A. Russo – More than the sum of my parts.



Stupid Shit I Have Done

So, no, really – that’s the title of this post. Because here’s the thing. I was sitting, wait no I was standing in the shower the other night and I saw, on the shower wall, A SPIDER.

It was terrifying. At least ten inches wide not counting the legs, with red eyes and dripping fangs and…

All right, fine. It was smaller than my pinky fingernail. I have issues with things that have more than 4 legs, okay? I definitely have a 4 leg hard limit. And NO, you cannot pull 4 legs off a spider and expect me to be okay with it. It doesn’t work that way.


Here I am in the shower, faced with a spider, and I really dislike killing things in general but this one was WAY too close to my personal parts and it had to go. So I bravely picked up the shampoo bottle and clubbed it to death.

Which left me with a shampoo bottle with spider guts on it. Ergh.

Ok, so now I’m standing in the shower with a shampoo bottle covered in spider and NOWHERE TO PUT THE SPIDER GUTS.

What do I do with them? I’m certainly not going to touch them. I can’t grab toilet paper because it’ll get wet in ALL THIS WATER. And it might clog the DRAIN.

(See where I’m going with this?)

I’m pretty sure I stood there with that bottle going ‘ew, ew, ew’ for at least two minutes before it occurred to me to, oh, I dunno, just wash the spider down the DRAIN with ALL THIS WATER.

That got me thinking about all the ‘oh, DUH’ moment’s I’ve had in my life, or just other plain ‘duh’ moments I’ve witnessed happening to other people. But of course, I’ll talk about my own first.

There was the time I went to the barn, grabbed babyhorse’s halter off her stall, slung it over my shoulder, and went to get her brushes. Then I went to go get her and spent five minutes wandering around looking for her halter.

Mmm-hmm. I even asked a few people if they’d seen it, because I ALWAYS hang it on her stall at night.

*pinches bridge of nose* They all laughed at me.

Then there was the time when I was MUCH younger (Not THAT much. At least in my teens, so I can’t even claim extreme youth for this one) when my mom and I went to the library. It had two sets of double doors to get in, and I thought I’d be a smartass. I ran to the first set of doors, zipped inside, and pushed against the one I’d walked through so she couldn’t enter.

She gave me a funny look and just walked in through the other side.

Sad thing was, I didn’t catch on. I ran through the second set of double doors and pushed on the one I’d gone through.

My mom made that weird face and walked through the other one. And past me. And THEN it hit me. Priceless. She just patted me on the head and told me she was so proud of how smart I am. And no, she hasn’t stopped making fun of me about it.

So those three, right off the top of my head. I suppose the next one isn’t a ‘duh’ moment so much as a pretty typical Arin-ism. The roommate (the Great Navy Blue Monster) and I were heading to Austin for a concert. I was driving. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something scuttle up onto the center console between the seats. I glanced at it, and my spider alert went off. OMG, death, death, warning! Kill, kill! destroy!

But I don’t touch spiders. So, without thinking, I picked up my roommate’s hand and used THAT to hit the spider with (this all happened fast enough so he was caught off guard and didn’t resist).

So yeah that was me doing 85 mph down I-35 while using my roommate’s hand to commit spidercide. Not my best moment. But no one got hurt.

Seriously, no one got hurt. After all that, I missed the spider.

Roommate teased me for months. I got payback though when, on another trip down to Austin, he was driving his new car and stopped to get fuel. He pulled up with the driver’s side at the pump, where his fuel tank had been in his old car (the new one was on the passenger side), and got out. I waited and didn’t say anything until he realized what he’d done. We laughed, he got into the car and pulled around to the next pump.

And stopped with the driver’s side at the pump.

I might stop making fun of him for that this century. Not sure. Check back in 75 years or so.

Anyhow, I know for a fact there will be more Stupid Stuff to write about, but as I’ve been editing for several hours I thought it might just be fun to write about something goofy and mildly amusing. We all have our moments, yeah? You are more than welcome to laugh at mine. I still do. 😉


Moving Forward

I have been meaning to put these thoughts down for a while. I don’t know if they’ll help anyone, but when I blog about gender identity it’s mostly for one of two purposes. Firstly, that maybe someone who doesn’t ‘get’ it might read this and start to understand. Secondly, because when I was learning about myself I felt incredibly alone, terrified and isolated, until I read blogs written by people like me which actually saved my life.  I’ve had a lot of time to ponder my identity, and even though I’m late to the party (in my mid-30’s), I know that while I’m genderfluid or non-binary, I’m also transmasculine.

