Touques and Turkeys

 

Today, Canucks everywhere unlaced their hockey skates and gathered to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. Though I wasn't lucky enough to sneak an invite to Ellen Page's dinner, I hosted my own star-studded evening to share all things Canadian with my dear friends.

The Touques and Turkeys Countdown

10 slightly burnt dinner rolls

9 songs by Michael Buble on our Canadian playlist

8 missed calls to my mother when I panicked about taking the turkey out of the oven

7 roommates and 7 dates (plus 4 very special guests)

6 players on the winning team for Canadian trivia

5 times I gagged while degutsifying and otherwise violating my first turkey

4 dirty looks I gave when people used the word ‘eh’ incorrectly

3 delicious desserts prepared by my beautiful roommates

2 Canadians present at dinner (Thanks for showing up, Biebs)

1 turkey neck extracted from the bird after dinner. I call it extra flavoring. My date called it a red flag.   

 

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving to my friends and family north of the border! May your turkey experiences have been far less traumatizing  than mine.

To Paint a Piano

I once had a dream of painting a piano (a stolen dream from Pinterest—but a dream nonetheless). When my piano-plunking roommate followed her heart out to Michigan, I pounced on the opportunity to give her abandoned 88-keys a facelift.

Before: Plain Jane

Poof!

 You may find yourself wondering (as so many people do) ‘Should I paint a piano?’ First, ask yourself these questions:

1.       Do I love sanding things for 10+ hours?

2.       Do I really need fingerprints?

3.       Do I have a gullible army of roommates to trick into helping me?

4.       Do I enjoy going to Home Depot 3 times in 3 days?

This entry isn’t intended to give you detailed instructions on how to do it at all; it’s solely for complaining bragging purposes (If you want directions, I used this blog and this eHow).

Essentially, here’s what you do:

Disassemble...

 

...sand, power-sand, paint-strip, cry... 
  

...sand, bleed, sand...

 

...prime, sand, prime, sand, paint, sand, paint...

...reassemble, touch up, high five.

A piano is one stubborn chunk of wood. While the legs are wooden, the body is particle board with enamel baked onto the thing. Gritty sand paper did nothing. Power-sanding made it look like a team of very dainty mice had gone skating across the finish. And while paint stripper burned a hole through my ‘Save the Elephants’ shirt, it left the enamel gleaming just as much as before I charred the ozone. 

Thanks a lot, extra-strength paint stripper

But after all the blood, sweat, and saw dust, she’s done! And let me tell you, she’s beautiful. Special thanks go out to

·         My dad, for the FaceTime paint tutorials (we named the Piano Merv after him, a terrible name that shouldn’t be shared with such a beautiful thing. Love you dearly, Pops.)

·         My other dad, for the spare canister of elbow grease she keeps on hand.

·         The many roommates and brawny men who helped this dream-turned-nightmare become a masterpiece. 

We were a little too ambitious with the appliques we bought and had to trim them down to actually fit on the piano.



My sweet baby

 



A Moment of Silence

The unthinkable has happened: the baby panda at the National Zoo died this week. It was only 6 days old and about the size of a hamster.

I've always had a special place in my heart for pandas - in fact, one of my favorite books happens to be all about them:

This week I read so many articles about the tragic panda death that Facebook suggested I join the Chengdu Pambassador group. The group's purpose is to spread world-wide panda love by giving out virtual "panda hugs".

Did I join, you ask? Well, obviously! So if you need me, I'll be panda-hugging my way to a better world.

RIP, baby panda.

Love,

Pambassador Swan

Things That Start with the Letter S

Shiny Sculptures.

Swag.   Sweat.   Sangria. 

Shoot me now.

Sun.   Sand.   Shame.



This place is 30 min from where I'm working in RI...but we'd never know

Singles.   Serena.   Smash. 

Smart phone.   Stupid girl. 

Swag (the other kind).

Sailor?

Sadness.



I guess the boats leave when they say they leave

Spontaneous Sperry Shopping.



Serendipity.



The End.

'Twas the Last Month of Summer

'Twas the last month of summer and all through the nation,
The yuppies were taking their final vacations.
In Washington, tourists were starting to fade,
And back-to-school shoppers began their crusades.

While hype of The Bachelorette slowly depleted,
The race for the White House was getting more heated.
Now weren't you excited to see Snooki's baby,
And change up your ring tone to sing "Call me maybe"?

