ROLL CALL: Amy...Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii...

I’ve always been against bestowing little children with authority—because the little buggers are brilliant and if you give them an inch, instead of taking a yard they’ll attempt to conquer the entire world like Napoleon—except with a plastic Power Ranger and a GIGANTIC roll of Fruit-by-the-Foot (which would be awful because there would be sticky fruit roll up juice on everything from the Mona Lisa painting in Paris to freshly laundered dry cleaning in Manhattan).

But every once in a while a situation arises that is so tremendously horrific that it requires bestowing a young child with the full authority you would only vest upon a thirty-six-year-old with a refinanced mortgage and a semi-successful career. Okay, the situation may not be that extreme, but nevertheless, a friend passed along this interesting CNN article to me titled: NZ Judge backs girl over ‘embarrassing’ name.

“A New Zealand judge has made a 9-year-old girl a ward of the court so that her name can be changed from Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii, the country's national news agency reported Thursday.”

“Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii?”

What kind of crazy substance do parents have to be huffing, licking, sniffing, blowing or rubbing on themselves to come up with that name for a child?

The article also lists a couple other legal names bestowed to children by their parents in New Zealand.
E.G. “Violence,” and “Number 16 Bus Shelter”.
(In defense of the name “Number 16 Bus Shelter” I will say that at least it tells a story right? One can sort of guess the circumstances surrounding that child’s conception. The bus system should take the blame for that though; SEE what happens when a bus is late?)

My favorite quote from the article…DRUM ROLL:
“A lawyer for Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii said the girl is so embarrassed by her name that friends know her as "K."”

Um… out of the all the wonderful consonants and vowels that Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii has to choose from in her name, where does the letter “K” come into play?

She may be bright enough to represent herself in court but someone OBVIOUSLY can’t read past the 2nd grade spelling level yet.


Photo Credits go to MMATIN

Work Stinks for Some People. (Literally).

Receptionist: Good Afternoon, the Fertilizer Institute!
Me (audibly giggle and then casually say): Hahaha, well that's a funny way to answer the phone! What's the story on that?
Receptionist (very serious): What do you mean?
Me (stop laughing): Um…isn't this [blank] design firm?
Receptionist: No.
Me: Oh.
Receptionist (irritated): You have the wrong number...
Me: Ohhh....You weren't kidding when you answered the phone. You actually are a Fertilizer Institute....
Receptionist: Yes.

Well, I guess it went better than the time I misdialed and accidentally called the Holocaust Museum in a chirpy mood.


Photo Credits: http://fertilizerinfo.com/images/mp-005/fertilizer.jpg

Have You Been Knuckle Knocked Yet?

There is nothing more amusing than reading an article by a journalist (in this case Del Jones from USA Today) who unsuccessfully attempts to pass him/herself off as an authority on a cultural phenomenon which he/she has absolutely no idea about. I.e. “FIST BUMPING.”

I was wonderfully amused by this USA Today article regarding—in the words of the mainstream media—fist bumping: An action that was widely scrutinized after Barrack and Michelle Obama “fist bumped” at a campaign speech. The article was in the MONEY SECTION of the USA Today website and is titled: Can A Fist Bump Mix with Business?

Here are my top four favorite ridiculous quotes from the article:
1. “David Lingafelter, president of faucet-maker Moen in North Olmsted, Ohio, says he is fist-bumped about twice monthly, where it was non-existent a couple of years ago.”
(Who quantifies their monthly “fist bumps?” And even more bizarre, who references quantified fist bumps in their article thinking it will make their work look like hard-hitting journalism?)

2. “Fist bumping, or two people tapping fists lightly, has a long way to go to unseat the handshake, a gesture that goes back to medieval times when opponents used it to indicate that they were friendly and unarmed.”
(Could he make “fist bumping” sound any more pansy-ish? Why not just write “Fist bumping, or two people pirouetting in pink leotards while tapping their fists so gently it would make a feather jealous, has a long way to go to unseat a handshake…” It would sound just as lame).

3. “…But Paul Lipschutz, the 62-year-old CEO of water treatment products company WaterPure in Fort Lauderdale, says [the fist bump] should be reserved for light-hearted moments or between business associates who are otherwise friends. “ Save fist bumping for germaphobes, boxers and fun," he says.”
(Bless your heart for that endearing quote Paul Lipschutz… and for your endless commitment to the pursuit of purified water for Fort Lauderdale residents, bless your heart!)

