Just Add Water?

A friend tipped me off concerning a Washington Post article about an upscale company selling “concentrated water.”
Here’s a clip of the article:

“Desalinated seawater from Hawaii, meanwhile, is being sold as "concentrated water" -- at $33.50 for a two-ounce bottle. Like any concentrated beverage, it is supposed to be diluted before drinking, except that in this case, that means adding water to . . . water.”

More significant than the fact that selling concentrated water is slightly bizarre, is the pressing issue concerning what the upscale water should be diluted with.

If one has a two-ounce bottle of concentrated water, what sort of water should be added to it?
Tap water? No—too crappy—it’ll dilute the flavor of the pure water.
Garden variety bottled water like Dasani or Evian? Too generic; who dilutes upscale water with water bottled by Coca Cola?
Should one dilute it with Fiji Water? That might come off as trying too hard.
Should one simply add more concentrated water to the concentrated water? It seems to be the only liquid that is parallel. Or would that be way too powerful? Is drinking a cup of concentrated water mixed with more concentrated water too strong? Would that be TOO good for one's health?
What to do?! WHAT BRAND OF UPSCALE WATER DOES ONE ADD TO THEIR TWO-OUNCE BOTTLE OF CONCENTRATED WATER?!


Concentrated Water? Seriously?...
Snobby, brand-driven elitists have bigger problems than I thought...

Credits go to the tree huggers...

Bus Driver, Get this Woman a Strait Jacket—STAT!

The following events took place at 5:55PM at the Arlington County Ballston Bus Station on Monday, June 23rd.

On Monday evening as I sat on the bus thinking to myself how wonderful it was that it was my last day as a bus rider I heard some commotion. I looked around and realized that a fight was breaking out between two women.
One was a hefty brunette with an abnormally lumpy and EXTREMELY large chest. She was wearing a thin black cotton dress that displayed the deep valley of her oddly shaped cleavage. The second lady, also quite large, appeared to be slightly mentally challenged. She had on coke bottle glasses, a backpack, and her hair was buzzed military style. She carried herself with a sense of uncertainty and confusion.

I missed what began the argument and started listening right around the middle when Lumpy Chest—who was standing at the bus stop—started screaming obscenities at Buzz Cut. Buzz Cut got into the bus—the one I was sitting on—and from the front steps of the bus started calling Lumpy Chest some nasty four-letter-words in a really garbled voice. Lumpy Chest did not like this. She responded with some four-letter-words of her own that I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard before.
(The front and the back doors of the bus were open—this facilitated the argument considerably).
Suddenly Lumpy Chest (still at the bus stop) started mixing racial slurs with four-letter-words in terribly inventive sentence constructions that made every bystander’s ears bleed. Buzz Cut responded with similar racial slurs and cuss words—that still sounded sort of distorted.

At this point the inside of the bus looked like the audience at a volley ball match: everyone’s heads were swishing from side to side. First to Buzz Cut as she yelled out horrible things, then to Lumpy Chest, who volleyed back the insults with ones of her own. There was a baby on the bus; I seriously considered asking the baby’s mother to cover her child’s ears with a diaper.

Then Buzz Cut yelled “B*****! I’ll NEVER BE YOUR ******* B***** ! YOU BLANKITY BLANK BLANKITY BLANK BLANK BLANKITY” And while we were all trying to figure out how she could construct all those words into one sentence and whether they really worked cohesively together, something happened: Lumpy Chest went crazy. ABSOLUTELY NUTS. Like someone-strap-her-down-stick-her-in-a-strait-jacket-and-inject-her-with-some-meds-kind of nuts.
She stood at the bus stop, her face piping red, screaming at the top of her lungs unintelligibly. The words didn’t even sound like English.

The bus commissioner, the man who runs Ballston Bus Stop area is a regal old black man who coordinates the bus timetables (and wears one of those huge Russian hats even in the summer). He looked bewildered and flustered. His job was bus scheduling; it was obvious the entire experience was too much for him. What was happening here was bigger than bus timetables and was more important than buses running on time. He took one look at Lumpy Chest screaming and his face seemed to say: they don’t even pay me enough to try and put this fire out. He stepped back and kept observing in a perturbed fashion.

