So when I was, like, 8 years old I had these daydreams that when I became a Lady Woman Lady I’d be sitting on my window seat on a rainy day in an oversized cozy t-shirt and giant cozy white socks*.

*[ Cue Random Tangent. ]

So speaking of tube socks? Apparently they are totes out of style now thanks to the Intern at work who’s way younger and blonde with eyelashes and reminds me I’m aging and recently let me in on the news that tube socks have been out o’ style for the entire last decade. Oops. (Okay, so I didn’t quite wear the violent sexy pair to the right, but mine were approaching the calf muscle. I know.)

So how could I have missed that memo?

And did I really seriously work out at Pure Austin in Katanka’s yoga pilates pretentiousy kayaking class with effing tube socks?  Sweet Mary and Joseph.  There I was red-faced, determined, and doing the plank completely unaware I was trapped in the 80′s. Oblivious!  I know for a fact that sweaty Kevin Bacon and Kyra “These are My Lips” Sedgewick have worked out there.

OMG.
What if Kevin Bacon had seen my tube socks?
Would he have taken that as a cue and begun to punch-dance out his rage?

[ End Tangent. ]

So back to my oh so interesting girlish dreams that my red curly tendrils are pinned in a messy bun with a pencil as I adjust my oh so dainty glasses pensively and cross my long, modelesque legs. I stare in the distance at the Eiffel Tower, and feverishly scribble brilliant, innovative thoughts.

But then it dawned on me that I will never become the next great American novelist sporting a faux French accent with long modely legs (sans tube socks) if I don’t at least write a teensy wee bit every once in awhile.  And grow about 2 feet more.

LindeBlog, I dust thee of thy cobwebs and vow to update you way, way more.

[ Five Years Ago I Was Embarrassing. ]

When I first moved to Austin, I was a fresh-faced and eager young lassy, ready to embrace all that the city had to offer. A veritable beret-flinging Mary Tyler Moore. After living in corporate trafficy suity-suit Houston for four years, Austin enticed me as the artsy, younger, hipper sibling.

I will frequent random coffee shops and record stores!
I will burn incense and absorb culture!
I will Live Strong! and Keep Austin Weird!

But I could never quite pull the whole scarfy exotic Vegan Bohemian Existentialist thing off. I totally wore Gap jeans and ate Whataburger.

[ Five Years Down The Road I Got Bitter. ]

“I know it’s a big ol’ crazy shot in the dark, but… do you have anything in the klezmer genre?”

I’m wearing my best shade of Denial in hopes I won’t have to shlep all the way downtown with the traffic and the parking to Waterloo Records* where I know I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for.

“Huh?” The Best Buy girl in blue automatically looks at me disgusted.

I retreated to my car to mentally prepare to head downtown with the gamillions of people. Getting anywhere in this city takes 72 hours and a ravaging dose of Tylenol Extra Strength.

*Referential Explanationcakes:
Waterloo, a place I once practically lived in and loved, is a wildy popular record store in the epicenter of Austin known for safehousing people with hair I no longer understand and obscure music. It has a parking lot that consists of five spaces.

“My dad is worth it. My dad is worth it.” I chanted as I entered the parking lot. My panther-like eyes spy a coveted spot about to open. Sweet pickles that heavenly spot will be mine!

Two Dreadlockians standing on both sides of the car.
And yet they aren’t getting in?
They are casually discussing where to go next.

GETINTHECARANDGO!!

The good news? My trek was not made in vain. Waterloo, of course, delivered with an entire row of Israel-shaped music to choose from.

[ This Is My Last Straw. ]

Ready to purchase and getout, I took stance behind an iPod Backpack in Pigtails.
For 2 minutes.

One would assume she was standing in line to purchase the albums in her hand.
But that assumption would be wrong.

She was just standing there.
Existing.

“Scuse me,” I muttered. She didn’t budge.
“Scuse me,” I cleared my throat.

“SCUSE ME-e-E!” My voice cracked from the uncomfortable volume. “I’d like to get by now!”

I am Garth Algar.
And Waterloo is my discontent.

Dear Populii,
It would behoove you greatly to waddle a wee teensy bit faster when crossing a parking lot and or crosswalk.

I see that both of your legs are functioning quite well.  And yet you do not use them to their fullest potential. The tortoise-like speed in which I must witness the excruciating de-tail of every. single. step. you. take. confuses me greatly.

This goes especially to those Diagonal Parking Lot Strollers with 847 children in tow, scattering about the lot as though it were the devil’s playground.

Molasses wins,
The LindeBlog.

P.S.
This message excludes olds and handies.

Since birth, I have straightened, ironed, and flattened quite rigorously, every single strand of hair on the top of my head right down to the tippy tip tip of sadly inevitable split ends.

Why?
All in the name o’ beauty, Toots. Wink!

Preceeding my very first straightening iron purchase circa 1992, I was privy to laying head to ironing board like an L-shaped nitwit, hoping and praying not to drop the 783 lb. iron on my head. Or worse:

Sear scalp.
Check into burn ward of ICU.
Spontaneously combust.

So I slowly made the transition to curly because straightening is time consuming I gained the humbling perspective that This is the lady The Man Upstairs made, and who am I to try to change it? *hands on hips*

(If you don’t like it, then for the love of pickles don’t tell me because I would be totally offended.)

[ Excuse Me While I Tap Dance To The Point. ]

I’ve worn it straight maybe fo’ times this last year.
Today being the fifth.

