That Perfect Me

How is it possible to be nothing but me and yet miss me so terribly?  Seven years and six shoulder and hip surgeries later, I only partly recognize myself.  The confident, independent woman I became through years of love, encouragement, support, and studying is still around... somewhere.  She must be.  But where did she go?  Maybe that old trunk I stuffed away in the attic but can't get to now because of all the damn stairs.  Maybe under the bed in that box of old journals and sketchbooks.  Maybe I left her tromping around in the greenness of Ireland.  Or on that daunting but dominated mountaintop in Big Bend National Park.  Or in one of many libraries I spent so many hours in.  Or in scattered pieces in each of the homes I've left behind.  Or in that first doctor's office when things started to go wrong.  Or in the office of the one doctor who botched a surgery and could not bring himself to admit it.  I was so strong.  Stronger than the ages, I was once told.  I reveled in my strength.  I never questioned it.  Until I did.  New moments have warped the steel girl I was.  That perfect me.  But does perfection consist solely of confidence, strength, and independence of body?  Dare I adjudicate my old self "perfect" for possessing those things I lack now?  For about five years, I think I believed that, at least when it came to how I saw myself.  I held myself to the highest standards, never failing, always exceeding expectations.  Never and Always.  As my body fell apart, it scared me to my core, and I incessantly grieved who I was becoming and who I was failing to be; struggling, ripping at the seams, to fight this decrepit yet young person into whom I was transforming against my will.  And then a couple of years ago, I stopped.  And remembered to breathe.  I changed.  I finally let myself be the person I am, scars and all.  Old and new.  I quit the me struggle and just focused on checking things off of lists in the hopes that when I check off enough of them, I'll escape the nightmare -- getting all the broken parts fixed, and fixed right by amazing doctors (check); letting myself rest when I need it (check (though this is way harder than I would have thought)); riding my stationary bike 30 minutes a day, five days a week (on the days I don't have physical therapy) (check); going to my office and putting in more hours than I intended when I left the house every time I go (check); remembering to thank my husband for the millions of tasks he helps with that I can't do, all the while trying to do more and more things for myself (check); being present for my children, playing with them, reading with them, asking them questions about what they think and how they feel, cuddling with them, being proud of them for each new thing they discover and become, and having my heart hurt for them every time they stub a toe or have their feelings hurt (check); remembering to reach out to far away people I love (check... sometimes, but I think about it often); reading and writing personal things again after so many years of reading and writing only legal documents, articles, books, court opinions, emails, and children's books (check).  I am endeavoring in every way I can think of to find me again, but she's not fully back yet.  I won't even judge her if she's not the perfect me anymore when I do find her.  How could she be?  But I hope she loves more dearly than ever; thinks as deeply and clearly as ever; continues to see beauty in unlikely places; is as open to experience as she ever was; appreciates the very many things to be grateful for each day; speaks her mind no matter what; and lifts up her children so they can be the best versions of themselves they can be.  In writing this, I am recognizing and understanding that I have, in fact, found pieces of her, or maybe they are just pieces of her that never left and have finally begun to be able to peek out from behind the pain curtain -- and I am thankful for that.  And in the process of lamenting the loss of former perfect me, of course I realize deep down that perfection is illusory, except the kind of perfection that lies in unique imperfection, which makes us lovable to others.  No, I don't think physical strength is the epitome of perfection, but I think it's my missing piece right now.  That thing that is keeping me from the perfection I had and want so badly to have back.  My body needs to heal and regain its power.  My spirit is ever strong and bubbling under the surface, so ready to emerge in full force as soon as my vessel is strong enough.  Thank God my spirit never quits.  And I couldn't care less anymore about my crooked tooth or my baby belly stretch marks or even all the surgical scars I've amassed.  And I love my curly hair, the color of my eyes, and the shape of my hands.  I just want to take a really long walk, or even a really long drive.  Alone.  Ever.  And enjoy it like I used to.  Not scared of lacking the strength to finish the task and being stuck somewhere.  I don't think that's too much to ask.  For now, my body is too tired to thoroughly consider whether this stream-of-consciousness bit of writing is even worth posting because I went to work today, rode my bike, spent time with my children while my body rested, and I have physical therapy in the morning.  Which all feels like a lot right now (though old, workaholic "perfect" me might have scoffed at that thought). Maybe I'll find another piece of me tomorrow.  Maybe it'll even be one I've never seen -- strength bigger than I've ever known in this much more challenging terrain.  Getting this perpetually injured body back to normal (whatever that is) is even harder than that time I literally climbed a mountain.  But I have to believe I'll arrive at my destination -- an older and wiser perfect me.  Maybe I already have, sort of.   

That Perfect Melancholy

I am feeling a perfect sort of melancholy today.  I have been reflecting on my time in one of my passionately favorite cities -- Paris.  I went in early 2007 and sincerely loved that place and did not want to leave (but couldn't afford to stay longer).  My soul melded with its essence in a deep and personal way.  If a city could embody my loves, my passions, my perfect visions, it did.  So much so that I blew off the rest of my itinerary in different European destinations to remain in Paris, soaking in as much of it as I could in the two weeks I had.  I've said many times that the most beautiful people I have ever seen were in Paris.  And not just some of them.  All of them.  And I am remembering so many perfect things:  from the delightful casual enjoyment of crepes in the street, to the breathtaking views of Notre Dame, to the cafes, flowers, and fruit stands of Montmarte, to the grandest cemetery I've ever trodden, to the majesty of Versailles, to the modern impressive beast that is the Pompidou, to the vineyards mid-city, to the best cassoulet and creme brûlée I had in the middle of a gorgeous rainstorm, to the historic neighborhoods where legendary artists lived and painted, to the superfluous stairs in the metro made up for by the beautiful metro signs and metalwork, and to the nearly infinite mind and soul boggling abundance of Art everywhere that makes the city just exhale aesthetic experience into every breeze.  And right now, Paris is hurting.  That perfect place has been ravaged by angry people who have preferred death over such beautiful life.  The melancholic perfection I feel isn't the usual perfection I write about.  It is instead "absolute or complete" or "free from defects."  A perfect melancholy is the worst kind.  And I feel it today.

