ME: How are you today?
BAR PATRON: Horny.
ME: Ummmmmm
BAR PATRON: You asked how I was doing.
ME: (turn and walk away with horrified look on face)
BAR PATRON: (To Bar Patron 2, who is sits down beside him) She's kind of a "B"
BAR PATRON 2: That just means she likes you.
End Scene (I wish)
ALTERNATE TITLE CHOICES:
-A Comedy of Errors
-A Tale of Two Douchebags
-Mac Douche
-The Ew Testament
-Why No one Likes Fat White Men From the Suburbs (Except Other Fat White Men From the Suburbs)
-Jokes That Aren't Funny to Tell Anyone, Unless You're at The Strip Club With Your Other Fat Man Friends, and Probably Not Even Then
-Chicken Soup for the Misogynist's Soul
-How to Degrade Women and Blame it on Them
-Nancy Drew, and the Adventures of Bitches Who Don't Like Disgusting Men
-Anne of You're Lucky I'm Not Violent Gables
-She's Just Not That in to You Because She Hates You
-The Grapes of Shut the F*** Up!
-Moby Dick
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The worst movie ever. A review.
So, I know. I pretty much flaked out on the end my 30 days/30 dollars blog. Story of my life right? The good news? I finished it. The diet that is, not the blog. I made it all the way through. The diet, not the blog. Lost a couple pounds, learned that being poor sucks, gained the weight back, and have resumed my regular daily activities. Two days ago I even ate leftover lentils and spinach.
So I’ve been putting off writing. I’ve been talking about writing again, and its been just that: talk, talk, talk. As usual. What inspired me tonight? The worst fucking movie in the history of movies, that’s what!
I pretty much pride myself on not crying in movies. It’s not that I make an effort, or that I’m a heartless bitch (I hope), I just usually don’t attach myself to characters enough in the space of an hour and a half to shed tears for them. It’s just always been that way for me. Whatever.
But tonight, I balled my eyes out like a newborn fucking baby.
Granted, it might have been PMS. It’s that “time of the month” so I’m not going to rule that out, because that certainly could have played a big part in it. Or, I coulda just had a rough day. I WAS pretty pissed today when the guy with the peace-sign necklace declared with enthusiasm “I’m just waiting for that man to get assassinated!” He was talking about Obama, by the way. I threw up, and politely pointed out that such an event would probably be devastating for the country in general, to which he snorted, and continued being a gigantic asshole (wearing a peace-sign necklace). Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for dissent and freedom of speech, and that crap. I think I’ve made my feelings on the last administration clear, and I totally support that jack-ass’s right to act like the giant d-bag he is. I just don’t find assassination a laughing matter.
And I’d say I was pretty close to tears when “H,” an entirely different person than aforementioned peace-sign necklace wearing guy, in an entirely different conversation, declared, upon seeing a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. on the TV, “They need to just let that somofabitch stay dead!” Seriously? I’ve met carnies with better manners. If I believed in God, I’d say he’s abandoned us for bad behavior. While I am strongly opposed to the idea of reviving the actual MLK, I’m fairly (as in, EXTREMELY) opposed to letting his legacy STAY DEAD. But (breathe deeply) I do (breathe deeply) believe in everyone’s (even you, Miss California!) (breathe deeply) right to express their opinions. Along those lines, Peace-Sign Necklace Guy and “H” and Miss California, it is also my right to call you out, you Bitch Face Velociraptors! The Rock of Love Bus girls know better than to say such hateful things.
Then I got rear-ended on the way home from work, which woulda been all right, since there doesn’t appear to be any damage to the car. Were it not for two things. 1) The beeznotch was driving a BMW SUV, and 2) she wouldn’t just say she was sorry. Seriously, lady, its okay! I’m not going to sue you, a simple apology will do! I know you need your excessively-large vehicle for when you go off-roading, or to Saks, or Whole Foods, or PTA, or whatever. And I’m sure it felt like just a “tap” when you barreled into the back of me. But I’m not trying to scam you when I ask you for your insurance information, I just want to make sure my car is okay! The fact that that the roots of your obviously high-end blonde coiffure AREN’T grown out (unlike my own) indicates to me that you can afford, and most likely have, top of the line insurance (unlike my own). So, suck it up. Give me your info. I know it doesn’t look like you did any damage to my car (because my car is a fucking awesome super-hero tank) but I’d just like to have your info, in case my fucking muffler drops off tomorrow. Is that okay? Oh, you want to be nice now? What, what, you don’t want me to get the police involved? Well, actually that’s okay. I’m pretty nice, and, while you were a bitch at first, I can see your husband is probably just a dick, and you don’t want to have to explain all this to him. I forgive you. Just don’t take it out on other people in the future.
So I guess I was pretty okay by the time I got home. And then along comes Marley and Me, like a fucking punch to the gut, and I’m gushing like Niagra Freakin Falls. Thanks, Marley, Thanks. You fight like Mike Tyson, only not as sportmanship-like. Public service announcement: Never, under any conditions, ever, EVER watch this piece of filth! Owen Wilson, how dare you! Jennifer Anniston, I know you’ve been through a lot, what with that trash-bag stealing your smoking hot man-candy husband (hot damn, he used to be hot) and everything. But, come on! You stayed hot, and he didn’t age that well, and Angie isn’t looking that good either. Haven’t you had your revenge? Do the children really need to be exposed to THIS?
Dogs don’t die, Owen and Jennifer!!!! They snuggle and love, and drool and beg, and roll over, and tilt their heads in confused and endearing ways forever! They don’t die! So suck it!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Day 22, Friday: All I really need to know I learned on Facebook
As per my usual morning ritual, my breakfast time is spent cruising The Internets (facebook.) I polish off the last of the lentils and spinach, and two blackberries
Lets face it. Americans are deliberately illiterate and purposefully oblivious to pretty much everything beyond our own spheres of daily influence, and I’m no exception. Which is why we should all thank the baby jesus, our lord and savior, that Facebook (FB) finally came along and delivered us from our ignorance.
Via FB, I learned that “Obama reverses Bush abortion-funds policy.” FB teaches me that MacBook will soon be available in purple, and apparently some people are up in arms about something called Prop 8. I’m inundated with such practical knowledge as “fifteen hottest celebrity diet tricks” and that “Nastia Liukin is the best and hottest gymmnist ever!” Even though I’m pretty sure gymnnist isn’t a word, I’m intrigued. I must learn more. How did she earn that title, and could I possibly become the World’s best and hottest Atternee, or Bar Tehndar?
Since ignorance and hatred go hand and hand, we might even say FB is well on the way to eliminating war and animosity. I mean really, how many friends have you made since you joined Facebook? That guy that works at the coffee shop you sometimes go to when you're hung over? Not just a barrista/cashier anymore! A new friend! That one girl who sat three rows back from you in remedial geometry fourteen years ago? The one that calls herself “Isis” now? Yet another friend! Even those people you’ve tried for years to avoid, like your drug-dealer ex who used to cry all the time – he’s your friend! FB goes beyond networking. It doesn’t just bring us together with casual and lost acquaintances. It is truly the Great Unifier! And not just because it brings you pictures like this:
Now, I’m not saying FB is like an e-Mr. Rogers, because that’s impossible, obviously. I’m just saying it’s more than just a good place to meet “hot Atlanta singles.” Like a warm, fuzzy zip-front cardigan, FB prepares you to go out into the world with a positive outlook, and a skip in your step. It’s a virtual place where love and learning meet. And I think Mr. Rogers would approve.
I snack the rest of the day, downing a falafel taco, and three plain falafel patties.
And I’ll tell you this, Falafel. It is truly a beautiful day in our neighborhood! If you had fingers, and an email address, and could set up your own FB account, I wouldn’t just be a neighbor you nodded politely at when we passed eachother on the street, and debated whether or not to say "hi" to when you're pretty sure you see me at the craft fair in Villa Rica.
Falafel, if you had a FB, and I saw you at the craft fair, I'd walk right up and give you a big hug and kiss on the lips, and show you the new yarn I just bought. I’d let you be my 112th friend! I wouldn’t delete your lame comments, or explain to Pizza that I just accepted your friend request because I felt bad. Because we’re all friends on FB! And when you sent a “Best Friend” application request, I’d politely ignore it. I wouldn’t even consider deleting you as a friend.
Lets face it. Americans are deliberately illiterate and purposefully oblivious to pretty much everything beyond our own spheres of daily influence, and I’m no exception. Which is why we should all thank the baby jesus, our lord and savior, that Facebook (FB) finally came along and delivered us from our ignorance.
Via FB, I learned that “Obama reverses Bush abortion-funds policy.” FB teaches me that MacBook will soon be available in purple, and apparently some people are up in arms about something called Prop 8. I’m inundated with such practical knowledge as “fifteen hottest celebrity diet tricks” and that “Nastia Liukin is the best and hottest gymmnist ever!” Even though I’m pretty sure gymnnist isn’t a word, I’m intrigued. I must learn more. How did she earn that title, and could I possibly become the World’s best and hottest Atternee, or Bar Tehndar?
Since ignorance and hatred go hand and hand, we might even say FB is well on the way to eliminating war and animosity. I mean really, how many friends have you made since you joined Facebook? That guy that works at the coffee shop you sometimes go to when you're hung over? Not just a barrista/cashier anymore! A new friend! That one girl who sat three rows back from you in remedial geometry fourteen years ago? The one that calls herself “Isis” now? Yet another friend! Even those people you’ve tried for years to avoid, like your drug-dealer ex who used to cry all the time – he’s your friend! FB goes beyond networking. It doesn’t just bring us together with casual and lost acquaintances. It is truly the Great Unifier! And not just because it brings you pictures like this:
Now, I’m not saying FB is like an e-Mr. Rogers, because that’s impossible, obviously. I’m just saying it’s more than just a good place to meet “hot Atlanta singles.” Like a warm, fuzzy zip-front cardigan, FB prepares you to go out into the world with a positive outlook, and a skip in your step. It’s a virtual place where love and learning meet. And I think Mr. Rogers would approve.I snack the rest of the day, downing a falafel taco, and three plain falafel patties.
And I’ll tell you this, Falafel. It is truly a beautiful day in our neighborhood! If you had fingers, and an email address, and could set up your own FB account, I wouldn’t just be a neighbor you nodded politely at when we passed eachother on the street, and debated whether or not to say "hi" to when you're pretty sure you see me at the craft fair in Villa Rica.
Falafel, if you had a FB, and I saw you at the craft fair, I'd walk right up and give you a big hug and kiss on the lips, and show you the new yarn I just bought. I’d let you be my 112th friend! I wouldn’t delete your lame comments, or explain to Pizza that I just accepted your friend request because I felt bad. Because we’re all friends on FB! And when you sent a “Best Friend” application request, I’d politely ignore it. I wouldn’t even consider deleting you as a friend.
Day 21, Thursday: It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood!
Usually, I hop on The Internets first thing in the morning, cruising the e-highway of information for the latest news (facebook) and whatnot (facebook). Today, as I mow down the last of the red beans and rice for brunch (since I slept until 10:30,) I stumble across the single greatest article ever written. So today’s will be a guest blog. Enjoy!
15 Reasons Mr. Rogers was the Best Neighbor Ever:
Here are 15 things everyone should know about Fred Rogers:
1. Even Koko the Gorilla loved him. Most people have heard of Koko, the Stanford-educated gorilla who could speak about 1000 words in American Sign Language, and understand about 2000 in English. What most people don't know, however, is that Koko was an avid Mister Rogers' Neighborhood fan. As Esquire reported, when Fred Rogers took a trip out to meet Koko for his show, not only did she immediately wrap her arms around him and embrace him, she did what she'd always seen him do onscreen: she proceeded to take his shoes off!
