The Daily Mosifer

Hey Girl

Simply, this and these. Partly because I want to lick chocolate sauce off his beard. But mostly because of that month I didn't wash my hair. 

Beets. Bears. Battlestar Gallactica.

The beet salad I made for Linner (it was 4 PM, ok?) was delicious. Not only is it one of my current favorite foods but beets are like, one of the healthiest things on planet Earth. Ok maybe not really the healthiest but they're damn close. Nom nom nom, NUTRIENTS. I feel more energized and healthy already.

I was going to regale you all with my beet salad recipe and some factoids on beets for today's Daily Mosifer, but then I realized that's kind of boring, and the recipe takes like 30 seconds to convey (MIRANDA: buy beets. Peel and chop into small cubes. Steam until soft. Simmer up some pecans in butter and brown sugar. Throw all that shit on a plate with some blue cheese. Devour -- but not before taking a picture, becaue I forgot. See, I haven't ignored your request for NaBloPoMo! -- and run around the block to expunge newfound energy).

As I was thinking about the wonders of beets, I remembered their significant role in one of my favorite books. My uncle introduced me to Tom Robbins via Villa Incognito two years ago and I've been hooked on him ever since. Jitterbug Perfumein which beets are the mojo to this book's Austin Powers remains one of my favorites. Robbins has this uncanny way of expressing all that I believe in spirituality and the power of the universe with a wonderfully rare "who cares?" attitude.

It's the undercurrent of spirituality conveyed with nonchalance that I love about his books. Robbins knows what's up, but he also knows that there's no good worrying about it too much. He understands what I struggle daily to grasp: that there is truth in what you believe no matter its origin, but to relax and just let it happen is the real key to happiness.

My friend says his over-the-top use of allegory makes her sick. I say give me a good story with something behind it, and I'm hooked. Though I'm still not talking to David Foster Wallace. 

Honestly, Man
I'm pretty sure this has been circulating the interwebs for a fair amount of time already, but in typical Mosifer fashion I bring it to you now: as totally outdated and probably "so 5 minutes ago." If you came here expecting the latest in breaking pop culture, please join The Mother over on TMZ and leave me alone, K?

I actually read Dan of Single Dad Laughing's 16 Ways I Blew My Marriage a few weeks ago and have referred back to it several times in the interim, just because I think it's so spiffy. The reason being? I LOVE THE HONESTY. I'm a sucker for bare-bones, closeted-skeleton, painful-makes-you-wanna-look-away-and-make-a-guy-walks-into-a-bar-joke honesty because face it: we've all got this shit, but we're not all ballsy enough to say it (and if you make it through the two sequels, read up on how he changed after marriage. GAAAAAH).

Plus, I'd never miss an opportunity to see what's going on in the other half's heads (men: what are you, and where did you come from?). Always worth a visit, even if just to check that nothing's on fire. 

Jiro Dreams of Sushi

I call the one on left.

I'm not a big documentary-watcher. Less so for those in subtitles. Mostly because when I watch movies it's because I want to get out of reality. And forget subtitles, movies are all about being lazy and crying over unrealistic love stories. I'm still waiting for Ryan Gosling to carry me up a flight of stairs.

BUT THIS MOVIE. If ever I've complained about working too hard with too little in return, either refer back to this movie or send me to Japan. I'd probably be deported within hours for my love of bubble baths and ice cream out of the tub, though.

There's something about this culture that dedicates its life to their passions that blows me away. The dedication behind this movie makes me ashamed of how little it shows me I work for what I want. Though I'm not an extremist in any shape or form (or so I tell myself), somehow Jiro makes me want to buy a gas mask and spend the rest of my life in the studio.

Just watch it, and wait for the inspiration to hit.      

Small Business PWN.

In the wake of the conglomofuck that is Black Friday, a lesser known but -- in my opinion -- far more important day emerges. Today is that day, better known as Small Business Saturday.

Almost exactly four years ago, my life was drastically changed (I could even argue "saved") by the small business that I currently call work, home and family. We are a tiny knot of wackos in the great twine that is local and national economy. Our large and yet strangely cramped Victorian house in its downtown location supports 40+ years worth of the business's history, as well as more nutrition-y crap that you could swing a grass-fed burger at. The people I seldom refer to as "coworkers" and more often "those weirdos that I hang out with all the time and no Laura is not my sister" comprise some of the most intelligent, passionate and caring people I could ever have hoped to call my own.

Until my indoctrination at the health food store, I had little concept of the importance of small business. But in case you didn't know, it really is that important. Small business drives local economy, creates jobs and overall is the backbone of our country. We are the singular stores, the ones run by its founders and those that you visit for the people as much as the product. And no, WAL-MART DOES NOT COUNT.