That Perfect French Toast

It's been ages since I've posted, but I was inspired by my Sunday brunch this past weekend to once again sing the praises of something here in this special place meant for celebrating perfection.  I posted once about Shipley's chocolate filled donuts, in which I disclosed that I am not typically a sweet-toothed girl when it comes to breakfast.  But I must now concede there is another sweet breakfast treat that I have woken up craving on more occasions than I care to admit.  I will say that I, personally, make a mean French Toast.  It's my grandfather's recipe.  And it's pretty damn amazing.  But it was honestly better when he made it than when I do.  Food made by someone else always tastes better, probably because of the dash of love thrown into the mix.  In any event, even though I love my GP's French Toast recipe, today I'm celebrating the French Toast at Yolk in Dallas.  They make it with Challah bread, and it's, well, perfect.  It's soft and warm and a little gooey, with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and maple syrup.  (And their bacon and strawberry orange juice are pretty awesome accompaniments, too).

That Perfect Book That Makes You Feel Something Deeply

I have that not-sure-what-to-do-with-myself-feeling as reality slowly fades back in.  And, as that is the case, I am turning to my old blog to tell faceless you about how and why I find myself in this state.  I just began a book today that pulled me in so deeply that I also finished it today.  This particular story has me feeling hyper-aware of my mortality.  It has me focused on the tragedies and celebrations I have already experienced and those I cannot yet foresee.  It has me feeling thankful for the loves in my life, from the grandest to the smallest, the longest to the shortest, the longstanding and the fleeting.  It has me realizing how much more patience with others I have gained from my own struggles with my painful, long-standing shoulder issues that have impacted my ability to be the super-human I used to imagine myself as being.  It reminds me how much I appreciate intelligence and quick wit.  It has me appreciating the quiet-only-you-and-I-understand-looks,-sighs,-and-metaphors I have shared with others through the years.  It has me in awe of how deeply we humans feel.         

That Perfect Brisket

When I go for barbecue, I always choose brisket.  Often times, it is in combination with other smoked goodies (like ribs or sausage), but brisket is really my favorite of the barbecue meats.  And I thought I had already tasted my all-time favorite brisket years ago at the Salt Lick in Driftwood, Texas.  But today, something unexpected and momentous happened.  My husband made the ultimate brisket.  That Perfect Brisket, to be precise.  Behold:

To be clear, I much prefer an orange-colored vinegar-based sauce to dark sugary sauces, and even then, I use sauce sparingly.  Indeed, the meat should speak for itself.  And, to be fair, he did use Salt Lick barbecue sauce (albeit, warmed and mixed with the brisket drippings) (which, luckily, we are fortunate enough to be able to buy off of the shelves of Central Market here in Dallas).  But this brisket was nothing short of amazing.  My brother joined us for dinner, and when he took a small pinch-bite of falling-apart brisket from off of the cutting board after it was freshly sliced, he was so taken aback by the wonder of the brisket that he said "Wait, I need to think about what I just tasted for a minute."

In a nutshell, from the fingertips of one who enjoys my husband's cooking immensely but who cannot take credit for the tastiness (except for whatever help I can provide by chasing kids around while he cooks and cleaning up when he is done), here's my best description of how he accomplished this little miracle.... He rubbed the brisket down last night with a rub of cayenne, salt, and black pepper and let it sit in the fridge overnight.  Early this afternoon, he took it out to let it sit and get up to room temp.  Then he smoked it in the barbecue pit using apple wood chips for the smoke.  That took 2 or 3 hours.  Then he finished it, foil-wrapped, in the oven for another 3 hours.  Then he let it rest, out of the oven, for at least 30 minutes before slicing (which made it fall-apart-moist-and-not-at-all-dry-like-much-ordinary-brisket).  It was a.m.a.z.i.n.g.  It had the absolute perfect blend of smoke, salt, heat, fat, and plain old meat goodness.  And then he served it alongside bacon-infused kale (superfood!), fresh roasted corn on the cob (which I like to eat in sliced sheets of corn kernels (see below)), and smoky beans with cumin.  Delish.  I think I even sang a song about how good it was while I ate it.  Yeah, I know I did.  And while the pictures are tantalizing, they really don't do justice to how gooooooood this was.  Here's a picture of That Perfect Brisket (with a splash of sauce) alongside the perfect veggie accoutrement:

That Perfect Edge and Sweetness

I am encroaching on my old self.  For those of you who know me personally, at least sometime in the past nearly 10 years or so (God, has it been that long?)... you know I am an attorney, that I work in a very tall building, that I am very busy, and that on some days, I am even important, and maybe even in the grand scheme of things... at least sometimes.  But having three days at my disposal this past weekend (even if I was feverish for part of it) has afforded me some precious moments in which I have been privileged and inspired to delve into an old passion.  I sat for about four or five hours yesterday, alone... with a mechanical pencil.  Well, not entirely alone.  I also had an eraser.  And a sketch book.  And some inspiring images on my laptop.  You see,  I am working on some drawings for a project I have been invited to work on, and it delights my senses to be working, in earnest, on an artistic goal of my own.  I have carte blanche authority to make any visual choices I want in this project, which is quietly thrilling.  You see, in this life, I have spent a great deal of time facilitating others' art.  I have spent time as a serigraphy printer - printing other artists' works in precisely-printed editions, as an art teacher working in a variety of settings with children of various ages, and I am only in the past couple of weeks gracefully floating back to Earth after an amazing experience orchestrating an art project and fundraiser for the benefit of others.  But, this time, the art project is mine.  It's all been utterly worth doing, of course, and I have been rewarded with personal and deep-running benefits from all of the the work experiences I have lived and toiled through for the benefit of others, but there is simply nothing quite like creating in solitude, enveloped only by music of my choosing in my squishy, external, massive headphones and sitting and working for hours that feel like mere minutes.  Just creating.  And, by the way, I am only cognizant that I was drawing for about four or five hours based upon my after-the-fact internal count of how many times the album I was listening to resounded and echoed in my mind as I sketched away, entirely in another world yet physically present at my hard and heavy reclaimed wood dining table seated upon a velvety upholstered chair.  When I was invited to work on this project, I was told by my project-partner that my work has a certain "wonderful combination of edge and sweetness that's just perfect."  So I suppose this post is about that perception of my work as possessing that perfect edge and simultaneous sweetness.  I am honored by his comment, and I hope to live up to it as I complete more drawings for our joint effort.  Truth be told, I'd like to embody this description in my own personal being in this world as well as in my artwork (and think sometimes that maybe I do), but I'll take what I can get.  Through all of this, my mind is swirled away on waves of memory reminding me what it was like to "live" my art.  Late night conversations with dear friends about our experiences of the most-important-thing-in-the-world-which-was-expressing-all-this-passion-and-vision-inside and countless hours, at all hours of the day and night, in various UT art studios smelling linseed oil and turpentine and feeling the exquisitely smooth trail of a fan brush on large personally stretched and primed canvases, covered with caked-dry-but-once-wet-clay and not caring and still carving away for hours, or reclining in the unearthly pale light of the print lab darkroom eagerly awaiting the results of the image in the photo emulsion after the appropriately timed exposure on the light table.  Wow, it's been such a long time since those days, and I am a more grounded, and more "accomplished" version of myself now, and yet less... well, less something I don't know quite how to put my finger on... but maybe, just maybe, encroaching on my old self while going forward in my present life will create a sort of perfect harmony, which perfection I can potentially blog about down the road.  Balance, after all, is golden.  In the meantime, when I have the time, I'll scratch my pencil on that soft but solid paper surface and work on crafting those perfect images of edgy sweetness. 