I remember lying on my couch in the dark before I truly understood this, in a house far away from my family and my home state. I remember my thoughts spiraling down into a pit of depression I’d never experienced before, one that scared me so much I knew I had to examine it, dissect it, and figure it out, or there wouldn’t be anything left of me. I just lay there, my mind spinning, wondering why I couldn’t feel okay. Wondering why nothing in my life felt right.

When I first started exploring my own identity I didn’t know what labels were open to me. I didn’t know I could be one or many things. I grew up in the 80’s and 90’s, and gender identity was rarely discussed. I had no role model. I had no guide. I didn’t know what options were on the menu. I had this idea of where I thought I should be based on what my society and culture told me I and based on my very best role models – my parents. By their mid-20’s they had everything I thought I should want to have. Great jobs, a home, two kids.

Took me forever to learn that I’m NOT them. Hell, I’m still figuring that out.

This isn’t meant to slight my parents. They’re actually the coolest parents. I never explored my gender identity as a child because they never enforced uncomfortable gender roles on their kids. I climbed trees, wore dirty jeans, played in the mud, and hated dolls. And all that was fine with them. I never felt forced into a box because there was no box.

This was both good and bad, in hindsight. Good because I had total freedom to be myself. Bad, because I never actually had any cause to question my identity until I got older and realized the things I had thought I wanted, weren’t. The role I tried to fit myself into was all wrong. I tried so hard to not stand out in a crowd that in doing so, I never questioned myself, my identity, who I was. Let me reiterate – I did it to myself.

I learned that much later.

The cool thing is, you’re never too old to learn about yourself. I had to learn that too. You’re never too old to look into your heart and see what or who it beats for. I wish I’d understood these things earlier, because it would have made my younger life a little easier in some respects, but I know them now. I know who I am and where I need to go.

Some days I still feel like I did this too late and I spent a decade and a half being totally the wrong person. Some days I feel way too old to change. Some days it’s so hard to put forth the effort to dress a certain way, style my hair just right, and present to the world the person I want them to see. I look in the mirror and catch a glimpse of that guy and I want to smash my fist into it because why can’t that guy be me every day, without this much effort?

And then I stop and I breathe and I look again, and I’m happy because at least I saw that guy. At least he was there. At least I know what I need, and where I have to go. Who I have to be.

The road is long; the road is hard. The road is paved with both successes and failures, with danger and fear. But it’s also paved with surprises, kindness, and love where I didn’t expect any. I can walk it, maybe slower than some, maybe later than some, but I can travel on it because that road isn’t exclusive.

There’s lots more that can be written on this topic, and lots I hope to eventually write. What I wanted to say, though, is that we all experience different travels, different journeys in life. We learn things about ourselves and if we keep our minds open, we won’t stop learning. We should listen to ourselves and listen to each other.

I came out to my parents, officially, two weeks ago, after about 5 years of self-exploration. I am 36.

I still have parents. They still love me. There’s confusion, and there’s difficulty. There’s misunderstanding and there are a lot of questions. In the end, though, when I told my dad I could handle pretty much anything but losing his love, he just looked at me with a stern expression on his face, the one he gets when he’s about to lay down the law, and said five words:

“That’s never going to happen.”

I’m sure there will be plenty of speedbumps in the road. We’ve already learned that acceptance doesn’t mean ready understanding. Unconditional love doesn’t mean unconditional acceptance. But for the moment, I took a risk and it paid off.

I’ve learned since that coming out isn’t a one-and-done deal. Every friendship I’ve had has been tested. Some have flourished. Some have died. I’ve found new ones I didn’t ever expect.

I’m currently on vacation, and it’s given me a lot of opportunity to re-evaluate what I’ve done with my life so far. I’ve been reflecting on where I am now and where I want to be in five years. I’ve been thinking about what I want, what I need to do with my life, how to make a difference. Change is coming, and I’m not afraid.

Oh, the places I’m going to go.


Label Away…

Ok. It’s been a while since I wrote a blog post. Why? Because I suck at writing blog posts. I think lots of things throughout the course of the day, very few of which make it to this point.  Some of it is that I don’t always know how to say what I want to say properly. Tough situation for someone who writes, right? Part of it, though, is because sometimes I forget I have a voice and I can use it.

