how to: party like it’s 1999

You guys! We’re a month and a half away from being a decade past the NINETIES. Which just seems crazy. Because the 90s were pretty much the greatest. It’s when I started playing the clarinet and swam a lot. It’s when I didn’t have responsibilities. And teachers loved me. And I could play with my American Girl Dolls all day. Or “Cowgirls” and ride our bikes around the neighborhood like they were horses and camp out behind the mailbox or the garage. Or play “Shipwreck” on the swing set. Or play dress up and mermaids at Kaylee’s. And watch Titanic like 3 times and listen to Celine Dion ALL THE TIME. And hang Backstreet Boys posters in my room because it was cool. However, I did spend a lot of it in puberty. And most of it I felt out of place among friends. And let’s face it, being a preteen is awkward. But, damn. There was some good music. Actually, looking back, look at the crazy shit that was on the radio ten years ago.

Here it is, my 1999 Playlist (if I dip into 1998, it’s because it all runs together).

1. Question Everything, 8Stops7
2. I Want it That Way, The Backstreet Boys
3. Last Kiss, Pearl Jam
4. Lullaby, Shawn Mullins
5. Iris, Goo Goo Dolls
6. Kiss Me, Sixpence None the Richer*
7. When You Believe, Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston
8. Hands, Jewel**
9. Save Tonight, Eagle Eye Cherry
10. Angel, Sarah McLachlan***
11. Jumper, Third Eye Blind
12. Mambo No. 5, Lou Bega****
13. All Star, Smash Mouth
14. Believe, Cher*****
15. She’s So High, Tal Bachman
16. Steal My Sunshine, Len

BONUS TRACKS:
Baby One More Time, Britney Spears
No Scrubs, TLC
Livin’ La Vida Loca, Ricky Martin
Black Balloon, Goo Goo Dolls

What were YOU listening to?

*And while we’re on that topic. OMG Usher!
**So pissed this video isn’t available. It was one of my favorites.
***OH MY GOD THE DEPRESSING. I forgot about this. It always remembers me of this scene now.
****Completely necessary.
*****This one’s for you, Ashley.

how to: BS a blog post

My Weekend:

Band.
Parade in the hot hot sun.
Watch us slaughter Washington State.
Go home BEFORE dark from a football game.
Watch USC beat ASU. Such a moral dilemma.
Drumline party.
Sleep.
Breakfast with Bianca.
Mope.
Free food, booze, and fun at the Putt Putt Open.
Role Models and Chinese Take-out with sister and her boyfriend.

Tomorrow: work.

This blog post: so over.

how to: bear down

Today, the Wildcats face off against Wazzu. That’s #2 in the PAC-10 versus LAST in the PAC-10. Arizona is also ranked in all the polls. It is also our Homecoming. And if you were wondering what happens on Homecomings:

Needless to say, this won’t be our toughest challenge in the coming weeks if we want a top Bowl Game (say, the Rose Bowl?)- we’ve got Cal, Oregon, USC, and ASU left. So, Cats. Do me a favor and kick some ass today, mmk?

how to: (sort of) grow up (a little)

It’s my first Homecoming weekend as an alum of the University of Arizona. Almost five years ago, I wrote a post on my Livejournal about what my first semester of college had taught me. That was, well, five years ago. I was a slightly different person.

Then:

Examples: Loner except for a few dorm friends, marching band-less, 20 pounds heavier, physiology major, and obsessed with Michael Vartan and Alias, the Highland Market down the street from my dorm, and Wicked. Roommate: LiLi- girl who burped a lot. Crush: I was between getting over the ex, thinking I was in love with my best friend, and starting on the guy that proves I have awful taste in boys. (Many of you know him as Matt.)

Now:

Examples: Found balance between loner and nonloner, endless marching band geek, runner/yogi, Registered Nurse, and obsessed with many different television shows and hot men, hippie grocery stores, and Ingrid Michaelson. Roommates: my DVR, washer and dryer, and yappy dog that lives upstairs. Crush: continuing to prove that I have awful taste in men.

Okay, so I’m not that much different. But, here’s my version as a “real” adult. Actually, they’re sort of my life rules.