Meanwhile Lumpy Chest was still screaming and cussing. In her rage she had frothed up a large amount of spit, which she proceeded to launch at the bus window where Buzz cut—who was laughing like a hyena on crack—was seated.

Everyone in the bus gasped when the spit hit the window—sort of like a crowd watching a scary movie at a theatre. Buzz Cut just laughed harder. This seemed to anger Lumpy Chest even more and her rage went off-the-richter.
What happened next floored everyone: Lumpy Chest gathered every ounce of her plentiful mass and started running toward the bus. As she did it she gained more momentum (partly from speed and partly from rage I suppose) until she finally launched herself right against the bus window where Buzz Cut was sitting.

The window didn’t break (surprisingly) but everyone gasped again—this time in trepidation. I looked over at Buzz Cut, she had stopped laughing and even through her coke bottle lenses you could see her eyes had doubled in size. She looked like she had probably wet her pants when Lumpy Chest had smashed against her window (Who could blame her though? When your opponent makes themselves a human torpedo at the glass window next you, you start to question yourself and wonder whether you’ve bitten off more than you can chew).

Back to the story—while all the bus riders shivered and looked about frantically for a stray police officer, Lumpy Chest peeled herself off the window. As she stepped back, one extremely large and floppy breast that gravity had overlooked fell out of her dress and hung there for everyone to see.

It started with one laugh and then suddenly everyone on the bus started doubling over in laughter at the sight of it. Soon the bus was filled with people doubled over with laughter. The bus driver took this opportunity to close the doors and slowing start easing away from the bus stop.
Lumpy Chest—now out of her rage—adjusted herself in horror, but it was too late. Buzz Cut proudly sat there amongst the amusement incorrectly assuming that the laughter was a showing of support for her stance in the argument and also assuming that the breast incident had automatically crowned her winner of the brawl.
Her initial fear of the Lumpy Chest had disappeared and was now replaced with a feeling of comfortable triumph. She kept on distortedly muttering to the baby next to her:
“See? Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy does. See what crazy did?”

It was the perfect bus send off. Goodbye Arlington County Bus system!

Photo Credits: http://www.dailyguilt.com/wp-content/38_Bus.jpg

DAY 451 of MY R. KELLY MUSIC BOYCOTT …

“R. Kelly's child pornography trial wasn't very complicated. On one side, you've got a 27-minute sex tape. This tape shows a man who looks like R. Kelly giving money to, having sex with, and urinating on someone who looks like his goddaughter, a girl who would've been around 14 at the time. All of this takes place in a log-cabin-style sauna room that looks exactly like R. Kelly's log-cabin-style sauna room. On the other side, you've got the Shaggy defense (It wasn't me!), the Little Man defense (It's my head on some other dude's body!), the Sparkle defense (I was framed by a bunch of money-grubbing lowlifes!), and the "ghost sex" defense (I'm actually not sure what the point of this one was, but there were headless people having sex and it was weird and creepy). On Thursday, the jury retired to weigh the evidence. On Friday, they emerged with a verdict: not guilty on all counts. R. Kelly walks, and Little Man becomes the first Wayans brothers movie to contribute to a man's welfare.”

This excerpt is taken from an amusing but accurate Slate article titled The R. Kelly Trial: How a Superstar Got Off that chronicles the various angles Kelly’s defense team worked to successfully acquit him of his child pornography charges.

And so my boycott continues…

OFFICE THERAPIST? Must be nice.