2. He made thieves think twice. According to a TV Guide piece on him, Fred Rogers drove a plain old Impala for years. One day, however, the car was stolen from the street near the TV station. When Rogers filed a police report, the story was picked up by every newspaper, radio and media outlet around town. Amazingly, within 48 hours the car was left in the exact spot where it was taken from, with an apology on the dashboard. It read, "If we'd known it was yours, we never would have taken it."
3. He watched his figure to the pound. In covering Rogers' daily routine (waking up at 5 a.m.; praying for a few hours for all of his friends and family; studying; writing, making calls and reaching out to every fan who took the time to write him; going for a morning swim; getting on a scale; then really starting his day), writer Tom Junod explained that Mr. Rogers weighed in at exactly 143 pounds every day for the last 30 years of his life.
He didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't eat the flesh of any animals, and was extremely disciplined in his daily routine. And while I'm not sure if any of that was because he'd mostly grown up a chubby, single child, Junod points out that Rogers found beauty in the number 143. According to the piece, Rogers came "to see that number as a gift... because, as he says, "the number 143 means 'I love you.' It takes one letter to say 'I' and four letters to say 'love' and three letters to say 'you.' One hundred and forty-three."
4. He saved both public television and the VCR. Strange but true. When the government wanted to cut public television funds in 1969, the relatively unknown Mister Rogers went to Washington. Almost straight out of a Frank Capra film, his 5-6 minute testimony on how TV had the potential to give kids hope and create more productive citizens was so simple but passionate that even the most gruff politicians were charmed. While the budget should have been cut, the funding instead jumped from $9 to $22 million.
Rogers also spoke to Congress, and swayed senators into voting to allow VCR's to record television shows from the home. It was a cantankerous debate at the time, but his argument was that recording a program like his allowed working parents to sit down with their children and watch shows as a family.
5. He might have been the most tolerant American ever. Mister Rogers seems to have been almost exactly the same off-screen as he was onscreen. As an ordained Presbyterian minister, and a man of tremendous faith, Mister Rogers preached tolerance first. Whenever he was asked to castigate non-Christians or gays for their differing beliefs, he would instead face them and say, with sincerity, "God loves you just the way you are." Often this provoked ire from fundamentalists.
6. He was genuinely curious about others. Mister Rogers was known as one of the toughest interviews because he'd often befriend reporters, asking them tons of questions, taking pictures of them, compiling an album for them at the end of their time together, and calling them after to check in on them and hear about their families. He wasn't concerned with himself, and genuinely loved hearing the life stories of others.
And it wasn't just with reporters. Once, on a fancy trip up to a PBS exec's house, he heard the limo driver was going to wait outside for 2 hours, so he insisted the driver come in and join them (which flustered the host). On the way back, Rogers sat up front, and when he learned that they were passing the driver's home on the way, he asked if they could stop in to meet his family. According to the driver, it was one of the best nights of his life. The house supposedly lit up when Rogers arrived, and he played jazz piano and bantered with them late into the night. Further, like with the reporters, Rogers sent him notes and kept in touch with the driver for the rest of his life.
7. He was color-blind. Literally. He couldn't see the color blue. Of course, he was also figuratively color-blind, as you probably guessed. As were his parents, who took in a black foster child when Rogers was growing up.
8. He could make a subway car full of strangers sing. Once while rushing to a New York meeting, there were no cabs available, so Rogers and one of his colleagues hopped on the subway. Esquire reported that the car was filled with people, and they assumed they wouldn't be noticed. But when the crowd spotted Rogers, they all simultaneously burst into song, chanting "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood." The result made Rogers smile wide.
9. He got into TV because he hated TV. The first time he turned one on, he saw people angrily throwing pies in each other's faces. He immediately vowed to use the medium for better than that. Over the years he covered topics as varied as why kids shouldn't be scared of a haircut, or the bathroom drain (because you won't fit!), to divorce and war.
10. He was an Ivy League dropout. Rogers moved from Dartmouth to Rollins College to pursue his studies in music.
11. He composed all the songs on the show, and over 200 tunes.
12. He was a perfectionist, and disliked ad libbing. He felt he owed it to children to make sure every word on his show was thought out.
13. Michael Keaton got his start on the show as an assistant. He helped puppeteer and operate the trolley.
14. Several characters on the show are named for his family. Queen Sara is named after Rogers' wife, and the postman Mr. McFeely is named for his maternal grandfather who always talked to him like an adult, and reminded young Fred that he made every day special just by being himself. Sound familiar? It was the same way Mister Rogers closed every show.
15. The sweaters. Every one of the cardigans he wore on the show had been hand-knit by his mother.
Available at: http://blogs.static.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/20005.html
I enjoy my lentils and spinach for early dinner, because every food deserves to be loved.
15 Reasons Mr. Rogers was the Best Neighbor Ever:
Here are 15 things everyone should know about Fred Rogers:
1. Even Koko the Gorilla loved him. Most people have heard of Koko, the Stanford-educated gorilla who could speak about 1000 words in American Sign Language, and understand about 2000 in English. What most people don't know, however, is that Koko was an avid Mister Rogers' Neighborhood fan. As Esquire reported, when Fred Rogers took a trip out to meet Koko for his show, not only did she immediately wrap her arms around him and embrace him, she did what she'd always seen him do onscreen: she proceeded to take his shoes off!
2. He made thieves think twice. According to a TV Guide piece on him, Fred Rogers drove a plain old Impala for years. One day, however, the car was stolen from the street near the TV station. When Rogers filed a police report, the story was picked up by every newspaper, radio and media outlet around town. Amazingly, within 48 hours the car was left in the exact spot where it was taken from, with an apology on the dashboard. It read, "If we'd known it was yours, we never would have taken it."3. He watched his figure to the pound. In covering Rogers' daily routine (waking up at 5 a.m.; praying for a few hours for all of his friends and family; studying; writing, making calls and reaching out to every fan who took the time to write him; going for a morning swim; getting on a scale; then really starting his day), writer Tom Junod explained that Mr. Rogers weighed in at exactly 143 pounds every day for the last 30 years of his life.
He didn't smoke, didn't drink, didn't eat the flesh of any animals, and was extremely disciplined in his daily routine. And while I'm not sure if any of that was because he'd mostly grown up a chubby, single child, Junod points out that Rogers found beauty in the number 143. According to the piece, Rogers came "to see that number as a gift... because, as he says, "the number 143 means 'I love you.' It takes one letter to say 'I' and four letters to say 'love' and three letters to say 'you.' One hundred and forty-three."
4. He saved both public television and the VCR. Strange but true. When the government wanted to cut public television funds in 1969, the relatively unknown Mister Rogers went to Washington. Almost straight out of a Frank Capra film, his 5-6 minute testimony on how TV had the potential to give kids hope and create more productive citizens was so simple but passionate that even the most gruff politicians were charmed. While the budget should have been cut, the funding instead jumped from $9 to $22 million.
Rogers also spoke to Congress, and swayed senators into voting to allow VCR's to record television shows from the home. It was a cantankerous debate at the time, but his argument was that recording a program like his allowed working parents to sit down with their children and watch shows as a family.
5. He might have been the most tolerant American ever. Mister Rogers seems to have been almost exactly the same off-screen as he was onscreen. As an ordained Presbyterian minister, and a man of tremendous faith, Mister Rogers preached tolerance first. Whenever he was asked to castigate non-Christians or gays for their differing beliefs, he would instead face them and say, with sincerity, "God loves you just the way you are." Often this provoked ire from fundamentalists.
6. He was genuinely curious about others. Mister Rogers was known as one of the toughest interviews because he'd often befriend reporters, asking them tons of questions, taking pictures of them, compiling an album for them at the end of their time together, and calling them after to check in on them and hear about their families. He wasn't concerned with himself, and genuinely loved hearing the life stories of others.
And it wasn't just with reporters. Once, on a fancy trip up to a PBS exec's house, he heard the limo driver was going to wait outside for 2 hours, so he insisted the driver come in and join them (which flustered the host). On the way back, Rogers sat up front, and when he learned that they were passing the driver's home on the way, he asked if they could stop in to meet his family. According to the driver, it was one of the best nights of his life. The house supposedly lit up when Rogers arrived, and he played jazz piano and bantered with them late into the night. Further, like with the reporters, Rogers sent him notes and kept in touch with the driver for the rest of his life.
7. He was color-blind. Literally. He couldn't see the color blue. Of course, he was also figuratively color-blind, as you probably guessed. As were his parents, who took in a black foster child when Rogers was growing up.
8. He could make a subway car full of strangers sing. Once while rushing to a New York meeting, there were no cabs available, so Rogers and one of his colleagues hopped on the subway. Esquire reported that the car was filled with people, and they assumed they wouldn't be noticed. But when the crowd spotted Rogers, they all simultaneously burst into song, chanting "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood." The result made Rogers smile wide.
9. He got into TV because he hated TV. The first time he turned one on, he saw people angrily throwing pies in each other's faces. He immediately vowed to use the medium for better than that. Over the years he covered topics as varied as why kids shouldn't be scared of a haircut, or the bathroom drain (because you won't fit!), to divorce and war.
10. He was an Ivy League dropout. Rogers moved from Dartmouth to Rollins College to pursue his studies in music.
11. He composed all the songs on the show, and over 200 tunes.
12. He was a perfectionist, and disliked ad libbing. He felt he owed it to children to make sure every word on his show was thought out.
13. Michael Keaton got his start on the show as an assistant. He helped puppeteer and operate the trolley.
14. Several characters on the show are named for his family. Queen Sara is named after Rogers' wife, and the postman Mr. McFeely is named for his maternal grandfather who always talked to him like an adult, and reminded young Fred that he made every day special just by being himself. Sound familiar? It was the same way Mister Rogers closed every show.
15. The sweaters. Every one of the cardigans he wore on the show had been hand-knit by his mother.
Available at: http://blogs.static.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/20005.html
Thank you, Mr. Rogers, for making me happy (for at least a half hour a day) for the first eight years of my life, and for being genuinely nice to me that time I met you. I’m sorry I was too old to think meeting you was cool, but too young to appreciate what a momentous occasion it was. If I could meet you now, I would tell you that I love you and that I will strive (when I remember) to be true to the values you tried to instill in me.
And thank you, Mangesh Hattikudor, for sharing this information with me, reminding me to be more like Mr. Rogers, and putting a little sunshine in my day. I vow that I will continue to read what you write, and sharing it with others, if you continue to write about such important topics.
I enjoy my lentils and spinach for early dinner, because every food deserves to be loved.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Day 20, Wednesday: You don’t gnome me
A year or so back, my mom (I love you) gave me this baking pan.
After seriously considering several candidates of woodland creatures, toy-making little people, and magical beings, I've concluded that they're supposed to be gnomes. Either way, it hasn't much mattered, since I’m not exactly a prolific (or good) baker, and I’ve only used the pans once. Today I am inspired by my newly acquired sugar, and I decide to make rice “cakes.” Note- my quotation marks are appropriate (but exceedingly less funny than here:)
Or here:
Whereas most of my prior endeavors have resulted in a sticky and fairly disgusting rice paste, today proves to be the inopportune time that I finally perfect the art of cooking rice. This would be splendid if I were making a nice stir fry, but demonstrably bad for making rice cakes. I melt the sugar and mix it into the rice, hoping to create a rice mush, but to no avail. Butter would be nice here. Egg would help. But I have neither, of course. Undeterred, I jam the mixture into my gnome forms.
Fifteen minutes later, I pop the rice gnomes out of the oven, flip ‘em over, and I’ve got two non-descript slightly sweetened piles of rice. I eat them both. Unlike the Travelocity Gnome, or the Roaming Gnome (from that prank where you steal your neighbor's garden gnome and mail them pictures of it in front of various world landmarks) I am transported nowhere, physically or transcendentally. They’re about a five on the delicious scale, but still fun, since I got to use the gnome pan.
