Friday, November 30, 2012

Now that I brewed this weird drink what the heck do I do with it?

My homebrewed kombucha has been fermenting on my counter for just over a week.  Now it's ready to be decanted into smaller bottles for flavoring and additional fermentation.
Most people would use a gallon jar, but I had a vase, so there it is.
You can see the mother floating sideways there - gnarly, right?
Each time you brew your kombucha a new baby SCOBY will form on top.
Tasty, right?  (As if a bacterial process could really look tasty...)
I need to remove the baby in order to pour off my brew.
If you needed any confirmation of my weirdness, just check out that manic gleam in my eyes (and ignore the circles underneath them).  That's what excitement looks like.
  Yeah, that's SpaceCat on my shirt.  Jealous?
But wait!
Every experience is improved with the proper wardrobe!
Mad scientist at work:
I'm adding blueberry juice to my glass jars before I add the tea.
You just don't mess with a mad scientist.

Recipes online suggested adding fruit juice and/or cut up pieces of dried fruit.
  Ever one to use what's on hand, I decided to add fresh pomegranate seeds in addition to blueberry juice.
Pomegranates are a sign of new beginnings.
Fitting that I should include it in my new endeavor, then, right?
They also play a prominent role in mythology...
Oh Hades!  I'll stay here in the underworld forever!  Swoon
Now that I've added my flavorings I can actually pour the tea....
How on earth am I supposed to pour that tea into those jars?
How do I get around the baby?!?!
Before touching the SCOBY, be sure to wipe your clean hands with vinegar to remove any oils or soap residue that might contaminate it.
I'm not sure if the blue nail polish is truly sanitary, but it greatly enhanced my mental preparedness
All the containers used in kombucha preparation should be glass (ideally) or hard plastic.  Metal interferes with the SCOBY and will keep it from doing it's thing
 (that's a scientific term).
That ceramic bowl is waiting to cradle my little baby.
  If I can ever get it out....
Sometimes you have to overcome your fear of the slimy and gross and just go for it.
Remember the haunted houses of your childhood?
  Sticking your hands in dishes of strange substances while blindfolded...
  The texture of SCOBY is something like that.
Eeeeew!
I grew this under a towel on my counter!
Meet: SCOBY (Symbiotic Colony Of Bacteria & Yeast)
I currently have this baby in a tupperware at the back of my fridge, in case my original mother becomes compromised.
If I want to use it I'll have to bring it back to room temperature, because they go dormant when regfrigerated.
That's pomegranate juice on my face...  And scoby juice on my fingers.
New headshot?
Now I'm finally ready to pour my kombucha tea into my jars:
Pourin' the brew.
Ready for its airtight lid
Looks... frothy.
Pouring in action
The kombucha mother lurks just below the surface of the tea, unable to escape.
Like a crocodile lying in wait for a sweet baby elephant.
 Now I'll let them ferment for a few more days before I refrigerate them.
I varied the amounts of juice added to see what tastes best.
A veritable rainbow of digestive health.
  Yummmm.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Have you ever experienced that feeling of rightness?  The absolute certainty of knowing you are on the correct path?  In the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, the gunslinger Roland and his companions often speak about being on the path of the beam.  In that world it's something they can actually see reflected in the movement of the clouds and the way the grass lays in their path; nevertheless I think it's an apt analogy.  More than ever before in my life I feel attuned to minute signs; tiny details that confirm and illuminate the road I'm traveling.  I suppose this is a product of my quest to be present, to really get to know myself.  Certainly I have been working to remove those things that are detrimental to my mental/physical/emotional health, and to give myself those things that feed my imagination/drive/sense of purpose.

I recently quit my job of five years.  As far as restaurant jobs go it was a good gig.  The shifts were rarely more than five or six hours and the money was good.  I had coworkers who had been there for twelve, fifteen, even twenty years in some cases.  And I see why.  Under the right circumstances it can provide a very comfortable living.  I wasn't happy though.  It used to be that I felt really secure and competent and grateful to be there, but that hasn't been the case in a while.  And that attitude was noticed.  I was faced with a glass ceiling, and I didn't feel like my voice would be heard.  So I didn't say anything.  So now I had these awful feelings festering inside me, and it was noticed.  Who wants someone working for them like that?  No one.