That Perfect Authentic Moment in Time

As I sat this evening with some colleagues over beers at the Old Monk, our conversations traversed many topics that struck a chord somewhere within me.  This prose will never fully be able to recreate for those reading it the precise feeling I have at this moment, but at least it will attempt to articulate a thankful and thoughtful reflection on but a few moments.  At various points in the cool evening over a long deep orange wooden table and some beautifully rich beers (and, as an aside, I was lucky enough to have the bartender drawing hearts with grenadine in my beer foam), a small few of us in the crowd talked among ourselves.  When we began, there was the usual work chatter, the usual commentary and suppositions about the about the economy, the usual banter about politics.  But then things pleasantly turned.  Somehow, our conversation managed to flow effortlessly into how important it is to tell people that mean something to you, that you respond to, that you connect with, that they and those moments with them are meaningful to you, and how it lingers with you throughout life when someone acknowledges such a shared authentic connection with you... how critical it is to keep your own light on no matter how bad it gets and to acknowledge and reconcile with yourself the unimaginable, but real, bad things in life and to live with purpose through and after them... how music can pull you in so deeply you literally cannot process or think of anything else... how philosophy and curiosity about this wide world have fueled what is now known as science... how intuition is a crucial ingredient in success, albeit tempered with personal testing of such intuitively felt conclusions...  and many more personally important yet fluidly evolving thoughts we all considered and shared before they transformed into other and more interesting thoughts... and then we all bonded over our common incessant need to produce, create, or DO something meaningful, nearly all the time.  It runs counter to my very being to waste time.  Time can be wisely used in accomplishing a task or in connecting with a kindred spirit.  But to sit idle without either accomplishment or meaning is something that turns my stomach and contorts my soul.  I find myself wonderfully pleased when I get to have moments like those I had this evening where I and those in my company are able to free ourselves from the mundane sorts of conversations that all too often dominate adult working life and instead explore the larger ideas that dominate my private thinking most of the time.  It's tricky in this world connecting with others, and I am deeply thankful for moments in this life when I do.  Here's to more real moments.        

That Perfect Kind of Good for You Chocolate Fix

I am very pregnant right now. That might explain (a) why I haven't written a post in some time and (b) why this one is about chocolate. It might also explain my excitement over something that is chocolate and good for you at the same time. I have found during this pregnancy that the meal that is most important to me is breakfast. It's the only meal of the day I really crave anything in particular. And, oddly for me, I crave something sweet in the morning every day. Those of you who know me well know that is strange indeed. Be that as it may, I am thrilled to report that I have discovered a wonderful way to satisfy my sweet tooth and still feed my growing baby something good for her. It's my chocolate breakfast smoothie. And, it is sooooooo easy.

Add the following to your blender:

1 C. lowfat milk
1 individual serving sized container of yogurt
1 packet Carnation instant breakfast - milk chocolate flavor
approx. 1 C. crushed ice

Blend. Find a straw and a big cup. Enjoy.

 The only variable is the yogurt. For my loyal followers, you already know I'm going to advise using Brown Cow cream top yogurt. It is truly the best. I've tried a few Brown Cow yogurt flavor variations in this smoothie, and the following are great: chocolate (duh), cherry vanilla, vanilla, and strawberry (ranked in that order). I'm guessing I'll still be drinking these long after I am no longer pregnant, too. YUM.

That perfectly timed crescendo

Building... slowly... perfectly... to a resounding, soul-shattering crescendo. Sadly, too few musicians master the timing of the crescendo, which is both a shame in that they are not more easy to come by and also lovely in that when they are found unexpectedly, they arouse that much more delight and charm from their scarcity.

It was love at first listen for me. Some many months ago I discovered Mumford and Sons and their album "Sigh No More." It was, indeed, some happy, fortuitous months ago that I first heard them. Although they are relatively new to the music scene, they have already mastered the art of the perfectly timed crescendo.

Imagine the first leaves of fall, which cause excitement in their scattered state because they signal cooler weather to come. And imagine leaves upon leaves that coat the ground more and more fully with each passing day until finally, the ground is coated completely with a crunchy, brown blanket. Or imagine standing at the water's edge with tentative, tender waves lapping lightly at the tips of your toes. And imagine them washing further over your feet with the passing minutes and hours, and growing, until the tide has enveloped your ankles and shins with warm, lovely bath-like waves. Or imagine just a simple outline of a sketch with pencil or charcoal. A mere gesture drawing, showing action and promise but not yet alive. Then imagine layers of paint lovingly applied. Layer upon layer upon layer, blending, darkening, highlighting, tightening, until finally the true image appears, and you reach the pinnacle of that image and know it is final, it is finished. Well-placed and timed crescendos in life are something to strive for and to be celebrated, and when music manages to get them just right, I simply cannot help but sit up straight and notice.

Mumford and Sons tactfully employs crescendos that move my soul both in individual songs on "Sigh No More" and in the full album as a whole. Individual songs you should absolutely try if you have an deep affinity for perfect crescendos like I do: The Cave, Little Lion Man, and Roll Away Your Stone. But it is an absolute must that you listen to the album in its entirety to appreciate the perfect cadence and appropriate crescendos and decrescendos in the course of the album in its entirety; the album has utterly intimate and quiet moments that are balanced perfectly with the magnificent crescendos that have the capacity to bring tears to my eyes because of their emotion-stirring perfection. Especially moving moments that counterbalance the perfect crescendos are in Timshel, Awake My Soul, and After the Storm.

