Wednesday, November 18, 2009
It's Pine-Sol, Baby!!
One annoying little fact about moving from apartment to apartment every year is that you usually need to re-buy a lot of the "little things" that you either don't think about, or throw away when you are packing. [You don't really want to box up things like old trashcans, or your toilet brush, and take it with you when you move.]Anyways, I went on a mop hunt recently to replace my swiffer wet-jet. (As much as I LOVE that thing, I can't really justify the $10 refill sheets and $11 soap cartridges.) After I came home, I pine-sol'ed the hell out of our floors. Our apartment smelled so lemony fresh.... Nothing screams 'Accomplishment' more than the reek of cleaning products. I wish I could douse myself in the smell - or roll in it. Damn... I wish I could pine-sol my life.
You know, I really shouldn’t take long naps in the afternoons. I get really, really effed-up dreams. This is a little compilation of some of the highlights:
In one dream, Chris and I were living in a rental house, and he wanted to test how flame-resistant everything was, so he kept trying to set the curtains and lampshades on fire, and see how long he could leave the oven on. I had to beat out the fires with a wet blanket, because Chris had used up the fire extinguisher playing “snow party” with the guys from Russian House, who had all decided to move in together again after college, and shared a yard with us. After putting out the fire, I informed Chris that we probably wouldn’t get our damage deposit back for this. He got really pissed about that, and threw a tantrum.
In my next dream, I was at the Midway YMCA (an old, dilapidated city Y where I learned how to swim, and had to stay in kiddie prison camp… I mean… daycamp.) Anyway, I actually have a phobia of swimming pools, thanks to the Midway YMCA swimming pool. So I attempted to conquer my fears by going in to the pool area, but when I got to the pool area through the communal shower room, (I saw waaaaay too many unshaved/pierced/I don’t even want to guess vaginas in that shower room as a vulnerable youth.) someone from behind pushed me into the pool area, and locked a door behind me. It was terrifying. The pool had dilapidated to the point where there was only one light left working in the deep end, and since there were no windows in the pool, the rest of the place was pitch black. Like, you couldn’t tell where the water started, or how to get out. I finally managed to get out via the men’s locker room, and found my way back to the lobby to find Chris. Chris, for some reason told me that he wanted to have a party there, and when I told him I was terrified of the place, he told me not to be such a pussy. I got really mad at him for that.
My final dream was me waking up as a seven year old, and being carted off to YMCA day-camp. (Are we seeing a trend here, folks?) We went on a field trip to McDonalds, but while the other kids and I were standing in line, I got tackled, and carried away by a huge black man. I was taken back to the kitchen, where I was put in a barbeque-sauce-filled vat with the other day campers. When I told the other kids to run away, they all said I was crazy, and that they all still wanted to see how chicken McNuggets got made. Let’s not even TRY and interpret that one.
In one dream, Chris and I were living in a rental house, and he wanted to test how flame-resistant everything was, so he kept trying to set the curtains and lampshades on fire, and see how long he could leave the oven on. I had to beat out the fires with a wet blanket, because Chris had used up the fire extinguisher playing “snow party” with the guys from Russian House, who had all decided to move in together again after college, and shared a yard with us. After putting out the fire, I informed Chris that we probably wouldn’t get our damage deposit back for this. He got really pissed about that, and threw a tantrum.
In my next dream, I was at the Midway YMCA (an old, dilapidated city Y where I learned how to swim, and had to stay in kiddie prison camp… I mean… daycamp.) Anyway, I actually have a phobia of swimming pools, thanks to the Midway YMCA swimming pool. So I attempted to conquer my fears by going in to the pool area, but when I got to the pool area through the communal shower room, (I saw waaaaay too many unshaved/pierced/I don’t even want to guess vaginas in that shower room as a vulnerable youth.) someone from behind pushed me into the pool area, and locked a door behind me. It was terrifying. The pool had dilapidated to the point where there was only one light left working in the deep end, and since there were no windows in the pool, the rest of the place was pitch black. Like, you couldn’t tell where the water started, or how to get out. I finally managed to get out via the men’s locker room, and found my way back to the lobby to find Chris. Chris, for some reason told me that he wanted to have a party there, and when I told him I was terrified of the place, he told me not to be such a pussy. I got really mad at him for that.
My final dream was me waking up as a seven year old, and being carted off to YMCA day-camp. (Are we seeing a trend here, folks?) We went on a field trip to McDonalds, but while the other kids and I were standing in line, I got tackled, and carried away by a huge black man. I was taken back to the kitchen, where I was put in a barbeque-sauce-filled vat with the other day campers. When I told the other kids to run away, they all said I was crazy, and that they all still wanted to see how chicken McNuggets got made. Let’s not even TRY and interpret that one.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Misc.
Hm... having sex on the living room couch whilst watching "Cops" and "Judge Alex" on patchy, broadcast t.v. at 1am. You cannot get trashier than that. It's a slippery slope, my friends. :)
Chris: "Chocolate is a tool invented by Satan to enslave women."
Chris: "Bonus is a funny word. I always thought the plural should be 'boni.'"
Fable II: [Note: In this game, there are various dyes you can purchase to change your character's clothing color, hair color, etc. This was one of them - I think I almost shat myself when I read the description. Hint: think "Princess Bride."]
'You have found, "Swarthy Indigo Revenge Dye"! Descr.: "You have found the rare Indigo, of the genus 'Montoya.' You have crushed its flower. Prepare to dye."
My dad was looking over my bank statement on a shared account we have while I was in Washington this summer. Suddenly, I get a panicked e-mail from him about one of the places I used my card while in Washington. Apparently he thought I had gone to see a doctor, and he was all worried that it wasn't covered by my health insurance.
Dad: "Who is this, 'Dr. Juanita Bothell' that you saw when you were in Washington??? You KNOW our health plan doesn't cover out-of-state doctor's visits!"
Me: Um..... Dad....? That was from when I got gas at a gas station on Juanita Drive, in Bothell Washington."
Dad: "Oh."
Me: "Nothing says "Goner" like a piranha owned by a vegan."
Me: "What would my super-power be? Well, you know how some people can throw their voices, and it sounds like someone else is talking? Yeah, I wish I could do that with my farts."
Me: "Chris, pull your pants up. Your fun parts are showing."
Chris: "Yeah, well your NON-fun-parts are showing. Like you FACE."
Chris: "Chocolate is a tool invented by Satan to enslave women."
Chris: "Bonus is a funny word. I always thought the plural should be 'boni.'"
Fable II: [Note: In this game, there are various dyes you can purchase to change your character's clothing color, hair color, etc. This was one of them - I think I almost shat myself when I read the description. Hint: think "Princess Bride."]
'You have found, "Swarthy Indigo Revenge Dye"! Descr.: "You have found the rare Indigo, of the genus 'Montoya.' You have crushed its flower. Prepare to dye."
My dad was looking over my bank statement on a shared account we have while I was in Washington this summer. Suddenly, I get a panicked e-mail from him about one of the places I used my card while in Washington. Apparently he thought I had gone to see a doctor, and he was all worried that it wasn't covered by my health insurance.
Dad: "Who is this, 'Dr. Juanita Bothell' that you saw when you were in Washington??? You KNOW our health plan doesn't cover out-of-state doctor's visits!"
Me: Um..... Dad....? That was from when I got gas at a gas station on Juanita Drive, in Bothell Washington."
Dad: "Oh."
Me: "Nothing says "Goner" like a piranha owned by a vegan."
Me: "What would my super-power be? Well, you know how some people can throw their voices, and it sounds like someone else is talking? Yeah, I wish I could do that with my farts."
Me: "Chris, pull your pants up. Your fun parts are showing."
Chris: "Yeah, well your NON-fun-parts are showing. Like you FACE."
