by tess
The Hubs had exactly one day to find our current home in what was then a 100% seller’s market. He looked at 3 houses and the 2 we could actually afford made him cry. So we spent every penny that we could beg, borrow, or steal to buy a house that’s now worth less than half of what we owe. So that’s nice.
As you walk into the open concept living/dining room there is this built in mirror extravaganza of horror that we have lovingly referred to for more than 5 years as The Mirrorstrosity. Its beauty is hard to describe. If one of the “designers” on Trading Spaces added The Mirrorstrosity to a dining room, calling it a “feature wall,” you’d shriek at the television, “Nooooo! Those poor people! Their house is ruuuuuuuined!!!” It’s this 6’ x 6’ mirror with this weird arched crown molding-ensconced “decorative” paneling around it and an enormous hip-height shelf (6’x4’x3’) which juts into the room ensuring that even a small dining room table can’t be placed directly beneath the light fixture.
We’ve chatted on and off throughout the years about what to do with The Mirrorstrosity. But since we’re people who prefer to chat about doing things rather than actually doing them, we’ve done nothing except pile more crap in, around, and beneath The Behemoth of Beautiousness.
While we were in Indonesia, The Hubs bought an enormous statue of Garuda (it looks like the wooden piece here http://bintaraindoart.com/wood_carvings_1 only ours is a lot bigger and a lot more colorful … if you can imagine that!). And because it apparently didn’t make enough of a statement (yeah, I know), The Hubs built a large black stand for it. Now it’s even … less subtle. I removed several boxes worth of miscellaneous tchochkes from The Mirrorstrosity shelf (it’s all still in the room, it’s just piled perilously into boxes now) to give Garuda more space and focus. Because that’s what a small room filled with an orange leather couch, a pool table, a red 120-bottle wine rack, a glass credenza holding around 200 bottles of liquor, and an extremely over-the-top post-modern table and chairs needs, right?
Now that The Hubs spends so much time admiring his statue, we’re revisiting how to make The Mirrorstrosity more palatable for Garuda. Actually I’m revisiting how to make the house more palatable for the next owner. (It makes me feel warm and fuzzy to think we might ever be able to sell it. I have a rich fantasy life, what can I say?) Since the beginning, The Hubs has maintained that we “just need to take a couple of hammers to it.” The Mirrorstrosity, not Garuda. I guess I’m just not a take-a-couple-of-hammers-to-it kinda gal because that sounds like a plan destined for spectacular failure. I suggested that we remove the improbably placed crown and picture frame molding (these elements exist nowhere else in the house), build covered storage at the very bottom, and add a slab of cheap granite to the shelf, then stage it (for those nonexistent buyers) like an extremely efficient space-saving built in sideboard/buffet.
So he removed all the molding. He did so on a ladder that is not rated to hold his weight. He also did so wearing a sarong. One shouldn’t climb ladders wearing skirts that fall below the knees. Just sayin’. He thinks The Newly Denuded Mirrorstrosity looks plain; I think it looks better. Of course now there are indelible lines and divets all over the paneling from the pieces he removed but I’m pretending that somehow paint will make those disappear. Fat chance.
Marginally successful with phase one of Revamp That Hideous Wall, The Hubs decided that the shelf shouldn’t infringe so deeply into the room and Sharpie’d an enormous black line where he planned to “cut it off” with an as-yet-unnamed tool. I know less about construction than him, but that seemed … challenging … in the “opportunity to meet and greet disaster” kind of way. I encouraged him to cut a little hole out of the bottom of the gargantuan shelf to see what he’d be facing when he started cutting. And what did he discover? Steel. Lots and lots of steel. Not enough steel to actually withstand the weight of a granite slab, mind you, but lots of steel that’s going to say “Hell no” to being “cut off” or beaten by any tools we own.
So. The net outcome of our weekend’s work is an entire wall worth of paneling permanently pockmarked by vast nail holes and disfigured by the outlines of now-removed trim. Approximately 8,542 hours of sanding should repair it. Oh yeah, and we have a metal-reinforced shelf with a crooked black line on the top and a gaping hole in the bottom.
But there’s an upside. We discovered at 3 AM that the hole is just big enough for the kitten to jump inside the shelf. And cry. From anywhere in the house you can hear his tiny leaden feet thump-thump-thumping throughout the interior of the shelf. Well, you can hear his stomping paws when he takes a quick breath to begin the next chorus of “I Might Be a Little Cat But I’ve Got the Biggest Mouth in the Whole Wide World.” This is followed by the crash as he jumps back out of the hole into the piles of crap beneath the shelf and the requisite running and pouncing on his sister. Then another crash as he leaps back into the shelf, stomping, crying, crashing, running, pouncing, crashing, stomping, crying. You get the picture.
At 6 AM The Hubs tried to jam the piece of wallboard back into the hole but Quinty’s not buying it. There’s a “hole” lot of unexplored fun to be had. And life as I knew it is over. I sure wish we’d left the damn wall alone.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Things I don't need to know
by tess
1) The identity of the latest politician who unwrapped his wiener at somebody else’s hot doggery.
2) Who punched Perez Hilton. I already know why.
3) Michael Jordan’s son is quitting basketball.
4) Anything about Jon or Kate or the 8. Although the girlfriend & her family -- who slapped the FUN right in the middle of dysFUNctional -- might make a successful one-two punch along with CMT’s My Big Fat Redneck Wedding.
5) The jumpsuit is the fashion forward statement of 2009.
1) The identity of the latest politician who unwrapped his wiener at somebody else’s hot doggery.
2) Who punched Perez Hilton. I already know why.
3) Michael Jordan’s son is quitting basketball.
4) Anything about Jon or Kate or the 8. Although the girlfriend & her family -- who slapped the FUN right in the middle of dysFUNctional -- might make a successful one-two punch along with CMT’s My Big Fat Redneck Wedding.
5) The jumpsuit is the fashion forward statement of 2009.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Random Thoughts
I think the first version of a project plan should be called "What will not happen." And then we can move on with our lives.
Every time I see a shoe on the highway, I have to wonder what Bad Shoe did to get kicked out of the car. When I see two shoes, I know they were conspiring.
I do not think that Eddie Veddor is a visionary. And I probably just spelled his name wrong. I think he writes great songs, but I don't see him as a wise man. I see him as part of the reason I was wearing flannel in college. FLANNEL.
The lead singer of The Counting Crows has both dreadlocks and a bald spot. I wonder if they are related.
I always wanted to know how you determine if it's a "standing and wiggling" concert and when it's a "sit and tap" concert. And if it's divided, does the row of sitters just start at wiggling butts? Wait. Maybe that was their plan all along....
Ever sat next to someone and purposely tried to touch them but to pretend that you totally don't know it's happening? Yeah. Me neither.
I have repeatedly made it clear that the dog should eat, go to the bathroom, and THEN run upstairs and sleep in the bed for an hour before we get up. But, no. The dog would rather skip the bathroom part of this list. Which creates problems. As I bet you can imagine.
Three months ago, I laid a brick path. This means I picked up the bricks and put them down on the ground where I want The Brick Path Fairies to properly install them. So far, no fairies.
I have to go now. The cookies have arrived.
Every time I see a shoe on the highway, I have to wonder what Bad Shoe did to get kicked out of the car. When I see two shoes, I know they were conspiring.
I do not think that Eddie Veddor is a visionary. And I probably just spelled his name wrong. I think he writes great songs, but I don't see him as a wise man. I see him as part of the reason I was wearing flannel in college. FLANNEL.
The lead singer of The Counting Crows has both dreadlocks and a bald spot. I wonder if they are related.
I always wanted to know how you determine if it's a "standing and wiggling" concert and when it's a "sit and tap" concert. And if it's divided, does the row of sitters just start at wiggling butts? Wait. Maybe that was their plan all along....
Ever sat next to someone and purposely tried to touch them but to pretend that you totally don't know it's happening? Yeah. Me neither.
I have repeatedly made it clear that the dog should eat, go to the bathroom, and THEN run upstairs and sleep in the bed for an hour before we get up. But, no. The dog would rather skip the bathroom part of this list. Which creates problems. As I bet you can imagine.