Incidentally, I took this picture last fall at a friend’s (you Gnow who you are) house, which further exhibits fun-with-gnomes:
Early dinner of red beans & rice
After seriously considering several candidates of woodland creatures, toy-making little people, and magical beings, I've concluded that they're supposed to be gnomes. Either way, it hasn't much mattered, since I’m not exactly a prolific (or good) baker, and I’ve only used the pans once. Today I am inspired by my newly acquired sugar, and I decide to make rice “cakes.” Note- my quotation marks are appropriate (but exceedingly less funny than here:)
Or here:
Whereas most of my prior endeavors have resulted in a sticky and fairly disgusting rice paste, today proves to be the inopportune time that I finally perfect the art of cooking rice. This would be splendid if I were making a nice stir fry, but demonstrably bad for making rice cakes. I melt the sugar and mix it into the rice, hoping to create a rice mush, but to no avail. Butter would be nice here. Egg would help. But I have neither, of course. Undeterred, I jam the mixture into my gnome forms.Fifteen minutes later, I pop the rice gnomes out of the oven, flip ‘em over, and I’ve got two non-descript slightly sweetened piles of rice. I eat them both. Unlike the Travelocity Gnome, or the Roaming Gnome (from that prank where you steal your neighbor's garden gnome and mail them pictures of it in front of various world landmarks) I am transported nowhere, physically or transcendentally. They’re about a five on the delicious scale, but still fun, since I got to use the gnome pan.
Incidentally, I took this picture last fall at a friend’s (you Gnow who you are) house, which further exhibits fun-with-gnomes:
Yay!
Lentils & Spinach for lunch, couple blackberries for dessert
Early dinner of red beans & rice
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Day 19, Tuesday: Happy Inauguration Day!
As we all know, high-end cosmetics are a right in this country, not a privilege. Today I do my patriotic duty, entering the hallowed halls of Neiman Marcus to collect my hard-earned share of the spoils from a class action suit brought by some fancy house-wives with far too much spare time and resources (http://www.cosmeticssettlement.com/) Apparently, they (house-wives and attorneys) got some fool judge to agree that the horribly overpriced crap they buy was horribly overpriced, and now we’re all getting free makeup because of it. Today, those of us who like to own horribly overpriced cosmetics, but have the common sense to avoid horribly overpriced cosmetics, can be owners of horribly overpriced cosmetics without hiding the receipt from our husbands. To be admitted to the class, one need only admit (or pretend) that she, too, forked over an exorbitant amount of (pretend) money for a miniscule amount of eye cream in a (pretend) moment of weakness.
Which is why, I’m sure he, personally, made sure less fortunate Americans like myself could have access to Lancome Primordial Cell Defense (which would normally put you back$64.)
My advanced money-saving skillz make a lunch of red beans & rice all that much sweeter.
I eat lentils and spinach for dinner before we go to Manuel’s Tavern to celebrate the end of the Bush era, and Jessica’s actual birthday. I must admit, (kinda) guiltily, that the joint celebration makes me extra happy, since Jessica is a Republican. I don’t drink anything, but I pocket like ten sugar packets. They don’t have a purpose yet, but they will.
Indisputably, it would be cooler to smoke a J with JFK or Clinton, than it would be to burn one with Obama (who always smokes your weed while he talks about the kine bud he used to get back in Hawaii, and then ruins your high by guilt tripping you into giving some bum your pizza, and lecturing you about “how we should really get out there and help people.”) While this is, without a doubt, indicative of one’s ability to lead the free world, it is not considered a factor in the time-tested, world-wide standardized hotness algorithm.
Both presidents, as sixes, fall a full two points short of attaining hotness status. JFK had a hot wife, but his eyes were far too close together. Clinton, who does not have a hot wife, is cursed with a potato shaped nose. Unlike Obama, who glows beneath that baby-smooth skin, both presidents, could have seriously benefitted from a little Botox. Finally, both lose a point for being far too accessible (in females, we refer to this same trait as whore-bagishness.)
All three presidents share a lady-killer smile, but Obama, with that toned (but not in an ostentatious look-at-my-washboard-abs sort of way) body,
and those empathetic and expressive (but not wrinkly) eyes, framed in delicate long black lashes, is an eight, losing a points only for (1) having giant ears, and for (2) not coming out in favor of gay marriage (clearly not comfortable with his own sexuality, which is SO not hot.)
After zero minutes of research, I have been unable to confirm or deny whether Mr. Obama had his hand in today’s nationwide free cosmetics give away, but I am almost certain that it is no mere coincidence this momentous event takes place in the first week – nay, the first day, of our first hot president’s* inauguration. Mr Obama is undoubtedly aware of the fact that the rising cost of department store cosmetics in America is one of the main factors in our declining economy.
Which is why, I’m sure he, personally, made sure less fortunate Americans like myself could have access to Lancome Primordial Cell Defense (which would normally put you back$64.)
My advanced money-saving skillz make a lunch of red beans & rice all that much sweeter.
I eat lentils and spinach for dinner before we go to Manuel’s Tavern to celebrate the end of the Bush era, and Jessica’s actual birthday. I must admit, (kinda) guiltily, that the joint celebration makes me extra happy, since Jessica is a Republican. I don’t drink anything, but I pocket like ten sugar packets. They don’t have a purpose yet, but they will.
___________________________________________________________
* It is true that this claim is contested by many sadly misguided presidential enthusiasts. These people can be lumped into two camps: (1) those who are under the erroneous belief that the first hot president was JFK, and (2) those who are under the erroneous belief that the first hot president was Bill Clinton. Like a Southern Baptists who refuses to accept evolution despite the glaring evidence, these people will not be swayed no matter the mountains of evidence to the contrary.
* It is true that this claim is contested by many sadly misguided presidential enthusiasts. These people can be lumped into two camps: (1) those who are under the erroneous belief that the first hot president was JFK, and (2) those who are under the erroneous belief that the first hot president was Bill Clinton. Like a Southern Baptists who refuses to accept evolution despite the glaring evidence, these people will not be swayed no matter the mountains of evidence to the contrary.
Indisputably, it would be cooler to smoke a J with JFK or Clinton, than it would be to burn one with Obama (who always smokes your weed while he talks about the kine bud he used to get back in Hawaii, and then ruins your high by guilt tripping you into giving some bum your pizza, and lecturing you about “how we should really get out there and help people.”) While this is, without a doubt, indicative of one’s ability to lead the free world, it is not considered a factor in the time-tested, world-wide standardized hotness algorithm.
Both presidents, as sixes, fall a full two points short of attaining hotness status. JFK had a hot wife, but his eyes were far too close together. Clinton, who does not have a hot wife, is cursed with a potato shaped nose. Unlike Obama, who glows beneath that baby-smooth skin, both presidents, could have seriously benefitted from a little Botox. Finally, both lose a point for being far too accessible (in females, we refer to this same trait as whore-bagishness.)
All three presidents share a lady-killer smile, but Obama, with that toned (but not in an ostentatious look-at-my-washboard-abs sort of way) body,
and those empathetic and expressive (but not wrinkly) eyes, framed in delicate long black lashes, is an eight, losing a points only for (1) having giant ears, and for (2) not coming out in favor of gay marriage (clearly not comfortable with his own sexuality, which is SO not hot.)
Day 18, Monday: Stuck
Some people learn from their mistakes. Typically, I repeat mine until the external world adapts to me. So, like every single Monday prior, I press the snooze button exactly eleven times, leaving me just enough time to shower, put on the pretty, and zip off to work, getting me in the door and ready to work four minutes late (which is on time for me. One hates to appear too eager.) As usual, I’ve begun my week without the most important meal of the day. I’ve brought my lunch, though, so the day isn’t all bad. Red beans and rice hold me over until I get home.
Today, my mind is not on food, but on a far more important topic, stickers. I love stickers. I always have. My parents, having themselves forgotten the joys of adhesive images, believed stickers to be a waste of money and rarely, if ever, bought them for us children. This inflated the value of stickers in my young mind, and caused me much emotional turmoil. The free-spirited child wanted to beautify my surroundings, adorning the world with pasted puppies and scratch-and-sniff flowers. The practical child knew that as soon as I stuck them to something, they would be gone, so I would keep them on the sheet, adhesive intact for as long as possible.
Alphabet stickers created a unique predicament. You’ve decked out your Trapper Keeper, Caboodle, and boom-box with your name, but now you’re out of “e” or “a” or “s,” or whatever letter your name’s got too many of. Shit. You had to promise to get all A’s in Social Studies to get these, and Mom and Dad sure as hell aren’t going to run out to Michael’s and buy you another sheet, since you haven’t done your homework for three weeks. So you get creative, and start spelling things differently. "Andrew" becomes "andRu" and "Jennifer" is now spelling her name "Jemifer."
I’m hoping this is what happened to some stores around town. Krispy Kreme was supposed to be Crispy Cream, but they ran out of “C’s.” And I guess that’s okay, since, from what I remember, it hasn’t affected the taste. But I’m sure as heeeeel not getting my hair done at Klassi Klips. If you can’t afford to more stickers, there’s probably a reason, and I’m assuming it’s the lack of repeat customers. Oh, and by the way, replacing the “Y” with an “I,” NOT CUTE! I hope they ran out of stickers at the sign store, Klassi Klips. I hope it didn’t go down with you squealing “Klassi Klips is the Cuuuuuuutttest salon name!” in a high pitched voice (not unlike my own), quite literally enchanted by how much Cuter your sign would be than that of your neighbor’s hideously misnamed shop, Classy Clips. I'll go ahead and assume it was a sticker problem, because you can't seriously think thats a good name.
So, anyways, I got some Miley Cyrus stickers, and I can’t figure out where to put them.
Red Beans and rice at dinner, with second helpings. Two blackberries for dessert. I realize I should have physically gone into Burger King to get Adam’s food yesterday. Not only is the drive through bad for the environment, I could have jacked some condiments.
Today, my mind is not on food, but on a far more important topic, stickers. I love stickers. I always have. My parents, having themselves forgotten the joys of adhesive images, believed stickers to be a waste of money and rarely, if ever, bought them for us children. This inflated the value of stickers in my young mind, and caused me much emotional turmoil. The free-spirited child wanted to beautify my surroundings, adorning the world with pasted puppies and scratch-and-sniff flowers. The practical child knew that as soon as I stuck them to something, they would be gone, so I would keep them on the sheet, adhesive intact for as long as possible.
Alphabet stickers created a unique predicament. You’ve decked out your Trapper Keeper, Caboodle, and boom-box with your name, but now you’re out of “e” or “a” or “s,” or whatever letter your name’s got too many of. Shit. You had to promise to get all A’s in Social Studies to get these, and Mom and Dad sure as hell aren’t going to run out to Michael’s and buy you another sheet, since you haven’t done your homework for three weeks. So you get creative, and start spelling things differently. "Andrew" becomes "andRu" and "Jennifer" is now spelling her name "Jemifer."
I’m hoping this is what happened to some stores around town. Krispy Kreme was supposed to be Crispy Cream, but they ran out of “C’s.” And I guess that’s okay, since, from what I remember, it hasn’t affected the taste. But I’m sure as heeeeel not getting my hair done at Klassi Klips. If you can’t afford to more stickers, there’s probably a reason, and I’m assuming it’s the lack of repeat customers. Oh, and by the way, replacing the “Y” with an “I,” NOT CUTE! I hope they ran out of stickers at the sign store, Klassi Klips. I hope it didn’t go down with you squealing “Klassi Klips is the Cuuuuuuutttest salon name!” in a high pitched voice (not unlike my own), quite literally enchanted by how much Cuter your sign would be than that of your neighbor’s hideously misnamed shop, Classy Clips. I'll go ahead and assume it was a sticker problem, because you can't seriously think thats a good name.
So, anyways, I got some Miley Cyrus stickers, and I can’t figure out where to put them.