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Be Nice to Your Barista
I am halfway through my second month of living in Minneapolis, making my way in the world as a minimum-wage earning employee, at the mercy of any and all powers that be. While it is a little scary (I was terrified at the prospect, before I moved here) I know now that it is very much possible to make your way in life by dropping in on a completely new place, and that you don’t necessarily have to let geography limit your actions. [Provided, of course, that you are lucky, able-bodied, hard-working, and ballsy as hell.] I am learning a lot out here. It really is surprising how much your motivation and attitude changes when you realize that YOU are the only person who is going to help you make it in life, and when the only person you really have to fall back on in case something goes wrong is yourself. None of the places (two cafes) that I work at have any high-school aged kids working there, nor do they have any seasonal workers. Everyone who works with me is either my age, or older, and all of them are trying to do things like make rent, save up for a house, or pay their way through school. I am very lucky to work with a bunch of motivated people who work like they need the money. (Which we do.) It is a way different dynamic from, say, a college work-study job, or a summer job that you don’t really care about. So why is my post title referring to baristas, you might ask??
I am a barista at both of the jobs I work at, right now. Baristas are generally an awesome bunch of hardworking folks, whose temperaments and job duties fall somewhere between those of a waitress and a bartender. We chat people up, and get to stand behind a counter like a bartender, but we also bend over backwards to be pleasant, and provide excellent customer service, like a waitress. The catch? You get shat upon by spiteful, disgruntled people with way too much of a sense of entitlement like a waitress, and you can get majorly creeped-upon like a bar-tender (this applies more to the females baristas, out there.) So, it’s sort of an odd modge-podge of working styles, and one that has only recently been established, so it is understandable that there is a lot of confusion as to how, exactly, one treats their barista.
1)Baristas make minimum wage. We are generally poor, poor, poor. (Unless we live with our parents, or something, and don’t really need the money.) Baristas
make tips, and we need them. After taxes and whatnot, I only make $375
every two weeks, from working over 70 hours. Since that alone barely covers
rent and utilities, where do I get my money for food, personal care products, and gas for my car? You guessed it – tips. Tips make up a large percentage of the take-home pay for anyone working in the service industry. Be that a pizza
delivery guy, a waitress, or a hair-stylist. Some people are better at tipping than others – but what I have noticed, is that the absolute best tippers are those
fellow, minimum-wage earning service employees. It’s like an unspoken rule. I always leave a ten-dollar tip for a hair-stylist, or a masseuse, and I generally tip 20 – 25% at a restaurant, unless the service was extremely sub-par. Now, since I don’t make much money, it’s not like I have cash to throw around – but I KNOW that tipping well really makes a big difference in people’s lives. I know that I appreciate it when someone leaves me a $2 tip for a $3 drink, so I figure I may as well ‘pay it forward,’ and help a brotha’ (or sistah’) out.
2)Coffee shop etiquette: Rule number one: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE WHEN YOU’RE IN LINE! It is very disrespectful to the person attempting to serve you, and to everybody else in your general vicinity, who has to hear about your latest doctor’s appointment, or your opinion about your sister-in-law’s-cousin’s-daughter’s divorce. I (and everybody else) has had to stand for a minute or more behind a cash register, with a sweet smile plastered on our faces, waiting for whoever it is (usually a middle-aged woman) to stop blabbing into her cell phone long enough to bark “Soy Mocha!” at you – no ‘please,’ no ‘thank you,’ and generally, no tip. They usually get annoyed at you if you attempt to ask them while making their drink things like, “Would you like whipped cream on top?” So you have to play the part of super- psychic mind-reader, and hope that you can discern exactly what they want, because their conversations are (obviously) more important than you attempting to get their order right. My personal thought is this: If you enter an establishment with the intention of making a business transaction, be it buying post-it notes, or ordering a pizza, you owe it to the person involved in helping you accomplish these goals to actually be civil, pay attention to them, and treat them like a human being.
3)Your barista is not really flirting with you. When your barista flashes you a wide, sweet smile, and asks you if you would “Like room on top for cream?” they are not really trying to get into your pants. This is usually because people who work in coffee shops are (mostly) very sweet, nice, affable people, who try their utmost to give excellent customer service. While your barista may express genuine concern for you if you are having a bad day, they are not going to want to have you unload all of your negative feelings and frustrations on them while they are trying to help the other five people in line. This isn’t because we’re mean – it is because we are doing a job, and we need to serve everybody that comes in the store. In general, I think that a minute and a half is a good length for a conversation with your barista. Two minutes is the absolute limit. It is not okay to blatantly hit on your barista, or to make suggestive comments towards them. (Although it is sometimes tolerable if you tip well enough.) I have a lot of stories of super-creepers, and the raunchy, disturbing things that they have said to me (and others) that I think I will save for another blog post. Some of them are pretty funny, if you get over the initial freak-out factor. I think that a lot of this stuff happens because a coffee shop is sort of a weird, ‘in-between’ place. It has all of the comforts of home, you can relax, and stay as long as you want, and you can chat up the employees, as well as other customers. It is not really a public space, but it is not really a private space either. It is a place where you are supposed to feel comfortable, and have a sense of ownership over, but you are sharing that space with hundreds of other strangers every day. It’s sort of like, it isn’t your living room, but it isn’t McDonalds, either. The people who work there may know you well, but they are neither close, personal friends, nor are they your shrink.
And with that, I think I’m done talking about coffee shops for a while. I just want to offer a sincere “Hollah!” to all of my fellow minimum-wage earners out there. To all those who make sandwiches, deliver pizzas, and have to deal with other people’s shit (I think that’s everybody on earth) I want you to know that I love you, I’m pulling for you, and that we can totally rock this bitch-of-a-thing called ‘life,’ and go off to accomplish great things. Keep living the dream! Peace!!
I am a barista at both of the jobs I work at, right now. Baristas are generally an awesome bunch of hardworking folks, whose temperaments and job duties fall somewhere between those of a waitress and a bartender. We chat people up, and get to stand behind a counter like a bartender, but we also bend over backwards to be pleasant, and provide excellent customer service, like a waitress. The catch? You get shat upon by spiteful, disgruntled people with way too much of a sense of entitlement like a waitress, and you can get majorly creeped-upon like a bar-tender (this applies more to the females baristas, out there.) So, it’s sort of an odd modge-podge of working styles, and one that has only recently been established, so it is understandable that there is a lot of confusion as to how, exactly, one treats their barista.
1)Baristas make minimum wage. We are generally poor, poor, poor. (Unless we live with our parents, or something, and don’t really need the money.) Baristas
make tips, and we need them. After taxes and whatnot, I only make $375
every two weeks, from working over 70 hours. Since that alone barely covers
rent and utilities, where do I get my money for food, personal care products, and gas for my car? You guessed it – tips. Tips make up a large percentage of the take-home pay for anyone working in the service industry. Be that a pizza
delivery guy, a waitress, or a hair-stylist. Some people are better at tipping than others – but what I have noticed, is that the absolute best tippers are those
fellow, minimum-wage earning service employees. It’s like an unspoken rule. I always leave a ten-dollar tip for a hair-stylist, or a masseuse, and I generally tip 20 – 25% at a restaurant, unless the service was extremely sub-par. Now, since I don’t make much money, it’s not like I have cash to throw around – but I KNOW that tipping well really makes a big difference in people’s lives. I know that I appreciate it when someone leaves me a $2 tip for a $3 drink, so I figure I may as well ‘pay it forward,’ and help a brotha’ (or sistah’) out.
2)Coffee shop etiquette: Rule number one: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE WHEN YOU’RE IN LINE! It is very disrespectful to the person attempting to serve you, and to everybody else in your general vicinity, who has to hear about your latest doctor’s appointment, or your opinion about your sister-in-law’s-cousin’s-daughter’s divorce. I (and everybody else) has had to stand for a minute or more behind a cash register, with a sweet smile plastered on our faces, waiting for whoever it is (usually a middle-aged woman) to stop blabbing into her cell phone long enough to bark “Soy Mocha!” at you – no ‘please,’ no ‘thank you,’ and generally, no tip. They usually get annoyed at you if you attempt to ask them while making their drink things like, “Would you like whipped cream on top?” So you have to play the part of super- psychic mind-reader, and hope that you can discern exactly what they want, because their conversations are (obviously) more important than you attempting to get their order right. My personal thought is this: If you enter an establishment with the intention of making a business transaction, be it buying post-it notes, or ordering a pizza, you owe it to the person involved in helping you accomplish these goals to actually be civil, pay attention to them, and treat them like a human being.