Three months ago, I laid a brick path. This means I picked up the bricks and put them down on the ground where I want The Brick Path Fairies to properly install them. So far, no fairies.
I have to go now. The cookies have arrived.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Noodle Incident
by tess
It was Super Bowl Sunday 1991. My living room, usually a meager, deserted hallway and a metaphor for my pathetic, aimless life, was bursting with the vitality, sounds, and scents of a small army. Dominic and his crew had convened there in advance of The Big Game. They munched on the bruschetta and calamari fritti that I’d fussed over for hours while I hid in the kitchen saucing the pasta and icing the cheesecake.
Although the television was blasting pre-game minutiae and everyone was talking at once, I heard the words that fell like pennies from his mouth, shiny and worthless, much like Dominic himself.
"Sure hope you guys ate before you came over. The Ice Queen’s spaghetti tastes more like week-old Spaghettios than your mama’s Bolognese."
In one moment of white-hot, unadulterated, seething rage and with the strength of ten Grinch’s, I hefted the enormous glass bowl of spaghetti and hurled it from the kitchen, across the hall, and onto the far wall of the dining room. Had I been a shot put thrower in the Olympics at that moment, they’d have awarded me the gold, silver, and bronze medals. Hell, they’d have created a special platinum medal and given me that, too.
The once chatter- and laughter-filled room was instantaneously morgue silent.
Plates filled with appetizers were abandoned and beer glasses were left to sweat on the cheap black wood laminate of my furniture. Coats, hats, and gloves were collected and carried rather than worn out the door. They left, each of them, without a single word, looking much like a procession of ill-dressed mourners departing an open-casket viewing. Even as I recovered my sanity I was pleased to be alone with my thoughts. And my mess.
I spent that evening picking the spaghetti out of the brass chandelier and the shag carpet, cleaning the sauce off the chenille upholstery and the white wall. It was one helluva job but it was worth it. I didn’t have to put up with Dom’s idiot friends and I didn’t have to watch the goddamn game.
Nothing really changed between Dominic and me. He was still an asshole and I still tolerated it. Dramatic, overstated, emotionally raw moments had been a part of his culture since birth. He was secretly pleased to watch as The Ice Queen had finally been reduced to lukewarm slush.
So the spaghetti spectacle. Mortifying? Absolutely. Immature? Sure. But worth it? Oh yeah, baby. I have never for a single moment regretted The Glorious Noodle Launch of ’91. It was deeply cathartic to finally release years of repressed animosity and concealed despair.
To this day I celebrate Super Bowl Sunday with a big bowl of spaghetti. I don’t throw it, but then again, I don’t watch the stupid game either.
It was Super Bowl Sunday 1991. My living room, usually a meager, deserted hallway and a metaphor for my pathetic, aimless life, was bursting with the vitality, sounds, and scents of a small army. Dominic and his crew had convened there in advance of The Big Game. They munched on the bruschetta and calamari fritti that I’d fussed over for hours while I hid in the kitchen saucing the pasta and icing the cheesecake.
Although the television was blasting pre-game minutiae and everyone was talking at once, I heard the words that fell like pennies from his mouth, shiny and worthless, much like Dominic himself.
"Sure hope you guys ate before you came over. The Ice Queen’s spaghetti tastes more like week-old Spaghettios than your mama’s Bolognese."
In one moment of white-hot, unadulterated, seething rage and with the strength of ten Grinch’s, I hefted the enormous glass bowl of spaghetti and hurled it from the kitchen, across the hall, and onto the far wall of the dining room. Had I been a shot put thrower in the Olympics at that moment, they’d have awarded me the gold, silver, and bronze medals. Hell, they’d have created a special platinum medal and given me that, too.
The once chatter- and laughter-filled room was instantaneously morgue silent.
Plates filled with appetizers were abandoned and beer glasses were left to sweat on the cheap black wood laminate of my furniture. Coats, hats, and gloves were collected and carried rather than worn out the door. They left, each of them, without a single word, looking much like a procession of ill-dressed mourners departing an open-casket viewing. Even as I recovered my sanity I was pleased to be alone with my thoughts. And my mess.
I spent that evening picking the spaghetti out of the brass chandelier and the shag carpet, cleaning the sauce off the chenille upholstery and the white wall. It was one helluva job but it was worth it. I didn’t have to put up with Dom’s idiot friends and I didn’t have to watch the goddamn game.
Nothing really changed between Dominic and me. He was still an asshole and I still tolerated it. Dramatic, overstated, emotionally raw moments had been a part of his culture since birth. He was secretly pleased to watch as The Ice Queen had finally been reduced to lukewarm slush.
So the spaghetti spectacle. Mortifying? Absolutely. Immature? Sure. But worth it? Oh yeah, baby. I have never for a single moment regretted The Glorious Noodle Launch of ’91. It was deeply cathartic to finally release years of repressed animosity and concealed despair.
To this day I celebrate Super Bowl Sunday with a big bowl of spaghetti. I don’t throw it, but then again, I don’t watch the stupid game either.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
She’s got komodo dragon eyes
by tess
My eyelids are peeling. It’s like they’re perpetually sunburned. Pink, scaly … peeling. I read on the web that it’s a relatively trivial condition frequent among middle-aged women. So that’s probably true. I always believe how the web diagnoses my medical concerns. Unless, of course, it says, “Caution! This could be quite serious. You must see your doctor at once.” In those cases it’s obvious that the web liesss with the hissss of a ssserpent and that doctorssss are ssssupplying the sssstatementsss to sssscare up fresssh victimssssss. But since the web says my eyes are fine, I’m all about the web. It’s my new physician: Doctor Marcus Webby, M.D. Haha!
My eyelids are peeling. It’s like they’re perpetually sunburned. Pink, scaly … peeling. I read on the web that it’s a relatively trivial condition frequent among middle-aged women. So that’s probably true. I always believe how the web diagnoses my medical concerns. Unless, of course, it says, “Caution! This could be quite serious. You must see your doctor at once.” In those cases it’s obvious that the web liesss with the hissss of a ssserpent and that doctorssss are ssssupplying the sssstatementsss to sssscare up fresssh victimssssss. But since the web says my eyes are fine, I’m all about the web. It’s my new physician: Doctor Marcus Webby, M.D. Haha!
Salad Daze
by tess
Last week I went to Chili’s to pick up two to-go salads. As the full-figured 12 year old at the register rang up the order, she asked if I wanted to know how many calories were in the salads.
Me: Uhhh, no. Why?
12: Oh, because they’re totally super-fattening, I used to eat the food here but then I saw how bad it is for you, so I totally don’t eat here anymore.
Me: Uhhh, oh. Huh.
12: Yeah, it’s not just the fat either, it’s the sodium and carbs and stuff, tooootally bad for you.
Me: Uhhh, yeah. Probably.
12: Even the salads. I mean who knew? You’re eating a salad, it’s vegetables, it totally shouldn’t be bad for you, but it totally is.
Me: Uhhh.
12: But I guess that’s why it actually tastes good instead of like ass, right? I mean it totally tastes good, I’m not saying it doesn’t taste good, but it totally isn’t good for you at all even though it’s a salad and you think you’re being good, you totally aren’t, ya’ know?
Me: Uh-huh.
12: Well, thanks for coming and enjoy the salads!
Me: Uh-huh.
This week when I was at Chili’s picking up our perfectly-damn-healthy-thank-you-very-much-you-little-ferret-faced-nine-year-old-and-what-do-you-know-anyway to-go salads, I wasn’t terribly shocked that she doesn’t work there anymore. I guess she’s sharing her wisdom to enlighten another restaurant’s patrons. And just because she was right — the 950 calorie Quesadilla Explosion bestows upon me 93% of the sodium and 105% of the saturated fat my body requires in any given day — doesn’t mean she, her sepulchral cloak, and her sickle-o-doom should necessarily be the greeter at Chili’s or any other restaurant.
Last week I went to Chili’s to pick up two to-go salads. As the full-figured 12 year old at the register rang up the order, she asked if I wanted to know how many calories were in the salads.
Me: Uhhh, no. Why?
12: Oh, because they’re totally super-fattening, I used to eat the food here but then I saw how bad it is for you, so I totally don’t eat here anymore.