Red Beans and rice at dinner, with second helpings. Two blackberries for dessert. I realize I should have physically gone into Burger King to get Adam’s food yesterday. Not only is the drive through bad for the environment, I could have jacked some condiments.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Day 17, Sunday: Excerpts from the diary of a sample-phile
Ron and Jen crashed at our house last night. This is good, since letting either one of them behind the wheel would have been about as safe as taking a preschool class on a field trip to Jurassic Park, after all the dinosaurs got loose.
Noontime, Adam and I drop them off at Jessica’s, where they’ve left their ridiculous behemoth of a vehicle.
Well, I’m already out, and I haven’t yet eaten. And since Jeannie has previously suggested to me that Sunday, right after the Methodists get out of church, is primo sample time, I’m totally “why not stop at Whole foods?” Adam, not hung-over enough to be granted a sympathy pass, but too ill to protest, agrees to accompany me.
This week’s cornucopia of swank snack swag is distinctly less cornucopious than last week, but I am definitely not disappointed. Whole Foods does me right with orange slices, four cherries, double helpings of tuna salad, and triple on the salmon salad, possibly the worst cheddar cheese I’ve ever had (which is still pretty good since I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like), chicken salad, curried chicken salad, and some sort of sandwich wrap.
Despite the fact that I found this picture of a pimp-hat adorned Andre 3000 (who I’m pretty sure only goes to Whole Foods for sans purchase sampling, and looks super-cool while doing it) in a Whole Foods ad,
uppity Adam abstains from sampling, because I guess he feels guilty or something.
My ever-observant husband asserts that he can tell which people are really here to purchase food, and which are my sample stealing comrades. I contend that he can only spot some of us, those with a no-nonsense, honest approach to gratis grazing. I prefer the stealth-ier method, which basically entails stopping between servings to look at and compare nutrition labels. Those of us in the know would never, ever pretend to compare prices, however. Doing so is like broadcasting your fake-shopper status, since no one who actually shops there has even once, in the entire history of Whole Foods, ever looked what the stuff costs, because if they did, the part of their brain that does math would explode, thereby completely negating the positive benefits of buying organic. So I’m pretty sure I’m snacking under the radar. I could be wrong, and everyone knows I’m on a sample safari, but I don’t really give a crap. It might even be fun to get caught. I would never go down without a fight. Mmmmmm. Thanks Whole Foods.
Later in the afternoon I am overcome with the immediate need to rent a movie, a desire which is, more likely than not, influenced by Blockbuster’s close proximity to Publix. Searching for an actual reason to enter Publix (the lack of which would certainly not have prevented my visit,) I decide I desperately require tampons, of which you can never have too many.
As expected, Publix’s fare pales in comparison to Whole Foods’ smorgusboard o’ free stuff, but the fresh(ish) baked wheat bread, chicken with vegetables, and garlic bread is not unappreciated.
After leaving Blockbuster with the second Narnia movie (which was just all right for me,) I have one final stop to make. Adam has requested that I get him an Angry Whopper (which was way better than all right for him.) These next ten minutes prove to be a critical test for me. I pass, proving I am a indomitable machine, unmoved even by the monarch of flame-broiled beef patties. I am god-like. I accomplish what was formerly believed impossible. In the two miles between Burger King and home, I manage to refrain from eating a single fry or taking even the teeniest, most dainty sip of Diet Coke. I am an awe-inspiring icon, to be emulated by food addicts worldwide.
I make a giant pot of red beans and rice, and eat some for dinner. They’re good, but I sure would like a snarfle of that Angry Whopper.
Noontime, Adam and I drop them off at Jessica’s, where they’ve left their ridiculous behemoth of a vehicle.
Well, I’m already out, and I haven’t yet eaten. And since Jeannie has previously suggested to me that Sunday, right after the Methodists get out of church, is primo sample time, I’m totally “why not stop at Whole foods?” Adam, not hung-over enough to be granted a sympathy pass, but too ill to protest, agrees to accompany me.
This week’s cornucopia of swank snack swag is distinctly less cornucopious than last week, but I am definitely not disappointed. Whole Foods does me right with orange slices, four cherries, double helpings of tuna salad, and triple on the salmon salad, possibly the worst cheddar cheese I’ve ever had (which is still pretty good since I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like), chicken salad, curried chicken salad, and some sort of sandwich wrap.
Despite the fact that I found this picture of a pimp-hat adorned Andre 3000 (who I’m pretty sure only goes to Whole Foods for sans purchase sampling, and looks super-cool while doing it) in a Whole Foods ad,
uppity Adam abstains from sampling, because I guess he feels guilty or something. My ever-observant husband asserts that he can tell which people are really here to purchase food, and which are my sample stealing comrades. I contend that he can only spot some of us, those with a no-nonsense, honest approach to gratis grazing. I prefer the stealth-ier method, which basically entails stopping between servings to look at and compare nutrition labels. Those of us in the know would never, ever pretend to compare prices, however. Doing so is like broadcasting your fake-shopper status, since no one who actually shops there has even once, in the entire history of Whole Foods, ever looked what the stuff costs, because if they did, the part of their brain that does math would explode, thereby completely negating the positive benefits of buying organic. So I’m pretty sure I’m snacking under the radar. I could be wrong, and everyone knows I’m on a sample safari, but I don’t really give a crap. It might even be fun to get caught. I would never go down without a fight. Mmmmmm. Thanks Whole Foods.
Later in the afternoon I am overcome with the immediate need to rent a movie, a desire which is, more likely than not, influenced by Blockbuster’s close proximity to Publix. Searching for an actual reason to enter Publix (the lack of which would certainly not have prevented my visit,) I decide I desperately require tampons, of which you can never have too many.
As expected, Publix’s fare pales in comparison to Whole Foods’ smorgusboard o’ free stuff, but the fresh(ish) baked wheat bread, chicken with vegetables, and garlic bread is not unappreciated.
After leaving Blockbuster with the second Narnia movie (which was just all right for me,) I have one final stop to make. Adam has requested that I get him an Angry Whopper (which was way better than all right for him.) These next ten minutes prove to be a critical test for me. I pass, proving I am a indomitable machine, unmoved even by the monarch of flame-broiled beef patties. I am god-like. I accomplish what was formerly believed impossible. In the two miles between Burger King and home, I manage to refrain from eating a single fry or taking even the teeniest, most dainty sip of Diet Coke. I am an awe-inspiring icon, to be emulated by food addicts worldwide.
I make a giant pot of red beans and rice, and eat some for dinner. They’re good, but I sure would like a snarfle of that Angry Whopper.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Day 16, Saturday: Let’s get Coco-Nutty
For breakfast I eat a falafel patty, and at lunch I finish off the rest of yesterday’s lentils and spinach.
Tonight is Jessica and Ron’s birthday. The plan is predrinks at Jessica’s apartment, then to our house, and off to the bars on Crescent. Early on, I realize my newfound purpose for the evening. Answering a higher calling I’ve rarely felt, I assume the roll usually reserved for those less fond of the drank then myself. Tonight I’ll be the Designated Driver.
Adam, in his wisdom, suggests that I might feel more involved in the party if I get a fun cup (i.e. a light-up pink martini glass, or plastic sequined beer mug.) I am painfully aware that a fun cup filled with water is a poor substitute for any cup filled with alcohol, but immediately agree to his suggestion, because (1) the need for a fun cup creates the perfect excuse to shop Richard’s Variety Mart (RVM), and (2) RVM is right next door to Trader Joe’s, which has never failed me in the free sample department.
RVM, although lacking in the free sample arena, makes up for this fact in every other way. If you are ever in need of a birthday gift for anyone, no matter what their interests, head straight for RVM. You will undoubtedly find what you had no idea you were looking for, and the happy recipient of the glow-in-the-dark Fidel Castro Magnets, Weiner Dog cigarette holder, or Grow-Your-Own-Dominatrix is bound to thank you. She probably doesn’t own one already, and you’ll look awesome next to the unimaginative fools who bought her Chicken Soup for the Gardeners Soul, a scented candle, or a picture frame.
Of course, RVM fails me not, and I leave the store with a plastic cup molded to exactly replicate a real coconut. Only this cup is better than a real coconut, not just because it is dishwasher safe, but because, printed in playfully rustic dandilion gold lettering, as if in after-thought, it mischievously calls upon, not just the lucky owner (me, thank god!), but all those fortunate enough to come in contact with coconut-shaped-cup, to cut loose and forget about our financial troubles, if only for the night. The cup’s mantra “Let’s Get Coco-Nutty,” is one we might all benefit from listening to and living by.
Coconut-shaped-cup and I step into Trader Joe’s, where I am treated to chocolate covered gingersnaps. They are crazy good, if you like ginger. They might be good even if you don’t like ginger, but I’d be a bad judge of that. Score and score!
Seven-ish we arrive at Jessica’s apartment. Jessica, who is clearly out to get me, keeps her thermostat at, from what my inner thermometer reading tells me, about 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The cold alone, I can handle, but when paired with the miniature crock-pot of cheese dip Jessica has “graciously” laid out, an almost devastating combination threatens to ruin my 30/30. Unable to maintain my core temperature, I am forced to warm my hands by the heat of the crock pot, enduring the alluring aroma of wonderfully, deliciously, creamy, melty cheese dip and the contented sighs of others enjoying aforementioned dairy delights. As more guests arrive it becomes apparent that the plot to bring me down extends beyond just Jessica, as each new arrival declares that the “temperature is just fine.” Taking a cruel joke and running with it, Jessica’s brother Robbie reaches over my shoulder, scooping an excessive amount of dip onto his chip, dripping the creamy white substance down my leg.
Despite the Cold Apartment/Hot Cheese conspiracy, and with the help of coconut-shaped-cup's continuous reminder to "Get Coco-nutty," I manage to have an okay, if sober time.
Overcome with remorse for his part in the plot, "a friend" extends the olive branch, offering to smoke with me before we go to the bar. I normally don’t smoke the reefer, but I normally don’t stay sober around wasted people either. Sobriety among the extremely inebriated can be an agonizing experience. After very briefly considering the question of whether weed was food, which it is clearly not, I take him up on the offer.
I drive the group to our house, which is conveniently located within walking distance of the best midtown bars, and blaze up before stepping out into the frigid night. Taking care to smoke enough to make everything happy and hazy, but not so much that I become a nonfunctioning paranoid schitzo, is an art I was afraid I had forgotten. But like riding a bicycle, reaching the perfect balance was a skill not lost despite my letting it fall to disuse.
Thank the lord baby jesus above for pot, because my sober self would never have made it to the bar, sensitive as I am to the cold. And had I made it to the bar, I surely would not have lasted through the Jaeger-bomb induced obnoxiousness of my friends.
I am accustomed to being just as deeply entrenched in the throws of stupid drunk fun and craziness. But, as everyone knows, this form of fun is entertaining ONLY to those who are actually intoxicated, leaving any sober attendees with the desire to jab out their own eyeballs. Tonight surely would have been the death of me, had I been forced to confront the situation as a tee-totaling non-participant.
However, as a pleasantly stoned observer, I have reached two conclusions, (1) No, you do not want another Kamikaze. You just had one, right before you fell on your ass, which is why your Jack and Coke is spilled all down the front of your shirt, and (2) everything really is better on weed. (except of course driving, which is a given)
Not fueled, as the others are, by a Redbull and alcohol-induced desire to remain awake into the wee hours, discussing things that no one will remember in the morning anyhow, I eat a falafel patty upon our return home and fall into a blissful cannabis coma. Coco-nutty indeed.
Tonight is Jessica and Ron’s birthday. The plan is predrinks at Jessica’s apartment, then to our house, and off to the bars on Crescent. Early on, I realize my newfound purpose for the evening. Answering a higher calling I’ve rarely felt, I assume the roll usually reserved for those less fond of the drank then myself. Tonight I’ll be the Designated Driver.
Adam, in his wisdom, suggests that I might feel more involved in the party if I get a fun cup (i.e. a light-up pink martini glass, or plastic sequined beer mug.) I am painfully aware that a fun cup filled with water is a poor substitute for any cup filled with alcohol, but immediately agree to his suggestion, because (1) the need for a fun cup creates the perfect excuse to shop Richard’s Variety Mart (RVM), and (2) RVM is right next door to Trader Joe’s, which has never failed me in the free sample department.