3)Your barista is not really flirting with you. When your barista flashes you a wide, sweet smile, and asks you if you would “Like room on top for cream?” they are not really trying to get into your pants. This is usually because people who work in coffee shops are (mostly) very sweet, nice, affable people, who try their utmost to give excellent customer service. While your barista may express genuine concern for you if you are having a bad day, they are not going to want to have you unload all of your negative feelings and frustrations on them while they are trying to help the other five people in line. This isn’t because we’re mean – it is because we are doing a job, and we need to serve everybody that comes in the store. In general, I think that a minute and a half is a good length for a conversation with your barista. Two minutes is the absolute limit. It is not okay to blatantly hit on your barista, or to make suggestive comments towards them. (Although it is sometimes tolerable if you tip well enough.) I have a lot of stories of super-creepers, and the raunchy, disturbing things that they have said to me (and others) that I think I will save for another blog post. Some of them are pretty funny, if you get over the initial freak-out factor. I think that a lot of this stuff happens because a coffee shop is sort of a weird, ‘in-between’ place. It has all of the comforts of home, you can relax, and stay as long as you want, and you can chat up the employees, as well as other customers. It is not really a public space, but it is not really a private space either. It is a place where you are supposed to feel comfortable, and have a sense of ownership over, but you are sharing that space with hundreds of other strangers every day. It’s sort of like, it isn’t your living room, but it isn’t McDonalds, either. The people who work there may know you well, but they are neither close, personal friends, nor are they your shrink.
And with that, I think I’m done talking about coffee shops for a while. I just want to offer a sincere “Hollah!” to all of my fellow minimum-wage earners out there. To all those who make sandwiches, deliver pizzas, and have to deal with other people’s shit (I think that’s everybody on earth) I want you to know that I love you, I’m pulling for you, and that we can totally rock this bitch-of-a-thing called ‘life,’ and go off to accomplish great things. Keep living the dream! Peace!!
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Final Chapter of the Evil Plot to Yuppify Uptown
Hey Folks!
For all of those in the know, the Uptown Bar is an awesome place, where one can see some killer live shows, get down with their bad selves, and get their hung-over ass a ginormous omelet the next morning. Well, the Uptown Bar is no longer to be. It is scheduled to be demolished. I don't know when, exactly, but soon. It was the last bastion of legitimacy on a street that already has a bunch of over-priced restaurants, an American Apparel store, a Victoria's Secret, and a Northface store. The longtime owner of the bar (it was a family run place, like all the best ones are) is retiring, and wanted to sell the place so he could get on with his life. The property went to the highest bidder, which in this case, was an Apple store. "Because yuppies need to get their computers fixed, I guess." Was the reasoning, overheard from an outraged fan of the famous music venue. So yeah - sad days. Sad days indeed. Stupid Uptown.
For all of those in the know, the Uptown Bar is an awesome place, where one can see some killer live shows, get down with their bad selves, and get their hung-over ass a ginormous omelet the next morning. Well, the Uptown Bar is no longer to be. It is scheduled to be demolished. I don't know when, exactly, but soon. It was the last bastion of legitimacy on a street that already has a bunch of over-priced restaurants, an American Apparel store, a Victoria's Secret, and a Northface store. The longtime owner of the bar (it was a family run place, like all the best ones are) is retiring, and wanted to sell the place so he could get on with his life. The property went to the highest bidder, which in this case, was an Apple store. "Because yuppies need to get their computers fixed, I guess." Was the reasoning, overheard from an outraged fan of the famous music venue. So yeah - sad days. Sad days indeed. Stupid Uptown.
The Nuva Ring - Women's Liberation, or Sadistic Instrument of Evil???
I HATE THE NUVA RING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
IT IS AN EVIL DEVICE, INVENTED BY SATAN AND ALL OF HIS UNHOLY MINIONS (METHODISTS INCLUDED) TO MAKE WOMEN NEVER WANT TO HAVE A PENIS INSIDE OF THEM FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thus, it is an attempt to end humanity, as we know it. Evil. Truly.
So I tried out the nuva ring after getting it prescribed to me by a very nice lady doctor at Planned Parenthood. [Just a note: Planned Parenthood is a wonderful place, staffed by caring, kind, wonderful people, who seem to sincerely want the best for those who come to see them. Don't ever be afraid to go in - there are some really great, understanding folks there, who will never, ever judge you.] I should have been suspicious right away when I asked if my partner would be able to feel the right during intercourse, and the doctor said, "Well, it's not really him you want to worry about, now is it?" "I guess...." is all I said. Now, for those of you who don't know, the Nuva ring is basically a gummi bracelet (you know - the kind you used to get out of vending machines, as a kid? It's the same size) that has been coated with spermicide. You have to squish the thing into a more manageable shape, and stick it up your biz-nass, in order to ensure that no sperm will ever have a chance in hell of fulfilling its life goal of fertilizing one of your lovely, lady eggs.
Sounds great, right? After all, you don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, so there's less water retention, no mood swings, and you don't have to double-up if you forget a day, blah blah blah. I thought so, (after hearing rave reviews from friends) so I was willing to give it a shot.
I get the ring in, no sweat. So that's cool. The problem? And lemme tell you, it was a BIG PROBLEM... It made me hate sex. Not just hate it, but avoid it. Let's explain this phenomenon with a little biology lesson: The sex drive of a woman relies on hormones. More estrogen? Woman wants sex. (The highest peak of estrogen every month is right before, and after a woman ovulates. Makes Sense.) More progesterone? Woman does not want sex. (The highest levels in progesterone are found right before, and after a woman's menstrual cycle, when there is no egg to be fertilized, so, biologically, intercourse is pointless at this time.) So anyway, the Nuva Ring is full of 100% progesterone. Bad for sperm, bad for your sex drive. My libido sort of shriveled up and died by the side of the road.
Not only did I not want to have sex EVER, but I was so dry [down there] that it physically hurt to have intercourse. It actually burned before, during, and after in a place where not many things are supposed to reach, much less be in pain. (For hours afterward.)Now that I have taken the wretched ring out of my snatch, my passion is back, and from now on, I only intend to put the things in there that really matter. It's sort of like a life lesson, albeit not of the variety that you would learn in Sunday School. ^__^
IT IS AN EVIL DEVICE, INVENTED BY SATAN AND ALL OF HIS UNHOLY MINIONS (METHODISTS INCLUDED) TO MAKE WOMEN NEVER WANT TO HAVE A PENIS INSIDE OF THEM FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thus, it is an attempt to end humanity, as we know it. Evil. Truly.
So I tried out the nuva ring after getting it prescribed to me by a very nice lady doctor at Planned Parenthood. [Just a note: Planned Parenthood is a wonderful place, staffed by caring, kind, wonderful people, who seem to sincerely want the best for those who come to see them. Don't ever be afraid to go in - there are some really great, understanding folks there, who will never, ever judge you.] I should have been suspicious right away when I asked if my partner would be able to feel the right during intercourse, and the doctor said, "Well, it's not really him you want to worry about, now is it?" "I guess...." is all I said. Now, for those of you who don't know, the Nuva ring is basically a gummi bracelet (you know - the kind you used to get out of vending machines, as a kid? It's the same size) that has been coated with spermicide. You have to squish the thing into a more manageable shape, and stick it up your biz-nass, in order to ensure that no sperm will ever have a chance in hell of fulfilling its life goal of fertilizing one of your lovely, lady eggs.
Sounds great, right? After all, you don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, so there's less water retention, no mood swings, and you don't have to double-up if you forget a day, blah blah blah. I thought so, (after hearing rave reviews from friends) so I was willing to give it a shot.