I have listened to the album probably hundreds of times by now and have even seen the band perform it live, but my favorite experience of the music is probably listening to it while driving, alone, very loudly. The quiet beauty in the nuance of each of the songs as well as their magnificent crescendos can be fully appreciated through crisp speakers that have the power to surround and envelop you in solitude.

And while I am applauding the grand crescendos so expertly mastered by Mumford and Sons, I would be remiss if I failed to also share with you some samples of the stirring, haunting, gentle, and thoughtful lyrics that blend beautifully with the amazing use of crescendos. Here is a small compilation of but a few of them:

.... And you have your choices; and these are what make man great: his ladder to the stars.... The flesh that lived and loved will be eaten by plague, so let the memories be good for those who stay.... And I have filled this void with things unreal, and all the while, my character it steals.... And so I'll be found, with my stake stuck in this ground, marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul.... Weep for yourself my man, you'll never be what is in your heart; weep little lion man, you're not as brave as you were at the start; rate yourself and rake yourself, take all the courage you have left, and waste it on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head.... In these bodies we will live; in these bodies we will die; where you invest your love, you invest your life.... Get over your hill and see what you find there, with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

That Perfect Soup In a Can

Soooooooooup. I am such a soup lover. I get giddy ordering a demitasse or a cup of a chef's soup du jour (especially if it has some cream swirled in it or some sort of peppers). One of my very favorite meals on this planet is a particular tortilla soup that my husband makes (which is derived from the recipe used at a Mexican restaurant in Austin where he worked while in college). And La Madeline's tomato bisque is just heavenly. The cream of shrimp soup at the Cottage in my hometown evokes a craving I wish I could fulfill long distance from Texas. I even gleefully tote soup in a can to work for lunch quite frequently, and I am even happy about it when lunchtime at my desk inevitably rolls around. I keep a pottery bowl I made on the bookshelf in my office to jazz up the canned soup a bit to give it that little something extra on a Tuesday. It fits perfectly and keeps it warm just long enough.

I am a soup girl through and through - always have been. It makes me feel a little warmer when I'm chilly, a little more comfy when I'm stressed, a little more home when I am away, and a little more delicate when I'm just not.

The funny thing about my soup predilection is that I do NOT like to use soup spoons. Sure, the shape is pleasing - round and appealing like the headlights on a VW beetle. But my upper lip happens to be shaped in such a way that I get little spoon-cuts on the edges of it when I eat with a soup spoon (unless I slurp it out of the soup spoon, which just about ruins the experience of eating soup if you ask me - both the aesthetic experience of the soup consumer and of the accompanying meal attendees). Am I the only one with this plight?

As you can imagine, I have tried many soups... and many of the varieties available in cans are not good. Not even worth the $1 or $2 price tag they bear. There are a select few I routinely buy, and I am frequently disappointed with much of what is out there. But, one soup has stood the test of time - the Stonehenge of soups - and my palate has never tired of it. As a child, I remember my family eating it out of mugs with blue daisies on them as the accompaniment to BLT sandwiches. Sometime in my pre-teen or high school days, I began eating this soup on its own and discovered that it doesn't need the BLT accompaniment; in fact, I prefer eating it all by itself. (Not to slight BLTs in the least - I like them very much. They have bacon and mayonnaise, come on.)

That Perfect Soup In a Can is not even one of the fancier-don't-add-water types that seem to fill the supermarket shelves these days. Nope. I've never even seen any kind of advertisement for this soup. This one is old school condensed soup in the small can with a label that comes close to the old Campbell's Tomato soup label Andy Warhol appropriated for his serigraphs (albeit with some recent unfortunate modernization of the styling). And, yes, you definitely have to add water to it before cooking.

Alright already, what kind of soup is it, you ask? The Campbell's soup that apparently no one besides my family seems to know about when I talk about it. The flavor no one else has heard of when they come into the breakroom at my office, smell the lovely scent of it cooking in the microwave, and ask "Ooh, what is that? It smells so good!"



Bean with Bacon (or Bean and Bacon, which I've always called it). Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, mmmmmmmmmmmm, good, as the old Campbell's jingle goes.

That Perfect Out of the Norm Breakfast

I don't particularly like donuts.

Given a choice between a salty breakfast or a sweet one, I nearly always choose salty (enter my favorite: breakfast tacos, for instance). As a child, I even turned up my nose at homemade pancakes and waffles that my Dad so sweetly rose early to make for my brothers and me in our childhood. They're just not my thing. Despite my savory breakfast predilection, to be completely honest, most mornings my breakfast consists of either oatmeal, yogurt, or a banana (yep, eating sensibly as a responsible adult...).

But if I had my druthers... if there were no consequences for a crappy diet, I would have memorable savory breakfasts way more often. Still, every now and then, I am compelled beyond explanation to make an exception from both the sensible good-for-me-routine-breakfast and even the beloved occasional savory breakfast. Today was one of those days. There is but a single brand of flaky, sugary, circular goodness that holds a special place in my heart. My whole life, the only donuts I have cared even one iota about are Shipley's. To be more specific, the only donut I care about whatsoever is a chocolate-filled donut from Shipley's.



Witness the extraordinary, intoxicating power of a chocolate-filled Shipley's donut. I recall staying up through an entire night in high school in my old bedroom at my parents' house just jabbering, gossiping, belly laughing, and probably even crying a little, in the dark with a dear, dear girlfriend (absolutely the norm for a weekend night in high school)... and then being utterly exhausted and delirious sometime in the neighborhood of 5:00 a.m. and realizing that Shipley's would open in about one more hour... and convincing my poor friend to stay up with me just one more hour until it opened so we could go get a donut or two... (nevermind that I was wrong about their opening hour... so we even more deliriously finally collapsed into sleep after making fun of ourselves for staying up all night plus the extra hour for a donut store opening that was definitely a few more hours away yet, quite beyond our sleep-deprived reach). Shipley's, dear readers, is a donut worth losing sleep over. At least at the age of 16 it is. Although I can confidently say I wouldn't stay up all night for it these days, there's not much I'd stay up all night for nowadays, so don't let that discount your impression of the magnificence of a chocolate-filled Shipley's donut.

A few small details: the chocolate tucked inside that donut is the perfect flavor, a little sugary-gritty in texture, and is, pure and simple, oozy, gooey sweet happiness, and the glazing is just the right amount of sticky, flaky sugar that you have to (or get to) lick off of your fingertips. Ah.

