raccoon afternoon

I spent the better half of my afternoon attempting to scale a tree with my boyfriend--he the agile flying squirrel, me the scared raccoon. Ropes and trepidation in place, I eventually made it to the top (though my boyfriend's toenails probably grew visible lengths in the time it took me to get there). Unlike him, I found great comfort in hugging the tree, which clearly only inhibited my ascent. But then, any number of my friends could have told you I'm a tree hugger. (Incidentally, it should be noted that I've yet to chain myself across a booming oak to prevent it's demise. Not that it's unlikely.)


Despite my gradual adaption to tree clambering, I have lofty hopes that next time I'll be more squirrel-like (and that maybe my boyfriend won't find his toenails in need of trimming when his feet touch ground again).

a series of slightly overexposed, monochromatic squares

He got me a new thingamajig for Valentine's Day: a wireless shutter-release for my camera. We tried to refuse, but it begged us to break it in.

we know:
we're cute

don't look at me
in that tone of voice
young lady

like i said:
what'd you say?


child's play
ages 3 & 5


this is my serious face
no, seriously


paparazzi!
we've been caught,
my dear

cooking with the devil

Ever since I was a little girl, I've had a thing against garlic. I'll eat dishes it's been put into for flavor, but that's pretty much the extent of it. My family's always thought my DNA is mildly mutated since both my parents could be happy garlic-breathing dragons. My disenchantment with the onion-kin, combined with my family's persistence in amending my taste buds--"But, Britni, it's good for you!" they say, as if that will win me over--has resulted in my defending myself, most notably by pointing out that garlic is Satan's food. Who else would create something so offensively stinky and then say, "Here, eat it."? I've also refused to wash the garlic press. I will wash everything in the sink and leave that piece of sin for Mom.

But then my boyfriend came along. And if Mom & Dad were flirting with garlic, he would be involved in full-fledged affair with it. (As evidence, the guy once ate no less than 7 cloves of the raw stuff on his pasta. Sweet Mary!) So in what can only be described as an act of devotion (and an ounce of insanity), I've cut garlic, pressed it, cooked it and washed the press all within the past month. What is happening? Next thing I know, I'll be craving the stuff. My boyfriend will be thrilled. All these developments reek of villainy. So I guess it's official: I'm one step closer to the underworld of Satan's liar. The good news is, I'm joining my family and boyfriend there.

(Dun, dun, dun...)

what is this stuff?

It snowed this weekend! Tipper's never really seen anything more than frosting. He head-over-heels loved the flake-accumulation and spent the weekend romping in it, chasing us on sleds and playing with his partner in canine mischief, Scout. He also discovered that water tastes even better when it's in the form of frozen precipitation.

punk tipper

Last summer I saw a guy and his black Standard Poodle at the park. I was surprised (and a little presumptuous) since Poodles aren't typically a "guy's dog." I was quickly reprimanded. When we got up close, I realized the Poodle was decked out with a goatee, socks and a mohawk that ran from head to tail. Instantaneously, I decided I wanted to duplicate the cut on Tipper this summer. So a week ago, I took him to the groomer. Later that day, I had myself a punk Goldendoodle.

beautiful without accompaniment

Have you ever noticed that the lyrics to even some of the best songs don't read as well as they're heard? No matter how sentimental or penetrating they are when the voices streaming from your speakers carry them to your ears, they suddenly feel cheesy and immature when they stand alone.

Snow Patrol's "Set the Fire to the Third Bar" is one exception to this commonality. The song, even sans the music, seems more like poetry than lyrical dictation.

I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from 'A' to where you'd be
It's only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I'd find your face
My finger in creases of distant dark places

I hang my coat up in the first bar
There is no peace that I've found so far
The laughter penetrates my silence
As drunken men find flaws in science

Their words mostly noises
Ghosts with just voices
Your words in my memory
Are like music to me

I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms

After I have traveled so far
We'd set the fire to the third bar
We'd share each other like an island
Until exhausted, close our eyelids
And dreaming, pick up from
The last place we left off
Your soft skin is weeping
A joy you can't keep in

I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
And I, I pray that something picks me up
and sets me down in your warm arms

I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground
and I, I pray that something picks me up
and sets me down in your warm arms

lime-light doggie

I simply couldn't help myself.

berry crumble

Tomorrow is my aunt's birthday. As per my 2010 custom, I baked her a little something called berry crumble. It was a simple recipe that I'm concerned may go down in February history as simply too plain. We'll see. All it called for was layering frozen berries in an oven-proof pan and covering them with an oatmeal-sugar-butter-vanilla concoction before baking for 30 odd minutes. I pulled it out of the oven and sat at the counter nibbling oatmeal crumbles off the top in an effort to inconspicuously sample it. (I'm afraid it might taste too much like cooked fruit with vanilla oatmeal on top, which sounds good and probably looks better, but will ultimately lead to disappointment.) If it is a failure, I might have to bake her a belated gift, but perhaps a small scoop of vanilla ice cream will spice it up. At the least, it will sound like a menu item that would certainly tempt me: Berry Crumble a la mode. Waiter...I'll take one of those!