Me: Uhhh, oh. Huh.
12: Yeah, it’s not just the fat either, it’s the sodium and carbs and stuff, tooootally bad for you.
Me: Uhhh, yeah. Probably.
12: Even the salads. I mean who knew? You’re eating a salad, it’s vegetables, it totally shouldn’t be bad for you, but it totally is.
Me: Uhhh.
12: But I guess that’s why it actually tastes good instead of like ass, right? I mean it totally tastes good, I’m not saying it doesn’t taste good, but it totally isn’t good for you at all even though it’s a salad and you think you’re being good, you totally aren’t, ya’ know?
Me: Uh-huh.
12: Well, thanks for coming and enjoy the salads!
Me: Uh-huh.
This week when I was at Chili’s picking up our perfectly-damn-healthy-thank-you-very-much-you-little-ferret-faced-nine-year-old-and-what-do-you-know-anyway to-go salads, I wasn’t terribly shocked that she doesn’t work there anymore. I guess she’s sharing her wisdom to enlighten another restaurant’s patrons. And just because she was right — the 950 calorie Quesadilla Explosion bestows upon me 93% of the sodium and 105% of the saturated fat my body requires in any given day — doesn’t mean she, her sepulchral cloak, and her sickle-o-doom should necessarily be the greeter at Chili’s or any other restaurant.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monsters and Elevators
I find it unacceptable that when I push the close door button in our building's elevator, it still takes at least 14 seconds to close. 14 seconds isn't a long time. Unless you are being chased by a mad man or a monster or person with bad breath and BO and smelly feet. And then, you are just screwed. And it bothers me that no one seems to find this to be a problem. Does no one watch movies any more? Have we forgotten Sigorny Weaver in Aliens trying to get up to the platform? How many times have we seen a woman being chased down the hall and gets to the elevator and manages to get it closed just in time before the Evil Aggressor gets her?
So I'm just going to have to accept that should I find myself trying to escape aliens who are stalking me in our lobby by getting safely inside an elevator, I'm dead.
So I'm just going to have to accept that should I find myself trying to escape aliens who are stalking me in our lobby by getting safely inside an elevator, I'm dead.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Necessities
by tess
I wasn’t always a lonely, bitter, disengaged woman. Before I was diagnosed with Personalitus Defectum (Latin for hateful bitch), I had friends. Of course I was five at the time but it’s true – once upon a time I actually had friends. And like most little girls in the mid-1960s, we looooooooooooved Barbie and created whole Barbie Villages in my bedroom. I don’t remember that the Barbies interacted so much as changed clothes a lot. They were like the beta version of Paris Hilton.
My Barbie was totally lucky. On her very first day at my house, I gave her a chic, super-short haircut. A choppy little ‘do that was very cute and years before her time! She was also totally fashion forward. Since my babysitter was a seamstress, she would use all of her scraps to make my Barbie clothes. No off-the-rack crap for my doll! All of Barbie’s couture coats had matching hats made of egg cartons, then covered (inside and out!) with fabric, and trimmed in faux fur and tiny seed buttons. Fab-u-licious!
One of my Barbie closets held two Barbies (who knew she was in the closet?), tons of hanger space, and two boxes labeled NECESSITIES. To this day whenever I see that word, I think of Barbie because that’s a really big word for a little kid. I think my parents told me a number of times what the word said but it didn’t stick because a) I didn’t really know what necessities were, and b) when you look at all those letters, you could sound it out any number of ways … all of which must have been confusing. One alternative to Necessities might have been “Crap Barbie Absolutely Positively Must Have Right This Second or She Will Die Before Your Eyes.”
I just read an article in which designers discuss their personal unnecessary purchases. A steam shower, a commercial grade stove, antique cat baskets lined with cashmere, a soft-serve ice cream maker. Yeah, those items definitely sound like things someone thinks they need, but then … not so much. Although a soft-serve ice cream maker sounds COMPLETELY AWESOME!
Last week The Hubs informed me that we don’t need an ebelskiver pan. He’s wrong. I think if we had one of these completely amazing pans, then I would want to make tiny wonderful nearly-crisp-on-the-outside-but-gooey-on-the-inside breakfast pancakes filled with scrummy condiments like raspberry jam, strawberry preserves, Nutella, blueberry compote, chocolate, and apple pie filling All The Time. How could I resist making these delicious delicacies? I can hardly even sit here typing thinking about how much I neeeeed to make these. Which means: I Need. To Buy. The Pan. How hard is that to understand? When we said we were cutting back, we meant that you were going to cut back. Did we not understand that? Du-uh-uh.
But I guess I do have to admit that not all of our must-own-immediately necessities are in fact necessary. Our tiny kitchen is overflowing with kitchen implements, some of which we don’t actually use quite as frequently as we might. Or … ever. The hundreds of chips-and-dip trays that never seem quite right. The Fry-O-Lator. Two fondue pots -- one for cheese and one for chocolate. The crepe maker. Margarita glasses that we never use but so totally WOULD use them if only we had that awesome $400 margarita machine! The waffle iron and the wok. The paella pan and the panini press. The slow cooker. The flavor injector (and seasoning gel that expired in 1999). The pizza peels and stone. The tortilla warmer and the asparagus steamer. Not to mention the grapefruit spoons which should never, ever, ever be used as a backup to the dirty spoons you’re too drunk to wash when you’re jonesing for ice cream at 3:30 A.M.
Okay, so maybe I won’t absolutely die if I don’t get an ebelskiver pan. But I do need that margarita machine. And a pair of jeans that fit. And new bathroom fixtures. And a bookcase for my cookbooks. And pull-out shelves in the pantry. And a frameless shower. And spinning barstools. And granite in the kitchen. And a big plasma TV. And a pool. And new wall-to-wall carpeting. And a new laptop. Necessities all.
I wasn’t always a lonely, bitter, disengaged woman. Before I was diagnosed with Personalitus Defectum (Latin for hateful bitch), I had friends. Of course I was five at the time but it’s true – once upon a time I actually had friends. And like most little girls in the mid-1960s, we looooooooooooved Barbie and created whole Barbie Villages in my bedroom. I don’t remember that the Barbies interacted so much as changed clothes a lot. They were like the beta version of Paris Hilton.
My Barbie was totally lucky. On her very first day at my house, I gave her a chic, super-short haircut. A choppy little ‘do that was very cute and years before her time! She was also totally fashion forward. Since my babysitter was a seamstress, she would use all of her scraps to make my Barbie clothes. No off-the-rack crap for my doll! All of Barbie’s couture coats had matching hats made of egg cartons, then covered (inside and out!) with fabric, and trimmed in faux fur and tiny seed buttons. Fab-u-licious!
One of my Barbie closets held two Barbies (who knew she was in the closet?), tons of hanger space, and two boxes labeled NECESSITIES. To this day whenever I see that word, I think of Barbie because that’s a really big word for a little kid. I think my parents told me a number of times what the word said but it didn’t stick because a) I didn’t really know what necessities were, and b) when you look at all those letters, you could sound it out any number of ways … all of which must have been confusing. One alternative to Necessities might have been “Crap Barbie Absolutely Positively Must Have Right This Second or She Will Die Before Your Eyes.”
I just read an article in which designers discuss their personal unnecessary purchases. A steam shower, a commercial grade stove, antique cat baskets lined with cashmere, a soft-serve ice cream maker. Yeah, those items definitely sound like things someone thinks they need, but then … not so much. Although a soft-serve ice cream maker sounds COMPLETELY AWESOME!
Last week The Hubs informed me that we don’t need an ebelskiver pan. He’s wrong. I think if we had one of these completely amazing pans, then I would want to make tiny wonderful nearly-crisp-on-the-outside-but-gooey-on-the-inside breakfast pancakes filled with scrummy condiments like raspberry jam, strawberry preserves, Nutella, blueberry compote, chocolate, and apple pie filling All The Time. How could I resist making these delicious delicacies? I can hardly even sit here typing thinking about how much I neeeeed to make these. Which means: I Need. To Buy. The Pan. How hard is that to understand? When we said we were cutting back, we meant that you were going to cut back. Did we not understand that? Du-uh-uh.