That Perfect Stain Remover

Bye bye blueberry dribble... off of a dry clean only Banana Republic top. Whew! I think that feat was the most amazing one I've seen accomplished by a humble little Tide To Go Pen. At some great, old-aged birthday celebration with my grandfather in New Orleans some years ago, I first discovered Tide To Go Pens. My Mom and I had ordered some lip-smacking good blueberry dessert that we were splitting and then I did it. I splorked blueberry dribble all over the front of my blouse. Behold my charm and elegance in that moment - of spilling the ultimate staining ingredient down my front-side. Mom and I made our way to the ladies' room (with me already bidding farewell to any future with this shirt of mine), and lo and behold, Mom whipped out this little orange paint-marker-looking detergent pen, rubbed it on the purply mess, and voila. Stain gone immediately. I.M.M.E.D.I.A.T.E.L.Y. Sounds like fairy tale stain solving, but it truly isn't.

It's purely awesome chemistry in a little orange pen. It is amazing to me how many people haven't yet tried this little maestro of on-the-spot cleaning. I stow one away in my too large purse - always - just in case. When I offer it to folks in the aftermath of a new stain, I find almost no one realizes the awesome power of these little sticks. So here I am singing its praises so maybe some of you out there will be ready when a mess makes its way to your outfit.

I wouldn't go anywhere without one now. Next time you're in the check-out line at the grocery store, and you see it in the register aisle, just toss it in your cart. Go ahead. You won't be sorry you did.

Here's what the Tide To Go Pen website advises:



What is Tide to Go?

Tide to Go is a portable stain removing pen from Tide that instantly removes many fresh food and drink stains.

How does it work?

1. Remove excess residue from the stain.
2. Press the tip onto the stain several times to release some stain remover solution onto the stain. [*like a paint marker*]
3. Rub tip gently across the stain to remove it. When necessary, add more liquid and continue rubbing gently.
4. Important: If treated area will be exposed to direct sunlight, wipe with a damp cloth or napkin to remove excess solution left on fabric.
For tough stains, place a paper towel under the stain while treating or wipe excess liquid or residue away with a damp paper towel, or reapply as necessary.

Does Tide to Go work on all stains?

No. Tide to Go is designed specifically for removing fresh food and drink stains. Stains that Tide to Go works best on include ketchup, BBQ sauce, grape juice, tomato juice, coffee, soda, chocolate syrup, tea, and wine. Tide to Go does not perform as well on non-food and drink stains including ink, grease, blood, and grass stains.


I've never tried it on anything besides food stains, probably because if I'm doing something intentionally messy, I dress for it and couldn't care less if I get stains on what I'm wearing. Food is the eternal unknown. You never know when it will jump off of your spoon into your lap and on to your favorite (and probably most expensive) trousers. Better safe than sorry...

That Perfect Wind Down Your Day With a Laugh Show

Whether you've had a great day, are in a jovial mood, and are letting the excitement of the day go to settle contentedly into bed by the glowing light of a television... or you've had an exasperating day, your feet hurt, you couldn't drink enough wine to wind down, and you're finally getting to lay down after a trying day, which would feel good if only your body didn't hurt so much, and you absent-mindedly turn on your television... that perfect wind down your day with a laugh show is Chelsea Lately. I mean, really. That chick is so very funny. She's cheeky, witty, smart, honest, subtly rude, openly rude... she's a natural comedian. Her show comes on E!, which I only watch to see her show, nothing else. And I don't habitually watch it. Honestly, I don't habitually watch much. But I've never regretted flipping on the television and catching Chelsea Handler in action on her show. Who couldn't use a laugh at the end of a great day, or better yet, a crappy one.

I'm having trouble finding a clip on youtube that accurately reflects how funny the show is... so just watch it. Funny stuff~

That Perfect Serum

Ah, skin. At different times in my life my skin has been a thing of beauty or a cause of frustration. I've outgrown most of my acne, apart from the minor hormonal blip of a blemish, quite thankfully. But, as I age, I find I am prone to patchy dry skin, like some of my dear immediate family members. In the space of the last 6 to 8 months or so, I've had episodes of strange, patchy, dry skin on my face that was crazy itchy and felt irritated and generally put a damper on my mood. No clue what triggered it either. Luckily, there are plenty of good make up products for covering up such unsightly blemishes, but ouchie.

Even if they weren't in fact screaming in neon letters "Look at me!" they sure felt like they were. Leave it to me to think of these little dry patches of skin as personified, ruthless, punk rascals shouting things at others. I just felt like the world was staring at my glaring, screaming dry spots (though my rational side is certain that (1) there were, of course, no screaming skin cells, and (2) folks have better things to do than that). I went to the doctor and was given topical medicines and a steroid pack... I tried cortisone, lanolin, dandruff shampoo, Vaseline, everything you can think of with some remote chance of working. Alas, nothing did. Nothing. Enter frustration.

And then, one day in November, I think, I was frequenting my local Lush store, perusing the bath bombs and melts as usual when I noticed these facial "serums." Hm. Worth a go. It looked like it would be seriously moisturizing, a bit oily, smelled lovely, and promised help for sensitive and dry skin. MAN, was it worth a go. I tell you this with all sincerity... if you've got any pesky skin issues, rub this magical serum on it and they will vanish. For those of you easily swept to emotion - it is pure magic. Or, for those of you more logically inclined, it is a highly effective balm. Either way, I'm in love and ever so thankful to have the dry skin completely resolved. I just use it as my facial moisturizer each night, and that's it. Easy as that. Plus I think I am becoming addicted to the smell. It's called Full of Grace, and I have captured a little grace back for myself, indeed, since discovering this serum. I was feeling sheepish about my skin a mere three or four months ago, but a woman I don't even know passed me on the way out of my office building a few weeks ago and smiled, kept walking, then stopped, and turned around and then stopped me just so she could tell me she thought my skin was beautiful.

It is such an unexpected delight when things actually make you want to tell the world "wow." I am remembering why I started this blog in the first place.



Here's where you can get your own and read more about it: http://www.lushusa.com/shop/products/face/serums/full-of-grace

That Perfect Love Song Writer

Long story short, I'll try to update the blog more frequently for my loyal readership... but for now, you'll simply have to be sated by the following videos by King Charles, a musician I saw open for Mumford & Sons the other night. What a precious songwriter. He loves deeply, you can tell, and expresses it in such a genuine and quirky way. Absolutely charming. For that, I am crowning him That Perfect Love Song Writer. I hope these links work:

King Charles from Black Cab Sessions on Vimeo.