I get the ring in, no sweat. So that's cool. The problem? And lemme tell you, it was a BIG PROBLEM... It made me hate sex. Not just hate it, but avoid it. Let's explain this phenomenon with a little biology lesson: The sex drive of a woman relies on hormones. More estrogen? Woman wants sex. (The highest peak of estrogen every month is right before, and after a woman ovulates. Makes Sense.) More progesterone? Woman does not want sex. (The highest levels in progesterone are found right before, and after a woman's menstrual cycle, when there is no egg to be fertilized, so, biologically, intercourse is pointless at this time.) So anyway, the Nuva Ring is full of 100% progesterone. Bad for sperm, bad for your sex drive. My libido sort of shriveled up and died by the side of the road.
Not only did I not want to have sex EVER, but I was so dry [down there] that it physically hurt to have intercourse. It actually burned before, during, and after in a place where not many things are supposed to reach, much less be in pain. (For hours afterward.)Now that I have taken the wretched ring out of my snatch, my passion is back, and from now on, I only intend to put the things in there that really matter. It's sort of like a life lesson, albeit not of the variety that you would learn in Sunday School. ^__^
Okay Kiddies! Got a Story for Ya....
Okay Kids, Got a Story for Ya……
Alright, so I was going into a Walgreen’s after work today, to buy me some shampoo ‘n stuff, right? I go in, and it’s your normal Walgreen’s, right? Obnoxious muzak blaring from the speakers, items on sale on the end-caps that you would have never before thought of purchasing, but are suddenly feeling tempted by that jumbo-pack of makeup sponges, going for 99 cents a bag. Well, I had my little shopping basket filled with mousse, shampoo, hairspray, (the works) and my little fist was full of coupons for said hairspray, shampoo, and mousse, that I had dutifully clipped from the Sunday newspaper. (Cuz’ who doesn’t love to save money, right?) My basket was getting heavy, so I headed to the checkout, only to have my progress impeded by a very large black woman, who was yelling at the poor cashier named “Devin,” and holding up the entire line of 6 people. Me and my six fellow shoppers stood around for five minutes, wondering what the holdup was. “Devin,” called on the intercom for a relief cashier, and the store manager, to help everybody else get their stuff and leave. As I was inching towards the front, I couldn’t help listen in on what exactly was going on at the front of the line.
Woman: Whadaya mean it won’t work?? Try it again.
Devin: I’m sorry, Ma’am, but your food stamp won’t work for this item.
Woman: Well, why won’t it work?!
Devin: Well, your food stamp is specified as “For Medicine, or Medical Needs,” and you’re trying to use it to buy a pack of Menthol Lights.
Woman: “Well, they’re ten dollars! It worked on the rest of my stuff.”
Devin: “Yes, well you bought diabetic-friendly cereal, nutrition shakes, and some vitamins. Those count as ‘medical needs.’ I don’t think a pack of cigarettes count.”
Woman: Oh, well fine, then. Just put it on my card.”
Devin: “Okay.”
Woman: “Wait a minute – I changed my mind. I don’t want it on the card, no more. Can
you, like, put the money back on it?”
Devin: “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but it is against store policy to do a manual void-out on credit
cards. I would have to get a manager to do that, since I’m not allowed to.”
Woman: “Fine – I’ll just pay for it by check.”
Devin: “Well, actually, it is against store policy to accept checks, too.”
Woman: “Well you’d better! I want my cigarettes, and I have a bus to catch!”
Devin: “I can accept your check if you have a valid, photo- I.D. Do you have one?”
Woman: “Yes.”
Devin: “Okay.” *Woman writes out a check, and hands it to him.*
“Ma’am, I’m still gonna need to see your photo – I.D. Do you have a driver’s
license?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A valid state I.D.?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A passport? A social-security card?”
Woman: “No. Here – take this.” *She hands him a card*
Devin: “Ma’am, this is a card for a church.”
Woman: “It’s so I can park there!”
Devin: “It doesn’t have your picture on it.”
Woman: “Well that’s my name!!”
Devin: “Ma’am, I am really, very sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”
And with that, the woman stalked off, leaving the pack of menthol lights on the check-out counter. Meanwhile, Devin stood there looking dazed for a moment, and then went off to take a quick break. I guess I wasn’t that mad that I had to wait, because I found the whole ordeal to be pretty amusing. I feel bad for poor Devin, though. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, I give him a gold star!
Alright, so I was going into a Walgreen’s after work today, to buy me some shampoo ‘n stuff, right? I go in, and it’s your normal Walgreen’s, right? Obnoxious muzak blaring from the speakers, items on sale on the end-caps that you would have never before thought of purchasing, but are suddenly feeling tempted by that jumbo-pack of makeup sponges, going for 99 cents a bag. Well, I had my little shopping basket filled with mousse, shampoo, hairspray, (the works) and my little fist was full of coupons for said hairspray, shampoo, and mousse, that I had dutifully clipped from the Sunday newspaper. (Cuz’ who doesn’t love to save money, right?) My basket was getting heavy, so I headed to the checkout, only to have my progress impeded by a very large black woman, who was yelling at the poor cashier named “Devin,” and holding up the entire line of 6 people. Me and my six fellow shoppers stood around for five minutes, wondering what the holdup was. “Devin,” called on the intercom for a relief cashier, and the store manager, to help everybody else get their stuff and leave. As I was inching towards the front, I couldn’t help listen in on what exactly was going on at the front of the line.
Woman: Whadaya mean it won’t work?? Try it again.
Devin: I’m sorry, Ma’am, but your food stamp won’t work for this item.
Woman: Well, why won’t it work?!
Devin: Well, your food stamp is specified as “For Medicine, or Medical Needs,” and you’re trying to use it to buy a pack of Menthol Lights.
Woman: “Well, they’re ten dollars! It worked on the rest of my stuff.”
Devin: “Yes, well you bought diabetic-friendly cereal, nutrition shakes, and some vitamins. Those count as ‘medical needs.’ I don’t think a pack of cigarettes count.”
Woman: Oh, well fine, then. Just put it on my card.”
Devin: “Okay.”
Woman: “Wait a minute – I changed my mind. I don’t want it on the card, no more. Can
you, like, put the money back on it?”
Devin: “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but it is against store policy to do a manual void-out on credit
cards. I would have to get a manager to do that, since I’m not allowed to.”
Woman: “Fine – I’ll just pay for it by check.”
Devin: “Well, actually, it is against store policy to accept checks, too.”
Woman: “Well you’d better! I want my cigarettes, and I have a bus to catch!”
Devin: “I can accept your check if you have a valid, photo- I.D. Do you have one?”
Woman: “Yes.”
Devin: “Okay.” *Woman writes out a check, and hands it to him.*
“Ma’am, I’m still gonna need to see your photo – I.D. Do you have a driver’s
license?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A valid state I.D.?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A passport? A social-security card?”
Woman: “No. Here – take this.” *She hands him a card*
Devin: “Ma’am, this is a card for a church.”
Woman: “It’s so I can park there!”
Devin: “It doesn’t have your picture on it.”
Woman: “Well that’s my name!!”
Devin: “Ma’am, I am really, very sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”
And with that, the woman stalked off, leaving the pack of menthol lights on the check-out counter. Meanwhile, Devin stood there looking dazed for a moment, and then went off to take a quick break. I guess I wasn’t that mad that I had to wait, because I found the whole ordeal to be pretty amusing. I feel bad for poor Devin, though. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, I give him a gold star!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Too Poor to Party
This was supposed to be my first post, but it didn't quite make it in time... so, just imagine it being the intro to the general feeling of my blog, so far.
August 7, 2009
Welcome to Minneapolis - bright, shining, indie culture-cradle of the Midwest. Think of it as the Seattle of the north woods. Every establishment here (or at least in "Uptown," where I work) is desperately trying to evoke the L.A. 'scene,' even if they won't admit it. Which they won't. [just a note; desperation isn't sexy.] And I'm too poor to party at the shows and concerts with all of the hip kids. Actually, to be honest, I'm too poor to afford food, right now. Tonight marks the first full week that I have spent here (in Minneapolis) after driving to Minnesota from Seattle in 2 days, moving into a new apartment with my fiance, Chris, finding a job, interviewing for another, and getting an offer to 2nd shoot for a photographer. All of this, and I am depressed. I feel like a nobody. I feel like the only way to get in on this "collectively-nonconformist" art 'scene' is to maintain an eating disorder, a 'look,' and a drug habit that I cannot afford. I am grateful that I live in the Midway area which is gritty, mildly ghetto, and decidedly 'un-cool.' The benefit is that the place, and the people here are REAL. It is my refuge from feeling like just another conformist white girl in the eyes of the tattooed, vegan heroin users that patronize the place where I work. I guess while other people are off being "scene," I can just appreciate the times that Chris and I have together, sitting on the couch at home on a Friday night, watching shitty network television and eating "easy-mac" in our underwear.