But I guess I do have to admit that not all of our must-own-immediately necessities are in fact necessary. Our tiny kitchen is overflowing with kitchen implements, some of which we don’t actually use quite as frequently as we might. Or … ever. The hundreds of chips-and-dip trays that never seem quite right. The Fry-O-Lator. Two fondue pots -- one for cheese and one for chocolate. The crepe maker. Margarita glasses that we never use but so totally WOULD use them if only we had that awesome $400 margarita machine! The waffle iron and the wok. The paella pan and the panini press. The slow cooker. The flavor injector (and seasoning gel that expired in 1999). The pizza peels and stone. The tortilla warmer and the asparagus steamer. Not to mention the grapefruit spoons which should never, ever, ever be used as a backup to the dirty spoons you’re too drunk to wash when you’re jonesing for ice cream at 3:30 A.M.
Okay, so maybe I won’t absolutely die if I don’t get an ebelskiver pan. But I do need that margarita machine. And a pair of jeans that fit. And new bathroom fixtures. And a bookcase for my cookbooks. And pull-out shelves in the pantry. And a frameless shower. And spinning barstools. And granite in the kitchen. And a big plasma TV. And a pool. And new wall-to-wall carpeting. And a new laptop. Necessities all.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Snapshots of my Culinary Upbringing
by gretchen
Here, a few culinary images from my childhood.
1. Pizza with Ketchup. We never knew Mom did this, never knew the difference. Until we had real pizza. And then we were (OK, I was) pissed.
2. Carnation Condensed Milk With Rice Krispies. You think skim is bad? Skim milk is nectar from the gods compared to this opaque, watery, "emergency" milk.
3. The Year of the Smelt. I don't know why. I'm not sure I want to know why. I just know for a year, Mom kept serving us smelts as if we were her cats. The Year of the Smelt was followed by the Season of the Squid, a delightful time where we threw the little squids off of our plates to the open mouth of the cat and watched him chew and chew, little tentacles hanging out all the while. When I was a senior in high school, we had The Summer of the Greek Salad, which was made every #($)@#(*$ night. This had thankfully replaced the Decade of the Tuna Casserole. Which followed The Season of the Squid.
4. Penny Pinchers: The pre-BJs Bulk-Food Shopping. You placed an order and then went to pick it up -- everything was in bulk, in warehouse-style brown stamped boxes. At the time, the portions were absurd -- now its the standard size at BJs. That night we would haul out gigantic boxes of cookies, huge packages chicken fingers, smelts (of course), pickles (I think some are still in the fridge), and on and on. Penny Pinchers day was THE BEST. The day before Penny Pinchers day was THE WORST. You ended up eating stale taco shells. With ketchup.
5. Apple on Top. Every single brown paper bag my mother packed for my sister and I had the apple on top. Apple on Top means you fragile little sandwich below the dead weight would be squished and soggy in the middle and about 2 cm high. Every. Single. Day. BTW, by squishing the sandwich, the apple released the sandwich stench, thereby ensuring at least one person in the room (at Catholic school, you ate in your classroom because there were no cafeterias) would whine, "Ewwww, who has the stinky tuna?" And everyone stared and you slunk down in your seat. Shamed. Again. With you soggy, squished sandwich. And you took it out on the apple, which you slammed into the garbage can. Every. Single. Day.
6. Wegman's Orange Soda Refrigerator. Not sure why, but we ended up with about 47,024 cans of it. I drank that stuff for at least a year and when it was gone, the extra fridge in which we kept it seemed to have a permanent orange glow, haunted by its former tenants.
7. Sandwich-Making Night. Once a month (or was it every two weeks?), my father would go to the Hostess store and buy white bread and chocolate zingers (on VERY special, very rare occasions, there would be vanilla zingers which are preferred by all those with taste). That night, would make up ham and cheese sandwiches for his lunches, freezing most of them. I remember laying out 30 pieces of bread on the ugly yellow counter above the dishwasher, mustard, then ham, then cheese, then bread, then slip the sandwich into the envelope sandwich baggies (long before ziplocks). And at least once a month, my mom, lacking any tuna or PBJ, would throw one of those frozen delights into our lunch bags (with the apple on TOP) and assure us that it would be thawed by lunch time.
This was never once true.
8. The Blue Vinyl Raggedy Anne Lunchbox. I paid my mother back for such lunch-letdowns by forgetting my Raggedy Anne lunch box in the cloak room (that's what they call it in Catholic school). For several weeks. The warm, humid air that wafted toward her when she opened the lunch coffin was probably fair payback. I never used that lunch box again. Somewhere, in a landfill, I bet it still reeks of moldy tuna and sour OJ.
9. Easter Pizza. We had pizza for Easter dinner one year. And oh yes, we're Catholic. And at the time, we were every-single-freaking-weekend Catholics. Pizza. (No ketchup.)
10. The Anointed One's Ho Hos. When my brother came home from college, he always got a box of Ho Hos. I was NOT allowed to eat them. You know I always did, citing the double standard in our house.
11. The Child Bakes. One day, while making cookies by myself, my mother walked in:
"What on earth are you doing, Gretchen"
"I'm making cookies."
"Why is your hand in the batter?"
"It said stir by hand."
12. Creative Cookies. We never had the right ingredients for cookies, so I made countless batches of chocolate chip cookies without the chocolate chips. Or brown sugar. Or shortening. Or butter. I'm sure you get the picture. You're starting to get the ketchup, aren't you?
13. The Uneaten Breakfast. I think my mother made me a hot breakfast which I refused to eat before she gave up. I picked this up from my sister who stopped eating her breakfasts in high school. Older sister = All things cool. To be cool, mimic older sister.
For what it's worth, aside from the Carnation Instant milk, my mom actually made pretty good breakfasts.
14. The Sunday Omelet. Dad made amazing omelets on Sunday morning. He made a fixed amount. If you got up in time, you got some. Sleep in, and you got none. Stay downstairs watching cartoons on Channel 31, and you got none. You had to pay attention, waiting and lay in bed or watch cartoons until you smelled the food and then you had to bolt to the table. A minute later and you were SOL. And out of omelet. However, if you decided to leave your bed or the TV and come to the table early, you could gain possession of the comics section. Which you could then choose to share with your siblings by tearing out each comic strip. One. Strip. At. A. Time. Starting with the really boring ones first.
15. Banquet Fried Chicken and Milk. This was ALWAYS the dinner you ate after my mom went shopping. And it was sooooooo good.
Now, I realize that this article was probably funny to NONE of you but my family. And that's fine. Haters.
Here, a few culinary images from my childhood.
1. Pizza with Ketchup. We never knew Mom did this, never knew the difference. Until we had real pizza. And then we were (OK, I was) pissed.
2. Carnation Condensed Milk With Rice Krispies. You think skim is bad? Skim milk is nectar from the gods compared to this opaque, watery, "emergency" milk.
3. The Year of the Smelt. I don't know why. I'm not sure I want to know why. I just know for a year, Mom kept serving us smelts as if we were her cats. The Year of the Smelt was followed by the Season of the Squid, a delightful time where we threw the little squids off of our plates to the open mouth of the cat and watched him chew and chew, little tentacles hanging out all the while. When I was a senior in high school, we had The Summer of the Greek Salad, which was made every #($)@#(*$ night. This had thankfully replaced the Decade of the Tuna Casserole. Which followed The Season of the Squid.
4. Penny Pinchers: The pre-BJs Bulk-Food Shopping. You placed an order and then went to pick it up -- everything was in bulk, in warehouse-style brown stamped boxes. At the time, the portions were absurd -- now its the standard size at BJs. That night we would haul out gigantic boxes of cookies, huge packages chicken fingers, smelts (of course), pickles (I think some are still in the fridge), and on and on. Penny Pinchers day was THE BEST. The day before Penny Pinchers day was THE WORST. You ended up eating stale taco shells. With ketchup.
5. Apple on Top. Every single brown paper bag my mother packed for my sister and I had the apple on top. Apple on Top means you fragile little sandwich below the dead weight would be squished and soggy in the middle and about 2 cm high. Every. Single. Day. BTW, by squishing the sandwich, the apple released the sandwich stench, thereby ensuring at least one person in the room (at Catholic school, you ate in your classroom because there were no cafeterias) would whine, "Ewwww, who has the stinky tuna?" And everyone stared and you slunk down in your seat. Shamed. Again. With you soggy, squished sandwich. And you took it out on the apple, which you slammed into the garbage can. Every. Single. Day.