So anyhow – I read a post last week that said something that struck a note with me. It wasn’t immediately good or bad, but it resonated and it made me think a lot. It was the generic, highly assumptive statement that ‘we all hate labels.’

Do we?

I used to. When I was confused and struggling to self-identify I think I spent about a week going through a very brief ‘OMG don’t you label me’ phase. Maybe it was, like, two weeks. I didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at me and immediately assuming they KNEW me just because they’d filed me safely in their little box under a certain label of their choosing.

Bad label.

Then, months later, after wallowing through a mire of self-doubt and fear and completely uncertain territory, I began to accept myself. I found a label. And the relief I felt over it made me cry, because for so long I had been feeling completely alone. I was worried that no one was made like me and I would be by myself forever, having to hide and never allowed to say the things about myself I wanted to say.

Good label.

That label gave me freedom. It gave me relief. It made me feel slightly less alone. It didn’t feel entirely right, though, which led to more self-doubt. More questions. More worry that I had it wrong, that I was maybe crazy, a whole slew of nightmares I hadn’t even opened up yet.

I read more. I researched more. I opened myself up to learning about more and more people. Yeah, I found some haters. I found some people that wouldn’t accept me because of the label I chose for myself, but I found some who did. And, eureka, I found some people who used more than one label. I wasn’t stuck with one? OMG I can have ALL THE LABELS.

It was a ‘light bulb’ moment for me, realizing that labels aren’t always good or always bad. Some people might hate applying labels, period. But don’t tell me ‘don’t we just all hate labels’ when those labels I chose for myself helped keep my ass alive. When I sat in the dark wondering if I should bother living because I was never going to fit in anywhere, those labels I chose for myself made me feel like I fit in with someone, somewhere. When someone shyly said to me, “Do you feel like this too?” Well, I was able to nod, and say yes, and maybe there were only two of us. Maybe in the whole world full of round people we were the only two triangle people – but I wasn’t the only triangle person and that was the whole point!

So gimme the labels. I’ll take ’em. I’m not handing them out because I don’t think that’s anyone’s business but their own. It’s not my job to label you, but it’s also not yours to label me. If you ask me who I am and I reply with a laundry list of labels that makes your head spin, you don’t have to do anything but nod and smile.

My labels might not even mean the same thing to me that they mean to you. And that’s okay too. Talk to me about them. Have a discussion about what they mean to us both. That’s cool; we can discuss our labels like rational adults and then settle our disagreements like rational adults – with water guns and nerf battle gear.

Just don’t tell me to hate labels when they gave me nothing but relief from all the fear I felt. I’m going to wear my labels with pride, because for a while there I was floating in no-label-land and it was a pretty scary place. When it comes down to it, knowing I had a label at all was what saved me.

~Arin, the Labeled.

The Anti-rant…

I don’t really go on a lot of rants. Seriously, it’s not my thing. So I’m not going to. I will say, though, that sometimes people do and say things that are hurtful even if they don’t mean them to be. When that happens, it’s often the part of the injured party to ‘rise above it’ and ‘not let it hurt them.’

You know what? Bullshit. If someone hurts you, even inadvertently, it’s okay to feel that way. It’s even okay to (calmly) tell that person who said it that they hurt you and why. It’s even okay to expect an apology, although you may not get one.

So here, I’m going to go into some personal stuff. Not because I think I owe to anyone, but because if someone comes along and reads this and gains some insight from it, it might help someone else out in the future.

Someone I know, who I consider a friend, asked me the other day, “So have you talked to your therapist about your gender issue?”

At the time my response was vague and inarticulate, because while I might be coherent online, in person I tend to get very shy and self-conscious when attention is focused on me. I’m pretty anxious in social situations and don’t really do well formulating snap-answers. I’m always the one who has an epiphany five hours later – ‘Aha! THAT’S what I should have said.’

So hearing that question was actually a little hurtful, and a little annoying. But rather than be angry about it, I’m going to try to turn it into a learning opportunity.

For one – why must you automatically assume I see a therapist?

For another – I don’t actually have any issues with my gender. YOU seem to have issues with it. So, have you spoken to YOUR therapist about my gender issue? Because it seems like you might want to.

When I first realized I was different, I was maybe in my teens. I had no idea HOW I was different, though, because no one in our community or my family talked about things like gender and sexuality. I didn’t know anyone like me, and none of my friends in high school or college indicated they were anything but cisgender and either straight or gay. Had I know there were other options on the menu, I might have reached this epiphany earlier in life. I wish I had.

