Fred

My sweet little jalopy Betsy has been in and out of the shop this past week with some broken parts. 

Today after work, I once again must rush Bets over to the mechanic, arriving with about 30 seconds to spare before closing. She's smoking this time. . .and I'm a little freaked about it.

All my anxiety melts away, however, as I step out of my car and the silver lining of all this mess comes strolling out of the office. My mechanic: Fred.

Don't let his name fool you. He is a beautiful specimen of a man. I haven't seen him directly in a few months, only spoken to him on the phone (his dulcet tones are mesmerizing) and am a little shocked to find that he's let his hair grow out. . .it's usually shaved. A few seconds later, though, I'm acclimated to the look and jelly-legged, following him into the office.

While we stand across from each other, I stare deeply into his baby blues and forget every.single.one. of my words. Gone. All I can think is that his nose is perfect. How does someone even end up with a perfect nose? I try to pull myself together and focus so that I can appear competent and in control of this situation (I don't want him to think I'm a totally clueless, idiot girl who has zero knowledge about cars) Alas, our conversation proceeds like always.

Fred: "So, what the problem?"

Me:  ". . .umm. What? I mean, the problem?

Fred: "Uh, with your car?"

Me: "Oh, yea right. Umm, it's, like, doing this thing (at this point I'm frantically scanning my bank of words to remember the name of the thing it's doing. smoking. SMOKING!) It's smoking!"

Before I know what I'm doing, my hand is slipping up to start curling a lock of hair around it. A trill of nervous laughter escapes my lips. Realizing that he's not going to get much more of value out of me, Fred gives up and moves on to confirming my phone number. 

I watch his lips form the numbers and imagine him using my number for more than just telling me my cars ready. Does he have to try to get his hair mussed just so like that? 

And then, our interaction is over. Fred's dismissing me from the office, I'm smiling weakly and telling him to have a great night and to take his time with the car (??). I leave the office and have the same thought as always. That man is probably robbing me blind, and I don't even care.

and then I went camping

Sleeping on the cold ground, communing with nature, and roasting things over an open fire. I think we can all agree, these sounds like the makings of a dream weekend for me here at KatyDidWhat. Right?
(For those of you laughing raucously right now, I'll have you know that I spent a good part of my summers as a child camping in both the U.S. and Canada. . .)

That's exactly how I spent this weekend and, despite some pointed jokes about my choice of footwear, I hope my camping mates would agree that I'm not actually as big a diva as one might assume.

The ladies!

On Saturday we headed to a couple nearby towns for some antique browsing, beach walking and food. After a stop at the Oldies Marketplace (a.k.a. giant vintage barn) where one of us may or may not have accidentally broken something, we headed over to the little beach side town of Salisbury. From the moment we stepped out of the car I had such a strange vibe about the place. Maybe it was the gentlemen's club we were parked across from or the fact that a quarter only bought you 10 minutes on the meter, but something was just a little off about the town.

We were looking for somewhere to eat and settled on a little place called Hobo's Cafe & Lounge that was open. Hobo's turned out to be a sort of combo gay bar/beach side restaurant/jukebox dive complete with an actual hobo holding court on the patio with only some nude colored shorts and his beard for clothing.

Ben, Brianna, and Sarah enjoying Hobo's

As if this weren't strange enough, after downing some enormous burgers (on the men's part) and some fish and chips (ladies) we strolled around taking in the strange boardwalk attractions including an infinitely creepy place called Joe's Playland, some weird castle building and an exorbitant amount of little pizza walk-ups.

Clearly, also known as "Pedophile Playland"

I can't pin down what was so entirely strange about this town, but I believe some of us agreed it felt a bit like the setting of a cheesy slasher movie (which would likely involve us all running from a crazed hobo only to take refuge in Joe's Playland where we'd be picked off one by one. The hobo would be wearing a clown mask based on the above photo. I hope I'd be the first to go. . .)

 Creepy beachside town notwithstanding, I have to say that this was a glorious camping trip. I even learned that sleeping pads have very little do to with keeping you comfortable and more to do with protecting you from the cold ground. Who knew?? (Actually, everyone except me. . .)

My people: Ben, Sarah, Joel, Brianna, and Jenna

Game On

Last Friday, I believe, was Red Sox opening day. Those two words ignited a melange of pride, angst, hope, and competitive spirit in the people around my fair city (and Red Sox fans abroad, as Facebook would tell it). For me, those two words brought a sense of anxiety and foreboding as I called to mind the many commutes home from work these last two years amid the constant barage of sox fans trying to make their way to Fenway.

It seems there is some sort of "All-American" gene that dictates the love of baseball, hot dogs, and beer; none of which I'm overly fond of (although, my cheapness is driving me to cultivate a taste for beer. Way cheaper than a Pink Elephant. . .) Evidently, I missed the AA gene and went the recessive route. Baseball? Is that that boring game where everyone stands around FOREVER and occasional hits a ball with a stick. Oh.

And don't even get me started on hot dogs (although, I've been known to enjoy one about once a year if the mood strikes)

As such, what Opening Day means to me is that my already ridiculous commute on the slowest line of the T will often double in length. Sometimes taking well over an hour for me to travel the 4.5 (ish) miles from my office to my front door. 

I'm trying to lace positive affirmations through my days as I steel myself for the season. I've even imagined myself  being the one on the stuffy over crowded trolley that starts a "Yankee's Suck" chant. Adoring fans will crowd surf me through the air and cling adoringly to my game day jersey. I mean, I don't own a game day jersey and I don't know if the Yankees actually do suck (nor do I really care). Actually, I'd really just settle for getting home at a normal time without a black eye from some overzealous father making sure his 16 kids get on the same train. Now that might make me into a die hard fan of our boys in red and white (and blue. . .?)

Go Sox.

The Vintage Cake

I found the most amazing surprise today and I just had to share. Awhile back my grandmother gave me a bunch of all kinds of cake decorating supplies that she had used when she was young. I've been using the frosting tips and other supplies for months, but there was a tin of tiny vintage supplies I hadn't taken the time to really go through. Just some quick glances when I first got them.

Today something inspired me to go through them and there all all these amazing vintage cake toppers from neon painted zoo animals to a working compass and hour glass! Here are some fun pictures!

Spring Treats

Happy (belated) Easter everyone! 

Easter is one of my favorite holidays, celebrating Christ rising from the dead and bringing us new life! For me, it also somehow symbolizes the beginning of spring more than the official beginning. 

This Easter week I've done my fair share of spring baking (yay!) due to a lovely friend's birthday and an Easter potluck. Spring baking is so lovely: so many beautiful colors and fun ideas! 

strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting

Bird's nest coconut cupcakes

Oh, and maybe you've noticed the new spring look to my blog. I don't know what it is about the fresh spring wind that makes me want to do some reinventing!