It's really difficult to try to tell this part of the story in a concise way, and also without offending people I care about.  I want to talk about how frustrating my work situation was.  How I felt completely unappreciated, so I stopped doing my best.  Not consciously, but nevertheless I got reprimanded.  It was a big eye-opener.  Because I'm a really smart, capable person.  And there's no reason why I shouldn't excel at whatever I set my mind to.  And at the same time, I realized that I'm not going to let some asshole hold me hostage.  I don't owe them anything.  I gave them four Christmases.  I gave them every Friday and Saturday night for five years.  And I deserve to have my good work acknowledged.

It was psychically draining.  It was leeching all the joy and creativity out of me.  At this time in my life when I am harboring a new and delicate thing (myself, as an artist) I need to protect myself.  The world is changing faster than I can possibly process.  MY world is changing, I mean.  Turning thirty was standing out as a giant billboard in my head.  It felt imperative that my thirtieth birthday not coincide with the start of my sixth year at a snobby corporate restaurant.

So I quit.  I'm not proud of the manner of my quitting.  I know that the prudent thing to do would have been to give two weeks notice and leave on good terms with a reference.  But something came up-something big.  And then this voice in my gut spoke up clearly and said, "What are you waiting for?  There's no other time than now.  You'll never have this decision to make over, on the cusp of your thirtieth birthday.  Stop putting life off and instead live it now.  Thus it was that on the day I had intended to give my two weeks notice I instead told them I wasn't coming in that night, and that I wasn't coming back.

It was terrifying.  And exhilarating.  I truly cannot go back.  And I have no regrets.  I experienced this sense of certainty as though I were driving down the road, with the highway unfolding steadily before me.  To either side the landscape is barren, marked only by outcroppings of boulders and sagebrush and dull, dusty desert.  But the sky where I'm heading is so so clear.  Clearer than I can ever remember.  I drive down that highway watching tiny mirages resolve themselves from shimmering water into asphalt in front of me, and I'm driving straight towards a mountain.  Towards my destiny.  Climbing in elevation and the air gets crisp and cold and before I know it I'm standing at the edge of a vast canyon that seems to continue for ever.  And something inside me just lets go.




Thursday, November 22, 2012

Birthday ramble

It's a cliche that old folks wake up super early. And here I am blogging at seven am. So does that mean its true? Does this mean I'm getting old? I mean, today is my birthday after all (cue impending doom music) - my 30th birthday.

I suppose the wise thing to do here would be to lie about my age, or gracefully sidestep it. But if you know me at all you know I'm a terrible liar and that gracefully sidestepping delicate subjects is not my forte. I mean, come on, it's not called Chatty Cathy Hangs It Out for nothing. So yeah, I'm 30. Eat that. But before you make your judgements (before I eat my high fiber breakfast) let me explain why I'm awake, and how that proves that I'm not old.

The short answer is that Zaphod has been meowing at my door since six am. After telling him to shut up for thirty minutes I let him out, at which point he immediately proceeded to pick a fight with the feistier of my parents' two cats, Bandit. A little back and forth has us both shut back in my room. So much for sleeping in...

Shots is the long answer though. As I lay here in the predawn gloom, listening to my childhood home waking up, reviewing the show I went to last night (see I still like to have fun!) I find myself pondering this question: who actually enjoys taking shots?

On the surface of the question it seems like lots of people like taking shots. I mean, you tell someone it's your birthday and they say, "shots shots shots shots shots" (you know the song, right?). That's like, tradition. It's like, a cultural must, or something. I mean, I've taken at least five shots in the past week, and I don't even like them.

So what is it about pounding a miniature glass of liquor (or god forbid, some sugary mixture of liquor and liqueur) that seems like a good idea? It wreaks havoc on your stomach, it puts you over the limit on your drunk, and it's usually something you wouldn't even drink. At least, that's my experience. But maybe I'm just old.