Pearls of Wisdom from a University of Arizona Alum

1. Wear sunscreen. I know it’s been said before, but he’s not lying. While we’re at it: floss, don’t smoke, and exercise.
2. You’ll regret the things you DON’T do more than the stupid mistakes you make when you take a chance.
3. Do what you love and fuck the rest.
4. It’s best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life.
5. Have an opinion. But only if you have the facts and reasoning to back it up. Otherwise, you just sound like an asshole.
6. Slow down and simplify. It makes you prettier.
7. Shut up about how busy you are.
8. Be nice to others. Karma is real.
9. He’s just not that into you. But that doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot.
10. There is no place like home. Especially when you clean it, pay the rent, and own all the crap in it.

how to: beat cancer

It’s been ten years this week.

Ten years ago, I was stuck in middle school. Imagine fourteen year old me: shy, braces, dirty blonde, so skinny the boy on the school bus called me anorexic. I was crushing on Ryan Kain, but he wouldn’t know me for another year. I got my first B, in algebra. I was in SAGE with my best friends Rachel and Marissa. I was in band, sitting first chair clarinet. The summer before at music camp, I had gotten hit by a bike and had a few stitches sewn into my right shin. And then it was October.

I don’t remember too much. Just that my dad went to get a colonoscopy and that they’d found something. Could be nothing, but better check. A few days later, I remember my parents coming home. I was on the couch in the family room and my mom came in wearing that look. I know it well- and not just on my own mother’s face. It’s not a good look. I don’t remember much of what she said besides, “he has colon cancer.” I don’t know if you can fully comprehend cancer at fourteen, much less chemotherapy and radiation. Much less the possibility that he could actually die. That Dad could actually die.

He went into surgery within the next few weeks to have the tumor removed. I remember a family friend driving us to the hospital. I remember sitting in the waiting room eating Halloween candy with Annie. I don’t remember being sad or scared. I felt optimistic. I remember everything being OK. Dad came out of surgery fine and the tumor had been removed. He was cancer free. But, for the next six months, he’d endure chemotherapy and radiation. And at fourteen, you can see it. You can see the sores and the pain and the BRAT diet. You couldn’t see the tumor.

That was ten years ago. Almost year ago, my dad saw me graduate from college.

He’s been to practically every band concert, every football game. He was there to see me go on my first date, drive me to my All-State auditions, pay for my lessons and cry at my solos, see me graduate from high school. He was there a few weeks ago to stand up on my conductor’s box on Family Weekend and make a fool out of himself. He’ll be there Saturday to give me a hug and tell me how proud he is of me. And he’ll be there to give me strength every day of my life.

At fourteen, you don’t really get it. You don’t understand what having a dad like him actually means. He is kind and gentle. Soft. Never judging or quick to anger. Patient. He is self aware. He is introverted and quiet, funny and incredibly lovable. He is the half of me that is introspective and thoughtful. He is the part of me that is optimistic. I don’t think the fourteen year old me was necessarily naive to think that my Popsie was going to beat this thing. I don’t think it was even denial. I got it from him. He’s taught me to fight back and be strong in his own quiet way. That’s how he got through it, and I only hope I’ve got enough of him in me at twenty four to remember to be strong, fight back.

At twenty four I am well aware of how lucky I am to have had him these last ten important years. I’m lucky I have a dad, much less a pretty amazing one. I’ve never been your typical daddy’s girl. (Annie had that role. I had my mom- and I mean through everything.) But, he’s always there when I need to bitch and cry. When I need someone that won’t judge me or try to give me advice or even talk. He’ll just listen and slowly calm me down. He’s there to remind me that life shouldn’t be taken so seriously, that it should be enjoyed. And that even a little naive optimism is enough to get you through the fight against cancer gracefully.

Happy Decade, Pops!

how to: bake pumpkin cookies

The recipe is courtesy of Bianca- who’s visiting Tucson tomorrow!! Thank you for giving me NaBlow material.

1 cup sugar
1 cup canned pumpkin (if you use fresh, add pumpkin pie spice)
1/2 cup shortening
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
2 cups all-purpose or whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup raisins
1/2 cup chopped nuts

Light Brown Glaze:
1/4 cup butter
2 cups powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 to 2 tablespoons milk

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Mix sugar, pumpkin, shortening, and orange peel. Stir in flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt. Stir in raisins and nuts.

