WO: Weekly Obsessions
I’m fighting off a nasty summer cold this week, so here’s what’s helping my get by:
- “Meaty”: This collection of essays from Samantha Irby was originally published in 2013 and recently updated with a reprint. A thoughtful friend and her bf gifted me a new copy for my bday, and I speed-read it in two sittings. It’s that good. From lazy-girl recipes to a loooot of information about GI issues, it’s not for the faint of heart. Which is exactly why I loved it.
- Cacio e Pepe: What’s arguably the simplest pasta dish has become a weekly staple for me. When my energy is gone, this satisfying combo of pasta, cheese and garlic (duh) can’t be beat. It’s an especially gratifying comfort food when you don’t have to hover over the stove for long. Add some garlic toast and you’ve got the perfect meal. Mangia!
- Breathe App: Don’t get me wrong — I still love my Daily Calm from the Calm app, but this is another way to get zen. Answer a few quick questions about how you’re feeling in the moment, and the app will recommend breathing exercises and plans for you to try. It’s weirdly satisfying and has lately helped me get to sleep faster. Win-win.
- “Delicate” – Taylor Swift: Is it possible for Taylor Swift to release a song that isn’t an earworm? I think not. This one has been rolling around in my brain for weeks and I can’t seem to shake it off. Yeah, I went there. I’m not even mad about it; I just had to warn you before I put it in your head now, too.
Images courtesy of: Amazon, Philosokitchen, Care Here, Genius
The Spaghetti Shirt
As a wee little Wittyburg, I grew up as one of the most clumsy, awkward kids you’d have known. Not much has changed, as I’m still lacking grace, but I did outgrow one tradition: The Spaghetti Shirt.
We regularly had pasta for dinner, and my mom realized when I was probably 3 or 4 years old that I still hadn’t quite managed to figure out how to work a fork. With more pasta and sauce on my face and hands, plus the table, The Spaghetti Shirt was introduced.
Every time we ate pasta, Brother and I would don crummy old T-shirts to ensure our “nice” clothes were out of harm’s way. Mine was white, naturally, and it became so stained and disgusting over the years that it took on a life of its own. The marinara splotches formed an ink-blot test that would stump even the most beautiful mind.
I was out to lunch with co-workers recently, and I spilled down the front of my shirt — not something new for this crew to witness, mind you. Not even a bit surprised at my clumsiness, I sighed that I should have just worn The Spaghetti Shirt. It’s too bad mine was retired years ago; it’d have been a hit at Maggiano’s.