Maybe people like shots because they're a divergence from the norm. They're festive and fun and a suspension of normal behavior. Maybe people like them because it's like a feat of strength; in downing a Buttery Nipple (my shot of choice) or a Surfer on Acid we prove our strength, our cojones. Look at the titles of shots for that matter: Kamikaze, Sex on the Beach, Red-Headed Slut. They sound like dares. Maybe we like them because they allow us to be a more reckless, glamorous version of ourselves. The version that isn't afraid to take a chance, to be dangerous, to live on the edge.

Well listen: I'm living on the edge already. I'm chasing my dream in a big city, putting myself out there to either fly or fail. If quitting your job to pursue art isn't dangerous I don't know what is. And if you need proof of my cojones: I just admitted publicly to being thirty, in an industry/city/world/paradigm that is obsessed with youth.

I'm losing the train of this thought, so I'll wrap it up. And who knows, maybe these ramblings are the signs of early dementia. I mean-I am a crazy cat lady (your words, not mine) who brought her cat home for Thanksgiving, right? (Let me just pull up my Depends so I can start my day.)

But I'm choosing to look at this new age in another light. I know myself better than ever, and I'm having more fun than ever before. So I'm going to keep it up. Keep laughing, keep loving life, keep seeing the wonder in the world, and above all keep playing: Ina word, I'm going to keep being young. So I'm going back to bed. That's what kids do, right?

PS-I'm thankful for you, readers. Xoxox

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

SpaceCat's Thanksgiving Adventure

The last time I left Zaphod at home for a few days he was pissed. I came home to find sweaters pushed of my shelves, all the jewelry knocked off my bureau, and all the cupboards open. I guess I can't blame him. If I got left at home for four days, missing out on fun and new sites, locked in the apartment by myself with one visitor and feeding per day I would be upset too. It makes me feel guilty, because this little guy is my number one. He had been there for me through some seriously hard times. He brings me joy and helps me appreciate the little moments. He's my muse. It's not fair to continually go off and leave him. And I haven't even gotten into the guilt accrued by constantly asking friends to watch him.

So you'd think I would decide to curtail my traveling, or at least keep it short. I however, like the genius I am, went and booked a Tuesday to Tuesday ticket home for Thanksgiving. It was a lot cheaper, and it's my birthday, and I have a new baby niece. Once I got to thinking about logistics though I saw the flaw in my plan: what about Zaphod?!?

So I did the obvious thing and decided to take him with me. I mean, I don't see the traveling stopping anytime soon. And maybe he would like to go with me. People take their dogs all over the place. Bond villains travel with cats. And how about the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp-that old lady totally brought them visiting with her. Anyway, the only way to find out is to do it, right?

So here we are at the airport. Zaphod is keeping up a steady rate of low unhappy meows, and I have a little bit of pee on my jeans.

Yeah, he peed. Horrifying, right? I gave him kitty herbal sedatives, but I guess that's just not adequate considering the mortal terror of an airport. Burbank airport, btw. If I was flying out of LAX this wouldn't be an option. But do you remember your first time in an airport? Overwhelming! And if you were a little kid it's entirely possible that you peed yourself.

Even worse though, is that as soon as I went into the family bathroom to destinkify myself he immediately shit in the carrier. It's like as soon as he realized we were alone and that I had the ability to clean it up he just let it go. I understand though; I hate to fly before pooping.

Luckily my carrier is all nylon, and all comes apart, so I was able to tidy up pretty nicely. While I was doing that Zaphod crouched miserable behind my backpack, taking full advantage of the echo effect of all the tile. I'm sure anyone passing by must have wondered exactly what manner of family was making use of the private bathroom. No apologies though.

Twenty minutes later as I stood in line to board as I almost bailed. I smelled like cat pee (hopefully not too strongly, but can you really answer that objectively when you're in the middle of the smell?), Zaphod was unsuccessfully suppressing hysteria , and I had a connection both ways (awesome planning, right). This trip really wasn't planned with a feline traveling companion in mind. Admittedly, I'll be staying in the welcoming environment of the house I grew up in for a week, but is that enough to offset the stressful situation this was shaping up to be?