6. Wegman's Orange Soda Refrigerator. Not sure why, but we ended up with about 47,024 cans of it. I drank that stuff for at least a year and when it was gone, the extra fridge in which we kept it seemed to have a permanent orange glow, haunted by its former tenants.
7. Sandwich-Making Night. Once a month (or was it every two weeks?), my father would go to the Hostess store and buy white bread and chocolate zingers (on VERY special, very rare occasions, there would be vanilla zingers which are preferred by all those with taste). That night, would make up ham and cheese sandwiches for his lunches, freezing most of them. I remember laying out 30 pieces of bread on the ugly yellow counter above the dishwasher, mustard, then ham, then cheese, then bread, then slip the sandwich into the envelope sandwich baggies (long before ziplocks). And at least once a month, my mom, lacking any tuna or PBJ, would throw one of those frozen delights into our lunch bags (with the apple on TOP) and assure us that it would be thawed by lunch time.
This was never once true.
8. The Blue Vinyl Raggedy Anne Lunchbox. I paid my mother back for such lunch-letdowns by forgetting my Raggedy Anne lunch box in the cloak room (that's what they call it in Catholic school). For several weeks. The warm, humid air that wafted toward her when she opened the lunch coffin was probably fair payback. I never used that lunch box again. Somewhere, in a landfill, I bet it still reeks of moldy tuna and sour OJ.
9. Easter Pizza. We had pizza for Easter dinner one year. And oh yes, we're Catholic. And at the time, we were every-single-freaking-weekend Catholics. Pizza. (No ketchup.)
10. The Anointed One's Ho Hos. When my brother came home from college, he always got a box of Ho Hos. I was NOT allowed to eat them. You know I always did, citing the double standard in our house.
11. The Child Bakes. One day, while making cookies by myself, my mother walked in:
"What on earth are you doing, Gretchen"
"I'm making cookies."
"Why is your hand in the batter?"
"It said stir by hand."
12. Creative Cookies. We never had the right ingredients for cookies, so I made countless batches of chocolate chip cookies without the chocolate chips. Or brown sugar. Or shortening. Or butter. I'm sure you get the picture. You're starting to get the ketchup, aren't you?
13. The Uneaten Breakfast. I think my mother made me a hot breakfast which I refused to eat before she gave up. I picked this up from my sister who stopped eating her breakfasts in high school. Older sister = All things cool. To be cool, mimic older sister.
For what it's worth, aside from the Carnation Instant milk, my mom actually made pretty good breakfasts.
14. The Sunday Omelet. Dad made amazing omelets on Sunday morning. He made a fixed amount. If you got up in time, you got some. Sleep in, and you got none. Stay downstairs watching cartoons on Channel 31, and you got none. You had to pay attention, waiting and lay in bed or watch cartoons until you smelled the food and then you had to bolt to the table. A minute later and you were SOL. And out of omelet. However, if you decided to leave your bed or the TV and come to the table early, you could gain possession of the comics section. Which you could then choose to share with your siblings by tearing out each comic strip. One. Strip. At. A. Time. Starting with the really boring ones first.
15. Banquet Fried Chicken and Milk. This was ALWAYS the dinner you ate after my mom went shopping. And it was sooooooo good.
Now, I realize that this article was probably funny to NONE of you but my family. And that's fine. Haters.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The box of rocks
by tess
It was not my fault that the first thing I noticed was her chest. Admittedly there are times when I admire the stray breast here or there, but this really wasn’t a 15-year-old-boy-trapped-in-an-old-woman’s-body moment. I had boarded before her and was innocently reading my book taking care to avoid eye contact with the other passengers. I registered movement to my right and glanced over. And there they were – perky 19 year old boobs struggling with all their might to leap free from the confines of a strapless dress while she hurled her suitcase into the overhead bin. I admit that I was on their side, mentally encouraging their efforts and rooting for their liberation.
She sat down and retrieved her fuchsia cell phone but had trouble dialing it with her 2” neon pink nails. When CuteButUseless opened her mouth, I experienced one of those “Ahhh, of course. Now I know the rest of the story!” epiphanies. Her sweet little Kentucky accent chatted endlessly with Daaaaddy about any number of important issues. I learned that FaithAnne had never flown on a plane as large as the one she’d taken from Lexington to Atlanta. For some reason she had been forced to wear “my God-awful, white-trash-lookin’ shiny flipflops” (which matched both her phone and nails). She had purchased an $8 “saaaaaangwich” at the airport but couldn’t eat it because it contained an unknown offending herb in the mayonnaise. She thought perhaps we’d have movies since there were “four big TVs in the middle of the plane.” She reported to Daddy that there was a first class section, that it was in the front of the plane, and that they have nice seats up there. Strangely, this all seemed like big news to Daddy. She also indicated that she was “fixin’ ta call Maamaaaa” in an hour during her next “intermission.”
FaithAnne was one of those girls who likes to share her thoughts. She was cute and curvy and, I’m sure, quite the belle of the ball in the tiny town she comes from. She was traveling to Hawaii planning to spend the summer “and maybe more” with her ex-boyfriend who’s serving in the military. They broke up in October because he was to be stationed in Missouri and she didn’t want to live there. Now that Hawaii was in the picture, so was she.
For each and every leg of her trip from Lexington to Honolulu she had been assigned to a center seat. That fact alone would be enough to make me cancel the trip, but not chipper little FaithAnne. She confided that she’d been a cheerleader for six years. Yes, it did require every bit of strength I possessed to refrain from asking her if that’s how long it took her to graduate from high school.
An hour into the flight, she spent an inordinate amount of time reviewing her sheaf of boarding passes and referring to her PDA. Finally she asked if we would be arriving in Phoenix late because she was going to miss her connection. Our other seatmate (a reasonable woman from Atlanta holding her four month old daughter) helped me to explain 1) that on her tickets A stood for AM, not Atlantic, and P stood for PM, not Pacific, 2) that there’s a three hour time difference between Georgia and Arizona, and 3) that the departure and arrival times are time zone-adjusted so that an 11:00A departure from Atlanta and a 12:08P arrival in Phoenix is actually a four hour flight. Similarly the tickets for her flight to Honolulu would be time zone-adjusted. She was as wide-eyed with wonderment as the baby in the next seat.
As if an old fat lady and a woman holding a squirming baby for four hours cared, FaithAnne apologized to us for looking like hell. But she didn’t say hell. She was cute enough that she almost made the use of “H –E – double-hockey-sticks” something less than cringe-worthy. Almost. She had just purchased something called “Bare Minerals” which is, apparently, some sort of five-step make up solution that’s so complicated to apply it requires an instructional CD. Because “it had come up a bad cloud” in Lexington, the electricity was off when she’d left home that morning at 4:00. Therefore, she had neither experimented with the make up nor had she watched the CD. All of this to explain that she was carrying $80 worth of make up that she had no idea how to wear but couldn’t possibly consider greeting her ex-boyfriend “lookin’ like a dawg beat with an uugly stick.”
FaithAnne revealed that “it’s jes’ askin’ fer trouble” to serve alcohol on a plane. I’m guessing she must be a hella-mean drunk to believe that terrorism stems from Mile High Mojitos. On the other hand, she smokes a pack of cigarettes a day and wants to quit but back home everyone smokes. And since tobacco is Kentucky’s cash crop, she just can’t help herself. Our seatmate and I responded with the “Ahhh” sound which is universally meant to impart the understanding of, but not agreement to, something thoroughly incomprehensible. When FaithAnne excused herself to use the restroom, I (jokingly) advised her against smoking in the bathroom. She very earnestly told me that she “surely wouldna do that.” I felt like an idiot.
As we deplaned I wished FaithAnne luck with her trip. She ducked into the smoking lounge to finally dampen the nic fit she’d been suffering for the past four hours. Minutes later as I trudged through the terminal lugging my overweight carry on bag and sweating through my mom-jeans, FaithAnne raced past me on the back of a golf cart waving to her subjects like the prom queen she most truly was and ever will be. I’m not sure she needs luck (or intelligence). She’s got the world by the tail as it is. At least for now.