August 7, 2009
Welcome to Minneapolis - bright, shining, indie culture-cradle of the Midwest. Think of it as the Seattle of the north woods. Every establishment here (or at least in "Uptown," where I work) is desperately trying to evoke the L.A. 'scene,' even if they won't admit it. Which they won't. [just a note; desperation isn't sexy.] And I'm too poor to party at the shows and concerts with all of the hip kids. Actually, to be honest, I'm too poor to afford food, right now. Tonight marks the first full week that I have spent here (in Minneapolis) after driving to Minnesota from Seattle in 2 days, moving into a new apartment with my fiance, Chris, finding a job, interviewing for another, and getting an offer to 2nd shoot for a photographer. All of this, and I am depressed. I feel like a nobody. I feel like the only way to get in on this "collectively-nonconformist" art 'scene' is to maintain an eating disorder, a 'look,' and a drug habit that I cannot afford. I am grateful that I live in the Midway area which is gritty, mildly ghetto, and decidedly 'un-cool.' The benefit is that the place, and the people here are REAL. It is my refuge from feeling like just another conformist white girl in the eyes of the tattooed, vegan heroin users that patronize the place where I work. I guess while other people are off being "scene," I can just appreciate the times that Chris and I have together, sitting on the couch at home on a Friday night, watching shitty network television and eating "easy-mac" in our underwear.
Die, Hipster Scum.
Okay, Seriously? I hate working in Uptown - or, “Fucktown,” as I like to call it. The entire place is just crawling with hipsters, scene kids, and wannabes, as well as the over-paid assholes who can actually afford to live there. I think I would tolerate it more if I didn’t work in a coffee shop, which is a place where all of these losers feel perfectly legitimized in throwing their pretenses everywhere. [On the floor, the ceiling, my face….. it takes a lot of time to clean up after.] Like, the other day, I had to wait on a pair of dumb-ass 17-year-olds who had stopped in with their epitome-of-a-suburban-soccer-mom mother [bleached blonde, overly tanned, wearing Ralph Lauren – you know the type] for an ‘Iced half-caf mocha….. oh no, wait, make that a Chai.’ The two girls had dreads, tattoos, and septum piercings, and were playing with their I-Phones while their mommy made me and my co-worker change her order 3 times, held up the line of customers for ten minutes while she decided what the fuck to get, made a mess on our condiment counter (where we keep cream, sugar, hot-lids, etc.) and never tipped either of us a single dime. Looking at those girls, it got me thinking…. I guess the Abercrombie-Hollister crowd from high school decided to up and get "fierce." As a side note, a lot of this reminds me of that fad back in high school when Avril Levigne got really popular, and all of the sudden all of the cheerleaders started wearing heavy, black eyeliner, and buying Hot Topic out of their entire stock of Dickies pants. The only problem with this fad, (and yes, I am calling the 'hip, alternative-cool' look a fad) is that all of these kids have spent several thousand dollar apiece on full-body tattoos, that, let's face it, are going to absolutely look like hell when they are 53. That 110 pound cutie with the brass knuckles and a heart inked on her neck? Sure, it looks good now (if you're into that kind of thing) but how is it going to hold up when her neck skin is all flabby, and her tattoo looks like a hemorrhaging blood vessel peeking out from under her grandma sweater on bingo night?
The other thing that annoys me (and everybody else) is that no hipster will ever admit to being a hipster. All hipsters claim to be "legit," and feel perfectly justified in hating on other hipsters. Ask some skinny white dude on the street corner in tight-roll jeans, wearing Kanye shades and riding a fixie if he's a hipster, and he will vehemently deny it. I mean, hey, a lot of rapists deny having problems too. I love how the primary place where these ass-hats can get all down with their pretentious selves is when they order coffee [sorry - make that a "half-caf, sixteen ounce, organic hemp-milk cappuccino"] when I know for damn well that their punk-ass works at a pizzeria down the street, because that’s the only job they can get. And then these little shits all look down their indie-cool noses at me, because I have the misfortune of being a boring, 'mainstream', completely un-scene white girl with no tattoos, dreadlocks, or facial piercing, who likes classic rocks, wears Birkenstocks and goes to church on Sundays.
Another issue I have is that hipsters sure know how to ruin a good time. Have you ever been at a bar, dancing to the tunes and enjoying your Miller Lite, and have suddenly felt the cold, judgmental stare on the back of your neck from the scene kids in the back corner? They look at you like you are a fool, (or maybe an interesting zoo specimen) while they drink their PBR (because that is the official beer of hipsters) and are too unaffected to dance. Do hipsters even know how to have fun? When I mentioned going to the Minnesota State Fair last week, all one girl could do was complain about how sickening and immoral the idea of "livestock" was, how nasty the food was ('it's, like, not organic.....') and how much she hated the kind of people who go to fairs.(read: NORMAL PEOPLE.)I mean, for the love of God.... it's a fucking FAIR. Fairs are FUN, and involve animals, yodeling contests, and food that is so bad for you, that you can really only justify consuming it once a year. I guess it’s because what’s fun for the rest of humanity is just ‘not cool enough’ for them. Poor babies.
The other thing that annoys me (and everybody else) is that no hipster will ever admit to being a hipster. All hipsters claim to be "legit," and feel perfectly justified in hating on other hipsters. Ask some skinny white dude on the street corner in tight-roll jeans, wearing Kanye shades and riding a fixie if he's a hipster, and he will vehemently deny it. I mean, hey, a lot of rapists deny having problems too. I love how the primary place where these ass-hats can get all down with their pretentious selves is when they order coffee [sorry - make that a "half-caf, sixteen ounce, organic hemp-milk cappuccino"] when I know for damn well that their punk-ass works at a pizzeria down the street, because that’s the only job they can get. And then these little shits all look down their indie-cool noses at me, because I have the misfortune of being a boring, 'mainstream', completely un-scene white girl with no tattoos, dreadlocks, or facial piercing, who likes classic rocks, wears Birkenstocks and goes to church on Sundays.