That Perfect Graffiti

I was just pumping gas into my car a little while ago, and I noticed something etched into the plastic face plate on the pump, hovering over the ever increasing digital tally of gallons and dollars relating to my gas purchase. There were quite a few nonsense-looking tagged etchings in the plastic that looked like they were scrawled messily with a relatively clunky carving instrument (this was no professional etching needle, of which I own 2 or 3 from my intaglio days). Maybe someone used a knife or a sharp key. I almost dismissed it upon cursory first glance but then, scrawled and imperfect as it was with its uneven squarish letters (because, of course, it's hard to carve letters with curves accurately with an awkward instrument), it caught my eye. Scrawled into this foggy, once upon a time fully transparent, plastic were the words "SUTKO HOUT." Without knowing it (I assume), the author of this graffiti, defacer of private property, has elegantly coined a name that would be suitable for an album, a fashion line, or a European diplomat.

While this graffiti gave me pleasant pause, I hesitate to call it "that perfect graffiti." But it was pretty good, you have to admit. It has, however, reminded me of some graffiti I saw a few months back, which I do wish to don with the title of that perfect graffiti.

One beautiful Saturday this past spring, my husband, son, and I were tromping around the grounds surrounding a local lake here in Dallas. As we walked, we came upon a wooden bridge over a large stream where lots of ducks were swimming. We'd brought some old bread with us (hoping to happen upon ducks), so we stopped to feed them. As we tossed our bread chunks over the side of the bridge to the swimming scavengers below, we noticed some Sharpie-written graffiti on the rail of the bridge.

"I love ducks."

Charming. Someone who (1) cared so little about his/her surroundings so as to scrawl on them in the midst of peaceful, clean, nature (2) was so enamored with the ducks that he/she felt the need to prominently declare it in permanent ink on the nearest thing he/she could write on. While I am often annoyed at graffiti (especially when it's not especially artistic, with my distaste being highly variable depending upon where the graffiti has been scrawled), I could not help but be ticked by "I love ducks."

Graffiti, inappropriate as it may be, can sometimes be a little star in the dark.

That Perfect Soap II

One of the things that inspired me to create this blog in the first place was L'Occitane Shea Butter Extra Gentle Milk Soap. Indeed, it was the subject of my very first blog entry (for those of you who don't know the history...). Though I feel a bit sheepish, I am now moved to write a new entry amending that prior one. Do not misunderstand me - I still love the L'Occitane soap. I am just feeling a bit torn. You see, a friend gave me a bar of Aveda Rosemary Mint soap, which I just began using a few days ago... and whoa. This stuff is rich, smooth, exfoliating, and smells heavenly. While I won't elevate either of these luscious soaps to first billing over the other, I do feel the need to at least put the Aveda soap on the same pedestal as the L'Occitane. I've had ultra knotty and achy muscles for a while now, and in addition to the Aveda soap being lovely for cleaning and for luxuriating (odd, my spellcheck did not red-squiggly-underline "luxuriating")... it also works well to create a slick skin surface, making massaging achy muscles easy.

While I am feeling a little unfaithful to the L'Occitane soap, I just could not help but give the Aveda soap its due credit here. And, it's also a striking-looking bar on top of being functionally beautiful:



This soap is about twice the price of the L'Occitane. Even were it not gifted to me, I think I'd buy it myself. I'm sure I'll have to down the road, but luckily the bar is a mega-bar, so it'll thankfully be a while before I have to even think about that.

That Perfect Cheese Enchilada

I almost always order cheese enchiladas whenever I visit a Mexican restaurant for the first time. If those are good, then I may just frequent the place. Indeed, good salsa and good cheese enchiladas are far and away the most important factors in determining whether I'll be a fan of a Mexican restaurant. And, those who know me well know I am always up for trying a new Mexican place. My poor family was subjected to Mexican food every (and I mean every) time the restaurant selection was up to me as a child.

The most important thing about cheese enchiladas is that the cheese has to be just right. What does that mean? It's got to be that perfect uber-orangey cheese that melts everywhere. While typically I am an advocate of eating real food and not processed what-the-hell-is-it-food... I make an almost sacred exception when it comes to cheese enchiladas. We've all got our demons, and I freely admit that this is one of mine. They also have to get the flavors in the sauce just right - I usually go for a good chili con carne, but I am a little flexible on the sauce.

As you can tell, I've sampled many a cheese enchilada in my thirty-something years, many of which have been lived in Texas, so I am quite the connoisseur. I will be having Those Perfect Cheese Enchiladas for dinner this very night. It's time to crown the winner of the best cheese enchiladas: Matt's Rancho Martinez, which, very happily, is a mere 5 minutes from my house in Dallas.

www.mattsranchomartinez.com

Here they are:

That Perfect Dichotomy

Cold, hard, glass, steel, granite, stop lights, cars, power lines, concrete, busy, work ethic, drive, fifty emails and I just got here. A hug, warmth, a hand-written letter, an old photograph, a long evening of talking about nothing and everything, telephone calls, airplane rides, overdue visits, there's simply never enough time with the ones you love.

Seems a bit of a mish mosh doesn't it? Well, it's exactly the dichotomy that pops in my head every weekday morning, at least for now.

There is this billboard; well, maybe that isn't the right word for it since it takes up the side of a whole skyscraper. This billboard strikes me and moves me every weekday morning on my commute to the office. Amidst the towers that compose the Dallas skyline, this highly personal statement is boldly proclaimed and daily confronts those of us plodding to work in our ritualized commutes. I am moved by the irony of this simple yet touching statement hovering over and becoming part of a place dominated by business and busyness. It gives me pause to remember those who I miss.

And somehow I also like that there's a little distance between my building and this touching adage. I work in the one all the way on the right in the photo below, while the sign is a bit over to the left. In light of the sentiment, it seems fitting to me that it is situated that way.



And here's a closeup:

That Perfect Most Beautiful Place

I am not sure why my mind wandered today to this place where I wandered about, oh, twelve years ago. I took a solo backpacking trip to Ireland after I graduated from undergrad, and it was an amazing trip in so many ways. Being alone and independently traversing another continent was exhilarating. And beautiful. I filled journals, drank many, many a Guinness, and met the most fantastic people. Six weeks of bliss. While the whole of Ireland has a very special place in my heart and holds many joyful memories for me, the most beautiful place I have ever traveled was Dun Aengus, a ring fort sitting atop these grand cliffs off the western coast of Ireland. It was misty and raining a little the day I was there, and everything looked and felt very grayish warmish blue. I passed a cute little man sitting under a striking red umbrella playing an accordion on the way up. The grass along the path on the way was so green, as is everything in Ireland. You couldn't see the cliffs until you were upon them. And they were glorious. I fantasized about building a small house somewhere near them just so I could keep returning to them. There was something that called me to them. I can't quite place it, but the peace, the beauty, the calm, and the coolness there was just incredible.