It was not my fault that the first thing I noticed was her chest. Admittedly there are times when I admire the stray breast here or there, but this really wasn’t a 15-year-old-boy-trapped-in-an-old-woman’s-body moment. I had boarded before her and was innocently reading my book taking care to avoid eye contact with the other passengers. I registered movement to my right and glanced over. And there they were – perky 19 year old boobs struggling with all their might to leap free from the confines of a strapless dress while she hurled her suitcase into the overhead bin. I admit that I was on their side, mentally encouraging their efforts and rooting for their liberation.
She sat down and retrieved her fuchsia cell phone but had trouble dialing it with her 2” neon pink nails. When CuteButUseless opened her mouth, I experienced one of those “Ahhh, of course. Now I know the rest of the story!” epiphanies. Her sweet little Kentucky accent chatted endlessly with Daaaaddy about any number of important issues. I learned that FaithAnne had never flown on a plane as large as the one she’d taken from Lexington to Atlanta. For some reason she had been forced to wear “my God-awful, white-trash-lookin’ shiny flipflops” (which matched both her phone and nails). She had purchased an $8 “saaaaaangwich” at the airport but couldn’t eat it because it contained an unknown offending herb in the mayonnaise. She thought perhaps we’d have movies since there were “four big TVs in the middle of the plane.” She reported to Daddy that there was a first class section, that it was in the front of the plane, and that they have nice seats up there. Strangely, this all seemed like big news to Daddy. She also indicated that she was “fixin’ ta call Maamaaaa” in an hour during her next “intermission.”
FaithAnne was one of those girls who likes to share her thoughts. She was cute and curvy and, I’m sure, quite the belle of the ball in the tiny town she comes from. She was traveling to Hawaii planning to spend the summer “and maybe more” with her ex-boyfriend who’s serving in the military. They broke up in October because he was to be stationed in Missouri and she didn’t want to live there. Now that Hawaii was in the picture, so was she.
For each and every leg of her trip from Lexington to Honolulu she had been assigned to a center seat. That fact alone would be enough to make me cancel the trip, but not chipper little FaithAnne. She confided that she’d been a cheerleader for six years. Yes, it did require every bit of strength I possessed to refrain from asking her if that’s how long it took her to graduate from high school.
An hour into the flight, she spent an inordinate amount of time reviewing her sheaf of boarding passes and referring to her PDA. Finally she asked if we would be arriving in Phoenix late because she was going to miss her connection. Our other seatmate (a reasonable woman from Atlanta holding her four month old daughter) helped me to explain 1) that on her tickets A stood for AM, not Atlantic, and P stood for PM, not Pacific, 2) that there’s a three hour time difference between Georgia and Arizona, and 3) that the departure and arrival times are time zone-adjusted so that an 11:00A departure from Atlanta and a 12:08P arrival in Phoenix is actually a four hour flight. Similarly the tickets for her flight to Honolulu would be time zone-adjusted. She was as wide-eyed with wonderment as the baby in the next seat.
As if an old fat lady and a woman holding a squirming baby for four hours cared, FaithAnne apologized to us for looking like hell. But she didn’t say hell. She was cute enough that she almost made the use of “H –E – double-hockey-sticks” something less than cringe-worthy. Almost. She had just purchased something called “Bare Minerals” which is, apparently, some sort of five-step make up solution that’s so complicated to apply it requires an instructional CD. Because “it had come up a bad cloud” in Lexington, the electricity was off when she’d left home that morning at 4:00. Therefore, she had neither experimented with the make up nor had she watched the CD. All of this to explain that she was carrying $80 worth of make up that she had no idea how to wear but couldn’t possibly consider greeting her ex-boyfriend “lookin’ like a dawg beat with an uugly stick.”
FaithAnne revealed that “it’s jes’ askin’ fer trouble” to serve alcohol on a plane. I’m guessing she must be a hella-mean drunk to believe that terrorism stems from Mile High Mojitos. On the other hand, she smokes a pack of cigarettes a day and wants to quit but back home everyone smokes. And since tobacco is Kentucky’s cash crop, she just can’t help herself. Our seatmate and I responded with the “Ahhh” sound which is universally meant to impart the understanding of, but not agreement to, something thoroughly incomprehensible. When FaithAnne excused herself to use the restroom, I (jokingly) advised her against smoking in the bathroom. She very earnestly told me that she “surely wouldna do that.” I felt like an idiot.
As we deplaned I wished FaithAnne luck with her trip. She ducked into the smoking lounge to finally dampen the nic fit she’d been suffering for the past four hours. Minutes later as I trudged through the terminal lugging my overweight carry on bag and sweating through my mom-jeans, FaithAnne raced past me on the back of a golf cart waving to her subjects like the prom queen she most truly was and ever will be. I’m not sure she needs luck (or intelligence). She’s got the world by the tail as it is. At least for now.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Drug-Free Zone?
by gretchen
I was out walking the dog today. Laney is 12 but she thinks she is 2, so the walk goes like this:
First half hour: She determines exactly how much she can pull on me before she either tears off my left arm or chokes herself. Upon finding this balance, she pulls just a bit harder to be a pain.
Second half hour: Pulling has subsided a bit. The walk is pleasant.
Third half hour: Play time. By now we are illegally swimming in the creek and trying to steal the toys of other criminal dogs.
Fourth half hour: The walk slows, the limping starts, the panting is out of control, and I can finally spend time looking around rather than dealing with her. By the time we get home, it's a gluco pill and the couch and she's down for the count.
It was during this period when I walked by the area elementary school. And I saw a sign that I simply do not get. "Drug Free Zone." What is that all about? I thought it was supposed to be a drug-free country (yeah, I know), but creating a drug-free zone for an elementary schools seems stupid and futile (while the commentary on our inability to actually control the drug issue in our country is too delicious to be intentional). So then I started thinking about the kids in the school. When they ask about that sign, what do the teachers say? "You can't smoke pot HERE." It just begs the question: If you are telling a kid he can't do drugs in this area, it follows that there are areas where she can. So maybe you want to tell me that it includes alcohol and cigarettes. See, now, you still have a problem because those are illegal anywhere for kids that age, so again -- the sign makes no sense.
Underneath the big text on the sign, it says, "Drugs Lie." And here too I have an problem because drugs don't talk. The person on drugs lies, the dealer lies, you probably lie when you are on drugs, but the drugs, they actually are doing exactly what they are supposed to do. So maybe the subheading should be replaced with one of those horrific pictures of a crackhead -- you know, the one where you are looking at a 67-year-old woman who has lived the hardest life ever and then you find out that she's 20. THAT will get through. Maybe more effective for teenagers, though.
At any rate, I want someone to explain this sign to me because I can't see its value. Other than giving my old dog someplace to sniff and then mark.
Oh, and there should be a hyphen in it. The sign should be Drug-Free Zone and this just makes me even more uncertain about the quality of education around here if they can't even get the punctuation on the sign correct.
I was out walking the dog today. Laney is 12 but she thinks she is 2, so the walk goes like this:
First half hour: She determines exactly how much she can pull on me before she either tears off my left arm or chokes herself. Upon finding this balance, she pulls just a bit harder to be a pain.
Second half hour: Pulling has subsided a bit. The walk is pleasant.
Third half hour: Play time. By now we are illegally swimming in the creek and trying to steal the toys of other criminal dogs.
Fourth half hour: The walk slows, the limping starts, the panting is out of control, and I can finally spend time looking around rather than dealing with her. By the time we get home, it's a gluco pill and the couch and she's down for the count.
It was during this period when I walked by the area elementary school. And I saw a sign that I simply do not get. "Drug Free Zone." What is that all about? I thought it was supposed to be a drug-free country (yeah, I know), but creating a drug-free zone for an elementary schools seems stupid and futile (while the commentary on our inability to actually control the drug issue in our country is too delicious to be intentional). So then I started thinking about the kids in the school. When they ask about that sign, what do the teachers say? "You can't smoke pot HERE." It just begs the question: If you are telling a kid he can't do drugs in this area, it follows that there are areas where she can. So maybe you want to tell me that it includes alcohol and cigarettes. See, now, you still have a problem because those are illegal anywhere for kids that age, so again -- the sign makes no sense.