As much as I love me some Starbucks, I have found more genuine connection and identity in the small businesses that make up my everyday life. Here are a few that get me hot and heavy:

Le Petit Marche (Dawn's Bread) -- Crystal Lake

Ehrmegerd, BREAD. And CAKE. And PIE, WINE, SOUP, WINE, COOKIES, and WINE. Need I say more? Not to mention that I can never just "stop in real quick," because guaranteed Imma get at least three or four hugs on my way out. Ladies, this is your wine night come true.

Moxie -- Dekalb

When I journey to Dekalb, I will never EVER leave without popping in to drool over the vintage goodies oozing out this place's walls. For real, these wonderful people spend a hell of a lot of time looting through estate sales and vintage markets just to make me pee my pants in excitement. Walk through front door. Run to stairs. Don't plan on leaving for several hours.

Duke's Alehouse & Kitchen -- Crystal Lake

Ah, the drunken debauchery that has occurred here. I'm already steeling myself for the 12 beers of Christmas, in which I spend a month working my way through overly large, ridiculously high-proof beers in order to claim my hard-earned Duke's t-shirt. But trust me, this will never occur until AFTER I have eaten my grass-fed giant beefburger made with all local ingredients and vegetables grown ON THEIR OWN FARM. Other Towns of America, don't even try.

The Backdrop -- Woodstock

Despite the fact that Greg likes to gnash on The Mother and my egos, The Backdrop has been a loyal member of our family since day 1 (he just loves us that much). Go. Just walk in. Prepare to spend a lot of money on things you instantly cannot live another second without.

Enjoy your Small Business Saturday, everyone!

The Daily Mosifer

As has been noted by a handful of loyal followers, I recognize that I spend a lot of time bitching and moaning about my, my friends', and the world's problems. Seeing as though there are a plethora in each aforementioned category, I would offer you my standard SUCK IT and further note that Poe never got anywhere talking about flowers and daisies. HOWEVER. Something about yesterday being Thanksgiving and the disgustingly sappy, heart-swelling love I have for each and every one of you that take precious time out of your day to tune into the nuthouse that is this blog, I'm pleased to introduce to you:


Or, a daily post of that which makes me tingle, sing off-key in the shower, and otherwise excited about a life that occasionally gets lost in the mess it makes of itself. Not that I'm bitching, of course. And so it goes:

Disgustingly cute.

My friend Sam recently posted this photo of her embarking on her first flying lesson. Someday I'll get over the fact that she didn't tell me she was doing it ahead of time and I had to find out via Faceplant after the fact -- YES SAM I'M TALKING TO YOU -- but for right now I'd just like to share with you how incredibly amazing it reminds me that she is.

I don't know how to describe to you the love I have for this woman. If I were a mother, she would be my pride and joy. If I were a blanket, she would be the sheets. If we were lesbians, we would make the shit out of that bed together. She has seen me through so much, and I hazard to guess I have done the same on occasion. Whenever we are together, it's like somebody threw a mirror in the room and I'm hanging out with myself (not that I'd really choose to hang out with myself, but you get the idea), we interact so seamlessly. When we have the great fortune of spending time in each other's homes, the magical doubling of both our wardrobes is enough to make me swoon. Not to mention that neither of us have a problem wearing things off the floor. In a nutshell, she is my heterosexual soul mate.

When I saw this, I thought "fuck you, Sam!" simply because she never fails to amaze me with her balls and infinite desire to claim the world. In fact, when I endeavored to make a ten-foot painting of her, from day one its tentative title was "The World." This is both because when I met her I had no idea what her ethnicity was -- girl could be part ANYTHING -- and her uncanny ability to be anything and everything all the time. She constantly amazes me with her passion for life and ability to make me jealous squeezing the shit out of it. Only she shares my knack for traveling alone to unseen cities for a weekend and spending far too much money at Target in California. Plus she's the only one apart from The Mother that would call me out on that jealousy (Sam I reiterate: fuck you!). Also I can say "fuck you" to her and she won't get mad. Or throw a reduced fat caramel iced coffee in my face (a drink I find appalling, but I'm still working on her pallet).

Sam, I am SO SO SO SO proud of you. You inspire me to grab life by the balls, time and time again. Only you could put up with me for 30+ hours in a car together as I make her tortuously listen to 50 Shades of Grey. Only you would let me use your entire sketchbook for kindling as we attempt to make an illegal fire on the outskirts of Yosemite National Park. Only you would necessitate "going in to town" to find a bathroom so that you may wash your face in the wilderness. And only you would let me make fun of you for it, over and over and over again. You are so special to me, and I can't wait for you to get your pilot's license so that you can fly me all over the place when someday we elope to a far-off land. Let's never stop spending too much money together, ok?

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