I wikipedia'd Dun Aengus just now and found something I find quite charming that I didn't remember about Dun Aengus as well - that it is not known precisely when this fort was built. There is something charming and ironic indeed about the ancient lacking its history.

Dun Aengus is on the largest of the Aran Islands off of the western coast of Ireland - Inishmoor. When I went, I stayed in a quaint and lovely hostel there, and a friend and I hiked the entirety of the island in one day (it's that small). The only poor showing of this part of my trip was that to get to Inishmoor, you have to take a ferry from Galway. Galway is quite lovely, but the ferry and I did not get along. You see, if you're me, apparently riding a small ferry over large waves to a tiny island leads inevitably to becoming overwhelmingly sea sick. But, even with that, it was so worth it for the moments of staring into the ocean over the rocky, craggy edge of those cliffs. And, I am remembering some music I had in my headphones while I was there... Clandestine (very sadly, a lovely band that is no longer together), their album The Haunting. Dunlavy's Castle is sticking out in my head. It felt kind of like that. Beautiful. Beauty full. Full.

That Perfect Bread

I am not a baker. But, lucky me, I don't have to be. I have found the PERFECT bread - That Perfect Bread, to be exact. It's Rustic Italian bread from Whole Foods. When I first moved to Austin, I could have mentioned Whole Foods to an audience as wide as my blog readership and most of you would have said Whole What? Nowadays, Whole Foods stores are all over the place, so you can all go get your own Rustic Italian, and I highly recommend you do so. I have two ways I especially love to eat this bread.

(1) In a grilled cheese. Instead of delaying your gratification, I'll go ahead and tell you how to do that while I'm here. (a) Heat pan. (b) Rub the end of a stick of butter in the pan until there's a thin, sizzling butter puddle about the size of the slice of bread. (c) Plop the bread down on the butter sizzle. (d) Add your favorite cheese - grated works best, and I usually use cheddar or something similar (or slices work well, too). (e) Add the top piece of bread. (f) When the bottom piece is getting there but not done, lift the sandwich up with a large spatula. (g) Repeat step (b). (h) Carefully turn sandwich over and plop it on the butter sizzle. (i) Grate fresh Parmesan (Reggiano is the best) over the top piece of bread. (j) When the now-bottom piece is getting there but not done, lift the sandwich up with your large spatula. (k) Flip the sandwich over, Parmesan side down. (l) Grate more fresh Parmesan on the side that is now face up. (m) When bottom side is done (browned sufficiently), flip the sandwich and finish the remaining side. (m) Enjoy your tastes-like-you-got-it-at-a-bistro-in-Europe-grilled-cheese. YUM.

(2) Grilled, as an accompaniment to other grilled items, with no butter, oil, or anything else smeared on it. Pure and simple. Grill slices until there are gentle grill lines on it. Once it's got a crispy texture to it, it's done. As a finishing touch, take one raw clove of garlic and rub it over one side of the bread. The bread will have a sandpaper effect and will get a fabulous garlic infusion simply from rubbing it with the clove. The best garlic bread ever, and still healthy to boot.

I am sure there are plenty of other fabulous uses for Rustic Italian - find your own, it won't be hard.

Here's how it looks in the store - there are two versions, well three, really. First is a pre-sliced sandwich loaf. Second is a mini boule, which, as you can see, is ONLY 99 cents. Third is a large boule. If you buy the boule kind, they'll slice it freshly for you upon request. We happen to have both the sandwich kind and a small boule at the same time simply because hubby and I went to Whole Foods separately and redundantly each bought versions of Rustic Italian.

That Perfect Song for This Imperfect State

So this one is a personal one, so if you're looking for a tip on that perfect hot spot in Dallas, or that perfect thing to prepare for your guests at the party you're planning, this post isn't it. Try back next week, and I'll probably be in the mood to oblige. What can I say, That Perfect gets personal sometimes. You've been warned.

So I've been listening to this album in my car to and from work lately, and there's this one song that keeps just resonating with me. It's speaking to my two greatest conflicts lately, and so I just keep listening to it, allowing it to justify my feelings, almost.

There are two things that are bothering me in the most incessant way. Yep. I'm a little disappointed to be writing this post because when I set out to create this blog, I intended it to focus on positive things, in large part to help distract me from the first frustration I'm about to discuss. But it is what it is, and I am who I am.

Okay, so frustration number 1 is this insanity called thoracic outlet syndrome with which I've been recently diagnosed. To summarize, nerve pain, burning, weird coldness/numbness/strangeness, and insane muscle tension, which all varies in intensity, all through my left side from my ear on down, with the most troublesome spots in my neck, jaw, ribs, and shoulder. I am not sure what caused it - how I sleep, how I sit at a computer, how I snuggle my son when I rock-cuddle with him, how I do who-knows-what... or maybe it's a result of a number of mechanical imperfections in my posture... or maybe I was just doomed to it because of how my body decided to form itself. Who knows. What I do know is that for the last year, I've been fighting it, trying my damnedest to conquer it, or at least name it. I guess I have a name for it now (after thoroughly determining that I'm in quite lovely health otherwise). The worst of it is the nerve pain that no pain killer touches. Sometimes I can function through it, and sometimes it is the most painful trial to just be. When there's days I literally told my husband I could not take it anymore, guess what my choice was... take it some more or take it some more. So I did. I have. I am. I am trying to be normal, to be myself through it, but I liked the version of me better before this problem crept up on me. Nevertheless, I push through it all day everyday, which is the hardest when I'm at my job, in a suit, smiling, thinking intently, typing quickly, carefully deciding all matter of things. I thoroughly enjoy using my mind, stretching it, but I hate when my body interrupts that. So I continue to try to elevate mind over body. I was advised that surgery would probably be the best option at this point, but I simply cannot fathom nor accept losing body parts that would be required as part of that (a rib and some muscles)... cannot evict those parts of me. But, honestly, my first reaction to being told (a) there's a surgery for this and (b) that the doc recommended it was: GOOD. Finally. I'll feel okay one day. But, after sleeping on it (well, on the other side from it) a few nights, I resolved that I just cannot comfortably settle into the idea of surgery. I want relief, but not at that price. Not yet. Simply, I am trying everything else first before I go that far.