Another issue I have is that hipsters sure know how to ruin a good time. Have you ever been at a bar, dancing to the tunes and enjoying your Miller Lite, and have suddenly felt the cold, judgmental stare on the back of your neck from the scene kids in the back corner? They look at you like you are a fool, (or maybe an interesting zoo specimen) while they drink their PBR (because that is the official beer of hipsters) and are too unaffected to dance. Do hipsters even know how to have fun? When I mentioned going to the Minnesota State Fair last week, all one girl could do was complain about how sickening and immoral the idea of "livestock" was, how nasty the food was ('it's, like, not organic.....') and how much she hated the kind of people who go to fairs.(read: NORMAL PEOPLE.)I mean, for the love of God.... it's a fucking FAIR. Fairs are FUN, and involve animals, yodeling contests, and food that is so bad for you, that you can really only justify consuming it once a year. I guess it’s because what’s fun for the rest of humanity is just ‘not cool enough’ for them. Poor babies.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Do Not Forget About Your Education
Do Not Forget About Your Education
I had great intentions, this morning. After going on a long run all around the “Witch’s Hat,” neighborhood last evening, I was all pumped and ready to get up bright and early, and go on an invigorating morning run. My plans were thwarted by my nearly nocturnal sleeping schedule that I have slipped into. Having a job with irregular hours does not help, of course. I woke up at 9am, and then decided to take another 2 hour nap. After I had a bowl of oatmeal (using a packet that I had scavenged from work) and realized that there really wasn’t much of anything else for me to do, so I finally got up and ready for the day around the crack of noon. I spent a little time doing my hair, putting on some makeup… you know, looking presentable for my thrilling closing shift at work tonight. Can’t wait for all the regulars to see me in my cute little overalls…. bet’cha they’ll all go ape shit. Anyways, I needed to go to the pharmacy to pick up my brand, spanking new “Nuva Ring.’ I am slightly hesitant about using it – those commercials seem too good to be true. One little vaginally inserted gummi bracelet ended up costing me a cool $60! Not having health insurance sucks. Fuck this. Anyways, the pharmacy that I went to was a little, old-fashioned corner store in an old brick building on University Ave. It is easy to overlook, at first, until you start reading all of the hand-lettered signs and murals in every available window reading, “Healthcare for All!” “The Secret to Democracy is Eduacation for All Citizens!” “We Are Citizens of the World!” “Working Together, we can Create the Great, American Renaissance!” I got the feeling that I would like this place. I walk in, and it sort of reminded me of Olivander’s Wand Shop in Harry Potter. Only, instead of wand-boxes being crammed into every available space, there were boxes upon boxes upon boxes of band-aids, bandages, notecards, cold medicines, homeopathic remedies, incense, an impressive collection of vintage, wind-up tin soldiers and robots, Hindu calendars, and much, much more. I could barely tell where the merchandise ended, and where the countertops began. From behind a large stack of Ace Bandages, I could barely spot a shock of frizzy, white hair that I soon identified as the pharmacist. His name was Paul, and he spoke with a lovely, vaguely Indian accent. He had hair like Doc Brown in Back to the Future, tanned skin, and was wearing a pin-striped, Oxford shirt and a large pair of black, horn-rimmed spectacles that made his eyes seem two sizes too big for the rest of his face. After he got done ringing me up, he asked me what I was up to. I explained that I had just moved here from Chicago, and that my fiancé was starting graduate school at the U of M this fall, so I had gotten a job and moved in with him. He asked me (very pointedly) if I was thinking about graduate school. I told him that I wasn’t looking at graduate programs at the moment, and that I had just graduated from college, so I was planning on working for a little while before I figured out what to do with my life. He told me that there were a great many institutions of higher learning in the area, and then he said, “Do not forget about your own education.” I was a bit perplexed, because he knew that I had just graduated from college. Did he mean for me to be looking at professional programs? Was he telling me that I shouldn’t stop now, that I should be trying to get into a graduate program? I wonder if he could read my mind – that I was finding it tempting to just hang out and work for a few years, not having to worry about school, higher degrees, or much of anything else. His demeanor reminded me of an Indian mystic – I could just as easily picture him in a Hare-Krishna robe as in his lab-coat. I said goodbye to him, as I was leaving, and he said again, “Do not forget about your education.” Huh… weird. Now the big question is, ‘What do I want to get educated in??’ (Cue life crisis!!!)
I had great intentions, this morning. After going on a long run all around the “Witch’s Hat,” neighborhood last evening, I was all pumped and ready to get up bright and early, and go on an invigorating morning run. My plans were thwarted by my nearly nocturnal sleeping schedule that I have slipped into. Having a job with irregular hours does not help, of course. I woke up at 9am, and then decided to take another 2 hour nap. After I had a bowl of oatmeal (using a packet that I had scavenged from work) and realized that there really wasn’t much of anything else for me to do, so I finally got up and ready for the day around the crack of noon. I spent a little time doing my hair, putting on some makeup… you know, looking presentable for my thrilling closing shift at work tonight. Can’t wait for all the regulars to see me in my cute little overalls…. bet’cha they’ll all go ape shit. Anyways, I needed to go to the pharmacy to pick up my brand, spanking new “Nuva Ring.’ I am slightly hesitant about using it – those commercials seem too good to be true. One little vaginally inserted gummi bracelet ended up costing me a cool $60! Not having health insurance sucks. Fuck this. Anyways, the pharmacy that I went to was a little, old-fashioned corner store in an old brick building on University Ave. It is easy to overlook, at first, until you start reading all of the hand-lettered signs and murals in every available window reading, “Healthcare for All!” “The Secret to Democracy is Eduacation for All Citizens!” “We Are Citizens of the World!” “Working Together, we can Create the Great, American Renaissance!” I got the feeling that I would like this place. I walk in, and it sort of reminded me of Olivander’s Wand Shop in Harry Potter. Only, instead of wand-boxes being crammed into every available space, there were boxes upon boxes upon boxes of band-aids, bandages, notecards, cold medicines, homeopathic remedies, incense, an impressive collection of vintage, wind-up tin soldiers and robots, Hindu calendars, and much, much more. I could barely tell where the merchandise ended, and where the countertops began. From behind a large stack of Ace Bandages, I could barely spot a shock of frizzy, white hair that I soon identified as the pharmacist. His name was Paul, and he spoke with a lovely, vaguely Indian accent. He had hair like Doc Brown in Back to the Future, tanned skin, and was wearing a pin-striped, Oxford shirt and a large pair of black, horn-rimmed spectacles that made his eyes seem two sizes too big for the rest of his face. After he got done ringing me up, he asked me what I was up to. I explained that I had just moved here from Chicago, and that my fiancé was starting graduate school at the U of M this fall, so I had gotten a job and moved in with him. He asked me (very pointedly) if I was thinking about graduate school. I told him that I wasn’t looking at graduate programs at the moment, and that I had just graduated from college, so I was planning on working for a little while before I figured out what to do with my life. He told me that there were a great many institutions of higher learning in the area, and then he said, “Do not forget about your own education.” I was a bit perplexed, because he knew that I had just graduated from college. Did he mean for me to be looking at professional programs? Was he telling me that I shouldn’t stop now, that I should be trying to get into a graduate program? I wonder if he could read my mind – that I was finding it tempting to just hang out and work for a few years, not having to worry about school, higher degrees, or much of anything else. His demeanor reminded me of an Indian mystic – I could just as easily picture him in a Hare-Krishna robe as in his lab-coat. I said goodbye to him, as I was leaving, and he said again, “Do not forget about your education.” Huh… weird. Now the big question is, ‘What do I want to get educated in??’ (Cue life crisis!!!)
A Note on the Liberal Use of Butter:
My grandparents visited me and Chris this weekend at our new apartment, on their way north to visit some old friends in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. While Chris was at work on Friday afternoon, my grandparents and I went out to see the much acclaimed movie, “Julie & Julia.” I absolutely adored the movie – call me cheesy, but the combination of the story of a small-time blogger who struck gold, Meryl Streep, and butter, seemed to wrap me up in a feeling of comfort that only a good meal can provide. After watching the movie on Friday, I was at home by myself on Sunday afternoon, folding some laundry. I turned on the tube, and flipped to PBS, where what should be on but, “The French Chef, with Julia Child”?
As I sat there in utter awe, watching her cook flawless omelet after flawless omelet, I wondered; ‘What is her secret??’ And then I saw it – next to her copper (not Teflon!) frying pan, I saw a plate – no, a trough, of butter. Before each omelet-to-be went to meet its delicious fate in the pan, she would take an ENITRE SPATULAS WORTH of butter, and lovingly dollop it into the simmering, attendant heat of the concave, copper surface. After the omelet was completed, she would then remind her audience of the importance of brushing the top of the creation with yet MORE butter, before pronouncing it ‘ready to eat.’ I thought I had died, and gone to heaven.
Here is a woman who shared the same belief that my Oma (God rest her soul) did:
You can never have too much butter.