Underneath the big text on the sign, it says, "Drugs Lie." And here too I have an problem because drugs don't talk. The person on drugs lies, the dealer lies, you probably lie when you are on drugs, but the drugs, they actually are doing exactly what they are supposed to do. So maybe the subheading should be replaced with one of those horrific pictures of a crackhead -- you know, the one where you are looking at a 67-year-old woman who has lived the hardest life ever and then you find out that she's 20. THAT will get through. Maybe more effective for teenagers, though.
At any rate, I want someone to explain this sign to me because I can't see its value. Other than giving my old dog someplace to sniff and then mark.
Oh, and there should be a hyphen in it. The sign should be Drug-Free Zone and this just makes me even more uncertain about the quality of education around here if they can't even get the punctuation on the sign correct.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The No Go Zone
by tess
I begin each day by reading a chapter of my favorite self-help book, Be You Only Better: 789 EZ Steps to Fabricating a BRAND NEW YOU that Your Family, Friends, and Colleagues Will Vastly Prefer Over the Sad, Little, Boring, Piece of Crap Person You Were Before You Bought This Book!
Today the always-informative Be You Only Better! helpfully provided me with the lecture, Defeating Your Dishwater Dull Demons. Apparently there are ten topics that must be avoided lest I crush the souls of my friends into a pulpy mash of apathetic tedium. Strictly adhering to BYOB! dogma, I’ve personalized each affirmation du jour by appending a few of my own comments.
1. You must refrain from discussing recent medical procedures.
Nobody wants to hear about your root canal, earwax removal, or ingrown toenail surgery. Keep it to yourself.
2. You must refrain from discussing a detailed account of your last (insert sport here) game/match.
Not only do I not waste my important television-watching and beer-drinking time on physical activities, I have no intention of listening to someone else blather on endlessly about how awesome they are at some lame-ass sport.
3. You must refrain from discussing your boss.
My manager is only interesting to herself and to her employees. Nobody else cares if she’s the Dragonlady Incarnate or Mother Teresa the Sequel. I loathe hearing about the vindictive, bigoted, abusive, myopic, destructive micromanagers who rule their tiny fiefdoms like tyrants. Likewise, I don’t want to hear about the selfless, noble, nurturing, dynamic, generous charmers who make my friends love each and every day of their jobs.
4. You must refrain from discussing the latest additions to your wine cellar.
Unless the discussion centers on how much wine you shouldn’t have imbibed on a certain dancing-on-the-table-and-making-out-with-your-sister-in-law night, there are few topics as annoying as oenophilia. Depending on the class of people around you, you’re sure to sound like either an elitist prig or a Schlitz-drinking, ball-scratching Neanderthal.
5. You must refrain from discussing any recent changes to your child’s nap schedule.
One might think that if others fail to be interested in my human children, they might be even less inclined to hear about my feline child-substitutes. Well, that’s too damn bad! I most assuredly will not only tell total strangers about my precious little darlings, I’ll show them digital photos, imitate their furball-gurgitation, draw comprehensive diagrams highlighting the characteristics proving them superior archetypes of the breed, and pull up the URL to the nanny-cams broadcasting their every movement day and night.
6. You must refrain from discussing an excellent meal that you once had at a restaurant.
Because it’s difficult to express the complex notes of aromas and tastes with words, I’ll agree that this could be a real conversation clogger. Particularly since one’s hostess might feel slighted by the comparison of her Aunt Millie’s tuna noodle casserole to that reverently and orgasmically recalled “tarragon-infused fricassee of fresh sole with Meyer lemon gelée royale served on Sevres china in a tiny Left Bank bistro during the sublime sunset over the Seine”. Also, it’s never a good idea to piss off someone who prepares and serves your food. You might just end up with an impeccably plated cockroach at the bottom of your plate.
7. You must refrain from discussing former lovers.
It’s a small world and somehow it will get back to him that you’re still blathering on to strangers about that time junior year when he cheated on you with your sorority sister. So, on the off chance that you decide one day to rid the planet of their mutual lying, cheating skankitude, don’t publically refer to him as the-one-who-got-away-thanks-to-that-whore-Muffi. Do you really want hoards of character witnesses tattling to the Prosecutor that all it takes is a glass of Chablis and you’re aaaalll about throwing lead and busting caps?
8. You must refrain from discussing the plot of a movie, play or book—in particular, the funny parts.
This is a tricky one. I’ve many times ventured down this path only to realize midway through the tale that I don’t actually have any idea why I thought Will Ferrell’s butt was so darn funny.
9. You must refrain from discussing high school and college.
It’s a process for all of us. If those were your salad days, good for you! That means the best years of your life are far behind you and you have nothing to look forward to but the continual plummet of both your optimism and your breasts. If those years were the most excruciating centuries of your life during which you proved again and again to be a veritable cesspool of insecurities, then definitely put the first 25 years of your life in the rearview mirror and leave them there.
10. You must refrain from discussing your dreams.
I’ve admittedly been known to share the kinkier bits of my dreams on occasion, but only with good friends. I don’t think they were bored. Nauseated and propelled by a strong desire to poke their eyes out with forks perhaps, but never bored.
I begin each day by reading a chapter of my favorite self-help book, Be You Only Better: 789 EZ Steps to Fabricating a BRAND NEW YOU that Your Family, Friends, and Colleagues Will Vastly Prefer Over the Sad, Little, Boring, Piece of Crap Person You Were Before You Bought This Book!
Today the always-informative Be You Only Better! helpfully provided me with the lecture, Defeating Your Dishwater Dull Demons. Apparently there are ten topics that must be avoided lest I crush the souls of my friends into a pulpy mash of apathetic tedium. Strictly adhering to BYOB! dogma, I’ve personalized each affirmation du jour by appending a few of my own comments.
1. You must refrain from discussing recent medical procedures.
Nobody wants to hear about your root canal, earwax removal, or ingrown toenail surgery. Keep it to yourself.
2. You must refrain from discussing a detailed account of your last (insert sport here) game/match.
Not only do I not waste my important television-watching and beer-drinking time on physical activities, I have no intention of listening to someone else blather on endlessly about how awesome they are at some lame-ass sport.
3. You must refrain from discussing your boss.
My manager is only interesting to herself and to her employees. Nobody else cares if she’s the Dragonlady Incarnate or Mother Teresa the Sequel. I loathe hearing about the vindictive, bigoted, abusive, myopic, destructive micromanagers who rule their tiny fiefdoms like tyrants. Likewise, I don’t want to hear about the selfless, noble, nurturing, dynamic, generous charmers who make my friends love each and every day of their jobs.
4. You must refrain from discussing the latest additions to your wine cellar.
Unless the discussion centers on how much wine you shouldn’t have imbibed on a certain dancing-on-the-table-and-making-out-with-your-sister-in-law night, there are few topics as annoying as oenophilia. Depending on the class of people around you, you’re sure to sound like either an elitist prig or a Schlitz-drinking, ball-scratching Neanderthal.
5. You must refrain from discussing any recent changes to your child’s nap schedule.
One might think that if others fail to be interested in my human children, they might be even less inclined to hear about my feline child-substitutes. Well, that’s too damn bad! I most assuredly will not only tell total strangers about my precious little darlings, I’ll show them digital photos, imitate their furball-gurgitation, draw comprehensive diagrams highlighting the characteristics proving them superior archetypes of the breed, and pull up the URL to the nanny-cams broadcasting their every movement day and night.
6. You must refrain from discussing an excellent meal that you once had at a restaurant.
Because it’s difficult to express the complex notes of aromas and tastes with words, I’ll agree that this could be a real conversation clogger. Particularly since one’s hostess might feel slighted by the comparison of her Aunt Millie’s tuna noodle casserole to that reverently and orgasmically recalled “tarragon-infused fricassee of fresh sole with Meyer lemon gelée royale served on Sevres china in a tiny Left Bank bistro during the sublime sunset over the Seine”. Also, it’s never a good idea to piss off someone who prepares and serves your food. You might just end up with an impeccably plated cockroach at the bottom of your plate.