But as it happens, I got through all my schooling without having this super self-exploration. As a result I never really felt like I’d gone through whatever process it is young people go through to learn WHO they really are. My friends all seemed to have this idea of themselves as a whole person. I didn’t. Not for quite a while.

The revelation that I was, indeed, different didn’t come until I learned words like ‘transgender’ and ‘genderfluid.’ I started reading, and reading, and reading, while boxes were being checkmarked all over the map of my brain and lightbulbs were flipping on everywhere. And then – I cried. I cried my eyeballs out. With relief, because I had a name for what I felt inside and I wasn’t alone or crazy. With fear, because I didn’t know how to handle it and I wasn’t sure I’d ever find acceptance.

As I continue on this journey, I know I’m going to run into all kinds of hate (I have – but I expect more). I get all kinds of questions like the one from above, even from people who claim to want to be my friends.

So, folks, your take-away is this:

No person’s journey is the same as anyone else’s. My adventure in discovering and being comfortable in my skin will not be the same as the next person’s, even if we eventually fall under the same labels and feel comfortable there. We all get there by different roads. Some of us got there faster. Some of us got there slower. Some of us are still picking our way over potholes.

No matter the person, no matter the relationship, treat them with respect. Treat them the way you’d want to be treated yourself. Me, I’m still on my journey. I’m actually happy to talk about it – but when your conversation opener is the one above, you’re immediately coloring the exchange by placing the person you’re talking to in a position of assumed inferiority by implying there’s something wrong with them. Who would actually want to open up and discuss it in that situation? Not many.

If you have friends or family members and you want to support them, demonstrate that not by asking them invasive questions, but by making sure they are SAFE first and foremost and then educating yourself. Let them know you’d love to talk to them about it. Ask them if there’s a website you might be able to read to learn more about whatever it is they’re going through – a lot of sites I’ve seen out there have some very good tips on how to discuss these topics (I’ll try to come up with a list later, but work is calling).

Open a conversation politely and respectfully. If you don’t know how to do that, ask your therapist. Because that seems like a bigger issue, to me, than whether or not I’ve discussed my gender ‘issue.’


Arin – 1, Evil Kitten – ~1 million…

So I’ve mentioned Evil Kitten before. I live with Evil Kitten. Or, more accurately, Evil Kitten allows me to exist in her space as long as I continue to provide food, water, and kitten-box-cleaning services.

How did I come to have this arrangement with Evil Kitten? I found her dying under a car, covered in fleas and mites and totally malnourished. Upon verifying with a local that she was, indeed, homeless and no one would miss her, I scooped her up, dragged her tiny less-than-one-pound body to the vet, and spent the next 48 hours force-feeding her, giving her vitamins, crushing fleas, and heating and reheating a sock full of rice to keep her warm.

In thanks, Evil Kitten has become my supreme ruler.

Really. You’d think she’d be grateful, but no. Evil Kitten hates such things as snuggles, petting, cuddling, and affection in general. She prefers to feed on human flesh, usually mine, and is not opposed to sneak-attacking me at any hour of the day.

Occasionally she sleeps on top of me and wakes me up purring at 2:30 in the morning but I pretend not to notice so she can keep up appearances.

As part of my duties to my supreme ruler, I play with her every evening with a teaser toy which she joyfully chases around. So last night, while watching my recorded episode of Dancing With the Stars (Yes, I watch DWtS okay??? Don’t judge me!!) I set the remote control down next to me on the carpet so I could simultaneously play with Evil Kitten (I promise, she has an actual name but I don’t say it out of fear that repeating it three times might summon her) and fast-forward through the blah blah blah talky parts.

Evil Kitten bounced around for a bit and then spotted the remote on the carpet. The result was like watching a puffer fish puff up – instant puff. Hiss. Bounce.


I lifted the remote. Bigger puff. Louder hiss. Huge threatening bounce.

Muahahaha. Evil Kitten has kryptonite.

I pointed the remote at her, and with a hiss that would rival Simba the Lion King (no, not the grown up one, but the pitiful kitten one), Evil Kitten was off like a shot, up the stairs and back through whatever portal of Hell she dwells in when I can’t find her.

I have no idea how or why this came about. To my knowledge Evil Kitten has never had a bad episode with any kind of remote control. Perhaps she can sense its electric vibes or something.