Now, I have often had people claim, after eating one of my culinary creations, that I was trying to kill them. And I have to admit, if I were to ever attempt my plan regarding world domination, it would probably center around me opening up a pastry shop. Sure, all of my hapless victims would most likely perish of massive coronaries, but I can bet you they would all die happy. I felt vindicated, after seeing the Grande Dame herself tell her t.v. audience with the utmost sincerity in her eyes, that no recipe will work, *ever*, if you attempt to skimp on the butter. It is a sin, people!!! Substituting yogurt for milk-fat in a banana-bread recipe?? Never! Using olive oil when frying a chicken? Sin!! And I am not even going to mention the worst of all offenders by name… but, I will give you a hint. It starts with an “M,” and ends with “-argarine.” *Shudder.*
I consider it a crime when I flip through the pages of my latest edition of The Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, and see that every single recipe has cut back, or even eliminated, things like butter, flour, sugar, whole milk, (and no, just so you know, the recipe does NOT taste perfectly fine when you substitute skim) and even eggs! What are these people thinking??! I’m not gonna make a casserole because I’m planning on entering a swimsuit competiton. Every single recipe for baked goods features a cute, 220 to 300 calories per serving. 200 calories for a piece of pound cake? Are you fucking kidding me??? In its original incarnation, pound cake featured one pound, that’s right, you heard me, one pound of butter. Not “1/3 stick of butter, or margarine, if you prefer.” Those people should burn for this. The lies – the recipes in that book are bad, and wrong, and every time a pie is made with a butter-substitute crust instead of LARD, like God intended, a baby dolphin dies.
I, meanwhile, intend to honor the memory of Julia Child, my Oma, and all of the brave men and women who have gone before me, and bake only with REAL BUTTER, REAL FAT, and make REAL GOOD FOOD. Okay – enough of the sermon. Who wants pie? ^__^
My grandparents visited me and Chris this weekend at our new apartment, on their way north to visit some old friends in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. While Chris was at work on Friday afternoon, my grandparents and I went out to see the much acclaimed movie, “Julie & Julia.” I absolutely adored the movie – call me cheesy, but the combination of the story of a small-time blogger who struck gold, Meryl Streep, and butter, seemed to wrap me up in a feeling of comfort that only a good meal can provide. After watching the movie on Friday, I was at home by myself on Sunday afternoon, folding some laundry. I turned on the tube, and flipped to PBS, where what should be on but, “The French Chef, with Julia Child”?
As I sat there in utter awe, watching her cook flawless omelet after flawless omelet, I wondered; ‘What is her secret??’ And then I saw it – next to her copper (not Teflon!) frying pan, I saw a plate – no, a trough, of butter. Before each omelet-to-be went to meet its delicious fate in the pan, she would take an ENITRE SPATULAS WORTH of butter, and lovingly dollop it into the simmering, attendant heat of the concave, copper surface. After the omelet was completed, she would then remind her audience of the importance of brushing the top of the creation with yet MORE butter, before pronouncing it ‘ready to eat.’ I thought I had died, and gone to heaven.
Here is a woman who shared the same belief that my Oma (God rest her soul) did:
You can never have too much butter.
Now, I have often had people claim, after eating one of my culinary creations, that I was trying to kill them. And I have to admit, if I were to ever attempt my plan regarding world domination, it would probably center around me opening up a pastry shop. Sure, all of my hapless victims would most likely perish of massive coronaries, but I can bet you they would all die happy. I felt vindicated, after seeing the Grande Dame herself tell her t.v. audience with the utmost sincerity in her eyes, that no recipe will work, *ever*, if you attempt to skimp on the butter. It is a sin, people!!! Substituting yogurt for milk-fat in a banana-bread recipe?? Never! Using olive oil when frying a chicken? Sin!! And I am not even going to mention the worst of all offenders by name… but, I will give you a hint. It starts with an “M,” and ends with “-argarine.” *Shudder.*
I consider it a crime when I flip through the pages of my latest edition of The Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, and see that every single recipe has cut back, or even eliminated, things like butter, flour, sugar, whole milk, (and no, just so you know, the recipe does NOT taste perfectly fine when you substitute skim) and even eggs! What are these people thinking??! I’m not gonna make a casserole because I’m planning on entering a swimsuit competiton. Every single recipe for baked goods features a cute, 220 to 300 calories per serving. 200 calories for a piece of pound cake? Are you fucking kidding me??? In its original incarnation, pound cake featured one pound, that’s right, you heard me, one pound of butter. Not “1/3 stick of butter, or margarine, if you prefer.” Those people should burn for this. The lies – the recipes in that book are bad, and wrong, and every time a pie is made with a butter-substitute crust instead of LARD, like God intended, a baby dolphin dies.
I, meanwhile, intend to honor the memory of Julia Child, my Oma, and all of the brave men and women who have gone before me, and bake only with REAL BUTTER, REAL FAT, and make REAL GOOD FOOD. Okay – enough of the sermon. Who wants pie? ^__^
The Trials and Tribulations of a West Coast Imposter
So, as I'm sure you all know ("you" being the people I know in real life who might actually take interest in reading this blogospheric masterpiece) I spent the first two months of my summer in Seattle, WA. I drove all the way out there, and I drove all the fuck way back. On the return trip, it only took me two days, as I was driving like a woman possessed (Anyone remember that story about the crazy ex-astronaut lady who drove from Houston to Florida to kill off her supposed "rival"?). I basically lived off of 5-hour energy shots, and Visine drops to keep my eyes from crusting over 'cuz I stopped blinking after a while. Anywayzzzzz..... I'm really only including this chunk because Elaine thought that my stay in Billings, MT *shudder* had some entertainment value.
So, to set the scene: It was just after dusk, as I was nearing my 14th straight hour of driving, going 75 miles an hour over the last few dips, dives, and hairpin turns that the Rocky Mountains had to offer. The sky was at that horrible, in-between sunset and night-time phase, where you can't see a damn thing. My palms were sweaty and I was chewing my lip like a smack addict, as I tried not to hit one of the thousands of pronghorn antelope that were hanging around. I prayed to God that I would get to Billings, MT soon..... I was tired, delirious, and I was starting to talk to myself. I called ahead to the Best Western, Billings, to confirm my room for the night. They assured me that everything was all fine and dandy, and I thought that that was all there would be of it.......
So I finally reach Billings at about 10 o'clock at night. The Best Western was right off the highway, and seemed a paradisaical oasis in the long, flat, black nothingness that was Montana at night. The hotel was huge, and had leather furniture and a chandelier in the lobby - pretty swanky for a Best Western, I thought. I asked the rather rotund woman at the front desk if I could check in, and my heart sank as she informed me that I did not have a reservation at her hotel. She said, "Well, there's TWO Best Westerns in town, yah know." The only thing hse had to offer me was a king-sized, whirlpool suite. Looking back on it, I should have said "yes," and paid the $180 for the stupid room. Little did I know that the "other" Best Western was quite possibly the absolute black hole of the universe.
I got into downtown Billings at about 11pm, after being completely turned around in an industrial park, because all of the city streets were ripped up, due to construction (figures.) I should have been tipped off while I was driving there - I was going through town when I saw a bright, green sign behind a razor-wire fence, advertising the "Billings MT. Women's Correctional Facility." The sad thing was, it was probably the best-kept piece of real-estate for a mile around. I had a hard time finding the hotel, at first, because as it turned out, the hotel shared a wall with an auto-parts store, and was basically built underneath a parking garage. Nice. As it turns out, there was absolutely no place to park, so I had to hunt for the next 20 minutes for a parking space before checking in for the night. I thought I had found a nice location, kind-of tucked away into a dark alleyway, until I looked over my shoulder and saw that the alleyway adjoined to a food-pantry slash mission, that looked kinda like the halfway house in the Blues Brothers that Elwood shacked up in. Thinking better of my decisions, before I became a feature of the evening news, I looked once again for a parking spot. Luckily, a man pulled out of a space in front of the hotel in his Lexus, with a startlingly blonde woman who most certainly did not look like his wife. I headed to the front door of the hotel, and happened to glance across the street, where I was greeted by the sight of the Billings, MT. women's shelter and soup kitchen, this time around. Gritting my teeth, and close to tears, I finally got my room key, and was almost to my bed for the night before being accosted by an unkempt, 5 foot tall woman in her fifties demanding to know where her mother was, and if she was mad at her. At this point, I just gave this last person in my day a blank stare, and scurried into my hotel room, where I slept amidst ominous thuds and yells from the walls around me.
So...... to wrap up, don't go to Billings, MT. And if you do have to stay there, for whatever reason, stay at the Best Western that is 5 miles outside of town.
