love it: spud ranch

With a name like Spud Ranch, you know this place has to be good. And it is. Casual, inexpensive, big portions, and delicioussss.

It has locations in San Marcos and New Braunfels. I first got hooked when I was as undergrad at Texas State. I went to the NB location for the first time today and am happy to report their second location hasn't lost any of that good mojo.

spicy chicken spud

My favorite menu items? The Cajun spud (andouille sausage, bell peppers, sauteed onions, butter, cheese, & Louisiana hot sauce), the Hot Wing spud (mild Buffalo-style hot wings, butter, cheese and ranch or blue cheese), the Classic (bacon, butter, sour cream, chives), and the fried pickles.

Don't like baked potatoes, weirdo? Well, they have sandwiches, salads and soups. Although you'd be better off going to Jason's Deli for that stuff, because Spud Ranch is all about the taters.

Check it out! 

haterade: gadhafi

Well, "haterade" is a massive understatement. Libyan leader Moammar Gadhafi is a nut - We all knew that. And the fact that he's actually trying to blame the unrest in his country on al-Qaida and hallucinogen-spiked coffee (yes, that's right) merely reaffirms the fact that this guy is completely off his rocker. And, worst of all, he's a murderer. We don't know how many he's killed, and probably never will. We do know that he's handing out automatic weapons like candy to his supporters, who he's sent to go terrorize the capital. Yesterday Obama "got tough" by freezing Gadhafi's assets. Meanwhile, anti-government protestors are being picked off by snipers in Tripoli on Gadhafi's orders. Um, yeah, this guy needs to be taken out.

what do women want?

Wow. I am in love with this poem:

"What Do Women Want?"

I want a red dress. 
I want it flimsy and cheap, 
I want it too tight, I want to wear it 
until someone tears it off me. 
I want it sleeveless and backless, 
this dress, so no one has to guess 
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store 
with all those keys glittering in the window, 
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old 
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers 
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, 
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. 
I want to walk like I'm the only 
woman on earth and I can have my pick. 
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm 
your worst fears about me, 
to show you how little I care about you 
or anything except what 
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment 
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body 
to carry me into this world, through 
the birth-cries and the love-cries too, 
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin, 
it'll be the goddamned 
dress they bury me in.

- Kim Addonizio 

if you forget me

I have recently rediscovered my love of poetry.

Pablo Neruda

Now, I will probably never love it as much as I do literature, because I like details: I love knowing about characters, what they're thinking, what they're doing, where they came from, etc. But poetry is intriguing. I like to think of a good poem as literature on steroids, because a good poet can pack a punch as potent as any novelist in a mere few lines. It's pretty amazing. So I've started reading a few poems every night before I go to bed as opposed to only reading a chapter from my book or watching a Glee rerun.

I think I might start sharing a poem with y'all every weekend. It will probably be one that kinda sums up how I'm feeling, and one that I think you may enjoy reading.

Here's a poem from Pablo Neruda, who is quite possibly my favorite poet of all time:

If You Forget Me


I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

- Pablo Neruda


Gorgeous, isn't it?

love it: the history boys

Have you ever seen The History Boys? Well, you should! It's brilliant. It's one of those dialogue-heavy, category-defying British films that I adore so much. (Yes, that's an actual genre if you ask me. Consider it for a moment...You're thinking of a few right now.) The entire movie, in fact, is dialogue - Mainly musings about history, literature, and growing up. You can totally get how it was originally a Broadway play (which I'm now dyyyyying to see!). Here's the trailer: 




And a few of my favorite lines:

History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket. 

Pass the parcel. That's sometimes all you can do. Take it, feel it and pass it on. Not for me, not for you, but for someone, somewhere, one day. Pass it on, boys. That's the game I want you to learn. Pass it on.


F**k the Ren-ai-ssance! And f**k literature, and Plato, and Michaelangelo, and Oscar Wilde, and all the other shrunken violets you people line up. This is a school, and it isn't normal! 

Now, it's not some happy coming-of-age tale. There's dark moments, there are some uncomfortable realizations, there are some unsettling observations about the nature of education and, yes, history.

See what I mean? Rent it. Today. Now.

FITBF :))

Woohoo! I am having so much fun with Fill in the Blank Friday, which I find on Amy Rene's's blog. Here I gooooo....

I am currently obsessed with Parks and Recreation and Community. They're two of my very favorite shows on television right now - They've actually probably replaced my two former TV obsessions, 30 Rock and The Office, which I still love but not as profoundly as I once did. Hey, it happens.

Today I am relieved because it's Friday! My weeks feel soooo long these days, and Friday and Saturday nights after 8:00 are literally the ONLY times that I can do whatever I want. On Fridays I generally don't go out because I'm too exhausted and want to spend my time vegging, reading what I want, and catching up on my sleep. Can't wait!

The age I am is 23 and the age I feel is 43. I'm a cardigan-wearing, gin-drinking, Elton John-listening, book-club-attending kinda gal. I also think I feel a bit world-wearier and jaded than is strictly healthy for someone my age. (But, wait, isn't that the default psychological state for most twenty-somethings? Maybe I'm not as unique as I thought.)

My favorite place is my front porch. I have a huge, beautiful front porch overlooking green fields, wildflowers, and trees. There's a blue haint ceiling, insanely comfortable chairs, and ceiling fans. I spend a lot of time just sitting, thinking, and reading out there. I especially love watching storms roll in. It's the location of all my Zen moments. The only place that could possibly compare is my parents' front porch, which I love for all the same reasons.

Something I have been procrastinating is cutting my dog's hair. He is a Pomeranian mix that is constantly shedding and whose hair grows at about an inch per minute. It's super expensive to keep him trimmed all the time (I have to take him to a professional groomer because it's just traumatizing for both of us when I attempt to do it), but it's also incredibly gross to constantly be covered in dog hair. So I've gotta do it. I'll call Classy Canines tomorrow...no, Monday. Definitely by Wednesday.

my doggie

The last thing I purchased was a bottle of Cruzan 9 spiced rum on my way home today. (See previous statements about Friday night relaxation and my front porch detox time.)

The thing I love most about my home is how clearly it bears traces of my fabulous grandmother, Billie. (It was her home; she had it built several years before she passed away.) It's full of cool light fixtures, interesting artwork, pieces of stained glass, quirky little knickknacks, and just a lot of very beautiful things. The main feature of the living room is a whole wall of book shelves and a fireplace - Heaven! It's also very open and airy: large windows, high ceilings, neutral walls, tiled floors, tons of light. I absolutely adore it. When I first moved in, I was worried that living there might make me lonely for my grandmother...But it's not like that. It's a lovely and happy place, full of "good energy" just like it was when she was alive. She and I were kindred spirits, and I know she's happy to look down and see that someone is keeping the home fires burning. <3

spinster

Spinster

Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious april walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds' irregular babel
And the leaves' litter.

By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover's gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower;
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.

How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.

But here -- a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into vulgar motley --
A treason not to be borne; let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.

And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.

- Sylvia Plath 

This poem by the lovely and tragic Sylvia is one of my new favorites. As some of you know, I'm officially and indefinitely single for the first time in a long time. I was with the same guy on-and-off (overwhelmingly on) for nearly six years. But hey - I taught myself to knit. I taught myself to make pitch-perfect Cajun maque choux. I taught myself to get by on roughly four hours of sleep a night. Now I'm teaching myself the art of solitude.

I like knowing that I can live or work wherever I may choose. I like not having to explain myself or check in with anyone. I like going on a date and not having a care in the world about where it may "be going." I like coming home to a quiet, empty house. Maybe I'm a spinster in the making?

There are worse things.