RVM, although lacking in the free sample arena, makes up for this fact in every other way. If you are ever in need of a birthday gift for anyone, no matter what their interests, head straight for RVM. You will undoubtedly find what you had no idea you were looking for, and the happy recipient of the glow-in-the-dark Fidel Castro Magnets, Weiner Dog cigarette holder, or Grow-Your-Own-Dominatrix is bound to thank you. She probably doesn’t own one already, and you’ll look awesome next to the unimaginative fools who bought her Chicken Soup for the Gardeners Soul, a scented candle, or a picture frame.
Of course, RVM fails me not, and I leave the store with a plastic cup molded to exactly replicate a real coconut. Only this cup is better than a real coconut, not just because it is dishwasher safe, but because, printed in playfully rustic dandilion gold lettering, as if in after-thought, it mischievously calls upon, not just the lucky owner (me, thank god!), but all those fortunate enough to come in contact with coconut-shaped-cup, to cut loose and forget about our financial troubles, if only for the night. The cup’s mantra “Let’s Get Coco-Nutty,” is one we might all benefit from listening to and living by.
Coconut-shaped-cup and I step into Trader Joe’s, where I am treated to chocolate covered gingersnaps. They are crazy good, if you like ginger. They might be good even if you don’t like ginger, but I’d be a bad judge of that. Score and score!Seven-ish we arrive at Jessica’s apartment. Jessica, who is clearly out to get me, keeps her thermostat at, from what my inner thermometer reading tells me, about 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The cold alone, I can handle, but when paired with the miniature crock-pot of cheese dip Jessica has “graciously” laid out, an almost devastating combination threatens to ruin my 30/30. Unable to maintain my core temperature, I am forced to warm my hands by the heat of the crock pot, enduring the alluring aroma of wonderfully, deliciously, creamy, melty cheese dip and the contented sighs of others enjoying aforementioned dairy delights. As more guests arrive it becomes apparent that the plot to bring me down extends beyond just Jessica, as each new arrival declares that the “temperature is just fine.” Taking a cruel joke and running with it, Jessica’s brother Robbie reaches over my shoulder, scooping an excessive amount of dip onto his chip, dripping the creamy white substance down my leg.
Despite the Cold Apartment/Hot Cheese conspiracy, and with the help of coconut-shaped-cup's continuous reminder to "Get Coco-nutty," I manage to have an okay, if sober time.
Overcome with remorse for his part in the plot, "a friend" extends the olive branch, offering to smoke with me before we go to the bar. I normally don’t smoke the reefer, but I normally don’t stay sober around wasted people either. Sobriety among the extremely inebriated can be an agonizing experience. After very briefly considering the question of whether weed was food, which it is clearly not, I take him up on the offer.I drive the group to our house, which is conveniently located within walking distance of the best midtown bars, and blaze up before stepping out into the frigid night. Taking care to smoke enough to make everything happy and hazy, but not so much that I become a nonfunctioning paranoid schitzo, is an art I was afraid I had forgotten. But like riding a bicycle, reaching the perfect balance was a skill not lost despite my letting it fall to disuse.
Thank the lord baby jesus above for pot, because my sober self would never have made it to the bar, sensitive as I am to the cold. And had I made it to the bar, I surely would not have lasted through the Jaeger-bomb induced obnoxiousness of my friends.
I am accustomed to being just as deeply entrenched in the throws of stupid drunk fun and craziness. But, as everyone knows, this form of fun is entertaining ONLY to those who are actually intoxicated, leaving any sober attendees with the desire to jab out their own eyeballs. Tonight surely would have been the death of me, had I been forced to confront the situation as a tee-totaling non-participant.However, as a pleasantly stoned observer, I have reached two conclusions, (1) No, you do not want another Kamikaze. You just had one, right before you fell on your ass, which is why your Jack and Coke is spilled all down the front of your shirt, and (2) everything really is better on weed. (except of course driving, which is a given)
Not fueled, as the others are, by a Redbull and alcohol-induced desire to remain awake into the wee hours, discussing things that no one will remember in the morning anyhow, I eat a falafel patty upon our return home and fall into a blissful cannabis coma. Coco-nutty indeed.
Day 15, Friday: Tell us what you've learned from this experience
Breakfast consists of a falafel patty and a hunk of “chocolate.” There is only one piece of chocolate left, and the immediate need for strict rationing is obvious. Around lunch, I polish off the last piece, eliminating the burden of such extreme measures. Unfortunately, I have also eliminated candy from the next fifteen days of my life.
I make a small pot of lentils and spinach, and eat them for lunch and dinner.
Today is a pretty big day! I’ve managed to go 15 days without breaking down! But what does all this mean? I went into this thinking it would be some big life changing experience, really giving me a glimpse into what life was like for the less fortunate. So here I am, half way, and at what appears a good time to step back and examine what I have learned thus far. How has all this affected* me?
In their blog, the original 30/30 couple describes their experience as “transformative.” In the interest of time, it would be nice to cut and paste their feelings and adopt them as my own, changing a word here and there, not dissimilar to my freshman year research paper on Canterbury Tales. Unfortunately, I can’t do this for two reasons. (1) they don’t really elaborate, so there aren’t enough words to transpose and call my own, and (2) I think their heads are up their never tested on animals, steroid and pesticide free asses, and I won’t pretend to have such a sudden, exaggerated insight into the psyche of the poor.
Their easy use of the word “transformative” is both surprising and sadly comedic to me. Basically, I'm supposed to buy the idea that going on a diet has somehow opened a door of enlightenment for these people, granting them access to some deep insight into the lives of the poor? Um, no.
If they really want to understand, maybe they could have three kids and each work two minimum wage jobs to pay for their food, clothing, and a run-down two-bedroom apartment in the ghetto. Then, for the full effect, struggle to stay awake during the 45 minutes a day they’ll get with their children, trying to catch them up on the education that they’re barely receiving at Inner-City Central High. Oh, and don’t forget to worry about the fact that, even if Jr. manages to get into college, unlike you, who had to drop out in 11th grade because Medicaid didn’t cover in-home care for your father, there won’t be any money to pay for school.
Granted, the above scenario might be difficult to recreate, so I’ve thought of a few, simpler techniques. Don't paying any utility bills, and see how many days you can live without power and water (in colder climates, insight points are given for time endured without heat.) If really dedicated, quit your job. Try to stay cheerful at your new job waiting tables at Denny’s, and don’t fall asleep during your graveyard shift at Ingles, despite the excruciating boredom of stocking shelf after shelf of nonperishables, especially on three-and-a-half hours of sleep. If possible, get really sick and become unable to work, much less pay your medical bills.
I know this sounds particularly harsh, but as I think it’s safe to assume they’ll never read my blog, I don’t feel any moral responsibility to spare their feelings. I’ll lay it on you straight: Those guys were spoiled P-words. Oh, I’m so sorry for you that you had to give up organic produce! Even before starting the 30/30, I view any fresh produce as a luxury. It’s seriously not that bad, people! Sure, the first couple of days were a hurdle, but that’s because I’m so used to over-eating. After fighting through the first few days of hunger, it didn’t suck too big. I’m getting all the nutrition and calories I need, and I’ll definitely have food left in the end.
At this point, I haven’t noticed any of the physical or emotional changes they spoke of in their blog. I can't see any strains on my relationship with Adam. I imagine, however, that the diet might serve as a convenient excuse for those inclined to argue under better circumstances.
So what is my half way point analysis? I guess, if anything, the experience was transformative in that I realized I eat like a cow, and pretty much all my social relationships are built around food and drink. I know I sound like a bitch, and I’m sorry. I’m honestly glad for the attention they’ve brought to the cause, and I’m happy people want to take their social justice classes and learn about what goes on in the world beyond our middle class bubble. But I don’t feel the experiment makes any revolutionary or groundbreaking point. We already knew being poor sucks.
But then, perhaps my thinking is flawed and my criticisms are indicative of a malnourished brain. Maybe the transformative revelations come later in the month.
_____________________________________
*I am unapologetic for the fact that I often use affect when I mean effect. I have given up trying to distinguish between the two, since it takes more work for me to figure out which is proper in a given situation, than it does for the listener to figure out what I mean.
I make a small pot of lentils and spinach, and eat them for lunch and dinner.
Today is a pretty big day! I’ve managed to go 15 days without breaking down! But what does all this mean? I went into this thinking it would be some big life changing experience, really giving me a glimpse into what life was like for the less fortunate. So here I am, half way, and at what appears a good time to step back and examine what I have learned thus far. How has all this affected* me?
In their blog, the original 30/30 couple describes their experience as “transformative.” In the interest of time, it would be nice to cut and paste their feelings and adopt them as my own, changing a word here and there, not dissimilar to my freshman year research paper on Canterbury Tales. Unfortunately, I can’t do this for two reasons. (1) they don’t really elaborate, so there aren’t enough words to transpose and call my own, and (2) I think their heads are up their never tested on animals, steroid and pesticide free asses, and I won’t pretend to have such a sudden, exaggerated insight into the psyche of the poor.
Their easy use of the word “transformative” is both surprising and sadly comedic to me. Basically, I'm supposed to buy the idea that going on a diet has somehow opened a door of enlightenment for these people, granting them access to some deep insight into the lives of the poor? Um, no.
If they really want to understand, maybe they could have three kids and each work two minimum wage jobs to pay for their food, clothing, and a run-down two-bedroom apartment in the ghetto. Then, for the full effect, struggle to stay awake during the 45 minutes a day they’ll get with their children, trying to catch them up on the education that they’re barely receiving at Inner-City Central High. Oh, and don’t forget to worry about the fact that, even if Jr. manages to get into college, unlike you, who had to drop out in 11th grade because Medicaid didn’t cover in-home care for your father, there won’t be any money to pay for school.
Granted, the above scenario might be difficult to recreate, so I’ve thought of a few, simpler techniques. Don't paying any utility bills, and see how many days you can live without power and water (in colder climates, insight points are given for time endured without heat.) If really dedicated, quit your job. Try to stay cheerful at your new job waiting tables at Denny’s, and don’t fall asleep during your graveyard shift at Ingles, despite the excruciating boredom of stocking shelf after shelf of nonperishables, especially on three-and-a-half hours of sleep. If possible, get really sick and become unable to work, much less pay your medical bills.
I know this sounds particularly harsh, but as I think it’s safe to assume they’ll never read my blog, I don’t feel any moral responsibility to spare their feelings. I’ll lay it on you straight: Those guys were spoiled P-words. Oh, I’m so sorry for you that you had to give up organic produce! Even before starting the 30/30, I view any fresh produce as a luxury. It’s seriously not that bad, people! Sure, the first couple of days were a hurdle, but that’s because I’m so used to over-eating. After fighting through the first few days of hunger, it didn’t suck too big. I’m getting all the nutrition and calories I need, and I’ll definitely have food left in the end.
At this point, I haven’t noticed any of the physical or emotional changes they spoke of in their blog. I can't see any strains on my relationship with Adam. I imagine, however, that the diet might serve as a convenient excuse for those inclined to argue under better circumstances.
So what is my half way point analysis? I guess, if anything, the experience was transformative in that I realized I eat like a cow, and pretty much all my social relationships are built around food and drink. I know I sound like a bitch, and I’m sorry. I’m honestly glad for the attention they’ve brought to the cause, and I’m happy people want to take their social justice classes and learn about what goes on in the world beyond our middle class bubble. But I don’t feel the experiment makes any revolutionary or groundbreaking point. We already knew being poor sucks.
But then, perhaps my thinking is flawed and my criticisms are indicative of a malnourished brain. Maybe the transformative revelations come later in the month.
