have outweighed beauty on more than one occasion. I am sure nature would have appreciated a little effort on my part in washing my hair more than twice in a week; even showering after every volleyball practice would have been an improvement I am sure. I did at least shave during my high school years, but I have to be honest and admit that even now that act can be sporadic at times.

It was not until my mid-twenties that I started using make-up in earnest, on the surface -literally- I figured that if I knew that I did not know what I was doing in the make-up and hair department then I had better just steer clear of it all. You can see plenty of disasters around and I did not want to be the girl who came in orange every day. At the real root of it all was the fact that I have always had a very strong sense of who I am as a person. I was afraid that if I plucked my eyebrows, dyed my hair, and covered myself in make-up that I would lose that person, oddly enough for a teenager I really liked who that person was.

I had various interventions from well-meaning, and those I am convinced were not so well–meaning, friends. One painstakingly plucked each one of my eyebrows and one made me look like a 1970’s country singer, yet somehow her make-up always came out as natural and perfect as Gwyneth Paltrow holding her Oscar.

I did eventually catch on. I proudly shower on a regular basis now and I get my eyebrows professionally waxed by a women I am convinced is a true artist. My hair stylist is also fabulous and talented. I am sure she wishes I would visit more than twice a year though. With age I have learned that ‘enhancements’ are ok.

Experimenting with hair color and contouring with make-up make me feel good inside. I have not fallen into the trap of having to do it every day, but it does feel nice to go out and feel like the whole package is working or walk into a meeting with an extra boost of confidence. Even if it does take a push-up bra and a pair of spanks.

In short, go out and buy yourself a flat iron, round brush, and styling lotion. Buy the make-up for the smoky eye and the gloss for sexy lips. I endorse it all. As long as you can still feel like you when it is all off, even if it is not the sexed up glammed up Adriana Lima version of you.

Watch

Paris je t'aime

This movie is artsy to the core. It is a compellation of 18 short films by 21 separate directors, some like The Coen Brothers and Wes Craven are recognizable to the American audience.

It is very difficult to describe how great and very smart each short and the film as a whole is. The stories, all set in Paris, present unique twists on the same theme: Love. A theme you would expect from a city whose name is synonymous with romance, but on a whole this movie is more heart wrenching than endearing, with one or two exceptions.

This is the type of film that when it finishes, you just know that you have gained something. Exactly what is harder to tell, but it is something.

Read

In an effort to redeem myself for not adhering to my self-set ridged schedule of posting Monday-Thursday I am going to share a closely held secret of mine… I have a very strong penchant for historical fiction romance novels.

Some might call it an obsession, those more cruel a sickness. I would have to admit to both characterizations as being wholly accurate.

The most un-redeeming quality of this habit may be the way in which I read them. I normally only start a book on the weekends and after 8 PM, I then proceed to power through to the completion of the novel until sometimes 3 or 4 in the morning. Yes, it is just me and the heroin addicts up at 3 AM.

To be perfectly honest this is how I read most books. I think I hold the world record for getting through the Twilight Saga (yes, I read those books too).

I can acknowledge that not one of the books in this genre are masterpieces of literature. They are clearly written on a formula (if you were wondering the first sex scene happens around page 200 in nearly every book). The main characters always start out carrying animosity towards each other that quickly changes to mutual attraction. There is nearly always some sort of background drama that needs to unfolded and be subsequently resolved in a very tidy manor in order for them to realize their unbreakable, unmatched, unparalleled love for one another.

I wish I had some excuse. I even hold a minor in Women’s Studies. I took a class where an assignment was to read one of these novels and then analyze how horrible it was. By this point I was already hooked and just sat there feeling both guilty and like I wanted to claw the eyes out of those who dared to criticize the existence of a man with “unruly locks of thick black hair, a gaze distant and unreadable, mood as brooding and unpredictable as the misted mountain wilderness he called home”.

I do not dare psycho-analyze why this genre of book appeals to me so much. No, there is nothing missing at home. My husband actually buys them for me and brings them home like trophies exclaiming, “I read the back; I think you will really like this one!”.

There is one life lesson here. When I worked at a library in my teens I judged the women who came and checked them out by the truckload, making all the usual assumptions of old, single, unsatisfied cat ladies. Yet here I am today, a now out of the closet lover of the historical fiction romance novel, young, married, and with just one cat.

One positive development that has arisen from my reading habits is a broadening of my vocabulary, hence the use of the word ‘penchant’ earlier. However, when a co-worker caught me staring off into space, I probably should not have apologized for my ‘wool gathering’.

Listen

There exist albums where, rather than being individual thoughts or ideas, each track on the album seem to all be part of the same conversation. Each song blends and lends itself to the other. The first album that comes to mind exemplifying this is Tom Petty’s Wildflowers. It is a great album and even though the tempos, melodies, and subject matter of the songs may be different you know they are all part of one cohesive group.

Gossip in the Grain is the first and only album of Ray La Montagne that I have listened to. Yet, it is one of those albums that I described above where from start of finish it leaves you feeling satisfied. His music can sound a bit melancholic at times, but each song is very listenable and you will develop your favorites. This is the type of music you put on for a long drive, background music, cleaning the house or doing homework (for those of you still plugging away at school).

La Montagne has a very distinct voice that I did recognize on a commercial (some call it selling out- I call it getting paid). The song is Trouble and the commercial is for Travlers Insurance if you come across it.

One of my favorite songs is Meg White. I had listened to this song at least a dozen times until it clicked that he might be singing about Meg White, drummer for The White Stripes. And sure enough after a wiki, I was right. It is a very cute song when you listen to lyrics, although from my internet research I haven’t been able to discern how she feels about the song, or how La Montagne’s wife feels about it either….

Disclaimer: I just love Meg White because it is cute and quirky. DO NOT judge the ablum until you have listened to Let It Be Me.