Reason Number 424:Chickpeas

After revisiting "Too Close," I remembered when I first heard it and though Next was bemoaning the tribulations of relationships, ladies making things difficult rather than facilitating gigantic boners. There was a time when I thought boners were caused by changes in weather patterns, and that subway trains were not operated by drivers, and instead by some kind of all-powerful centralized computer system, but at some point reality hits and you realize Silk is actually five guys, not just one, and touchdowns are not tackles, and there is no fourth plate.

These are the things that keep a person up late at night.

In the daytime, there are chickpeas, imo one of the most versatile proteins ever, and alongside sea salt, olive oil, and a cast iron skillet one of my most utilized pantry staples. And! Not only can you mix them with pasta, a satiating curry or formulate your very own homemade hummus, you can also employ chickpea flour in certain baked goods. And did I mention they're more than just okay eaten straight out of the can?

Vegan cornbread was not a resounding success, but that's probably more because as a Southerner (by the Grace of God, of course) I have a very set idea about how cornbread should taste, and crumble in one's mouth. Namely: buttery, salty, sandy. Was worth a shot, though. And it was super easy. Might be good draped in peanut butter, or drizzled with honey, which I bought in fucking abundance (and for so cheap!) at Titan Foods in Astoria, for sure the best Greek market in the city.

Sometimes in brokeness I find myself more materialistic, or a different shade of materialistic. Like, I've been hoarding recipes on tastebook.com, a dangerously incredible recipe search database that allows you to save and store recipes in a folder! YES! I'm sure this is old news for most epicures who actually know how to use computers and internets, but I was very delighted by the possibility of storing recipes on these internets, because I feel like I always end up with a disorganized, daunting bookmarks bar, or forget where I found that white bean cassoulet recipe I was looking to try. Sigh.

Oh man, and the chickpea recipe options on this thing could distract me for days.

I've also been craving a cactus collection, which may or may not indicate I've actually lost it. But plants you can neglect! The kitties of house plants!

Reason Number 423: Alaia sandals, unflinching productivity

I should have known there would be more wintry mix before this capricious winter draws to a dribbly close. I never thought optimism would be my undoing, but like an idiot I'm gun-jumping, blasting choice arias from Handel's Messiah as I drink Coors Light from a repurposed peanut butter jar, stowing away thick sweaters and shearling boots, relieved over something that's not really over yet.

March gets me every time with its inscrutable whims, and now I kinda sound like Jonathan Edwards, but it could be worse. I could sound like Nicholas Sparks, or Rivers Cuomo, or James Franco (aaah I just dropped JF on this blog, it's definitely time to chase my favorite bottle of percocet with a handle of Evan Williams and call it a lovely afternoon).

Perplexed at whateverthefuckisgoingon, folding, unfolding, refolding clothing, uncertain what should be stored, what should be put to use, I unearth my Alaia sandals, the zenith of my Neiman Marcus Last Call discoveries. They are perfect sandals, distinctive yet neutral, unfalteringly comfortable, a means of elevating even the dumbest, laziest summer outfits. I know I will wear them soon, but for now I will enjoy this transitional climate, which is still preferable to that of January, I suppose.

I'm getting some super quality creative writing done. When I'm writing fiction it's difficult to know what will be funny, what will be tragic, and that sometimes makes me feel like a terrible writer, but then I'm like, wait a minute, it doesn't matter one bit, and it's how I live my life. One of the last times I had a serious good cry was over the stray kitten I used to feed smashed flat in the middle of 116th St. I'd like to say that's the worst thing that's happened to me in three years, but many other things just make me laugh, or feel stern, and not because I don't care, but what in the world else are you going to do?

Reason Number 422: Rupert Holmes says it the way you wanna say it

More breaking news: people are seriously not nice.

Adverbial crutches!

There's also absolutely nothing you can do about that aside from eat a bagel, take a jog, realize you're probably not that nice either. Or, if you're really ambitious, bake some bread, which is something I've never done before, but oh get ready because here it comes. I'm sure it'll be a failure the first, even the second time, and let's be perfectly honest, probably the third, but someday I'll bake a loaf worth swooning over.