_____________________________________
*I am unapologetic for the fact that I often use affect when I mean effect. I have given up trying to distinguish between the two, since it takes more work for me to figure out which is proper in a given situation, than it does for the listener to figure out what I mean.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Day 13, Wednesday: Thanks a lot, Biotch
This post has been deleted, because unlike the person it was directed towards, I have a conscience.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Day 12, Tuesday: The Recession isn’t just another mediocre Young Jeezy album
I’ll be the first to admit that the peas and spinach were garbage when I made them, and a week of stewing in their own blandness hasn’t improved the initial product. In fact, they’ve somehow managed to amplify their tedium, creating a cruel anti-taste vortex for your taste buds to ignore. While only slightly more refreshing than a handful of sand thrown in the face, the mush is at least filling, dutifully fulfilling food’s most basic purpose like a retarded but obedient servant. I want to throw it away, sooooooo badly. Zero waste, I tell myself. I summon up my inner Jedi and work towards choking down the last of the batch.
The offending shades of olive swirl lethargically, mixing unapologetically with the hunter green spinach to form a tasteless camo-gruel. I imagine if pea & spinach mush was ever lost in the jungle, it would be well hidden from his enemies, but would probably bore itself to death.
I am captivated by the fierce ongoing competition between Pea Mush Flavor and Pea Mush Appearance, both of which seem to be vying intensely for the title of Grand Chancellor of Bland, while at the same time coexisting in a perfect state of semi-viscous/mildly gelatinous harmony. The dreariness of my breakfast is only magnified by the drone of the news commentary spilling out of the living room television. All this talk these days about Dow Jones being down, lay-offs and recession is such a drag.
I am particularly concerned about the havoc this mess is wreaking on the hip-hop community. When Young Jeezy starts spouting lines like ''it's the recession, everybody broke,'' we ALL have cause to worry. I don’t know about you, but unless he’s under indictment for murder or running a dog fighting ring, I NEVER want to hear a rapper admit to even the slightest strain on his finances. I think it’s safe to say that if T.I. isn’t buying more diamonds, I’m not eating.
What the hell Jeezy, do you realize the chaos you are about to unleash on us? The American people have placed their trust in you, and you go around talking like that? How are we supposed to dance suggestively to a rap about the economy? I’m not saying you’re not qualified to comment on the matter. Hell, the mere fact that you have seen more than one $100 bill at the same time probably makes you more qualified than me. I’m just saying that you, of all people, shouldn’t go around scaring us with this intimidating talk about fiscal insecurity.
Jeezy, I hope you don't find this condescending, but its clear you’ve forgotten what it is that we, the American people, called on you for. You have three responsibilities in this world, and you're messing it up for the rest of us. All we ask is that you (1) keep buying more cars, trucks, villas, bling, fur coats, etc., thereby infusing the economy with much needed capital, (2) keep cranking out hit after mediocre hit with irresistibly catchy hooks, leading us like grown and sexy lambs to the booty club, thereby infusing the economy with much needed capital, and (3) keep being cool as fuck, inducing every last one of us to slave all week at Kinko’s or North Cobb Middle School, or Burger King, cranking out two-sided copies, detention slips and Angry Whoppers like you put out #1 hits, in a wasted endeavor to keep up with the Diddy’s, thereby infusing the economy with much needed capital.
So go ahead and do it. We know you’re coming out with a new clothing line next week, rendering the hat I drove all the way out to the Mall of Georgia last weekend on my only day off to get, an obsolete fashion dinosaur. That’s okay, I’ll go back. I heard they’re playing Planet Earth on the Imax screen there, and that sounds cool.
See, Jeezy! See how I’ve already forgotten how dull and meaningless my lower middle class life is? Sex, color, creed, race, national origin, or sexual orientation matters not when we come together in celebration of your works, writhing ecstatically on the dance floor with other drunken sweaty strangers, safe in the knowledge that next week will bring us a brand new jam. YOU, Jeezy are the unifying force. So remember, stick to the three rules, and rap about things that make us happy, like bitches, bling, slinging and sex. Under no conditions should you ever again rap about anything political.* The power is yours. Use it wisely.
Oh, if the mood or the beat catches you and you find yourself waxing poetic in some public place,(which I seriously doubt you're capable of) stick with the happy topics, and for God's sake keep your fear-mongering politikey shit at home. You’re scaring the children. You’re scaring me. I barely got down my black beans and rice at lunch.
Dinner of black beans and rice with Cajun seasoning. I am saddened to find that it is still nastay!
___________________________________________
*The exception, as always, is that any derogatory statements pertaining to W or McCain are encouraged, constructive or otherwise.
The offending shades of olive swirl lethargically, mixing unapologetically with the hunter green spinach to form a tasteless camo-gruel. I imagine if pea & spinach mush was ever lost in the jungle, it would be well hidden from his enemies, but would probably bore itself to death.
I am captivated by the fierce ongoing competition between Pea Mush Flavor and Pea Mush Appearance, both of which seem to be vying intensely for the title of Grand Chancellor of Bland, while at the same time coexisting in a perfect state of semi-viscous/mildly gelatinous harmony. The dreariness of my breakfast is only magnified by the drone of the news commentary spilling out of the living room television. All this talk these days about Dow Jones being down, lay-offs and recession is such a drag.
I am particularly concerned about the havoc this mess is wreaking on the hip-hop community. When Young Jeezy starts spouting lines like ''it's the recession, everybody broke,'' we ALL have cause to worry. I don’t know about you, but unless he’s under indictment for murder or running a dog fighting ring, I NEVER want to hear a rapper admit to even the slightest strain on his finances. I think it’s safe to say that if T.I. isn’t buying more diamonds, I’m not eating.
What the hell Jeezy, do you realize the chaos you are about to unleash on us? The American people have placed their trust in you, and you go around talking like that? How are we supposed to dance suggestively to a rap about the economy? I’m not saying you’re not qualified to comment on the matter. Hell, the mere fact that you have seen more than one $100 bill at the same time probably makes you more qualified than me. I’m just saying that you, of all people, shouldn’t go around scaring us with this intimidating talk about fiscal insecurity.
Jeezy, I hope you don't find this condescending, but its clear you’ve forgotten what it is that we, the American people, called on you for. You have three responsibilities in this world, and you're messing it up for the rest of us. All we ask is that you (1) keep buying more cars, trucks, villas, bling, fur coats, etc., thereby infusing the economy with much needed capital, (2) keep cranking out hit after mediocre hit with irresistibly catchy hooks, leading us like grown and sexy lambs to the booty club, thereby infusing the economy with much needed capital, and (3) keep being cool as fuck, inducing every last one of us to slave all week at Kinko’s or North Cobb Middle School, or Burger King, cranking out two-sided copies, detention slips and Angry Whoppers like you put out #1 hits, in a wasted endeavor to keep up with the Diddy’s, thereby infusing the economy with much needed capital.
So go ahead and do it. We know you’re coming out with a new clothing line next week, rendering the hat I drove all the way out to the Mall of Georgia last weekend on my only day off to get, an obsolete fashion dinosaur. That’s okay, I’ll go back. I heard they’re playing Planet Earth on the Imax screen there, and that sounds cool.
See, Jeezy! See how I’ve already forgotten how dull and meaningless my lower middle class life is? Sex, color, creed, race, national origin, or sexual orientation matters not when we come together in celebration of your works, writhing ecstatically on the dance floor with other drunken sweaty strangers, safe in the knowledge that next week will bring us a brand new jam. YOU, Jeezy are the unifying force. So remember, stick to the three rules, and rap about things that make us happy, like bitches, bling, slinging and sex. Under no conditions should you ever again rap about anything political.* The power is yours. Use it wisely.
Oh, if the mood or the beat catches you and you find yourself waxing poetic in some public place,(which I seriously doubt you're capable of) stick with the happy topics, and for God's sake keep your fear-mongering politikey shit at home. You’re scaring the children. You’re scaring me. I barely got down my black beans and rice at lunch.
Dinner of black beans and rice with Cajun seasoning. I am saddened to find that it is still nastay!
___________________________________________
*The exception, as always, is that any derogatory statements pertaining to W or McCain are encouraged, constructive or otherwise.
Day 11, Monday: What He giveth, He just may taketh away
Once again I’ve slept in and missed breakfast. I drag my late, but slightly smaller, ass into work and realize that I’ve forgotten to bring a lunch. As I am neither a planner, nor a cook, my food regimen usually consists of anywhere from zero to seven square (possibly isosceles, often tater-tot* shaped) meals, couched between various snacks, many Diet Cokes, and whatever scraps I manage to snarfle off your plate before it gets to you. If one had the learning of a fancy psychology degree (which may also be useful in bartending) she might diagnose me with two or even three eating disorders. But Anorexia would totally not be one of them, and I am NOT about to go until after 6:00 without eating.
Upon request, my lovely husband is kind enough to pop in and bring me some black beans & rice, two cabbage leaves, & two blackberries.
Until now, I’ve pretty much kept my diet on the down-low around the Nail’s customers (Hereinafter referred to as “Clients,” so as not to waste my education.) I’m not ashamed, I just suspect they won’t understand. These suspicions are soon confirmed when, after explaining the basic premise of the 30/30 experiment, I am met with a universal “Why the hell would you want to do that?” A fair question, but I realize the answer is more easily articulated to, and understood by, a different crowd. (i.e. hippies) To the urban (semi) haute bourgeois that frequent my place of employment, the concept of voluntary self-denial is categorized not only as foreign, but as Anti-American heresy. †
I’ll take this opportunity to illustrate a very important fact, since I’m unsure of the extent to which I’ve described the Rusty Nail to the reader. With the exception of my own political leanings, the only thing at the Nail that could be accurately described as “liberal,” would be Big Daddy’s‡ enthusiastic use of salt and lard in the giant vats of collard greens, black eyed peas, and mac-n-cheese. Despite the Nail’s dive bar status, most of the clientele (I mean Clients) is made up of the fairly affluent uber-Right (good for tips, bad for open political discourse.) Whereas I am usually quick to voice my opinion, I keep a close check on my tongue when it comes to the Politiks.
Today, I forgo a defense of 30/30, opting instead to pour stronger drinks, in hopes that my Clients will either feel sorry for me and tip more, or accidentally leave a $100.
Adam, who still has the car, is late picking me up this evening. I wait. He gets later. I wait. He’s stuck in traffic, so I wander on over to CVS to take in today's array of pharmaceutical wares. After observing the patience with which I have endured my husband's tardiness, The Man Upstairs reveals his blessing to me. In the form of a silver shopping cart emblazoned with a hand-written "90% off" sign, He rewards me yet again with the bounty of clearance X-mas candy. Thirty cents later, and I'm the proud owner of a Russell Stover 4-pack of assorted truffles, and a marshmallow Santa. The chocolates go for $0.21, and the Santa $0.09. I’ve got $0.05 left.
I’ve wolfed down the Russell Stover chocolates before Adam finally arrives. Apparently, he “didn’t know what time [he] was supposed to be there.” Super lame excuse, but Lady Luck shines on both of us tonight. I've got a belly full of choco-goodness, and I’m in high spirits. Adam gets off scott free, blissfully aware that what, on another day, might have earned him a sarcasm laden lecture about how “6:30 is rather ambiguous," has been averted. There will be no mocking and faux-understanding. He doesn't even get an "I guess 6:30 is pretty vague, what with all the nuances and interpretations from person to person. I mean, which time zone are we talking about? Before or after Day Light Savings? You know Arizona doesn’t even participate in day light savings, right? The Native Americans didn’t even have watches.”
He seems genuinely sorry, and has a friend in town, so I decide to keep my high horse locked away in the stables tonight. Plus, I got chocolate out of it.
I don’t eat dinner. I’m full of chocolate. And even as the cocoa starts to wear off, I don’t let it get me down. Why? Because I’ve got a Marshmallow Santa in my purse. Like most every member of the marshmallow family, Marshmallow Santas have always owned a place in my heart and back fat. Just as the proverbial tiny tot with his eyes all aglow eagerly awaits the arrival of St. Nick and his bag of toys, I impatiently anticipate the early-November appearance of his confectionery likeness on gas station and drug store shelves.