Once we were in the air, though, Zaphod calmed down. That or it was just too noisy to hear him. And this far, through all this, I think I'm finding something. "You gotta do what you gotta do," I stoically quipped to the gate agent who checked us in. And that's true. I don't need to explain myself, or to apologize for our smell. Airports are weird public places. Traveling puts us in the strange position of sharing our quirks and bodily functions with strangers directly next to us. I imagine this must be similar to what traveling with small children is like. I couldn't begin to count the number of times I've found myself seated in the middle of baby central. Last time I flew I eve found myself holding a toddler while his mother gathered herself between flights. She was completely unapologetic, and so will I be.

I don't know if I'll travel with Z again, it will depend on the rest of the trip. But we're halfway done. And you can be sure I'll let you know how it goes.

Friday, November 16, 2012

I want to wear that on my face.

I can always tell I'm avoiding something when I find myself frantically tied up in a meaningless task.  Like that time recently when I sidestepped down the beauty aisle at CVS searching for blue mascara.  I pored over those beauty displays obsessively, looking for real untinted unapologetic blue mascara.  I was sure they'd have it, but unfortunately amongst the 10,000 tubes of eyelash tinting goo the closest it got was sapphire black.  I'm sorry, but that's not blue.  It might be tinted, but it's still black.  It's like saying Zaphod's vomit was greenish-yellow.  Although it had a greenish cast to it, my cat's barf was still primarily classified as yellow.  And I didn't want something that almost blue - I wanted authentic honest blue.

         During this search  I chafed against the marketing bein used on me (surprise).  Who are these people telling me that this product is for blue eyes and that one is for brown eyes?  Yeah yeah yeah, some corporate beauty expert got paid a billion dollars to do a color analysis in order to make generic stipulations as to what products I should use.  You might be right, but nevertheless, I like those colors, and I want to wear them on my face.  After twenty minutes of probing those murky depths I was no nearer either to finding blue mascara or changing the global marketing strategies of Revlon and et al.  Moreover, I was avoiding actual important business (though what that was, for the life of me I can't remember.  Priorities - hah).  So I threw in the towel and picked up the item I was actually stopping to purchase: black mascara (I know - ridiculous).  Then I went on my merry way.

     Imagine my surprise that evening when I went to put away my new mascara.  The tube in my hand was blue.  Not sapphire black, not tinted whatever, royal blue.  Electric, honest to god, unmistakable blue.  I swear, I looked at every single mascara they sold at that drugstore - I searched every aisle that sold makeup, and looked at every one.  And there it was in my hand - exactly what I wanted.  And I had completely given up; just when I no longer had any attachment to the idea of wearing blue mascara that day, I found that I could.  That's called manifestation.  It's a powerful phenomena.  Call it what you will (coincidence, subconscious, chance, inattention, whatever), I call it magic.

    That turned out to be my last day working at the restaurant.  It was time for me to leave.  As things roll on ever faster I determined that a change was necessary.  It had been made clear to me at my place of work that if I was no longer happy there I shouldn't be there, so I left.  I have no regrets about that.  It's a pretty scary change, but let me never look back to see that I sacrificed possibility to fear.  I'm not getting any younger, and I'm as free as I'll ever be.  The time to change is now.

     So rather than focusing on the things I don't want; rather than chafing against a suit that doesn't fit; rather than pouring my energy into an unworthy vessel I have decided to redirect my attention.  This power of manifestation, of calling my life to me is a wonderful gift, and I don't want to waste it.  Besides, if I never try to make it in my chosen industry, how will I ever know what would've happened?  Maybe what I've been looking for has been in my hand this entire time and I've been too distracted to see it.  Or maybe, now that I've let go of something that wasn't serving me, I'll have room to pick up what I do actually want.












Saturday, November 10, 2012

SpaceCat and the Cone of Shame

Darling Friends, it's that time again.  I have completed another short for you viewing pleasure.  So with mighty flourishes and blaring of trumpets I give you:


Thanks again to Casey Gates for directing, editing, and moral support as I do my weird thing.
xoxox