June began with a bang, as my dear friend George Young and I performed a house show to kick off the beginning of what is bound to be an illustrious career playing at nursing homes and our family reunions.
I think this photo was taken during a train wreck of a Feist cover where George decided he didn’t want the song to end and played for about 3 minutes after I was done singing, while I sang the same 3 lines over and over trying to get him to stop. I almost landed on the floor laughing. At least George and I were entertained. (Incidentally, if any of you have any ideas for a suitable band name, float them our way. I’m partial to Academic Sugar Daddies*, myself, but apparently we can’t use that because “that’s the worst name ever.” Psssh.)
The next weekend was spent in Charleston with this guy; we picnicked in Battery Park, toured the Historic City Market and Rainbow Row, and tried and failed to visit The Charleston Museum (apparently America’s first?) when we got there about 15 minutes before it closed. I seriously love that city.
Speaking of picnicking, the boy above blew me out of the water when he designed and built me a birthday picnic basket, because he heard me say one time that one of my favorite memories from high school was picnicking by the creek.
The next weekend, I went strawberry picking with a few friends, and I managed to nail Tom in the back of the head with a massive rotten berry. It splattered all over his back. Lauren, for the win.
I am clearly playing the role of jerk in this relationship.
But he caught me in the face later, so it all balanced out.
Please note how adorable and put together Marta is in this photo. She wore a cute dress and did her hair. I rolled out of bed and pulled on something I found on the floor. Which is probably good, because when I heard that the best strawberries were in the flooded rows, I boldly ventured where no picker has ventured before, and quickly discovered why when I got stuck in quicksand-like mud that smelled suspiciously like manure. It took five minutes to free myself, and I almost left my flip-flops behind as sacrifices to the strawberry gods. I also spilled the top layer of my berries in the mud. . .and shamelessly picked them up and blew them off.
I am a child.
I started reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, which is about a year in which she and her family moved to a farm and ate only food they could grow or obtain locally. As a proponent of the slow food movement and a future farmer wannabe, I fell in love with said book (which I haven’t finished yet, so it may end horribly. We’ll see.) and Callie and I decided to go on Whole 30: The Remix (remember when we did it last year?) It’s way easier this time around, for some reason.
Except for the part where I’m an idiot, and made cheese with Tom’s sweet mother about a week and a half into Whole 30. I may or may not have cheated and tried a little bit of the mozzarella. Because CHEESE.
Ohmywordwemadecheese. I think my feelings upon beholding our creation were on par with Mowgli’s when he invented fire. (Or something like that. The Disney version of The Jungle Book has forever garbled my understanding of that story. My apologies, Rudyard.) Also please note that I’m a giant who has to hunch over to fit in photos with regular people.
Last Friday night I got to go to my second drive in movie ever! The first was with my host family in LA my junior year of college, and involved my roommate and I squished in the backseat of a minivan while the kids crawled around us. The station was set to the wrong movie half the time.
This one was far more predictable (comfy chairs, snacks, portable radio turned to the correct station) with none of the whatever-will-this-family-do-next thrills, but it was fun, too.
(Photo stolen from Bailey Wolfer’s Instagram account. I did not ask permission. Oops.)
I was shocked to find that I liked World War Z better than Superman. WHAT. (The first 40 minutes of Superman started out well enough, despite the distinct flavor of Star Wars rip-off, but then the writers apparently went on strike and turned the script over to 14 year old boys whose only interest in life is blowing things up. Seriously, all the things.)
Also, we saw miniature horses on the drive there, and my friends saw a new side of me when I lost my mind over them. They’re the most precious things in the world. Fact: one time when I was a little girl, my grandparents took me to a mini horse farm, which is apparently a thing. I still remember that day in detail.
Man. I think I’ve done more fun things this month than the other 26 years of my life combined. (Don’t be fooled, my life is not normally this awesome. I mean, I love it, but it’s full of mundane day-to-day stuff, too. I just don’t want to lead you to believe I’m kicking butt and taking names when the reality is that, while I’ll accept names that are handed to me, I’m certainly not out there looking for them, let alone taking them.)
What does the rest of the month hold?
A visit from one of my favorites:
(I seriously miss that girl more and more the longer she’s away. Isn’t she gorgeous?!)
This week I’m going to officially dive into the world of self-publishing as I finish up my current ghostwriting project–a memoir–and start working with CreateSpace on behalf of my client. That should be fun. (Actually, I’m petrified. I am way out of my depth here and I feel very small and stupid and am just desperately hoping this isn’t the worst writing the world has ever seen.) But I’m thrilled that their story is finally gonna be out there; I just hope I did the story justice, because Doreen is a captivating storyteller, so filtering through 25 years to pick notable stories and trying to tell them in her voice has been a challenge.
Well, it’s 11:30, and I must be off to eat dinner (yes, you read that correctly. This girl needs to work on time management, apparently). But I’m hoping that blogging will pick back up here in a couple weeks.
Until then, I leave you with the song I’ve had on repeat this month (I may or may not be learning the rap so George and I can cover it. . .)
Nope. Never mind. I was going to, but the video won’t embed, and I’m too big a technological idiot to figure it out. You just missed out on Inner Ninja. I am so sorry.
*Academic Sugar Daddy. Noun. A sugar daddy of academia, ie: a person who uses his or her employment in academic circles to woo significant others who just want free classes.
Lauren is such a nerd, all she wants to do is stay in school–she’ll need an academic sugar daddy to be able to afford all those classes.