Designer: Yea, she’ll probably go talk to our therapist about it.
Me: Wait...you have an OFFICE THERAPIST?
Designer: Yea…? (Giving me a “YOU DON’T??” sort of look)
Me (Giving her a “OF COURSE I DON’T” look): That’s so weird. Does he stay in the office?
Designer: No, he sort of pops in every once in a while and everyone goes in and sees him.
Me: What could you possibly need an office therapist for?
Designer (Very earnestly): We do! Stress from work-related problems, that sort of thing. Dr. X fixes EVERYTHING. He’s like the Green Wizard in Wizard of Oz, he magically makes EVERYTHING better.
Me: That’s crap. All your co-workers really need is someone to talk to. The only thing Dr. X is making better is his WALLET. What a gig! I would willingly quit my job to stop by your office once a week and get paid to listen to everyone complain about their work-related problems. That’s all he really does anyway. He just listens. Have YOU been to him yet?
Designer: (Shakes her head with a slightly regretful look).
Me (Accusingly): You mentioned you have a rough day coming up. Deep inside you WANT to talk to Dr. X about it don’t you? I can tell.
Friend: (Slowly nods her head while looking excited about the prospect).
Me (Shake my head and jealously mutter): Designers are crazy.

I’m obviously in the wrong industry. I need to go into therapy and make a killing off high strung, overworked designers.
Or I need to go into design and spend my stress-filled work days lying on Dr. X’s couch complaining about how the Starbucks coffee machine on the 5th floor has broken down again, or exploring why the color mauve makes me feel physically ill and uninspired.

THINGS THAT MAKE MY HEART DO A TRIPLE LUTZ

On our way back from signing a new lease my roommate and I drove past an antique flea market in Courthouse. Now after living with four designers I’ve come to learn this: they are a whole different breed of human being. They speak a different language. It’s all about rhythm and structure, color and composition, inspiration and eco-friendliness (once I found organic toilet paper in our bathroom—the tag line? Soft on the nature and soft on you—so weird).

As we drove by the flea market my roommate screeched: “AN ANTIQUE FLEA MARKET! PULL OVER, STOP THE CAR!” and I immediately pulled off the road with the same sort of urgency Batman would have if Robin had yelled “THE JOKER IS ABOUT TO EAT A BABY ON THE 40TH FLOOR OF A NUCLEAR PLANT THAT IS ABOUT TO BE BLOWN UP BY AL QUAEDA.”

After laboring through a horrible parking job (it took about 57 maneuvers and 6 drops of sweat to successfully park the car), that left both of us dissatisfied with my parallel parking skills, we walked two blocks to the market.

My thoughts on antiques: I only like them when they are in a room juxtaposed with modernity. For instance: an antique statue next to a flat screen plasma television—this I like. I can’t really see their beauty when they are in their natural habitat (like a flea market, an estate sale, or a grandmother’s musty attic) looking dusty, dirty and extremely fragile. It makes me shiver and want to run around the flea market with Lysol and a steam cleaner.

My roommate, however, was in designer heaven; she was flitting through the market like we were in King Tut’s tomb of treasures. As we poked around all the odds and ends, I spotted it and my heart did a backflip: A 1930’s typewriter.
I’ve wanted an antique typewriter for a long time and after not being to afford any on eBay I had given up and made a pact with my friend: When we became successful in our various fields I would buy her an antique trumpet (she’s musical) and she would buy me an old fashioned typewriter (as a classy nod to writing).
But it’s 2008 and I’ve come to realize that sometimes you can’t wait around for a) success or b) for others to buy you stuff when you achieve success (whatever success is).

The dealer was a character. He was wrinkly and tanned and he looked like an explorer in his linen shirt, linen pants and Khaki fedora ensemble. After sensing my interest as a buyer, he gave me a lecture in an undistinguishable accent on how to continue restoring the typewriter he had begun working on: “Just dip a q-tip in some D-44 and carefully wipe down each typebar while you listen to the radio in the background,” he instructed. It was a quaint idea, ideal for a hot Havana night in 1962, but I knew the 2008 translation of that was “Just dip a q-tip in some D-44 and carefully wipe down each typebar while you watch HBO reruns, talk to a friend on speakerphone, and paint your toenails with your other hand.”

So now I am restoring my typewriter and when it’s done I’ll type proper thank you notes and long, arduous letters on it—which in this day and age sounds kind of Unabomber -ish, so don’t freak out if you get an envelope from me with your name typed on it and a little bit of red nail polish in the corner.

Photo Credits:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2311/2046440653_2dee5fe2f0.jpg

Our Vittle Boris Adores Eating Spoonfuls of Vard!

