I’m not sure I like the changes. I mean, WBUR has been going on about the T’s big plans for a while, so I guess I’m not completely surprised. It’s just a lot all at once. You know? They have these new Smart Pass things. NPR didn’t warn me about that. People ahead of me were scanning them at the new circular portal-doors and then being absorbed by columns of intense blue light that appeared out of nowhere. It was slow. I ended up getting an Uber, which made me feel like a prick. And speaking of, what the hell is up with that blue? I was trying to board the Green Line! Shouldn’t the colors correspond? Poor planning.
And by the way, those portals are made out of the same stuff as my mom’s countertops, so I know they ain’t cheap. Three portals per station, plus all that script inlaid around each portal’s edges, equals a ton of quick-turnaround specialty design and construction work for no practical purpose that I can determine. If you absolutely must have a seven foot high humming portal at your T stop, make a mold and pour twelve of the damn things in concrete. Cut down on the time and labor that goes into hand-carving a bunch of granite. It’ll look better, too. I cannot be the only one who gets nauseous looking at those crawling, glowing letters. Again, bad design choice.
If this is where my tax dollars are going, consider me a disappointed voter.
The holidays are over. Done. Finito. Terminated, often with uncomfortable family prejudices! (Actually, our families have been pretty amazing. I heard some stories, but several involved eggnog.)
It has been, to say the least, a rough year.
However, I know that 2015 is going to be different. 2015 will be chock-full to the cockles with change of the most fecund variety. 2015 will be wealthier, healthier, and less fruitless by scads than the previous dire year. How, you may ask, do I know this? Have I been gifted of visions by the god Apollo? Have I been to the future itself?
I’ll tell you how I know that 2015 will be better: my ridiculously generous family has given me a bread machine.
This is integral to my happiness and quality of life for the following reasons:
- The apartment is too cold for yeast to thrive. Like, anywhere. Unless it’s summer and 90 degrees in the shade, those little buggers are freezing to death long before they fart out enough gassy goodness to make the dough rise.
- Bread is idiotically expensive in Boston. We’re talking $2 for a loaf of whole wheat. That’s shenanigans. I call it so, not only because it’s silly, but because darn it I don’t have that kind of bread for bread. Even with the energy the bread machine uses, it’s less than half the cost to make a loaf than to straight-up buy one.
- I dream a dream of a solar-powered house where my woman and myself will dwell unhindered by the guilt born of Earth-killing carbon fuels burning through the night to keep our showers hot and our toothbrushes electrified. In this dream, there exists a small but cozy corner where bread is made…with the power of the SUN!
These are all reasonable reasons to want a bread machine, I reason. It has nothing to do with my penchant for making the kitchen smell all nice. It’s just a useful thing to do. Everyone should make bread. It’s like knitting. Do you know who needs to know how to knit? EVERYBODY, that’s who! Seriously: it’s stress-relief in a sweater. Who wouldn’t want that? Who doesn’t *need* that?? Who doesn’t CRAVE that? Productive stuff can also be nice and relaxing, you know! It’s science! I read it in a book! You might be asking if it was a book of cross-stitch patterns, but you’d be wrong! Embroidery is WAY more complicated than just cross-stitch and there are some truly substantive books on the subject! Have I read them? Yes. Have I enjoyed them? May I remind you that these books are substantive? I love substantive shit. Give me some Hemingway! I will read it until it is thoroughly read! And I will have you know that, in the pursuit of making things freaking pretty as hell, my French knots are so regular and even that Theresa of Avila herself weeps tears of holy joy when she sees me working with a needle and thread!
Because, dammit, mason jars are awesome. And I like to fill them with dried apricots and tie little ribbony bows on them and give them to people who wish to God I were just another slob with barely the presence of mind to restock the M&Ms. I mean, I haven’t restocked the M&Ms. But I do have a large selection of semi-sweet chocolate for coating candied fruits. Think about it: candied chocolate apples. Better for you than a Snicker’s bar, right? Right?
Oh come on! A woman can enjoy Pinterest without becoming a stereotype! Just because I own an entire table full of crafting supplies does not make me a caricature of homely wholesomeness. I mean, I own a hand-crank drill! Oh God – that’s not helping. How about my vast collection of herbal teas in their handmade box? OK, I just re-read that. Forget it. Cross it off. What about my…collection of ties! Yes! My tie! They’re arranged by color, shape, texture, and…and…shit.
You will call me a domestic goddess. This will happen. I’m…not really at terms with it yet. I’m still a mighty adventurer with a wild streak. (Look at me swear! I swear like crazy! That’s wild for you!) And I’m no less a capable career woman. There’s nothing about scented candles that displaces an aggressive negotiating style. But ever since babyhood, I’ve been handed two separate, mutually exclusive bills of goods: one that includes kitchenry and prettyness, and one that includes board rooms and suit jackets. I say that I want both. Both, I say! I am not content to explore a mere half of my potential as though I were an avatar in a particularly stupid video game! I will negotiate. I will wear a suit jacket! And by my home-cooked cat food and pretty woodburned picture frames, we’re going to have some damn delicious bread in 2015!
Seriously. No time. I have two samples, a review, and an article on kibble to write before midnight. Then I have to make banana bread because THE BANANAS ARE DYING AND THERE IS NO OTHER WAY TO SAVE THEM. Then I have to dose one of my cats with aspirin so her adorable little ticker doesn’t give out, which involves tricking the other two cats into thinking that they’re getting aspirin too and that is hard because the Bengal is smarter than 46% of Harvard graduates. I have no fucking time to talk to you today. Today, you are going to have to make do with Nyan Cat.
Happy National Cat Day. Fuck!