So I’m a bit of a petunia in an onion patch at this point because what I’ve gotten in my straightened state, is a blistering typhoon of “Your hair looks so good straight!”

And I smile, process, then manage to kind of stutter an awkward “thanks!!” with a thumbs up and a blink intermittently like I just got jalapeno juice in my left eye. Because when faced with a compliment from a stranger? I morph into the uncomfortable Quasimodo. If he were an Aggie. And female.

But each time, I die a little inside. Because now I have this sandpaperish pressure from society (so dramatic, I ams *chews gum*) to straighten it again.

And The Mister, bless him, is of little to no help with the Inquisition of Curlitude because he loves me either way.

So back to square one.
Which really didn’t have a point in the first place.
Totally inserting head in sand.

*Crickets*

Hello, Logo.
You are here for amusement and decorative purposes only.
Commence.

So I got a wild hair to make some coffee this morning.

I have these coffee grounds from Starboo that an old roommate gave me for Christmas, like, five years ago when I went through my Coffee Every Hour phase. Needless to say, that era consisted of a whole lotta shakin’ (hey-o!) and some super energy.

Why I didn’t throw them away when we moved in is purely superficial: the package looked really good on the shelf in it’s cute little bag implying Some Days I Drink Coffee and When That Day Comes I Am Completely Prepared Because That’s Just What I Do.

But on said package of these Starbucks grounds, it says to:
1. Store in an air tight container.
2. Use one week after opening.

Now call me conservative, but I feel like that’s asking a lot of the casual consumer – to use the entirety of its contents in one week. It’s kind of like the committment of buying a jug of milk. The expiration factor. The mere fact that it’s there with its lingering time frame and its over the top guilt trip because of the starving children – coerces, forces, and legally binds me to use recipes that contain milk just to get it out of the fridge.

Obvs at the time of the gifting, I didn’t look into that.

So I kind of opened them, like, 98 years ago when they were first bestowed upon me, slapped a twisty on ‘em, and let them marinate on the shelf.

And let me just end this by reiterating, those directions for storage and shelf life? They weren’t just whistlen’ Dixie. Because I wound up dry heaving, then proceeding to run my fingernails down my cheeks in disgust post first sippage.

You know you’ve converted to Domesticism when the brand new spice rack equipped with a bevy of spices brings you more joy than that album used to by The Band You Loved So Much.

In my venture of cookery, I have come to discover the delight of Central Market – the oh so very organic, oh so very granola haven under the umbrella of all that is HEB. AKA My New Favorite Dive To Spend Saturday Morning Errands.

I frolic through the glass entrance like an eager child in F.A.O. Schwartz ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the marvelous Barbie stiletto water-filled pillar (shoutout: Westheimer). But replace the millions o’ mini-heels with serrano peppers. Or, you know, your food of choice. Whichevs.

Tinkering curiously down each aisle, I take a sweet moment to breathe in the pungent aroma of the patchouli bath salts. Pass the various assortments of hummus and pesto, and it is then, when I saunter down the mile-long International Cheese Department leering inquisitively at the stinky cheese, that I wonder how I could have not gotten into this ‘cooking thing’ sooner.

It is here, at Central Market, that my senses are sparked, heightened, and dare I say emancipated.

And I did something I never pictured myself doing: I purchased feta cheese. And balsamic vinegar. And the new staple in our kitchen, an adorable find, the Kishu Mandarin (pictured left, compared to an orange).

I find this an amazing breakthrough considering last year our food consumption consisted of microwavables, Papa John’s, and Whataburger.

Winter winds a-blowin’ on the outsides it was, and my determination for entertainment well outweighed the pressures of Mother Nature. Nary did I heed the weather man’s warning, but rather challenged it as I skipped to the closest Blockbuster. And by skipped I mean totally drove.

While standing in line, I noticed your typical teen walk by.

She must have been no more than 14.

How could one not notice her in a ripped tank top, shorts (winter winds, I tells ya!), and boots to the knees. Proudly carrying in her arms a framed Abbey Road poster making sure everyone would see, she spun in place, and cooed “My babieeeeees,” all the while staring at it adoringly.

Oh God.
I feel my face flush and turn away out of embarrassment.

Her mom looks tired. Desperately trying to relate to her daughter, she points to the poster. “Now I seem to remember… when this album came out. I think there was something about (pause) him? Being dead or something?”

Biting tongue.
Sweet Mary and Joseph she’s pointing at Ringo.

“And!” Daughter chimed in to sales lady, “Do you guys have Across the Universe… TO BUY?! Please please please say you do! I looooove The Beatles!” In case we, the entire postal district, didn’t happen to pick up on her gratuitous display.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She bites an eager black fingernail. “Do you guys have Requiem for a Dream?”

Hot Topic called.
They want their Dead Kennedy’s patch back.

One last glimpse as Mother and Daughter exit Blockbuster is of her flapping her arms with glee. Her mom looks drained, yet relieved, that for the next few hours her daughter will be content. Which melted my heart, and initiated a phone call to my own mom to tell her what an angel she is for weathering the storms of my sister and me.

I got in my car, sighed, and immediately ejected Abbey Road.

What is the probability?
What are the odds?
Who’d like to take a goosey gandery gamble that the wee miniscule space from hoop to lobe (see: visual above of hoop in happier times) somehow managed to finagle a latch atop my driver’s side window as I attempt entry into my vehicle, hang itself, rip lobe, and jettison across parking lot in a suicide mission ‘neath the neighborly Jetta?

If you chose slim to none?
You are wrong.
So very wrong.

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