I must use this power wisely, but I have found a defense against pointy teeth at last!! BWAHAHAHA…



I knew it was too good to be true. I bought my car almost exactly two years ago and it’s been in pristine shape since I got it. I wash it and polish it regularly (or I get lazy and pay people to do so for me). I wipe down the inside on a daily basis. I’m a little overprotective of it, okay??

Now that daylight saving time is over and the sun is setting earlier it gets darker at the barn. Yes? Logical.

The parking lot got quite full tonight, and when that happens some people apparently park their big fat freaking Tahoe on the opposite side of the (very small) lot where there isn’t actually any marked parking.

Their black Tahoe.

Under a tree.

In the dark.

And now I have proven to myself that yes, even with a back-up cam it is entirely possible to miss the big fat freaking Tahoe when it’s parked almost directly behind you under a freaking tree in the freaking dark.


Now granted, I was only rolling backwards very slowly but since I didn’t see the dang Tahoe I didn’t apply any brakes. Damage to Tahoe, a few miniscule scrapes on the bumper the owner said she doesn’t care about. Damage to VW Passat, minimal but will still require the bumper to be replaced as the metal is slightly buckled.



At least she had the good grace to apologize for leaving her big stupid truck where pretty much ANYONE would have bumped it. I just had the rotten luck to be the first one to do so. Generally if the parking lot fills up at the barn, we pull into the field across the way and park BEHIND the big trees just for that reason.

Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now. This is sort of a Murphy’s law thing for me… it’s written in stone somewhere. Or, in crappy COBOL:





I shoulda hit her harder, if I’m gonna have to have my bumper replaced anyway. *grumble*


The Last Supper??

So yeah, it’s been a while since I wrote something. Anything, actually. This is because I had to use the vacation I earned at work or lose it. So you know, ‘we will conditionally allow you two weeks of vacation – you earned them. They’re yours. Just as long as you use them before December 31st.’

Sucks, because I was actually hoping to use them next year to drive to New York and see my family, while still having a little ‘wiggle room’ for later in the year. But no worries. My family is awesome, and when they heard I was taking a week off in October my folks decided to drive down here and see me. Awesome on a lot of levels. My folks pretty much rock. I didn’t have a magical fairy-tale childhood or anything, but I did have a happy one with parents who love the hell out of me and that’s something I never take for granted. It’s also something I worry about losing, especially with the genderfluid thing. They don’t really understand it, and we don’t talk about it a lot. I think they’d get it if we sat down and chatted but I’m not going to push it because I’m still sorting a lot out myself.

Long story short(er), my parents are pretty great and I wanted to make them a special dinner before their long drive home (and my unfortunate return to work) tomorrow. We’d just watched a cooking show where they made homemade pasta. I thought, why not? Don’t get me wrong, we’ve been cooking like crazy the whole time they’ve been here. My mom and I love to cook; my dad and I love to eat. Food happens in our family. It’s a bonding thing. I generally cook to show people I care. I’m an emotional eunuch otherwise, but I make a mean ‘I’m sorry’ cupcake.

I figured, why not do homemade pasta? How awesome would that be? I have a pasta roller for my mixer, I can totes do this.

It took me three hours. THREE HOURS. To make homemade pasta. Seriously. This shit is tough. There’s a reason we get it in boxes. I made the dough, kneaded it, let it rest, sectioned it, and started rolling it out. Everything went pretty smoothly until the part where you supposedly cut it into neat little strips which then roll up to make adorable little nests of pasta.

Hell no.

My pasta didn’t do that. It just sort of stuck to itself in a big old mess. So, fine. I threw it back into the pasta roller, re-rolled it, re-stretched it, re-cut it, and floured the SHIT out of it. I did this for over an hour (with a little help), separating and flouring each individual damned noodle.

At least while I did this I had time to get the sauce going; this I do regularly. I know I make a mean pasta sauce. My DNA is half marinara. I also had time to do a really nice ricotta blended with olive oil, fresh basil, and roasted garlic. While cutting. Each. Individual. Noodle.

The final result, I will admit, was pretty damn good. Of course, when I placed it in front of my dad he had to ask what kind of pasta it was. It was sort of wide, not uniform, a little wonky, and kinda amateur-looking. Mostly because by the end I was all, “Fuck it, I’m just getting this crap MADE.”

I smiled cheerfully at him and said, “It’s fuckaccini.”

I have not had the pleasure of seeing my dad snort tomato sauce before, but it’s quite the sight.

