Hear ye, hear ye...NOT only am I back on coffee (the dreaded cleanse is OVER!), but it's sunny and 75 degrees (and rising) outside. This goes without saying, but it is the weekend, to boot! Things are looking up, dear readers. No more crushing caffeine headaches and hyper-salivating at the sight of wine and gluten for this girl. I am free, albeit gluttonous, once again. I'm drinking a glass of wine as I type—in the middle of the DAY. Sigh. Still, even through the veil of my weekend-sugar-caffeine-acohol-high, I feel the distinct sensation of Sunday night blues creeping ever so quietly into my subconscious. In an attempt to perk up, sasbeau and I are going to risk naked hippie sightings and freak sulfuric gas burns to melt away the onset of work angst. We're heading to nearby hot springs, where a stark naked, eh hem, older broad gave us some very animtaed directions once. A bottle of wine might be in order, too. How do you fend off the infamous Sunday doldrums?
How are your New Year's resolutions coming along? As I write, I'm half-starved and painfully caffeine-free thanks to a particular resolution, which requires a "mellow" three-day cleanse I read about. I thought I'd feel light and bright, if not a little high from being so... healthy. But you know what? It is horrible. Really, really awful. Every time I complain, my beau says, "Patience and self discipline, my love." I say BOLLOCKS.
In case you don't remember me, let me introduce myself: My name is saskatch and I have been remiss in my blogging duties. Like, really really ridiculously remiss. You don't want to hear my excuses, and honestly, I don't feel like making any up. The truth is that I've been in hibernation—I am part forest creature after all. OK, that's not true. BUT, you could say I have been in a creative hibernation... of sorts. Lucky for me, I have been busy writing and writing for actual work, so in my free time the witty side of my brain has been kicking it in a hammock with a cocktail (an unfortunate situation for Saskatch the Blog). Lucky for both of us, I have some exciting news to share and post ideas a'brewin. Let me just say that BIG changes will be happening around here, so stay tuned. Above all, I missed you, dear readers. Like, a lot. I'm hoping the we can give this another try. Will you take me back? Just to show you I care, please accept this gift from me to you... (who comes up with this stuff? GENIUSES, that's who.)
First, as some of you may know, I absolutely love history. I was the dorky kid who said, "I want to be a cultural anthropologist!" when the other kids shouted, "teacher! firefighter! actress!" I also love wine. When I first saw the following clip, it was almost as if my history-dork-self met my wino-self out at a bar, and when they thought it couldn't get any better, Will Ferrell and Zooey Deshcanel walked through the door. Just watch—you can thank me later.
Second, a friend passed the following along to me. I don't know where or how they found it, but it's solid gold and I'd like to share it with you...
In classic California form, the crunchy-autumn-leaves type fall I waxed on (and ON) about the other day has come to an abrupt halt. After a foggy season that left summer wardrobes hanging in the closet, the thermometer hovered at 106 degrees yesterday in Santa Barbara (113 degrees in Los Angeles)—a slight inconvenience when you sleep in a loft and that pesky heat continues to rise. See, when you live in Santa Barbara and you like to call yourself an artist (I know, I deserve a pinch under the arm for that), more than one room in a home is a luxury, dammit.
It's unmistakable: Long summer days have morphed into evenings punctuated with a golden autumn light; European, map-toting tourists have been replaced with eager, backpack clad college students; and then there's that hint of wood smoke and the distinct smell of sharpened pencils in the air. It's FALL! I ask you: What's better than spiced cider on the stove and holiday excitement hanging in the atmosphere? I want to run out and buy gourds and Indian corn and fake cobwebs. Don't even get me started on planning for Halloween costumes (do you recall my panic last year?).
Behold my latest obsession: Clogs. Before you judge, consider this: When I was little, we teased my clog-wearing uncle relentlessly—Wearing your frankies, I see! This particular uncle happened to push six-foot-five, so "frankies" referred to Frankenstein, of course. (Kids are cruel... if not a little bit clever!) And then there's my first-ever date with sasbeau (worthy of a blog post all its own). My only hesitation? I wasn't quite sure how to process the fact that he sported clogs.
Perhaps you've noticed I've been a wee bit distracted lately. Reasons for this are two-maybe-threefold: one, I am heading out of town this weekend for a WEEK!, so my workload feels a little bit like when a wave breaks on top of you and rolls you around until you inhale a suffocating helping of saltwater.
Internet, I have realized something: I can't party like I used to (as a UC Santa Barbara co-ed, I once took only Sundays off from playing...you know, to study). Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'd spend my afternoons slurring Journey songs in a smokey bar, but I enjoyed a jolly night out on occasion. I don't know if it was the Old Spanish Days celebration that took over our town last weekend, or the much-too-fun-to-crack confetti-filled eggs being sold on State Street (I bought a dozen), but on Saturday I decided to venture out into the abyss.
Do you know how many times I heard Prince tell me that as a graduate of the class of 1999, it was my duty to party because, well, two thousand zero zero party over with out of sight, right? That was 11 years ago! More than a DECADE! I'm not going to pretend I feel aged and mature nowadays—not that you'd be fooled. I don't feel much different than 18-year-old saskatch—or eight-year-old saskatch for that matter. (Not sure if that's a good thing or not.) Do you know what more than 10 years out of high school means? Reuuuuuunion. When I was a kid, I would daydream about how successfully AWESOME I would be by age 29, and how it would flit into my reunion all, That's DOCTOR Saskatch to you!