A seven-year-old 220 POUND Romanian boy was just taken out of his parent’s custody and admitted to a hospital.
His diet for the last couple of years? Bread and lard.
Parents of the year? Debatable.

Photo Credits: http://www.aszichild.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/05/_mg_6584.JPG

A PIG: A GERM-O-PHOBE’S BEST FRIEND!

I’ve never really liked pigs; they stand for everything I am against: overindulgence, dirt, the word “oink,” and a lack of regard for general sanitation guidelines.

BABE I would eat any day… or one of those pigs from the Orwell book.
If Wilbur (Charlotte's Webb) were real, I would jab a skewer in him, grill him till his fat started to crackle (Little House on the Prairie style) and then I would serve him with a lightly tossed spring salad.

I HATE germs.
Always have, always will.
Every roommate I’ve ever lived with can attest to this.

I actually sleep with a pint sized Lysol bottle under my bed.
(As I’m typing this I’m squirting sanitizer onto my hands).

So imagine my delight when a friend sent me this article from the British Daily Mail about this little English pig who is terrified of MUD.
Cinder—the pig—won’t even walk in mud unless she has her boots on; she's scared of dirt.

I want to adopt this pig. I need to adopt this pig. This pig needs me. We need each other. Because there is NOTHING more exciting and endearing than having a germ-o-phobic pig as a pet.

He’d probably help Clorox the kitchen floor at the end of the night—no fuzzball cat or faithful dog can top that.

Photo credits: Ross Parr Agency.

“Welcome to my Dumpster! Show Yourself Around.”

On Sunday my roommate and I decided to do a marathon apartment hunting search. At some point in the midst of it we stopped at the grocery store and purchased:
Frou frou organic chai tea (ALL HER), fresh salmon, a container of croissants, and some fruit she promised to make an appetizing summer fruit salad with.
SIDE NOTE: Roommate— where is the promised fruit salad?

After we left the grocery store we realized that buying perishable food in 100 DEGREE WEATHER while you STILL have to drive around town and go on MORE housing appointments is probably one of the dumbest things you can do (aside from temporarily forgetting how to breathe).

So we headed to appointment number three and spent a while before the appointment concealing the fruit in my roommate’s purse and the fresh salmon in my mine (our reasoning: having perishable food in your purse while you walk around an air-conditioned apartment seems better than leaving it to roast/wilt/SPOIL in a hot car).

Two things about this:
1. Don’t judge us for the fish-in-the-purse situation—we made a judgment call and we stand by it.
2. Now you know what girls put in their oversized purses (aside from oddly groomed poodles that squeak and tremble).

We stepped out of the car excitedly staring at the quaint townhouses before us and then I realized something before she did:
It was every apartment hunter’s worst nightmare: the houses we were drooling at weren’t the ones we were touring.
After consulting the address I realized that the places we were looking at were the UNKEMPT, UGLY ONES across the street (just another harsh reality of being ambitious twenty-somethings who are trying to rent a fabulous apartment near the city on a not-so-fabulous ramen noodle style budget).
I let her down gently.
Her face fell, but she regrouped quickly and we crossed the road.

Simply put the apartment complex smelled like a porta-potty.
AND there were weeds everywhere.
AND misshapen bugs that looked like they had survived Chernobyl.
AND there was no landlord waiting to show us the place.

Confused, I call the landlord.
“Are you in the parking lot yet?” he asked sounding distracted.
“Yep, we’re actually at the building you gave me directions to,” I responded looking around for him.

“Well just walk in…I left the door unlocked. I’m actually showing two units…the other one is across the hall. When you’ve looked around at both of them, give me a call and tell me what you think.”
Click.

(This is the part where I stood holding my phone and looking confused for a while).
“Where is he?” Roommate asked with her brow furrowed.
“Um…well…I don’t think he’s coming; apparently it’s like a-show-yourself-around thing.” I muttered back.

