Cakes live forever on the internet

There’s a good chance if I know you and see you on a regular basis you’ve already seen this picture. It’s old news, and I’m proud of it in the same way a new parent is proud of their brand new child— I will find a way to show you the picture whether or not our conversation is related to cake artistry or even mustaches. 

And this truth is, this isn’t even a particularly new picture. But because I occasionally like to give myself a pat on the back for having spent a stupid amount of time on a cake that would have tasted just as delicious if it didn’t happen to resemble a mustachioed actor I’m posting it here— on the internet —so that those hours of fondant based art can exist somewhere for eternity.

Also, I totally stole this idea— and yes the original version is oh-so-slightly more professional looking. Just a bit. 

The judgmental side-glance.

The judgmental side-glance.

Self-served Shame (with probiotics!)

There are two self-serve frozen yogurt shops in the town that I live in. There used to be three, but apparently that was just one shop too many.

The only major difference between these competing establishments is color scheme: while one follows a very simple silver-butcher-shop model the other is so bright with lime green everything that it’s impossible not to sort of feel like a vampire  the moment you walk through the doors. 

Needless to say I prefer the former.  

Unfortunately the only problem with this stainless steel yogurt shop is how friendly the man who works there happens to be.  How willing he is to have a conversation. How very interested he seems to be in what I’ve been up to that day or what I plan to do with the rest of it. I feel like the fact that I’m a lone 25- year- old buying frozen yogurt in a suburb should speak for itself. It should say: Back off buddy don’t even bother asking what I’m doing because I’m obviously not doing anything impressive, we both know this is the most exciting moment I’ve had all week.

But apparently my greasy unwashed hair and dog covered sweatshirt doesn’t speak as loudly as I’d like, so he always decides to ask me the one question that I definitely don’t want to answer:

"What are you up to tonight?"

This wouldn’t be a hard question for a lot of people, or lets be fair, most people. Although I’m not entirely sure what the appropriate answer is or at the very least what other people say in response to this question. Whether they’re honest or whether they lie or whether they actually live incredibly exciting lives. 

But considering anytime I’m walking into a self serve frozen yogurt shop by myself I definitely don’t have any impressive plans beyond actually eating that frozen yogurt— albeit, in half-fetal position on my couch while watching television shows about profiling serial killers—and that’s just the truth. If I had exciting plans I probably wouldn’t begin them with a stop to the self-serve frozen yogurt shop.

Unfortunately however, I’m a horrible lier. Or more specifically lying makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I know immediately I won’t be able to maintain the charade that the person I’m lying to, no matter how small the lie I’m telling them, will be able to see it in my eyes. 

So I always tell them to the truth. 

"Oh," I’ll begin," I’m probably just going to go home and eat this and watch TV shows about serial killers."

And while I’m aware of how terrible these words sound as they’re coming out of my mouth—- how completely pathetic they are—- I can’t help it. 

In this particular scenario the guy tends not to reply— instead, opting to nod his head up and down very slowly as though he understands, but is also incredibly afraid of making any sudden movements. 

I divert eye contact, pay for my frozen yogurt and swear the shame will be enough for me to never return again.  Only it never is, and instead I’m just thankful there’s another shop in town so I can at least attempt to split up our run-ins. 

Some Things Aren’t Funny on Valentines Day

More often than not I’m reminded how much I should never have children.
Unfortunately for the children I have not given birth to, more often than not, they are placed under my care. While I’m by no stretch a professional nanny for some reason, much like cats, kids seem to appear in my life and I just have to deal.

Which is how, last week on the glorious holiday known as Valentines Day I ended up in a 2nd grade classroom playing the role of responsible adult.

They were having a party, which I have to say was probably the only reason people began to like Valentines Day in the first place. Because in grade school Valentines Day had nothing to do with overpriced Roses or special dinners booked months in advance. Then it was simple, Valentines Day was the heart shaped version of Halloween and without most of the hassle. Instead you just placed a box on your desk and waited for it to be filled with heart shaped pieces of sugar without even a mention of “tricking” or “treating”. Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s got to be where those sweet memories of Valentines Day originated, but it’s really just a theory.

Anyway, I was in the classroom as a volunteer for the end of day Valentines Party. Luckily, I hadn’t really thought about this fact until I got there, but when I did I immediately panicked. Panicked in the obscene language filled way someone would panic when they realize it’s been a while since they’ve been in a classroom with lots of small children and in that while they’d happened to develop a knack for using the word “fuck” in any and all situations.

And of course this is all I can think about as I’m walking into the classroom. How I’m going to scar these children for life with my poor choice of vocabulary.
In an attempt to calm myself down I began to tell myself that the parents probably wouldn’t even care. In fact they probably wouldn’t care SO MUCH they’d think it would be funny. They’d probably be like “we fucking swear in front of our kids all the fucking time, that’s our joke! “


Unfortunately it was not their joke. They did not find it funny.  And, while I did not swear once during the entire party I did happen to snag the coveted job as the party’s “garbage picker-upper” which involved attempting to snatching pieces of pirates booty off the floor before they were crushed into the carpet.

I’m never fucking having children.

Happy Belated Valentines Day!

A man once told me I had “eyes like a polar bear”. He was bagging my groceries at the time and looked so intently into my eyes that for half a second I became slightly concerned he was going to reach out and steal them. 

Luckily, he only had a few more groceries to pack before I was free to dart out the door. So once he finished,  I thanked him with diverted eye contact as I piled the bags into my arms and left the store both eyeballs and vision intact. 

This encounter was apparently quite scarring as I’ll occasionally notice myself quietly muttering the phrase “you have eyes like a polar bear” under my breath. Which is half because I’m crazy and half because it’s kind of an awesome sentence. 