I had scored the last Marshmallow Santa of the season!
It is with heavy heart that I tell the reader what next conspires. In what can only be perceived as a cosmic bitch-slap, and appropriately proportional discipline, karma gives me the sugary back hand for even thinking about bitching at Adam earlier. It appears that my judgement, clouded by haste and delusions of Marshmallow-Santa-finding-grandeur, has erred. For my Marshmallow Santa is not a Marshmallow Santa at all. My Marshmallow Santa is a Caramel Santa.
I one-up karma by I eating it anyways.
_________________________________________________________________
* “Hey Napoleon, gimme some of your tots!”
† Was that a totally annoying sentence?
‡ I am continually delighted by the fact that the cook, who has run the kitchen for the past thirty years and absolutely hates me, goes by the title of “Big Daddy."
Upon request, my lovely husband is kind enough to pop in and bring me some black beans & rice, two cabbage leaves, & two blackberries.
Until now, I’ve pretty much kept my diet on the down-low around the Nail’s customers (Hereinafter referred to as “Clients,” so as not to waste my education.) I’m not ashamed, I just suspect they won’t understand. These suspicions are soon confirmed when, after explaining the basic premise of the 30/30 experiment, I am met with a universal “Why the hell would you want to do that?” A fair question, but I realize the answer is more easily articulated to, and understood by, a different crowd. (i.e. hippies) To the urban (semi) haute bourgeois that frequent my place of employment, the concept of voluntary self-denial is categorized not only as foreign, but as Anti-American heresy. †
I’ll take this opportunity to illustrate a very important fact, since I’m unsure of the extent to which I’ve described the Rusty Nail to the reader. With the exception of my own political leanings, the only thing at the Nail that could be accurately described as “liberal,” would be Big Daddy’s‡ enthusiastic use of salt and lard in the giant vats of collard greens, black eyed peas, and mac-n-cheese. Despite the Nail’s dive bar status, most of the clientele (I mean Clients) is made up of the fairly affluent uber-Right (good for tips, bad for open political discourse.) Whereas I am usually quick to voice my opinion, I keep a close check on my tongue when it comes to the Politiks.
Today, I forgo a defense of 30/30, opting instead to pour stronger drinks, in hopes that my Clients will either feel sorry for me and tip more, or accidentally leave a $100.
Adam, who still has the car, is late picking me up this evening. I wait. He gets later. I wait. He’s stuck in traffic, so I wander on over to CVS to take in today's array of pharmaceutical wares. After observing the patience with which I have endured my husband's tardiness, The Man Upstairs reveals his blessing to me. In the form of a silver shopping cart emblazoned with a hand-written "90% off" sign, He rewards me yet again with the bounty of clearance X-mas candy. Thirty cents later, and I'm the proud owner of a Russell Stover 4-pack of assorted truffles, and a marshmallow Santa. The chocolates go for $0.21, and the Santa $0.09. I’ve got $0.05 left.
I’ve wolfed down the Russell Stover chocolates before Adam finally arrives. Apparently, he “didn’t know what time [he] was supposed to be there.” Super lame excuse, but Lady Luck shines on both of us tonight. I've got a belly full of choco-goodness, and I’m in high spirits. Adam gets off scott free, blissfully aware that what, on another day, might have earned him a sarcasm laden lecture about how “6:30 is rather ambiguous," has been averted. There will be no mocking and faux-understanding. He doesn't even get an "I guess 6:30 is pretty vague, what with all the nuances and interpretations from person to person. I mean, which time zone are we talking about? Before or after Day Light Savings? You know Arizona doesn’t even participate in day light savings, right? The Native Americans didn’t even have watches.”
He seems genuinely sorry, and has a friend in town, so I decide to keep my high horse locked away in the stables tonight. Plus, I got chocolate out of it.
I don’t eat dinner. I’m full of chocolate. And even as the cocoa starts to wear off, I don’t let it get me down. Why? Because I’ve got a Marshmallow Santa in my purse. Like most every member of the marshmallow family, Marshmallow Santas have always owned a place in my heart and back fat. Just as the proverbial tiny tot with his eyes all aglow eagerly awaits the arrival of St. Nick and his bag of toys, I impatiently anticipate the early-November appearance of his confectionery likeness on gas station and drug store shelves.
I had scored the last Marshmallow Santa of the season!
It is with heavy heart that I tell the reader what next conspires. In what can only be perceived as a cosmic bitch-slap, and appropriately proportional discipline, karma gives me the sugary back hand for even thinking about bitching at Adam earlier. It appears that my judgement, clouded by haste and delusions of Marshmallow-Santa-finding-grandeur, has erred. For my Marshmallow Santa is not a Marshmallow Santa at all. My Marshmallow Santa is a Caramel Santa.
I one-up karma by I eating it anyways.
_________________________________________________________________
* “Hey Napoleon, gimme some of your tots!”
† Was that a totally annoying sentence?
‡ I am continually delighted by the fact that the cook, who has run the kitchen for the past thirty years and absolutely hates me, goes by the title of “Big Daddy."
Friday, January 23, 2009
Day 10, Sunday: Forever, and ever, and ever, and ever. And ever.
As I choke down my brunch of green pea and spinach mush, I reach the realization that I have found the secret to eternal life. And eternal life sucks big.
The older I get, the more it seems the days quickly turn to weeks, and months become years. It is a decade since I graduated high school, but it feels like just yesterday I was crouched between cars, puffing away on my Newport cigarette hoping Oakie, the creepster campus police officer, wouldn’t catch me.
The older I get, the more it seems the days quickly turn to weeks, and months become years. It is a decade since I graduated high school, but it feels like just yesterday I was crouched between cars, puffing away on my Newport cigarette hoping Oakie, the creepster campus police officer, wouldn’t catch me.
High school flew by, followed by undergrad and law school. Nights out at the clubs in Canada, sorority functions, pulling all-nighters to make up for skipped classes, they all passed without my even noticing. Now, its been almost two years since I finished school, and time has not slowed.
Until now. The past nine days have been an f-ing eternity, and twenty days from now might as well be twenty years. I wrestle from minute to minute with the mundane. Should I eat more green pea mush for dinner or bang my head against this concrete wall? (I reluctantly chose the green pea mush)
Perhaps I need to revive some of those excitements of childhood. Maybe I’ll steal a pack of cigarettes or smoke a joint in the Wal-Mart bathroom.
____________________________________________________
For those readers who may be interested in eternal life without the burden of a restricted diet, I've included this coupon I found off the internet
And this one for the bread of life. In case you get hungry.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Day 9, Saturday: Supermarket Sweep
Adam has to go to the grocery today, and I’m totally on board. As a small child, my father taught me that Saturday is free sample day. He also taught me that there is no shame in visiting a particularly good sample table as many times as they'll let you. I may not be able to buy groceries, I can sure make the best of a grocery visit. I grab a falafel patty on the way out the door, in case the pickings are slim.
Just as I have been a lifelong liberal, so have I been a die-hard Kroger shopper. By default, Adam became a Kroger shopper when he assumed the bonds of matrimony. Sure, Kroger’s lighting and interior design isn’t as good as Publix, and they don’t offer nearly as much choice in organic produce as Whole Foods, (which is fine, since I’m way too poor to buy organic) but what they lack in aesthetics and/or variety they make up for in price. Its fine with me that they don’t have organic chai latte muesli, since I was going to buy store-brand raisin bran anyways.
A sweep of the entire grocery store reveals that the effects of a poor economy have spilled over into the free sample arena. Typically one will find at least a meat and cheese roll-up in the deli area, but no such luck. Today, Kroger has two samples: (1) Rachael Ray’s new line of dog food, and (2) fresh baked bread. As I’m not quite desperate enough to eat dog food, even if it is made by Rachael Ray (who, not satisfied with taking over every other market, has now moved to pet food as well), I stick with the fresh baked bread.
I had forgotten how good bread was, not having purchased any premade, or having the ambition or skill to make my own. Since there doesn’t appear to be anyone monitoring the bread sampling area, I return three additional times, slathering my slices with the butter offered in compliment to it. Overcome with a piggish euphoria, I tell Adam to pick me up next door at Publix. I’m going to check out their sample selection.
Almost as soon as one enters Publix, she is met by a woman (it is, as far as I can tell, invariably a woman) in a little booth . When you meet her, this smiling hair-netted woman will be working away over a crock-pot and a skillet, preparing some sort of meat and side dish combo. Along with a cocktail party sized plate of whatever she’s whipped up today, she’ll hand you a recipe card so that you know which Kraft or Tyson products to buy, should you wish to recreate what you just got for free.
Today I am treated to a Sun-Dried Tomato Artichoke Chicken With Arugula Macadamia Salad*
Just as I have been a lifelong liberal, so have I been a die-hard Kroger shopper. By default, Adam became a Kroger shopper when he assumed the bonds of matrimony. Sure, Kroger’s lighting and interior design isn’t as good as Publix, and they don’t offer nearly as much choice in organic produce as Whole Foods, (which is fine, since I’m way too poor to buy organic) but what they lack in aesthetics and/or variety they make up for in price. Its fine with me that they don’t have organic chai latte muesli, since I was going to buy store-brand raisin bran anyways.
A sweep of the entire grocery store reveals that the effects of a poor economy have spilled over into the free sample arena. Typically one will find at least a meat and cheese roll-up in the deli area, but no such luck. Today, Kroger has two samples: (1) Rachael Ray’s new line of dog food, and (2) fresh baked bread. As I’m not quite desperate enough to eat dog food, even if it is made by Rachael Ray (who, not satisfied with taking over every other market, has now moved to pet food as well), I stick with the fresh baked bread.
I had forgotten how good bread was, not having purchased any premade, or having the ambition or skill to make my own. Since there doesn’t appear to be anyone monitoring the bread sampling area, I return three additional times, slathering my slices with the butter offered in compliment to it. Overcome with a piggish euphoria, I tell Adam to pick me up next door at Publix. I’m going to check out their sample selection.
Almost as soon as one enters Publix, she is met by a woman (it is, as far as I can tell, invariably a woman) in a little booth . When you meet her, this smiling hair-netted woman will be working away over a crock-pot and a skillet, preparing some sort of meat and side dish combo. Along with a cocktail party sized plate of whatever she’s whipped up today, she’ll hand you a recipe card so that you know which Kraft or Tyson products to buy, should you wish to recreate what you just got for free.
Today I am treated to a Sun-Dried Tomato Artichoke Chicken With Arugula Macadamia Salad*
I don’t want to complain, since I really didn’t earn this food, but I will anyways. The food looks pretty, and the recipe might actually be good if made by the right person. It appears that my sample chef, although fairly attractive and extremely friendly, isn’t the best cook. The chicken is tough and the vegetables are mushy, and covered with a slimy film.
Disappointed, I head on over to the deli where I am delighted to find my favorite cheese, smoked gouda, is in mine for the taking. Things are looking up. I eye a turkey luch meat sample. A woman, possibly aware that I've spent the better part of the morning sample swiping, uses her cart to block my way in an uncalled-for attempt at vigilante justice. I push through and she is unable to prevent my access to the turkey lunch meat sample. In today's first example of instant karma I drop the damn piece of turkey on the floor almost immediately. With a smirk on her face, cart-lady prepares her new defense strategy. I don't have the energy to wrestle with her again, so I forego a replacement turkey.