We both stared at each other questioningly and then fearfully glanced into the dark corridor of the apartment building.
A BAD SIGN: when the LANDLORD won’t even come and show you around his OWN apartments.
This wasn’t the kind of place you “showed yourself around.”
It was the sort of place that you walked into alone, found a chalk outline of a body…and then realized it was a chalk outline of YOUR body. And then you realized that your spirit was floating above the earth watching a crime scene investigation of your OWN corpse and the last memory you had on earth was walking into that dank apartment building right after the landlord told you to “Show yourself around.”

After exchanging glances again and realizing we both had the exact same vision my roommate said to me:
“Let’s go.”

And with that we walked back to our car on the OTHER side of the street where the apartments were quaint.
We ate croissants, drank organic chai tea, and chatted about the unbearable weather until our next appointment.

Some may call that being elitist or bourgie but I call it STAYING ALIVE.

Photo Credits:http://www.popandpolitics.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/dumpster.jpg


RETRACTION: I got my promised fruit salad and it was delicious.

Hypermiling: With These Gas Prices, One Can’t Afford to be Sane.

NPR has a really amusing article about the behavior of hypermilers.
Definition of hypermilers: drivers who strive to boost their gas mileage by changing their behavior behind the wheel.

Hypermiler Kent Johnson consistently drives with one of his shoes off (the accelerator shoe) to conserve every increment of gas he can: "…so you can feel the pedal pressure a little bit easier," Johnson explains. "You know, when you're trying to eke that extra little bit, then, just small things can add up.”

The NPR article also discusses different hypermiling techniques that range from coasting down hills and running stop signs, to picking a parking spot that will save you gas.

Another hypermiler, a CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGIST named Curtis Adams said: "Switching from driving so-called normally to hypermiling, it's a huge shift in thinking…some people do it for environmental reasons," Adams says. "That's not at the top of my list, honestly. The environment I'm concerned with is my wallet."

A year ago, I would have thought these people were crazy, screwy, batty or nuts— but now that it costs over $55 dollars to fill up my 12-gallon tank I realize that these people just might have it right. After all, if a CERTIFIED MENTAL HEALTHCARE PROFESSIONAL is hypermiling, who am I to say hypermilers are crazy?

I got a forward from a friend a couple of weeks ago filled with techniques on how to conserve gas. Some made sense: Don’t pump gas at the fastest speed; it fills your tank with fumes instead of actual petrol. Others were weirder: Fill your gas tank at 6am in the morning when the ground is still hard and the birds are chirping—it was strange but I tried it (once). Desperate times call for desperate gas pumping habits.

Gas prices are making everyone a little nutso.
Yesterday I called my friend who LOVES HER CAR (she loves it so much that she has driving her car listed as one of her Facebook hobbies).
Me: Hi, what are you doing right now?
Friend who loves her BMW: Picking up a bicycle—I can’t drive anymore. Have you seen gas prices?
Me (shocked and mildly accusing): WHAT?! You LOVE your car! You love driving it! When I visualize you, I visualize you IN your car.
Friend who LOVED her BMW: I know but I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do premium gas. I’m moving into the city and leaving my car behind. I’m going to be a bicycle rider now.

It was the shot heard around the transportation world.

Bottom line: When gas is over $4 a gallon, you DO WHAT IT TAKES—don’t think I won’t at least TRY driving with one high heel off this week.


For the rest of the NPR article, click here.

Photo Credits: http://onemansblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/pumping-gas.jpg

REASON #752753 WHY CRAIG’S LIST IS CREEPY-PEEPY

A friend passed this Craig's list post along:


DEAD MOOSE
Reply to:
Date: 2008-05-08, 10:33AM

“I have a dead moose free for the taking.
It died yesterday, apparently of natural causes. I called Fish & Game to come and get it. Apparently, moose are a natural resource and belong to everybody, until they die, then they belong to whoevers property they die on. So, according to Fish & Game, the moose now belongs to me. Sweet!!
So, if you want a free moose, please come and get it before the bears do.
You could use it for dog food, or stuff it and put it your front yard, bear bait, whatever. If you live in the lower 48, this might be your best opportunity to get a free Alaska moose. I dont really care, I just want it out of my yard.
Please reply via email, I dont need all the animal rights folks calling me, its dead, and according to Fish & Game, its got no more rights... ”
• Location: Anchorage
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Original URL: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/anc/673017049.html

Credit’s go to Katie’s grandfather for the term “Creepy Peepy”

World Hunger? Pass the Crepe Suzettes.