Drop cookies by teaspoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet. Bake until lightly brown, 8 to 10 minutes. Immediately remove from cookie sheet; cool.

Heat butter in 1 and 1/2-quart saucepan over medium heat until delicate brown. Stir in powdered sugar and vanilla. Stir in milk (I splashed in half and half) until smooth.

Drizzle or spread over the cookies and consume.

They are magnificent! Enjoy.

Now, time to finish dinner and drool over watch some of this guy:

WHAT?! No Glee?! Stupid Yankees.

how to: be a rockstar

A little over a month ago, I was working a night shift and I was like, “You know? I’m running a long leg of the Tucson Marathon in December with some coworkers and getting myself outside to run has been difficult. I should sign up for a race!” So, I found a 10K and signed up immediately. That’s how night shift goes sometimes. Sleep deprivation leads to bad decisions. (Oh, the bad decisions.)

Turns out, the town of Oracle is about an hour outside of Tucson. And at a higher elevation. And hilly. Not to mention, until that afternoon, Arizona was going through a chilly phase. Meaning, highs like in the 60s. Freaking FREEZING, people. In training, I got up to about 5 miles and took the last week and a half really easy. I thought I was screwed. The 5 miler left me winded half way and I had to take a lot of (short) walk breaks. And then, at the starting line, some ladies were talking about the hills. And the mantra for the race was “Hills ‘R’ Us.” And that one of the hills was nicknamed “Ho Bastard Hill.” Yeah.

So, I started like a frickin’ turtle. I was near the end of the pack for a while, but then the hills started. And they weren’t joking. But, fuck walking, right? I kept going, keeping my pace, jamming to “Thriller,” slowly passing the people who started out too fast. More hills. And then at 1 mile, more HILLS. Killer hills. But, I kept going. Slowly passing the walkers. My lungs never burned, the 50 degree weather keeping them cool. My calves were fine. It was all in my head and it wasn’t stopping. And then, at 2.5 miles, I hit the plateau, one long stretch of a break before a little more hills. At 3 miles, the down coaster began. While my knees ended up hating me a that day, the next two miles was just me and gravity. I was coasting. Passed walkers, enjoying the scenery, loved the wind that rushed past my ears. That was beautiful! I must have missed the 4 mile marker, because I suddenly only had a mile left. I picked it up and so did the hills. But, I still kept passing people. One guy doing his cool down past me, telling me good job and that it was all downhill after the top. And it was. I passed the girl with the green shorts and sprinted into the shoot at just over 1:13. I had exceeded my expectations of FINISHING the race, let alone RUNNING it (only three 30 second walk breaks with water stations). And then I went and ran it faster than the 5 mile training run a few weeks before.

I left feeling fantastic after helping myself to a bagel, wearing a huge smile, endorphins making me SO HIGH. My legs have never felt better- no injuries in sight from the lack of training. I am having intense urges to run that I haven’t felt since the time when I played OneRepublic on repeat (Spring 2008).

Running and I might just be in love again. And we might even have a better relationship this time around. And to mix things up, we might even revisit Ho Bastard Hill next year.

how to: stuff a pumpkin

This year, I lack the three people who love and appreciate my cooking the most (not counting my sister, but she doesn’t live with me either). A few years back, following our annual trip to Apple Annie’s Farms to pick pumpkins and apples, I stuff my giant with a bunch of stuff. It was pretty good, but a carving pumpkin isn’t meant to be eaten.

So, I had my own Fall Festival this year. I tried to get people to come over and enjoy free food, but apparently the world is afraid of Chef Lindsay or just doesn’t want free food. Whatever. I have leftovers and I had an afternoon of kitchen fun. And you have pictures.

Step 1: Don apron. Preferably one that is awesome.

Step 2: Collect items to cook, recipes on laptop. Turn on iTunes.

Step 3: Cook! The recipe’s here, but it seemed like it needed some help.

Take the sausage out of the casings- I went with two large links, rather than the suggested 4 oz. Lame asses going light? This is a stuffed veggie, so give me my MEAT! Start cooking in a large skillet over medium. Meanwhile, attack your THREE pumpkins. I picked some larger (than 1 lb, like the recipe suggests) pie pumpkins because I’m feeding just me, myself, and I, so I went with a lower number. Peel and de-gut one- I chopped it into smaller pieces because DAMN that shit’s hard to handle. Chop off the top of the other two and de-gut them. Save the seeds! Although, I have yet to toast mine.