There will also come a time when I will walk out on adverbs once and for all, and my writing will bloom with crisp promise. Not gloriously bloom or astonishingly bloom or even simply bloom, but bloom.

I know I said I'd write about dealbreakers, but here I am, dealbreaking.

Reason Number 421: First Iced Coffee of the Year, Not Counting the One I Drank in Los Angeles

Breaking news: People are not nice.

I think in every post I reference a bad pop song or unpopular vocalist. This probably won't change, and right now I'm absolutely dying to drop Glen Medeiros but I just won't. Or will I? Or did I just? The games we play.

I think I like being embarrassed more than other people do. In fact, I know I like being embarrassed more than other people do, because most people don't enjoy being embarrassed whatsoever.

At this stage in my writing life, I try not to compare myself to famous authors, because that's generally a pointless, grief-inducing strategy, but as I approach thirty my worries about my literary shortcomings are heightened to the point that I wake up sweaty thinking holy shit, Flannery O'Connor was only ten years older than me when she died and even boring writers I don't care about like Junot Diaz were starting to publish at twenty-seven and man oh man I'm not as young as I used to be, or think I am. But then there are total badass weirdos like Grace Paley who didn't publish until their late thirties, which gives me another decade, but decades fly by as they say. And I know I'll never be a Joyce Carol Oates, and I wouldn't want to be, and most likely I'll end up a Ronald Firbank, or an anonymous monk who transcribed segments of Beowulf and imho turned them into Jesus-speak, or maybe even an Aldo Buzzi if I'm lucky, and by lucky I mean perseverant. The point being I need to punch myself in the face and try harder.

Also, LA's pretty cool. I drank my first iced coffee of 2011 there, but fuck if I'm going to count it. This fine New York morning I scaled the stairs in the New Science Building to drink the yuppiest iced coffee in town, and right now I can't think of any better way to spend four dollars than delicious caffeination, which is not a word, and the idea of making up words is really dumb unless you're David Foster Wallace, who should have read this blog because listening to "Rhythm Nation" would totally have given him the fortitude he needed to not kill himself.

Sometimes I ask myself why the J. Crew factory online store is only open on weekends, but then I realize I know exactly why, and feel embarrassed for thinking about the J. Crew factory online store in the first place, but since I like being embarrassed I continue thinking about the J. Crew factory online store, and smile.

And next time: dealbreakers.

And, in the near future, an -ly adverb-free post. It's like Oulipo all up in here! Constraints. Challenges. Life being a highway and all.

Reason Number 420: Floral Arrangements turn you into your Mother, acceptance follows

There's a time in every lady's life when she says goodbye to her ravaged red cowboy boots. They are no longer wearable, not only physically, but stylewise they no longer pack a punch, or even seem useful. Not throw them away, but stuff them in a shoebox, save them for a niece. This sounds like a metaphor, and not a very good one.

The time it takes to walk from my house to Fairway (hearthearthearted) is exactly the time it takes to listen to George Michael's "Freedom 90." Like, we're talking down to the last second. Trial and error led me to this exhilarating conclusion.

Today, as I skipped at the prospect of blueberries on sale and then subsequently felt self-conscious about my exuberance, I spied some hipericum, and although I've never purchased personal-sized, pre-cut flora in my entire life was inexplicably inclined to put them in my basket alongside my chard. I'm now searching for a receptacle to put them in, but since this is a new experience for me, I have no vases, only an empty tin of Irish oatmeal, or maybe a tall plastic cup. I will let you know how this goes.

I know I've mentioned this before, but there really is a Janet Jackson song for every emotion I could possibly feel in life. It's both terrifying and strangely comforting to turn on my ipod and listen to her wise advice and spot-on observations. Sometimes it's a good idea to wait awhile, nice packages are alright, lots of things don't really matter, and who doesn't love an escapade, or want to encourage another person to participate in an escapade?

My dweebiness knows no bounds. In other news, anything related to celebrating St. Patrick's Day is the biggest holiday dealbreaker. My word problems continue. But I temper my inclinations with vigilance, and small, average words.