The 2008 Food Crisis Summit is currently taking place in Italy. All the major world leaders/delegations are in attendance, and the bad boy leaders of Iran and Zimbabwe are no exception.
More interesting than Iranian President Ahmadinejad running his mouth about Israel AGAIN, or Zimbabwean President Mugabe blaming the West for the widespread hunger in his own country, is the lunch menu served at the FOOD CRISIS SUMMIT.

A glimpse of the menu as provided by the AP:

Vol-au-vent (pastry puffs) with corn and mozzarella
Pasta with sauce of pumpkin and shrimp in cream
Ragout of veal with legumes
Cheese mousse
Parmesan Risotto

It’s got to be really easy to talk about world hunger issues while licking the mousse off your tablespoon. I’m pretty sure every bite of veal makes the leaders painfully aware of the widespread famine throughout the world. The meeting tape probably sounds something like this:

Sarkozy (President of France): So Mugabe, your people are dying of hunger while you perch here with your chubby cheeks protruding like a fat cat? Why are you so fat? Are you eating ALL of Zimbabwe’s food? Please pass ze cream puffs.
Mugabe (President of Zimbabwe): “Sarkozy how dare you pass judgment on me for de problems in my own country—I blame America! Yea MAMA, have you tasted this risotto? Magnificent—does it have truffles in it? (Murmurs to himself: Truffles are so expensive these days… I actually started a civil war in Zimbabwe a couple months ago because the MDC rebels were hogging all the truffles…)
Putin (Former president of Russia who is probably STILL representing Russia at the summit because the new Russian president is just a puppet head controlled by Putin): “Sarkozy, Mugabe has a point. You can’t blame the leader of the country just because during his reign Zimbabwe went from being Africa’s breadbasket to a country of intense famine. The Americans are obviously to blame for this!
I don’t want this shrimp and cream you are serving. Is there BIG MAC here as well? Did the Americans bring BIG MAC with them to the food crisis conference? No?! I specifically REQUESTED BIG MAC! Can’t the Americans do ONE THING RIGHT?”

You can stream it live on the Food and Agriculture Organization website if you want to listen in on it.


Picture credits:http://www.countdown.org/end/pix/famine_2.jpg

The Pamphlet People: A Pedestrian's Worst Nightmare

Around noon on weekdays the streets of D.C. can be dangerous.
Especially in the summer time.
If you walk down the wrong block or make friendly eye contact with the wrong person, you can fall prey into THEIR hands.
“THEIR” refers to the street solicitors or the pamphlet people.

They are ruthless.
They stand on every other block waving their brightly colored pamphlets, blocking your way, and asking you leading questions that are designed to make you feel guilty:
“Hi!!!!!!! Would you like to help us stop typhoid from ravaging the orphans of Africa?”
Or
“Hello!!! Would you like to end the merciless murders of baby dolphins in Japan?’
Or
“Hey there!!! Do you want to help us prevent the news media from using stupid hybrid names like “Brangelina” to describe Hollywood couples?”

At noon no one has time. You sit at your desk from 8:30am to 12pm (and then from 1pm to 5:30pm) knowing that you have exactly one hour to rush out and attend to all your personal business. And then when you attempt to do this, there are young, idealistic pamphlet people with their irritating emotional blackmail standing in your way.

Today I walked down L Street toward Borders and I spotted one.
She stood there with a youthful expression, frizzy hair bouncing in the breeze, satchel slung across her chest, pamphlets in hand, and feet poised to obstruct my path. I could smell the stench of her exaggerated enthusiasm from 100 feet away.
She jumped right in front of me—the scent of her over eagerness almost suffocated me.
Pamphlet person: “Hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!! Do you have one moment to save the environment?!!!”
Me—the captured pedestrian: “Um no—I’m in a hurry… I’m sorry.” (I squirmed like a fish in a net).
Pamphlet person (look of disgust and wonderment): “You seriously don’t have ONE moment to save our planet?”
Me (hurriedly): “Nope; sorry! I’m on my lunch break, bye!”
As I scuttled off I heard her scoff at me.