Remove the sausage from the heat, add some freaking olive oil (silly recipe) and slowly cook your onions. Don’t add the pumpkin yet, or your onions won’t cook. Patience is a virtue. THEN, add your 2 cups chopped up pumpkin. While it’s cooking, cook up some Israeli cous cous. I found this autumn mix stuff with lentils and orzo and quinoa, and it turned out FANTASTIC, but at the very least get the Israeli stuff. It’s like really big cous cous and adds the perfect texture to the stuffing.

Add in your cooked sausage and apples. Let it cook for a few minutes. Don’t be afraid to be generous with the apples. This with the thyme and raisins really reminds me of a turkey stuffing. Then add your dry white wine. I used Sauvignon Blanc, but you can use whatever- as long as it’s good enough to drink. And, please, DON’T SKIMP. It says 1/4 cup, but I just tossed in a cup. It all gets absorbed, so as long as it’s not water (or winey, I suppose), go for it! Once that’s cooked out, add in the oregano and thyme, plenty of cranberries, cous cous, and season to taste with salt and pepper.

Finally, STUFF ‘EM! And bake ‘em in a 350 degree oven, covered in foil for about a half an hour. Uncover them and cook for another 10 or so until the squashies are soft enough. Poke it with a fork.

I also baked pumpkin cookies (recipe later!) and cooked up some homemade applesauce. Needless to say, my kitchen was a wee bit messy.

Step 4: Enjoy! You might have to cut them in half. Serve with pumpkin beer, applesauce, and pumpkin cookies for dessert, and you pretty much have the best Halloween meal EVER.

how to: look like a ho bag

Okay. Wow. I think I killed some brain cells this weekend, because I totally forgot it was November 1 and that I had to blog today. Because, well. NaBloPoMo. And it’s sorta tradition by now. So, here goes 30 days of blogging about NOTHING! WOO!

After much thought and deliberation, I came up with the perfect Halloween costume. It’s silly. It’s ridiculous. It makes people look at you sideways, go “what the hell,” and LAUGH when they finally get what you’re supposed to be. Yes, my friends. I was “The Walk of Shame.” Also: Ho Bag, Slut, One Night Stand.

To copy this look:

1) Purchase black mini skirt, slutty heels or knee high boots, and men’s white shirt.
2) Mess up your hair.
3) Attention to detail: whoreish make-up, one earring, smeared lipstick, condom attached to back, panties sticking out of shoe, make-up hickeys.

Needless to say, Halloween 2009 was quite the success.

keep fighting

Some days you feel like an asshole. Others, you stop feeling like a 15 year-old you and start feeling like the 24 year-old you. Such was this weekend.

I got out of work this evening, ready to get my but home to put up my feet. But, first! I need fish tacos. So, I went to Rubio’s, sat down, and enjoyed the fresh, wonderful combo that is beer-batter fish, lime, corn tortilla, sauce, cabbage, and salsa. As I was scarfing down my chips, a familiar song came on the radio.

Yes, it’s pretty and everything, but ever since one of my childhood friends died of cystic fibrosis almost two years ago, it just reminds me of her funeral. We weren’t close friends at the end, but her short life is a reminder that I need to cut the crap and enjoy mine. Hell, I’m living. I sort of get this reminder a lot at work. Recently, I took care of another cystic fibrosis patient, no more than five years older than me. She’s sick- as sick as you can be. But, she keeps fighting. You forget sometimes, when you’re all about advocating for that quality of life stuff, that sometimes the best thing the patient can do for themselves is to KEEP FIGHTING. And, all of a sudden, all things negative left my body. Sure, crap happens, but you KEEP FIGHTING. Because, what else are you going to do? Sit back and let it happen to you?

And then there was yesterday’s miraculous win in the last quarter to Stanford. And me on the headset, throwing up stand tunes, with Scott playing drum major, and the Pride of Arizona at their absolute GREATEST, playing every chance they got, not letting the Cats lose with their tremendous energy. The stuff that makes me love the football part of marching band. And the nearly 5 minute last note of Carmina Burana. KEEP FIGHTING. I know it’s just a sport, but goddamn. KEEP FUCKING FIGHTING.