Frustration number 2 is that my son is now just over 2 years old, and I wanted him to have another sibling at least on the way by now. I do still intend to give him that, to grow our family by another little miracle, but I need to get frustration number 1 under control before I can do that. It's logical and responsible to wait until all the tests that need to be run have been run, all the xrays that need to be taken have been taken, all the medicines that need to be tried have been tried, before I decide to grow another little person. I loved being pregnant with my son. I mean, loved it. It was the most incredible, intimate, awe-inspiring experience in the world. The best thing I have ever done, hands down. I'm mentally and emotionally ready to do it again, but my body, failing me as described in frustration number 1, is making me hesitate. And I am approaching that mommy deadline - the point at which it becomes more dangerous to create new lives. I know people do it all the time, but I wanted... I planned... to do it before now to do it with as many odds on our side as I could.

So, you're probably wondering what in the world is perfect about any of this. Me too, in a way. Sometimes perfection strikes in the imperfect. Well, it does me, anyway. It's That Perfect Song for This Imperfect State.

My whole life I have related to song lyrics in a deep, resonating way. I tend to tie my experiences to songs and let them capture personal moments and tunefully personify the narrative I am living. It just happens, when I am not even looking for it. If the two frustrations didn't especially connect with you, maybe that act of bonding with a song will.

So this song that I've been soaking in, that hits those frustrations perfectly, is Have You Got It In You by Imogen Heap.

It takes a lot...to be always on form...
It takes a lot.
I may be not - all the time - all I've got...
Maybe not.

Been one of those days...
Safety first, don't push...what's the hurry?
One nerve remaining, waiting on one look....have you got it?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?

All at once, not a whisper, no word.
Then all at once...
Let me have it all, let me have it, battle on,
Easy target,
Look can we just...just get it over with.
It's getting worse, against all the odds...
It's getting worse.
Guard down, floor's yours, last man standing can we, just get it over with.

Been one of those days...
Safety first, don't push...don't push me...what's the hurry?
Cause there's one nerve remaining, waiting on one look,
One look now...have you got it?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?

Blue blue day make me blue...
Head down, quick! Take cover, big girl in a mood.
Blue you, make me anymore blue?
Long spin shout power clean right out of your suit.

One more, one more, one more, one more

Been one of those days...
Safety first, don't push...what's the hurry?
One nerve remaining, waiting on one look...have you got it?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?
Have you got it in you?

Who knows how long this link will be good, but here is the song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=voAt8ysjrXE

That Perfect Night Light

Stubbing toes. Forgetting which doors were closed. Stepping on a Hot Wheels. Kicking the cat (causing the inevitable screetching cat yelp for which you feel so terribly guilty). Tripping on a laptop power cord. We've all been there... treading gently, slowly in the dark, trying to save our toes and moving along, ever so gingerly, in a thick blackened room so as not to wake anyone else up (especially the baby, if you have one - man, don't wake up the baby)... and boom. In the dark. In the middle of the night. Or maybe it hasn't even been a mere 15 minutes since you've first laid down. You've caused something to be either loud or painful. Or worse: both. And all you wanted to do was go pee. Or get something to drink. Or make sure the back door was locked.

We bought a whole slew of these cute little LED night lights, which come to life only in the dark, at Ikea some time ago. I just love them. They're subtle enough that you hardly notice them in the room generally, but they're just bright enough in the dark so as not to feel like a real light is on yet they guide your way like little whispering spotlights on the floor in the night. I forget how much they cost, but it's minimal -- something like 2 or 3 dollars. They look clean and shiny - almost like little robots - and they'll last forever since they're LED. Love em. Really, imagine a light whispering a clean little guiding whisper in the dark, and that's what these do.

That Perfect Margarita

I know you've been waiting for it: That Perfect Margarita. Honestly, not much explanation is necessary. Hubby makes these. They're perfect.

Step by step instructions:

(1) Start with a container that can be shaken.
(2) Add 2 oz. tequila (good tequila such as Sauza Hornitos or Patron Silver)
(3) Add 1 1/4 oz. Triple Sec
(4) Add a healthy splash of orange juice
(5) Add 6 oz. of Dr. Swami & Bone Daddy's Margarita Mix
(6) Add juice of 1/2 lime
(7) Shake vigorously.
(8) Rub Triple Sec on the rims of 2 glasses
(9) Roll edges of glasses in Kosher salt
(10) Fill glasses with crushed ice
(11) Pour frothy shaken margaritas into glasses and thoroughly enjoy.

Here's the one I had yesterday.

That Perfect Colored Pencil

I know most of my readers don't draw, but surely this post will stick in your head when one day (a) you're inspired to draw something (whether you show anyone else or not doesn't matter), (b) your child is so inspired (or at least has to color a map for a social studies project and then may decide to experiment with his or her drawing supplies after the homework is done), or (c) not sure... but this is worth writing about anyway.

That perfect Colored Pencil is unquestionably Prismacolor. These are awesome little colorful sticks of wonder. A beloved art professor of mine at UT creates the most detailed, amazing large-scale drawings with Prismacolors, and a visit to his home in my undergraduate years for a party introduced me to them and is what inspired me to buy my first Prismacolors. And now, I wouldn't use any others.

They are brilliant, true colors. And their blender pencil (which has a semi-opaque yet clear "lead") allows for awesome blending. I have learned over the years that if you buy cheap art supplies, they feel cheap: the colors are all wrong and the textures they have or create are flimsy, runny, or have some other negative quality you just can't work with. Another example is when I used to frequently buy oil paints. If you have any familiarity with oil paints, it's like the difference between napthol red and cadmium red medium. Or ultramarine versus cobalt blue. Or lemon yellow versus cadmium yellow light. (In each case, the latter is the really real color, and the former is the imposter.) Or, for those with slightly more basic art supply knowledge, it's like comparing the dime store crayons (or the freebie restaurant crayons) to Crayolas. I am certainly not an advocate of spending money where unnecessary; however, I will shout all day with all the enthusiasm in my bones about the merits of spending your money well - on quality things, on quality experiences. If you have any inclination to draw, the experience and the end result with Prismacolors will certainly provide the most quality for the time and money. Now, if only I had the time these days...

http://www.prismacolor.com/products/colored-pencils

Here's a quick sample of a drawing of mine done exclusively with Prismacolors just to show you what you can do with colored pencils (they're not just for coloring maps in jr. high anymore)...