This is my husband Andreas. He teaches yoga and circus arts here in Seattle. So why am I telling you about my husband and his yoga teaching? Because this fall he's doing a yoga retreat on the Amalfi Coast in Italy, and if you're into that kind of thing, you should totally go.
This is Offbeat Home's archive of posts by Ariel Meadow Stallings.
Author of Offbeat Bride: Creative Alternatives for Independent Brides, Ariel acts as the publisher of all the Offbeat Empire websites. She lives, loves, and dorks out hard in Seattle, WA. You can gossip with her on twitter: @offbeatariel
One June morning a few years ago, I woke up from a very vivid dream that laid out my plans for the day. In the dream, I'd gone back to the property where my childhood best friend lived, back on my hometown of Bainbridge Island. Like much of the Island in reality, in my dream the land had been completed developed and was almost unrecognizable. I woke up motivated.
Those of you who read Offbeat Bride may remember Kitten, Brynn, and Doll's rainbow garden of poly love three-bride wedding that we featured last fall. Well, it turns out that the triad are expecting a baby!
When I was in college, I worked for The Disney Store. They taught me this thing called "The Disney Fold" … a laundry folding method that I use to this day.
Somehow, I've gone from a person who found herself filled with resentment and rage while cleaning to someone who actually (get this) enjoys doing my chores. Somehow, I now understand the concept of "domestic bliss." I genuinely don't know when this happened. Somehow, I'm that asshole who shouts "LAUNDRY ZERO!!" with a sense of genuine accomplishment once all hampers are empty and all clothes are folded. I don't know how or why this happened, but in the interest of bottling it and sharing it, here are a few of my theories…
A aging nightlife colleague posted this online recently: "Really need to work on the whole "being fun" thing a little more. It's too easy to just sit around being comfortable and old."
I see these kinds of things a LOT from my peer group of aging freaks — right around 30. It seems like all of a sudden it's staring you right there in the face: the stuff that we spent our 20s doing (in my specific case, dancing all night while intoxicated) suddenly doesn't have quite the same pull, and there's part of you that screams NOOOOOOO! I'm getting OOOOOOLD! And then there's this reflex of MUST FIGHT IT MUST FIGHT IT.
I have a birthmark.
As the name suggests, it's always been there. This red mark between my lip and my left nostril, a permanent wound needing to be kissed. Apparently, when I was born, my mother thought it was cute. My aunt commented that I would surely hate it.
I don't, really. I often forget it's there.
My late night snacks always leaned towards the darkest sides of stoner food: quesadillas, cracker dipped in cream cheese, during more desperate moments, cheese melted on a plate scraped off with my own fingernails. On a whim last winter, I bought my husband a gift: a Whirlypop, which is a stovetop popcorn popper.