7. You must refrain from discussing former lovers.
It’s a small world and somehow it will get back to him that you’re still blathering on to strangers about that time junior year when he cheated on you with your sorority sister. So, on the off chance that you decide one day to rid the planet of their mutual lying, cheating skankitude, don’t publically refer to him as the-one-who-got-away-thanks-to-that-whore-Muffi. Do you really want hoards of character witnesses tattling to the Prosecutor that all it takes is a glass of Chablis and you’re aaaalll about throwing lead and busting caps?
8. You must refrain from discussing the plot of a movie, play or book—in particular, the funny parts.
This is a tricky one. I’ve many times ventured down this path only to realize midway through the tale that I don’t actually have any idea why I thought Will Ferrell’s butt was so darn funny.
9. You must refrain from discussing high school and college.
It’s a process for all of us. If those were your salad days, good for you! That means the best years of your life are far behind you and you have nothing to look forward to but the continual plummet of both your optimism and your breasts. If those years were the most excruciating centuries of your life during which you proved again and again to be a veritable cesspool of insecurities, then definitely put the first 25 years of your life in the rearview mirror and leave them there.
10. You must refrain from discussing your dreams.
I’ve admittedly been known to share the kinkier bits of my dreams on occasion, but only with good friends. I don’t think they were bored. Nauseated and propelled by a strong desire to poke their eyes out with forks perhaps, but never bored.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Take this job and ...
by tess
Dissatisfied with the status quo, we might reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re going. This is a brief trip down my occupational memory lane. I would advise you take a seat, fasten your seatbelt, and keep all of your limbs inside the vehicle. -gretchen.
My first job was busboy at an ice cream shop. I was particularly ill-suited for it since I wasn’t strong enough to lift anything and couldn’t have mopped a filthy industrial kitchen to save my soul. Fortunately the job lasted just long enough for me to buy the jeans I wanted for an upcoming Mixer.
Waitressing looked easier. Wrong. My one and only shift lasted four hours. At Pappy’s Pizza, waitresses received a “bank” at the beginning of the day and they made their own change, adding their check totals and tips to the bank. At the end of the day, you returned the original bank along with check totals, then kept your tips. By 3 PM my bank was $76 lower than it was before I had “sold” any food or received any tips. Bet they threw a party when I didn’t return the next day.
Perhaps Hostessing — still food service-related and, really, how hard could it be? Very hard! During the first day of training, I was overwhelmed by watching someone else answer the phones and move a penny around a map of the restaurant to show who was up next for tables. Terrified, I never attended day two of hostess training.
Anybody who’s ever worked in a mall (or seen those late ’70s/early ’80s teen movies) knows about “mall rats”, the subculture that provides the infrastructure to any mall society across the country. Rat rules determine what you wear, when you eat, where you sit, and who you date. Basically the Lord of the Flies of retail.
Next job: nanny. Four boys, cooking, cleaning, driving. ’nuff said.
My first job out of college was labeled Bookkeeper. Because the chain restaurant hired lots of ex-cons, the actual function of my job was to count how many of each dinner was ordered, and then compare the total orders to how much of each food item was missing from the freezer. So basically I counted. Given my impressive degree in Theater Arts and successful job experiences to that point, counting was clearly as much as I could have handled.
At my interview, Dragon Lady informed me that my new bookkeeping job would include balancing the checkbooks of several accounts. I had never balanced a checkbook and had no idea how to do so. The fact that 24 years later I still don’t know how to balance a checkbook may serve as an indication of my early success in real estate.
Retreating to a position more administrative and less numerical found me working for Tidy Bowl, aka Priscilla the Priestess of Sanitation. At home this fur-free fanatic vacuumed her dog to remove as much mess-in-progress as possible, but at work the scrubbing zealot forced me to scour every work surface in the entire laboratory with individually wrapped alcohol wipes on a daily basis. Can you spell OCD?
There were so many reasons to leave the dot-com: the CEO was an idiot who drove a seven year old Kia, we were frequently evicted from our shared “office” that was really just a conference room for another company, everyone got to wear scrubs but me, I’d have to take calls from elderly sick people. Really any one of those circumstances was plenty of motivation to run for the door.
Mac (short for Machiavelli) was my manager at the deeply corrupt “investments” firm. Positives: I have no hard evidence that he ever actually murdered anyone; he didn’t micro-manage the order in which I shredded the corporate files. Negatives: he was superior to using the phone or intercom so he shouted the name of the person he wanted to see over and over again until he or she appeared; he motivated his “investment team” by terminating faithful, long-term employees and hiring hot young blondes unencumbered by morality. I’d like to say that I wish Mac well.
And so here is my homage to Willie Nelson’s To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before:
To all the jobs that caused me strife
Whose blades of shame cut like a knife
I’m glad they came along.
I dedicate this song
To all the jobs I’ve loathed before.
Dissatisfied with the status quo, we might reflect on where we’ve been and where we’re going. This is a brief trip down my occupational memory lane. I would advise you take a seat, fasten your seatbelt, and keep all of your limbs inside the vehicle. -gretchen.
My first job was busboy at an ice cream shop. I was particularly ill-suited for it since I wasn’t strong enough to lift anything and couldn’t have mopped a filthy industrial kitchen to save my soul. Fortunately the job lasted just long enough for me to buy the jeans I wanted for an upcoming Mixer.
Waitressing looked easier. Wrong. My one and only shift lasted four hours. At Pappy’s Pizza, waitresses received a “bank” at the beginning of the day and they made their own change, adding their check totals and tips to the bank. At the end of the day, you returned the original bank along with check totals, then kept your tips. By 3 PM my bank was $76 lower than it was before I had “sold” any food or received any tips. Bet they threw a party when I didn’t return the next day.
Perhaps Hostessing — still food service-related and, really, how hard could it be? Very hard! During the first day of training, I was overwhelmed by watching someone else answer the phones and move a penny around a map of the restaurant to show who was up next for tables. Terrified, I never attended day two of hostess training.
Anybody who’s ever worked in a mall (or seen those late ’70s/early ’80s teen movies) knows about “mall rats”, the subculture that provides the infrastructure to any mall society across the country. Rat rules determine what you wear, when you eat, where you sit, and who you date. Basically the Lord of the Flies of retail.
Next job: nanny. Four boys, cooking, cleaning, driving. ’nuff said.
My first job out of college was labeled Bookkeeper. Because the chain restaurant hired lots of ex-cons, the actual function of my job was to count how many of each dinner was ordered, and then compare the total orders to how much of each food item was missing from the freezer. So basically I counted. Given my impressive degree in Theater Arts and successful job experiences to that point, counting was clearly as much as I could have handled.
At my interview, Dragon Lady informed me that my new bookkeeping job would include balancing the checkbooks of several accounts. I had never balanced a checkbook and had no idea how to do so. The fact that 24 years later I still don’t know how to balance a checkbook may serve as an indication of my early success in real estate.
Retreating to a position more administrative and less numerical found me working for Tidy Bowl, aka Priscilla the Priestess of Sanitation. At home this fur-free fanatic vacuumed her dog to remove as much mess-in-progress as possible, but at work the scrubbing zealot forced me to scour every work surface in the entire laboratory with individually wrapped alcohol wipes on a daily basis. Can you spell OCD?
There were so many reasons to leave the dot-com: the CEO was an idiot who drove a seven year old Kia, we were frequently evicted from our shared “office” that was really just a conference room for another company, everyone got to wear scrubs but me, I’d have to take calls from elderly sick people. Really any one of those circumstances was plenty of motivation to run for the door.
Mac (short for Machiavelli) was my manager at the deeply corrupt “investments” firm. Positives: I have no hard evidence that he ever actually murdered anyone; he didn’t micro-manage the order in which I shredded the corporate files. Negatives: he was superior to using the phone or intercom so he shouted the name of the person he wanted to see over and over again until he or she appeared; he motivated his “investment team” by terminating faithful, long-term employees and hiring hot young blondes unencumbered by morality. I’d like to say that I wish Mac well.
And so here is my homage to Willie Nelson’s To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before:
To all the jobs that caused me strife
Whose blades of shame cut like a knife
I’m glad they came along.
I dedicate this song
To all the jobs I’ve loathed before.
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