Adam isn’t out front when I’m done. I consider going back for seconds but decide against it. As it turns out, Sun-Dried Tomato Artichoke Chicken With Arugula Macadamia Salad (SDTACWAMS) and I will meet again later today
Julie and I have a shopping date at Atlantic Station because Old Navy is having a “big sale.” Incidentally, the sale is bullshit, and, if you want my opinion, Old Navy has gotten a little too big for its britches. Considering the quality of the product, I think anything on “sale” at Old Navy should be under $20. But I digress- Not having found anything to our liking at Old Navy, we visit a few other stores and head out. As luck would have it, Matt asked Julie to stop and get him some Dr. Pepper while she was out, and Atlantic Station features none other than a Publix, which both sells Dr. Pepper AND offers SDTACWAMS samples. It's better this time. And Julie is nice enough to give me the macadamia nuts off her Macadamia Nut Salad. Score!
Back home, Adam and Matt are watching football, and I’m starting to come down off the SDTACWAMS. Suddenly, I’m struck with a brilliant idea. I should hit up a few of the other, more high-end grocery stores and see what kind of swag I can score there! A scavenger after my own heart, Julie graciously agrees to escort me on my adventure.
The smell of patchoulie drenched Yuppies parading as hippies permeates as we enter the clean and colorful world of Whole foods. All shapes and sizes of overpriced tropical flowers and organic produce flood the eye with a rainbow of unnaturally natural reds, greens, yellows, violets, and oranges. The unchecked, and unvaccinated children of parents who don’t believe in discipline run amok as they child-handle the posh fruits and vegetables that they’ll later reject, throwing them in their parents' faces, screaming for Chicken McNuggets. I forgive the Yippies their contrary ways, and not just because they're paying for all the free samples I’m about to dig in to. It’s actually kind of cute how the color in their face matches their tie-dyed shirts as they yell in the face of the produce workers, demanding to know why there isn’t any Blueberry Pom today.
Julie and I gorge ourselves on two types of oranges, apple cider, tilapia in a dill cream sauce, hummus, some sort of weird cheesy crab dip, carrots in two separate kinds of ginger miso dip, salmon salad, some fresh baked bread, pannatone, and some tortilla chips (they were all out of salsa.) We buy nothing since (1) we never intended to, and (2) even if we had intended to, we were full now.
Although apparently not enough to invoke immunity from instant karma, I offer to let Julie wait in the store while I get the car, since it‘s raining fairly hard, and she has charitably agreed to accompany me on the tour d’ samples. Unable to locate my bright blue vehicle, I walk up and down the rows, finally locating the car, but then having to dig around in my gigantor purse for the keys. Wet, but not deterred, we head on over to Trader Joe’s to “sample” the local fare.
Besides being known for its beloved “Two-buck Chuck,” Trader Joes, the K-Mart of organic foods markets, is as fun and happy as a chain supermarket can get. The employees all wear Hawiian shirts to match the tropical murals on the walls. With a surprisingly nice price to delicious ratio, Trader Joe’s only drawback is the somewhat limited selection. On sample day, however, TJ’s doesn’t fail me. Their only sample is a green curry meatball, but I eat four of them to make up for the lack of variety.
Today, I enter an all new level of grocer enlightenment. Up until this point, I had been all too blind to the fact that Kroger has been robbing me of the free samples I deserve. But I’ll probably keep shopping there, since I’m afraid of getting the measles, mumps, or rubella.†
Best in Show goes to whole foods for taste, diversity, presentation, and quality.
*http://www.publix.com/aprons/meals/AllRecipes/SimpleMeal.do?mealId=2968&mealGroupId=1000
†http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/mm57e222a1.htm
Day 8, Friday: Absolutely nothing happens
Someone with sesquipedalian tendencies is given to using long words. I’ve always had very mixed feelings about the excessive use of big words. Take the word “superfluous,” which is, in and of itself superfluous. One could just say “extra” but it feels so good to say “superfluous.” On the other hand, however, it is far more effective to say “what smells like shit?” rather than “what is that miasma?” Note that the former conveys the speaker’s message, and eliminates the risk of confusion. One should always remember that, in using an obscure or fancy appropriately-used-in-the-correct-context word, you may get an elated feeling of superior intelligence, and more “alternative” people with little-5-points glasses may want to hang out with you, but you really just look like an ass.
I once had a college Speech professor who was very proud of himself and all the big words he knew. Instead of telling us that something we were about to hear was useful information, he’d say it was chrestomathic. And of course, we’d all miss the words of wisdom he was about to impart because, either (1) we were still trying to figure out what chrestomathic meant, or (2) we’d already stopped listening, since we knew we didn’t stand a chance of figuring out what the hell he was talking about anyways. He was, as he might say, given to altiloquence*.
As much as I would like to boast of my being far too sophisticated to be played by his pedantry, it is only very many years later that I can admit to all this. Like everyone else who took the class, he’d managed to pull the wool of the Emperor’s New Clothes over my eyes too. We’d all smile and nod our heads, like we totally got what he was talking about, since we knew everyone got a B anyways, and none of us wanted to be the one to admit that she didn’t have an F-ing clue what Professor X was saying. Convinced by his gobbledygook jibber-jabber that we were all much better orators, every one of us gave Professor X highest marks available on his performance survey, all the while having been deprived of any effective education on the subject.
So, what I’m trying to say here, is that I could go to great lengths, using colorful language to describe a day that could accurately summed up using one word, but that would be unnecessary. At the risk of sounding average, my day was LAME.
I ate peas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In between those meals, I ate some chocolate. I hate peas. I love steak.
*Pompous language
I once had a college Speech professor who was very proud of himself and all the big words he knew. Instead of telling us that something we were about to hear was useful information, he’d say it was chrestomathic. And of course, we’d all miss the words of wisdom he was about to impart because, either (1) we were still trying to figure out what chrestomathic meant, or (2) we’d already stopped listening, since we knew we didn’t stand a chance of figuring out what the hell he was talking about anyways. He was, as he might say, given to altiloquence*.
As much as I would like to boast of my being far too sophisticated to be played by his pedantry, it is only very many years later that I can admit to all this. Like everyone else who took the class, he’d managed to pull the wool of the Emperor’s New Clothes over my eyes too. We’d all smile and nod our heads, like we totally got what he was talking about, since we knew everyone got a B anyways, and none of us wanted to be the one to admit that she didn’t have an F-ing clue what Professor X was saying. Convinced by his gobbledygook jibber-jabber that we were all much better orators, every one of us gave Professor X highest marks available on his performance survey, all the while having been deprived of any effective education on the subject.
So, what I’m trying to say here, is that I could go to great lengths, using colorful language to describe a day that could accurately summed up using one word, but that would be unnecessary. At the risk of sounding average, my day was LAME.
I ate peas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In between those meals, I ate some chocolate. I hate peas. I love steak.
*Pompous language
Day 7, Thursday: A public service message
Guiltily, I polish off the rest of the marshmallows this morning. In an attempt at counterbalance, I follow them up with some of my green pea and spinach soup. To avoid thinking about how unappetizing the pea glop is, I let my mind drift. I ponder the accuracy of the 30/30 experiment. Turning to Wikipedia, my favorite source of information (besides my mother), I learn that 36.2% of people in Africa actually live on less than $1 a day. Every day. Not just 30 of them.
What everyone tells me I am crazy to be doing, over a third of the African population is used to. I can bear these 30 days with a smile, knowing that there is an end in sight. I fully intend to dive headfirst into a glorious pool of gluttony as soon as day 31 rolls around. This knowledge buoys me when I might otherwise fall into a state of hunger despair. But what if this was life?
I promise not to let my blog entries become morose. I certainly don’t think anyone I know is responsible for world hunger, and I don’t pretend to know how to solve it. I’m just saying that we should be thankful for what we do have, and help where we can. As I eat my lunch of falafel taco, I remember that there are those who go without.
During my dinner of whirled peas and spinach, I wish for an exchange program which would allow me to turn in my gross Creole seasoning for a giant jug of Texas Pete. I try to be content, though, knowing that the worst of my complaints aren’t half bad. I have food to eat, a roof over my head, a job that pays the bills, a husband who loves me, a supportive family, and ridiculous friends.
What everyone tells me I am crazy to be doing, over a third of the African population is used to. I can bear these 30 days with a smile, knowing that there is an end in sight. I fully intend to dive headfirst into a glorious pool of gluttony as soon as day 31 rolls around. This knowledge buoys me when I might otherwise fall into a state of hunger despair. But what if this was life?
I promise not to let my blog entries become morose. I certainly don’t think anyone I know is responsible for world hunger, and I don’t pretend to know how to solve it. I’m just saying that we should be thankful for what we do have, and help where we can. As I eat my lunch of falafel taco, I remember that there are those who go without.
During my dinner of whirled peas and spinach, I wish for an exchange program which would allow me to turn in my gross Creole seasoning for a giant jug of Texas Pete. I try to be content, though, knowing that the worst of my complaints aren’t half bad. I have food to eat, a roof over my head, a job that pays the bills, a husband who loves me, a supportive family, and ridiculous friends.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Day 6, Wednesday: The Moral Dilemma: Are the cookies really free if you have to give your blood to get them?
I have a 7:30 appointment to give platelets this morning, despite Adam’s pleas that I wait until my 30 days is over. For those who are unaware, giving platelets, or Apherisis, is the 2 to 3 hour process in which they take your blood out of you and send it through this spinny thing. From what I understand, this machine seperates your white blood cells from the rest of the goop. Then, sans whities, they mix your blood up with some saline, and pump the new concoction right back into you like it never left.
Besides giving you that warm fuzzy feeling of self-satisfaction knowing you're saving lives just by sitting on your ass with some needles sticking out of you, they also give you (as far as I can tell) an unlimited supply of cookies* at the American Red Cross.
They don’t just give you cookies at the blood bank, they give you Oreos. Those who know me well are fully aware that I freaking love junk food. And cookies - cookies are like legal crack to me. I once ate so many ginger snaps I threw up, and those are only like a 6 on the cookie scale. 
But the Oreo, what can I say about the Oreo? I have a fairly well developed theory, the thesis of which asserts that there are three foods on this earth which were created through a most unholy, yet perfect, union between God (or the Devil) and the Scientists. In an all too rare alliance, God (or the Devil) and the Scientists teamed up to bring mankind the most delicious unifications of science and nature. The trifecta to emerge from this rare coalition is as follows: Doritos, Velveeta Shells and Cheese, and finally, the crowning jewel, the masterpiece of masterpieces, the Oreo – the most magnificent matrimony of deity and learning. †
So as I lay there, hooked up to the machine, watching Parking Wars with my extremely friendly man-nurse, I am wracked with two questions:
(1) Are the cookies “open to the public,” since anyone can give blood, or am I actually entering into a bartered for exchange situation, in which they agree to give me Oreos in return for my bodily fluids?
(2) Do I care?
Since my man-nurse is new, I am blessed with a few extra needle sticks and an additional half hour or so to contemplate my dilemma. As it winds up, I am released from my chair only minutes before I am expected at work, eliminating the need to reach such important conclusions at this time.
I take the need for an expeditious departure as sign that Oreos and I are not meant to be today. In order to avoid the temptation, and a lecture about how I should rest in the recovery/cookie area before leaving, I sneak out sheepishly. But before I do so, I grab a bag of Teddy Grahams to give to Adam later. After all, I’ve earned it, and they’re so cute.
For lunch I have, you guessed it, a falafel taco. And 60 marshmallows. I figure I’ve gotta get my blood sugar up.
Another falafel taco for dinner, but I decide around 8 that I should cook something else for tomorrow. I’m come to rely so much on falafel, I’m neglecting the rest of my food. I don’t want to be stuck eating plain rice for the last 12 days. That would suck even more than eating falafel taco every day.
Tonight, as I prepare food for tomorrow, I learn that whole dried peas take a hell of a lot longer to cook than split peas. Also, whole peas are not delicious when you have nothing besides spinach and salt & pepper to flavor them. Yuck.
60 more marshmallows for dessert (blood sugar, you know.) And a frozen blackberry.
*Note: this may not be true in all states. In Michigan, I actually got a tuna salad sandwich, which although delicious, was not a valid substitute for cookies)
†An honorable mention goes out to the Cheeto
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