I love this boy more every day.
Last year he got this:
This year he got a sick White Sox track jacket.
And I got a buttload of flowers:
Once again,
My Valentine is my best friend. I feel lucky.
<3>
Last year he got this:
This year he got a sick White Sox track jacket.
And I got a buttload of flowers:
Once again,
My Valentine is my best friend. I feel lucky.
<3>
I attempted to begin this post last summer, shortly after turning twenty six and entering the dreaded "late twenties." I wanted to capture my feelings: a mix of nostalgia and anxiety, with a slight sense of gratuity regarding my station in life: mid twenties with no "real" responsibilities, a burgeoning career and loving boyfriend. I was pretty convinced that I had chosen the right path, and almost felt superior to those who had gone in other directions. However, in the time that has passed since turning twenty six, I think I have learned a few more things: my path is right for me, but it is not for everyone.
It's apparent that my twenties have been the most significant decade for me yet (and that's still with 3.3 years to go), but that goes without saying: ages 0-10 were spent eating, crying, sleeping, watching Disney movies and being scared cutting my hair would hurt. Ages 11-20 were definitely the most formative, from long haired tomboy to college cheerleader with a brief pit stop at Hot Topic in between--those ten years took me on an adventure I would never like to relive, but am glad I went through it.
And then you hit twenty, and the decisions slowly become more pronounced. Your sense of responsibility starts to reflect your character. And you become held accountable, more and more, for what you are doing. Suddenly, behavior that was expected and tolerable at twenty-two makes you look like a trainwreck at twenty-five. You begin to walk this very fine, indecipherable line; where you must define yourself and your priorities with the choices that you make.
Bros have been Icing Bros all over the place, man. And it's getting to be a dangerous world out there.
If you've been under a social-media rock and haven't heard the term "Icing" yet, it's when you are presented -or tricked into discovering- a Smirnoff Ice. Yes, that deliciously disgusting Malt beverage that tastes somewhat like lemonade and cat piss and vodka all at the same time. If you get "Iced", you're supposed to immediately take a knee (or both knees, if you're a lady like me and donning a skirt at An Tain at 5Pm and end up Iced) and chug the whole thing in one sitting (kneeling). Gross. But everyone's doing it. And I have yet to get puke on my shoes.
Your only defense is to keep an Ice handy to Block your icing (if so, the original instigator is supposed to chug both. OUCH) with your own bottle of Smirnoff Ice, ready in hand. But carrying around a Smirnoff Ice just-in-case is about as lame as you can get. Might as well store it in your fanny pack while you re-strap your Tevas.
Anyway. Dear Boyfriend was iced while performing the other night, which made for some stellar comic relief. In the end, he discovered it was Mike's Hard Lemonade and he was indeed duped by our friend, who had the bartender pour the equally-disgusting malt bev into a pint glass to conceal its real identity.
Regardless, I present to you Motherfucker Just Got Iced. It's a jam.
If you've been under a social-media rock and haven't heard the term "Icing" yet, it's when you are presented -or tricked into discovering- a Smirnoff Ice. Yes, that deliciously disgusting Malt beverage that tastes somewhat like lemonade and cat piss and vodka all at the same time. If you get "Iced", you're supposed to immediately take a knee (or both knees, if you're a lady like me and donning a skirt at An Tain at 5Pm and end up Iced) and chug the whole thing in one sitting (kneeling). Gross. But everyone's doing it. And I have yet to get puke on my shoes.
Your only defense is to keep an Ice handy to Block your icing (if so, the original instigator is supposed to chug both. OUCH) with your own bottle of Smirnoff Ice, ready in hand. But carrying around a Smirnoff Ice just-in-case is about as lame as you can get. Might as well store it in your fanny pack while you re-strap your Tevas.
Anyway. Dear Boyfriend was iced while performing the other night, which made for some stellar comic relief. In the end, he discovered it was Mike's Hard Lemonade and he was indeed duped by our friend, who had the bartender pour the equally-disgusting malt bev into a pint glass to conceal its real identity.
Regardless, I present to you Motherfucker Just Got Iced. It's a jam.
Let's start this with a very general statement;I can grill. By which I mean, I can maybe cook you a steak and serve up some veggie kebabs. As long as you have absolutely no preference in your meat temperature and enjoy peppers and onions brushed with olive oil.
My grill and I have a somewhat sordid past. The day after I received the grill as a gift from my parents, I attempted to cook marinated tequila-lime chicken from the North Andover institution known as Butcher Boy. I got as far as opening the bag with a butcher knife when I slipped, cut open my left index finger, and was rushed to the ER by my roommate. I didn't even make it as far as pre-heating the damn grill. Grill - 1. Allie - 0.
So let's just say, I'm not the most skilled with the clunky propane beast that sits outside my apartment, but I have come a bit further since that first attempt. Last weekend, I busted out plum tomatoes, halved and skewered, stuffed with artichoke hearts, parmesan, and goat cheese. The idea may or may not have been borrowed from a Rachael Ray mag, but the execution was there. (And damn, were they tasty.)
But regardless, I remain a novice at cooking in general, and my overall fear of hurting myself/acknowledgment of my clumsiness doesn't ease my mind around a grill.
So this past weekend, as Boyfriend sat in a cold-induced Dayquil coma playing games on his iPod Touch, I decided to go to to the grocery store and tackle something I never had before: Beer Can Chicken.