But the weird thing is that all this time I never questioned the validity of the statement. I was told my eyes were like a polar bear and it was so. 

And then yesterday something happened. Yesterday I actually saw the eyes of a polar bear. Not in person of course, but somewhere on the internet or tv or something and then I ended up googling it to double check and discovered that no I do not have eyes like polar bear. NOT AT ALL. 

Because polar bears have black eyes. Deep, black, sort of terrifying eyes. 

Which means one of two things: that the mildly creepy checkout man had no idea what he was talking about OR that my eyes can change from blue to black.

I’m rooting for the latter. 

A man once told me I had “eyes like a polar bear”. He was bagging my groceries at the time and looked so intently into my eyes that for half a second I became slightly concerned he was going to reach out and steal them. 

Luckily, he only had a few more groceries to pack before I was free to dart out the door. So once he finished,  I thanked him with diverted eye contact as I piled the bags into my arms and left the store both eyeballs and vision intact. 

This encounter was apparently quite scarring as I’ll occasionally notice myself quietly muttering the phrase “you have eyes like a polar bear” under my breath. Which is half because I’m crazy and half because it’s kind of an awesome sentence. 

But the weird thing is that all this time I never questioned the validity of the statement. I was told my eyes were like a polar bear and it was so. 

And then yesterday something happened. Yesterday I actually saw the eyes of a polar bear. Not in person of course, but somewhere on the internet or tv or something and then I ended up googling it to double check and discovered that no I do not have eyes like polar bear. NOT AT ALL. 

Because polar bears have black eyes. Deep, black, sort of terrifying eyes. 

Which means one of two things: that the mildly creepy checkout man had no idea what he was talking about OR that my eyes can change from blue to black.

I’m rooting for the latter. 

do it! yeah! 
wk12:

Wieden+Kennedy 12 is looking for designers, writers, producers, programmers, illustrators, musicians, photographers, gamers, bloggers, lawyers, mind-benders, and social scientists to be a part of its 8th year.
To complete the first step of the application process, visit www.wk12.com.
Applications are due August 7th.
12.8 will begin on January 3rd, 2012.

do it! yeah! 

wk12:

Wieden+Kennedy 12 is looking for designers, writers, producers, programmers, illustrators, musicians, photographers, gamers, bloggers, lawyers, mind-benders, and social scientists to be a part of its 8th year.

To complete the first step of the application process, visit www.wk12.com.

Applications are due August 7th.

12.8 will begin on January 3rd, 2012.

easter eggs and turkey eyes

On Easter my younger brother got a piece of turkey stuck in his eye.

Literally, a chuck of turkey was stuck to the corner of his eyeball.

It was weird.

People generally don’t experience these things because most of us have better aim than that. I have better aim than that and I can count on my hand how many times a balled up piece of paper I’ve thrown into the garbage has actually made it.

I celebrate every time.

One year, when I was younger, I went with my friend and her parents to an Easter party at their neighbors house.

She told me it was the best Easter egg hunt ever. Apparently, some of these eggs had money inside.

We were so excited as we stood waiting to be given the go ahead to find these eggs. And then, as we were waiting this propeller sound grew louder and louder, until there was literally a helicopter landing in the field we were looking out onto.

The helicopter landed and a man dressed up as a giant stuffed bunny got out with another older man by his side. The older man was grasping a megaphone ]and although his words were slightly muffled by the sound of the helicopter behind him, he told us the Easter egg hunt had officially began.

The moment he finished speaking we all sprinted off into the bushes.

 I didn’t end up winning any money. Actually to be honest, I don’t think I found many eggs at all.

What a bust. My friend said to me as we walked back to the car.

 Apparently you can’t win everyone over with a helicopter.

Easter it seems is the most bizarre holiday ever. 

Eggs and Adulthood

This morning, I had breakfast with a few of my co-workers and the minds and voices behind Radio Lab.

I ate a plate of eggs. They’d just won a Peabody award. It turned out to be quite a productive morning.

“We’re adults now,” they joked, as we congratulated them on their win.

And we laughed, partly because it kind of felt true.

Maybe they’re right, maybe the only adults in this world are actually Peabody winners. Or at least people who’ve achieved something big.

 And the rest of us are just in-between. Wandering around, hoping that we’ll find someway to achieve all the things we believe we can. Desperately trying to figure it out. Or, maybe it was only a joke and I should learn to think less when eating eggs for breakfast.

 Regardless, this isn’t about a fancy award or what I ate for breakfast. This is about creating something meaningful. Something made not because it’s necessarily profitable, but because it’s believed in. Something that reminds people it’s okay to be human.

 Last night we were lucky enough to see these Radio Lab live. They talked about the relationship between people and symmetry—the desire to connect, our sympathy toward stories, the difference between a mirror-life and an actual one.  They examined all of this in front of a sold-out audience. An audience mesmerized by what was going on in front of them.  

  It was incredible, although incredible doesn’t fully do it justice. Because, really, it’s impossible to fully articulate what it feels like to be moved by something, like really, insanely moved.  It’s as if everything inside you— your mind, your body, your fingers are just consumed by this crazed wonderment—this insanely creative, inquisitive energy. Like you’ve just had 1,000 cups of coffee without feeling like you’ll die.

You’re just straight up giddy.

Maybe they were right. Maybe winning a Peabody award does mean you’re finally an adult. An adult who, sits you down, pats you on the head and reminds you that it’s okay to be human. Actually, it’s pretty fucking great. 

new blog

i guess this means i’m definitely a narcissist. 

elephantvhippo.tumblr.com

new blog.

Oh, why hello there blog.

I’ve become terrible at communicating. 

I’m going to work on it. The obvious solution to my problem is to start blogging again. Very personal indeed. So, get ready, this blog is about to get out of control.