Now August was good to the girl on this blog--
It starts with a trip themed "What about Bob?"
She went back to her mission in Maine and Vermont,
Sailed Winnipesaukee - what all Bill fans want.

Then one of her old high school friends tied the knot
(Not missing that flight would've helped out a lot).
But all was not lost, she just flew into Vegas
And drove through the night - her time was outrageous!

The last trip of August (there's just one more, really)
Was with her old bestie to see Gauguin in Philly.
They strolled the exhibit and ate all too well--
Then gave a good clang on the Liberty Bell.  

And now it's September, the summer must end;
The tan lines are fading - you just can't pretend.
So farewell to August, this month has been great--
But hockey* starts up soon, and I just can't wait!

-----------
*wishful thinking...

My Year in a Suitcase

Did you ever see the movie 'Up in the Air'? Well I didn't. But I've been told I lead a similar life to George Clooney's character, whose job has him constantly flying around the country firing people. Only I don't fire people, and I'm not the Sexiest Man Alive.

One year ago I moved to DC to be a peon  management consultant. Of the 52 or so weeks I've "lived" in DC, there've been 6 total weeks where I didn't leave town on a plane, train, or automobile. Six. (but before you turn sour-punch green, let me assure you that Indianapolis and Groton, CT are not the most glamorous places on the map) At the very least, I've gained a few notches in my travel-smarts belt, right?  

Things I've learned from a year of 3-ounce bottles and window seats:

• A month in a carry-on is completely doable.
• Ziplock freezer bag = makeup bag.  
• You will NEVER feel good about yourself after eating an Auntie Ann's pretzel.
• Make friends with airport personnel, and magically you're never "randomly" selected.
• A window seat is a must for red eyes and overseas flights, unless you packed this: 

• You can easily sneak a 5-oz. tube of toothpaste through security, but the same isn't true for a 16 oz. jar of clover honey.
• Skip the jewelry
• For goodness' sake, check in online. 
• Order to put your items through the security scanner:
1. suitcase
2. laptop case
3. laptop 
4. toiletries
5. shoes

Promise. It's the fastest way to get everything off the belt on the other end.

• The December SkyMall edition is by far the best one.

"Potty train your cat faster than most people can potty train their kids"

Must have that Sianket: a snuggie for 2??

I haven't really decided how I feel about the lifestyle. Some people are super resilient and born to fly, but I personally can't imagine juggling it for too long, especially once a family is in the mix. Gah, I can't imagine. 

Until then, you can call me George - I'm Up in the Air.     

The Time I Stalked Harry Potter

**Seriously embarrassing story disclaimer**

I used to have an unhealthy obsession with a boy. He was a scrawny kid from London, never really brushed his hair, and had a weird thing for owls. But I just adored him.

When I was 15, my friend Tash and I took a trip to Southampton, England to visit her family. You know what is close to Southampton? London. You know who lives in London? Harry Potter (or at least the actor who plays him).

Yes, that's right - we stalked Harry Potter.

I'll spare you the top-secret/borderline-creepy details on how we actually found his house, but all you need to know is when we finally found it, he was away on vacation! We got royally yelled at (because anything that happens in the UK is a royal experience) by his neighbor for "star gazing", but we were not deterred. 

We came back, wrote the 10-year-old star a letter about how we came all the way from Texas to see him, and stuck it in the mail slot. Two weeks later, I received an autographed photo in the mail, and life was pretty much downhill from there.

**End of seriously embarrassing story**   

I thought of that experience this week, because I went to a different Harry's house. But not in a stalkerish way at all this time (and you're thinking, 'yeah right, this is the creeper who flew all the way to England to stalk a kid!'). 

Cross my heart.

I spy a yesterday's-glory jazz star hiding behind the hydrangeas

I was visiting Cape Cod with a friend who was giving me a tour of the town, and she stopped by Harry Connick Jr.'s house. Maybe you don't know this, but I am a HUGE HCJ fan. And I wasn't even the slightest bit tempted to go knock on his door and tell him 20 and Harry for the Holidays are my favorite albums and beg for a jazz piano lesson and a take a picture with him to send to my sister. The thought never even crossed my mind. No no, I am so much more mature than that, now. 

My days of stalking Harry's are behind me.

Other Cape Cod delights:

First ones at the beach. This is nice

Getting ready to parasail

Turns out, parasailing is not hard core even with cross bones on your parachute.

 But the view was a beaut!

I could live here. Some day. Some day.