Dinner was consumed over a lot of laughter. It wasn’t perfect but it was delicious, and we had even more laughs to remember (my mom was my official fuckaccini flourer). I know tomorrow we’re going to hug and kiss each other good-bye. We’ll do it quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. No one in my family lingers over good-byes because we’ll cry and we don’t want to. Saying good-bye to my parents is like ripping my heart out all over again. I wasn’t supposed to live this far away. I wasn’t supposed to be the kid who moved away. I was always the homebody, and now I’m sort of lost in a life I didn’t want in a state I dislike.

But you know, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. I know I want to get back home. I can’t quite manage it yet, I need a job. I need finances. I know where my heart is though. It’s up in the middle of nowhere, New York State, pretty far from the city, close to the mountains I grew up in. I’m gonna get back there someday. For now I’m going to see all I can of my parents, and every meal we make together, every road trip, every phone call, will motivate me and remind me of where I want to be.

In the meantime, however, I’m looking forward to resuming my usual activities – reading, writing, and bitching about my day job. You know, the usual.


A Musical Day!

I actually did not have to look this one up – because I knew it already! October 8, 1982 was the opening date of the musical Cats on Broadway. It became one of the longest-running musicals on Broadway, running for 18 years.

I was lucky enough to grow up outside of NY city, so I had access to Broadway with just a 2-hour train ride. Now obviously (or maybe not so obviously but you’re too kind to say so) I’m too young to have seen Cats when it opened. And it wasn’t October 8 when I saw it. But I still remember it because it was my very first musical!

I was just starting to get into musical theater and a friend of mine loaned me a CD of the music. I memorized it and sang it all the dang time. When my grandmother got wind of this, she took me to Broadway. We stood there in Times Square at the discount ticket booth and she managed to get us two seats next to each other in the fourth row back in the orchestra. That’s crazy!

I remember when the lights went down and the music began, and little twinkling lights began to sparkle all over the theater through curls of fog. It was so magical, so surreal, I fell in love instantly. p until then I’d just seen little amateur shows with terrible effects and maybe one poor beleaguered piano teacher clunking out the score. This was something else.

At one point Bustopher Jones came dancing down the aisle, grabbed my grandma’s hands, pulled her up and danced with her for a second or two, and then sat her back down. I was beside myself. And then, of course, was the scene with Mr Mistoffelees, which has remained one of my favorite Broadway bits EVER. I always thought if I were to be on Broadway, that’s the role I’d want (technically my first pick would be Javert in Les Miserables but let’s face it, there isn’t enough testosterone in the world to make my voice get as low as he sings). Besides, Mr. Mistoffelees gets that awesome leap sequence in his dance. Can’t quite see Javert bursting into a round of spins and leaps like Mr. Mistoffelees does. Dance, dance, suicide, dance… no, that wouldn’t work.

Anyway, when the musical was done my grandma took me to this little restaurant that looked like a total dive but served the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten (welcome to NYC – if the place looks like a crackhouse but a billion people are eating there, you want to be one of them). That was the beginning of a life-long love of musical theater.

If you’re not sure why this is relevant, book-ish-ly speaking, it’s because the musical was actually based on a book by T.S.Eliot called Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Naturally, I do have the book. I think it’s adorable. It’s a collection of poems – yes, about cats. No deep meaning. Just kitties.

I think I might have cried when Cats stopped running on Broadway. I saw it three times (it was beaten out by Les Mis which I’ve seen 4 times), and each was just as magical as the last. From the costumes to the lighting to the music and dancing… just incredible.

And a priceless memory with my grandma, who is now 86… I’m always going to remember that day she opened my eyes to an incredible new world. Thanks, grandma!


Taco, Anyone?

Apparently yesterday was National Taco Day. Am I alone in not knowing such a day even existed? How did we wind up with National Taco Day? I feel like I should be wearing an ‘I ❤ TACOS’ t-shirt or something. And what happened to Taco Tuesday? Didn’t they get the LEGO memo?

In honor of National Taco Day (and because I decided to wonder where the heck the taco actually came from, anyway), I dug up this article about it. Don’t worry. I didn’t spend THAT much time digging. But it was pretty interesting, anyhow.

I didn’t realize the taco is a relatively new food, historically speaking. That was pretty cool. Being an avid cook (and, ergo, diner), I do like to read up on food history. I’ll admit, I’m not a big Mexican (or even Tex-Mex) fan, so I’ve never looked any of it up.

Anyhow, happy National Taco Day!


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