Random Observation #1: Me, with a kitchen island?

The other day, I was getting my natural red hair restored at the hair salon when Jason, my beloved colorist, and I started talking about restoring houses. Well, actually, we started talking about real estate and the importance of a kitchen in a home’s value, which then led to the unusual connection between us. It involves my old house in New Hope (the one I bought upon leaving Chicago and coming back east) and his one-time boyfriend. As it turns out (and unbeknownst to me since I didn’t know Jason at that point), I purchased the house from Jason’s then boyfriend (now a friendly ex). And have since learned that Jason and my seller, well, they did some unusual things in my kitchen—specifically on my counters. And let’s just leave it at that.

So as it were, this past Thursday, as he was painting Loreal #646 on the hair my mother thinks is too long and my husband insists is sexy, he shared with me some of his more recent adventures in real estate, to which I jokingly inquired about the quality of the kitchen counters. “Hey, I said, “c’mon over to our house in Doylestown, we actually have a kitchen island.” Wink. Wink.

And then, it suddenly dawned on me: I live in a house with a kitchen island. The kind you see on shows like Desperate Housewives and Family Ties and Leave it to Beaver. The kind that marks a lifestyle that stands for everything I’m not. Soccer mom. Member of the PTA. Somebody who organizes the community bake sale or keeps track of the weekly car-pool. Having a kitchen island, in my mind, is like having a 1999 Dodge Caravan because you need one. It’s like having a power mower you’ll never lend to the neighbors because they never return it or a welcome mat with some sort of poultry cartoon on it.

Here’s the thing: I’m a city girl at heart. I’m accustomed to a kitchen that can barely accommodate a dishwasher. And although I’ve been living with said island for about four years now, I never really stopped to think about it in the scheme of my identity. And the implications, well, they scare me.

Oh dear. Who am I?

Random Observation #2: Lessons learned from Gary Coleman’s death

Here’s what I’m not: A person with either a personal theme song (sorry Gloria Gaynor) or a catch phrase. Because if Gary Coleman’s untimely death has taught me nothing, it has taught me that if you have either one of these things, you’ll never a) get it out of your head, or b) live it down.

Thank you for the life lesson, Gary Coleman. RIP.

Random Observation #3: You know you’re old when…

…your most guilty pleasure is half a bottle of diet orange soda. (Did someone say sex with a stranger? Hey, I heard that!) Between the environmental impact of the plastic, the potential for heartburn, and the uncertain effects of the artificial sweetener, I’ve learned it’s best to indulge in the privacy of your own home (especially what with the Internet). Trust me.

Random Observation #4: If you want more readers, talk about your dog

I follow a lot of business bloggers, especially in the area of marketing and communications. After all, that’s my biz. So imagine my surprise when I found this headline atop one of my feeds: “Increase Blog Traffic Ten-Fold by Talking About Your Dog.” Turns out, the blogger had posted an early morning entry about his dog and just 24 hours later, his blog traffic had increased by a factor of 10 (of course, I’m not sure where he started, maybe he only had one reader, but still.) Far be it from me to ignore such sage advice – after all, I sure don’t proclaim to know it all. And golly gee, I want more readers. So here goes:

Why is it that both of our dogs love Dan more than me? I don’t get it. Oh sure, he walks them and sometimes feeds them, but I dispense all the love. I give the rubbies, talk the baby talk, make sure to check their coats for ticks and other unknown critters. I’m the one who worries when they haven’t been walked for too many hours in a row, who’s concerned that there’s enough water in their bowls, that they get enough treats and attention before we leave for them 10 hours at a time to go to work.

It’s me who insists on leaving the air conditioning low enough to assure their comfort. Who makes sure there’s somebody to stay overnight with them when we’re off on a weekend adventure. And yet, you’d think Dan had been dipped in beef juice and I’d been dipped in, well, nothing special, the way they gravitate to him. No fair-zees. NO FAIR. (Oh, hello new readers! Welcome to my blog! Come back often!)

Random Observation #5: And finally, never ever pick strawberries in three-inch wedgies

I near killed myself this past week trying to pick a trio of strawberries out a row of leafy soldiers at the farm—or CSA (community supported agriculture)—we joined earlier this season. If you’ve ever heard of a CSA, you may know that you a) pay a certain amount for the season and b) commit to working a certain number of hours on the farm. And, in return, you get to pick up a generous share of freshly harvested vegetables each week. We’re also able to go into the fields ourselves and pick certain items—last week, that included strawberries.

So off Dan, Steppy and I went—with three too many baskets for our berries (since we were only allowed to pick a small quart, but whatever…) and a fabulous straw hat I’d bought impulsively at Target—to get the fruit we had coming to us. Of course, upon setting out for the day, Dan and Steppy warned me that perhaps three-inch platform flip flops might not be the best choice of footwear for the occasion. But I hate to wear sneakers. They’re so hot and clunky and unfashionable. And they’re not very complimentary for those of us with legs a tad bit shorter than average.

In any event, there I was. Making my way just fine until I spotted a small red cluster calling out to me and my delightfully new lime green gardening gloves (so cute!). And so, I set about after them, climbing over several dirt piles, carefully monitoring each step since I’d been forewarned to anticipate garden snakes. (Who says I’m not the outdoorsy girl-next-door type?) And I was doing quite nicely when I tripped over black tubing that bordered the growing vegetables like cheap eye liner.

Fortunately, I didn’t break anything. Just a mild creak in the ol’ ankle, nothing that a small ace bandage won’t heal before our next excursion out into the wild. Although next time, I’ll be sure to wear my strappy Dansko’s. Height: Two inches only. Talk about sensible.

Tell me: What are your random observations for the week? How’ve you been sensible (or not)? Tried to navigate any dirt piles of your own? Let me know!

Until next time!