So, to set the scene: It was just after dusk, as I was nearing my 14th straight hour of driving, going 75 miles an hour over the last few dips, dives, and hairpin turns that the Rocky Mountains had to offer. The sky was at that horrible, in-between sunset and night-time phase, where you can't see a damn thing. My palms were sweaty and I was chewing my lip like a smack addict, as I tried not to hit one of the thousands of pronghorn antelope that were hanging around. I prayed to God that I would get to Billings, MT soon..... I was tired, delirious, and I was starting to talk to myself. I called ahead to the Best Western, Billings, to confirm my room for the night. They assured me that everything was all fine and dandy, and I thought that that was all there would be of it.......
So I finally reach Billings at about 10 o'clock at night. The Best Western was right off the highway, and seemed a paradisaical oasis in the long, flat, black nothingness that was Montana at night. The hotel was huge, and had leather furniture and a chandelier in the lobby - pretty swanky for a Best Western, I thought. I asked the rather rotund woman at the front desk if I could check in, and my heart sank as she informed me that I did not have a reservation at her hotel. She said, "Well, there's TWO Best Westerns in town, yah know." The only thing hse had to offer me was a king-sized, whirlpool suite. Looking back on it, I should have said "yes," and paid the $180 for the stupid room. Little did I know that the "other" Best Western was quite possibly the absolute black hole of the universe.
I got into downtown Billings at about 11pm, after being completely turned around in an industrial park, because all of the city streets were ripped up, due to construction (figures.) I should have been tipped off while I was driving there - I was going through town when I saw a bright, green sign behind a razor-wire fence, advertising the "Billings MT. Women's Correctional Facility." The sad thing was, it was probably the best-kept piece of real-estate for a mile around. I had a hard time finding the hotel, at first, because as it turned out, the hotel shared a wall with an auto-parts store, and was basically built underneath a parking garage. Nice. As it turns out, there was absolutely no place to park, so I had to hunt for the next 20 minutes for a parking space before checking in for the night. I thought I had found a nice location, kind-of tucked away into a dark alleyway, until I looked over my shoulder and saw that the alleyway adjoined to a food-pantry slash mission, that looked kinda like the halfway house in the Blues Brothers that Elwood shacked up in. Thinking better of my decisions, before I became a feature of the evening news, I looked once again for a parking spot. Luckily, a man pulled out of a space in front of the hotel in his Lexus, with a startlingly blonde woman who most certainly did not look like his wife. I headed to the front door of the hotel, and happened to glance across the street, where I was greeted by the sight of the Billings, MT. women's shelter and soup kitchen, this time around. Gritting my teeth, and close to tears, I finally got my room key, and was almost to my bed for the night before being accosted by an unkempt, 5 foot tall woman in her fifties demanding to know where her mother was, and if she was mad at her. At this point, I just gave this last person in my day a blank stare, and scurried into my hotel room, where I slept amidst ominous thuds and yells from the walls around me.
So...... to wrap up, don't go to Billings, MT. And if you do have to stay there, for whatever reason, stay at the Best Western that is 5 miles outside of town.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Welcome to the Rest of Your Life!
You know, I have half a mind to punch my undergraduate adviser in the nose.
All through undergrad, we students are cuddled, coddled, and encouraged all through the process of obtaining a bachelor's degree. A degree that, we are all assured, will land us some wonderful job in some wonderful city, where we will all become wonderful, worldly, important members of society, who will also happen to donate regualarly to the alumni annual fund. Gee, sounds great, doesn't it? I mean, who wouldn't want that? And, after putting down a cool $35,000 in tuition to a private institution for four years, that seems like something you could come to expect, right?
Well, not really. Now, I don't mean to sound bitter, but our college president's farewell address to the graduating seniors this May didn't exactly leave me feeling all too inspired. He basically told us that we were entering the toughest job market that our country had seen for decades, and that most of us could thank our lucky stars if we so much as got an interview for a plum job. He then went on to say that even though things were in the proverbial shitter, that the exemplary education that we had recieved from our fine institution would allow us to somehow prevail, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, blah blah blah. And that we, of course, should remeber our fair alma mater once we had achieved our respective goals of becoming gainfully employed, and donate liberally to all of their various fund raisers and endowments, etc. Now, I know that the speech wasn't quite as bleak as I painted it, but I don't think you could blame me for feeling a little bitter. I do, however, feel justified in the fact that Chris and I stole a full set of engraved drinking glasses from the event in retailiation. (We hope to someday fill them all with fancy, imported beer, and serve all of our fellow, post-grad classmates with them. When we can afford fancy, imported beer, that is.)
As for my advisor, I love Richard dearly, but I can't help but feel that maybe these wonderful individuals did us a bit of a disservice by filling our head with fantasies of salaried jobs, and sure-fure entry into noteworthy master's programs. First off, no one wants to hire people with an arts background. (Does Starbuck's count??) Of course, being an art major, I saw that one coming a mile away. I was already prepped and ready to be living out of a refridgerator box on the street, as all of my friends enjoyed telling me. So I guess the dashed prospects of having a"real job" after college graduation don't sting quite as much as they would for someone with, say, an accounting degree. It's just a new fact of life, I suppose. One thing that Sonja and I talked about was that we feel lucky to be just starting out in this shit economy, rather than being someone who graduated 10 years ago, started a family, and just got fired from a job that they thought would be a sure bet. (All of the accountants that are getting laid off, anyone?) We're still young, flexible, used to living in rat-hole apartments, and have no families or professional prospects at the moment. Hey, the nice thing about lowered expecations is that you don't get disappointed as often, right? After all, who needs air-conditioning and functional plumbing?? : ) As for a career, I intend to follow that coffeeshop route as far as it will take me. It hasn't let me down so far!
All through undergrad, we students are cuddled, coddled, and encouraged all through the process of obtaining a bachelor's degree. A degree that, we are all assured, will land us some wonderful job in some wonderful city, where we will all become wonderful, worldly, important members of society, who will also happen to donate regualarly to the alumni annual fund. Gee, sounds great, doesn't it? I mean, who wouldn't want that? And, after putting down a cool $35,000 in tuition to a private institution for four years, that seems like something you could come to expect, right?
Well, not really. Now, I don't mean to sound bitter, but our college president's farewell address to the graduating seniors this May didn't exactly leave me feeling all too inspired. He basically told us that we were entering the toughest job market that our country had seen for decades, and that most of us could thank our lucky stars if we so much as got an interview for a plum job. He then went on to say that even though things were in the proverbial shitter, that the exemplary education that we had recieved from our fine institution would allow us to somehow prevail, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, blah blah blah. And that we, of course, should remeber our fair alma mater once we had achieved our respective goals of becoming gainfully employed, and donate liberally to all of their various fund raisers and endowments, etc. Now, I know that the speech wasn't quite as bleak as I painted it, but I don't think you could blame me for feeling a little bitter. I do, however, feel justified in the fact that Chris and I stole a full set of engraved drinking glasses from the event in retailiation. (We hope to someday fill them all with fancy, imported beer, and serve all of our fellow, post-grad classmates with them. When we can afford fancy, imported beer, that is.)
As for my advisor, I love Richard dearly, but I can't help but feel that maybe these wonderful individuals did us a bit of a disservice by filling our head with fantasies of salaried jobs, and sure-fure entry into noteworthy master's programs. First off, no one wants to hire people with an arts background. (Does Starbuck's count??) Of course, being an art major, I saw that one coming a mile away. I was already prepped and ready to be living out of a refridgerator box on the street, as all of my friends enjoyed telling me. So I guess the dashed prospects of having a"real job" after college graduation don't sting quite as much as they would for someone with, say, an accounting degree. It's just a new fact of life, I suppose. One thing that Sonja and I talked about was that we feel lucky to be just starting out in this shit economy, rather than being someone who graduated 10 years ago, started a family, and just got fired from a job that they thought would be a sure bet. (All of the accountants that are getting laid off, anyone?) We're still young, flexible, used to living in rat-hole apartments, and have no families or professional prospects at the moment. Hey, the nice thing about lowered expecations is that you don't get disappointed as often, right? After all, who needs air-conditioning and functional plumbing?? : ) As for a career, I intend to follow that coffeeshop route as far as it will take me. It hasn't let me down so far!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