Then I passed another set of pamphlet people.
Pamphlet person: “Hi!!!!! Would you like—”
Me: “NO!”
Pamphlet person (continues haltingly): “…a free sachet of Advil?”
Me: “Nope!”

Any amateur would have fallen for the free Advil sachet routine. But I knew.
I knew that two Advil tablets would NOT cure the headache I would endure from listening to a 15 minute spiel about Advil.
Besides they were mere tablets, not Advil liqui-gels—Liqui-gels? THAT’S the good stuff.

On my way back from Borders I took a different route and sure enough there were more pamphlet people in wait.
I tried to dodge a determined looking adolescent but he got me.
“Hi!!!! Do you have a moment for the environment?”
“No!! I’m sorry I just—”
As I responded I heard a familiar voice saucily saying to the boy: “No, she doesn’t have a moment to save the environment. I already asked her.” It was my frizzy-haired-environment-saving-nemesis from before.

I wanted to say: “That’s right Frizz; I DON’T have a moment to save the environment. You know why? Because I have exactly one hour. One hour to walk 15 minutes to Borders, buy stationary, go to Starbucks, write out my thank you letters, walk 15 minutes back from Borders to the Post Office, buy stamps, mail the stamped letters, grab lunch from ABP , head back to the office and pay my bills online. That is what corporate life does to you. It makes you condense all your necessary day-to-day activities into the space of ONE MEASLY HOUR. I would LOVE to wear an overpriced hemp dress, complete with a satchel and stand on the sidewalk with my frizzy curls billowing in the wind, hypocritically handing out unnecessary PAPER that gets instantly thrown away (NOT RECYCLED) by pedestrians. I would love to save the orphans or protect the whales BUT I CAN’T DO IT AT 12 O’CLOCK ON A WEEKDAY because I have a FULL-TIME JOB. Not all of us can use Daddy’s credit card to fill up our Lexis hybrid and buy our Whole Food groceries! SO BACK OFF GRANOLA GIRL or I’ll send you right back to CRUNCHY town!”

But I didn’t confront her with any of that. I just walked away, my mind instantly consumed with calculating how much time I had left on my lunch break.

Photo credits: http://api.ning.com/files/gKb0R9-q1OKls9PFLKtWsA3rn2O8-GCZMj8*MIt8ivE_/enviro.jpg

Vegetarians are People Too?

A friend sent me this funny Slate Magazine article a while back. The article is humorously written by a vegetarian who decides to speak out regarding how omnivores (like me) treat vegetarians (like him) as if they are aliens from another planet.

It’s not that I MEAN to treat vegetarians like they have leprosy but sometimes it’s like: “Dude, it’s a baseball game. There is no tofu-dog stand; can’t you just eat a grilled hot dog like our ancestors used to?”

To insensitive omnivores vegetarianism seems like a lot of hassle; it’s difficult to cook for a vegetarian. You have to buy veggie burgers, eggplant meatballs, tofu drumsticks, and all that weird stuff in the overpriced, special food aisle at the grocery store. Then after buying it you have to figure out how to cook it.
(I stood in the kitchen last week for about 10 minutes trying to figure out how to cook eggplant—eventually I poured parmesan and olive oil on it, beat it into submission with a spatula, and then promptly threw it away and opened a bag of frozen chicken fingers instead).

Until I read the Slate article I was a rude omnivore that didn’t get that vegetarians are real people who are misunderstood just because they don’t get that nirvana type feeling everyone else does when they sink their teeth into a great piece of T-bone steak.

Now I still don’t get vegetarianism, but I respect it.
Except for the to-furkey aspect of it.
I’ll never respect that.
Never.

Photo Credits:http://tomorrowaustin.files.wordpress.com/2007/11/brusselsprout-42.jpg