Listen. Napa is fucking LOVELY. It's beautiful here. The weather is stunning. There are beautiful places to jog, and lovely bike paths everywhere you look. And I hauled my bike and my helmet and my tire pump and biking shorts and running gear up here. With big lofty plans.
And yesterday I felt...something similar to guilt for not running.
Things I did yesterday instead of exercising:
1. Hung out with my mom, who is so awesome it would blow your mind.
2. Ate apples off a tree. And stole more apples.
3. Wandered around an abandoned house on an abandoned acre, trying to break in.
4. Bought heirloom beans. You heard me. HEIRLOOM BEANS. Represent.
5. Ate pizza with anchovies, arugula, egg, capers, and kalamata olives on it.
6. Looked at dozens of beautiful, old, huge houses.
7. Other shit.
And it was awesome. And I don't need to calculate how far I walked to "justify" taking time to do these things. I don't need to feel guilty for living my life. So much of everything revolves around exercise. I'm not training for anything right now. Shit, you guys, my fancy ass Target jeggings are too loose. And I hate spending money on things (plus, we're poor now). So I need to take time to pack on the pounds so my pants fit again.
I do plan on hoping on my bike at some point, because if I hauled it all the way up here without using it, my husband would never let me hear the end of it.
Here are a bunch of pictures.
Holy shit a picture of a sign you guys!
Napa. French for wine. Look it up. True facts.
We ate here.
Future Poop #1:
Future Poop #2. Also, open mouth photos where food is nearby are forgivable.
Fat Ranch. This place has been mentioned by fancy pants kitchen websites on the internet. That's how you know it's legit.
Expensive heirloom beans. I know. I know. But you guys, they're delicious. For beans I mean.
My mom and I both have ridiculous faux fur coats. About five years ago I told her that her coat made her look like a hooker. She shelved it for years, and I developed a dairy allergy (I know the exact time frame because we were in Minneapolis burying my grandma). Good times.
Any place with my name in it is guaranteed to....nothing. I don't know. I like hearing my name.
Buffalo wings to satisfy my inner frat boy, and brussel sprout, sweet potato, pork belly hash, because I recently discovered pork belly, and damn that shit is good. If I were rich, man. If I were rich.
And then we tried dry ice popcorn.
It turned my husband into a dragon.
When I'm out and about sometimes I'll take pictures with blog intentions. But, by the time I'm back in front of a computer, I look at the picture and think "I don't even care about this. Why would the internet care?" And then I have this stockpile of stupid useless pictures on my flickr account.
Also, unflattering pictures of me. Well, I post some of those here, but some get culled. I appear a lot cuter on the blog than I do on my flickr stream.
Again, no butt pictures. There's a drought, you guys. For one, my mom doesn't read my blog, so she doesn't really know I post a picture of my butt on the internet almost every day. And while she'd probably be okay with it, she'd also think it was really weird.
That, and I'm not exercising. Because whatever. Pajama time and tea time and tresspassing time are for more important.
I don't usually wear hats because sometimes I can look homeless. I was actually mistaken for "the local homeless girl" by a friend's parents in college. Mind you, at the time I had a weird black eye, and was holding two cigarettes. My friend was horrified because he was going to try to pawn me off as his girlfriend to his parents. Joke's on him.
I'm trying out this new thing where I don't carry my phone with me everywhere I go, obsessively checking my email. Thus far it's worked pretty well. I don't get a lot of emails every day anyway, so I'm not missing much. I did miss a work call yesterday, but they figured things out on their own.
I have spent the last three days talking about how I'm going to pretty much eat nothing but turkey and walnut pie on Thanksgiving-proper. The other stuff? Meh. Turkey. Walnut pie. Nothing else matters.