4. "Kristi Mailloux, president of Molly Maid, a maid franchisor in Ann Arbor, Mich., says she never initiates a fist bump, but reciprocates if offered. She says she hopes it never replaces the handshake except, perhaps, in the flu season."
(Kristi’s fear of initiating a fist bump is understood. If she tried initiating a fist bump, Israel might bomb Iran and then Iran would try to nuke Israel with their half-completed nuclear bomb and then Israel would reciprocate and then there would be no Israel and no Iran and the stock market would crash. Don’t do it Kristi, DON’T INITIATE A FIST BUMP!

I particularly love the fear of handshake extinction that the author hints at in the article. “WATCH OUT! THE FIST BUMP MIGHT ERADICATE THE HANDSHAKE AND THEN THE EARTH’S CORE WILL EXPLODE AND WE WILL ALL DIE.”

The fist bump (also referred to as a ‘terrorist fist jab’ by Fox News) is simply known as “daps” or a “pound” by people who are not polishing their dentures during their lunch break. A pound is not an unusual alien signal that needs to be studied in a lab—it’s just the cooler older brother of the high-five. A pound isn’t trying to dethrone the handshake; it’s not even trying to work its way into boardrooms or the money section of USA Today. It’s just a simple greeting, or a gesture of respect and encouragement from one person to another.

Photo Credits:http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1287/1360677206_59292a95b7.jpg?v=0

I Draw the Line at Fish Sucking my Toes

According to the AP via the Baltimore Sun (thanks MD friend for tipping me off despite the fact that I constantly make fun of your state) fish pedicures have become the next big thing.
(Apparently having schools of fish suck the dry skin off your calluses is the new, sexy way to get a pedicure).

Does PETA know about this yet?
I want PETA to find out--I love it when they freak out, pour fake blood over everything, release animals from the zoo, and start running around naked while chanting "THINK ABOUT THE ANIMALS!" to the local TV cameras.
Hopefully this will set them off?

Photo Credits: AP/Jacquelyn Martin
http://www.jacquelynmartin.com/

Why I'd be a Vegetarian in Ecuador...

So I'm watching cable.
and I'm REALLY mesmerized with it because my cable hasn't worked since I switched apartments and this is the first night I've had two WHOLE HOURS where I can actually just sit there, eyes as wide as saucers, mindlessly soaking in TV like a computer downloading a virus.

So I'm sitting there (with a friend) flipping through channels of mind-rotting reality shows when I see the Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern show on the Travel channel.
Now the Bizarre Foods show is one of those shows you ONLY watch while in a hotel room with your family—because it's the ONLY show that collectivity captures EVERYONE’S interest and disgust when you are far from home—but I threw caution to the wind and left it there.

So I give her a warning: This is a show about a bald guy who travels to different countries and eats really weird food. Do you have a weak constitution?
She shakes her head.

We start watching.
He's in Ecuador.
He balances an egg on a nail.
So far so good.
We smile in delight at this nifty trick (apparently you can do that in Ecuador because there is less gravity near the BULGE of the earth. And yes everyone on the show kept yelling: “the BULGE of the earth” and making bulge-like hand motions. Must be an Ecuadorian thing?).


I study Andrew's face.
I recognize the signs from other episodes.
He is hungry.
All that egg balancing has awakened his appetite.

I warn my friend: Andrew eats gross things. Last time I watched this he was eating scrotum soup.
In response, she remains calm and not flustered: What animal? She coolly inquires.
A bull.
She gives a "that's gross but ultimately it's no biggie" nod and we keep on watching.

All of a sudden Anthony and two companions are standing near a cage of guinea pigs.
I'm confused.
They're holding the guinea pigs and gently petting them.
My friend is confused now.
Anthony licks his lips.
My friend is stiffening.
An Ecuadorian woman holds the guinea pig by the scruff of its neck.
I'm freaking out.

Next thing we know, the woman comes out of a building with a dead guinea pig unceremoniously shoved on a stick (WHOLE and NOT EVEN SKINNED). It isn't even beheaded!

I don't know when we started screaming--but I do know our shrieks echoed throughout the apartment.

The lady roasts it on a slab in an outdoor wood fire and then serves the “cuy” (otherwise known as BARBECUED GUINEA PIG-ON-A-STICK) to Andrew.
He accepts it and happily digs in, commenting on the wonderfully crispy skin and pulling apart the tender meat from the fragile bone.
He smacks his lips a couple of times for emphasis.
After that, at the coaxing of a companion, he sucks out the guinea pig's brain from its skull and he eats that too.

The man is like a human vacuum.
He still seemed hungry.
(I thought he was going to turn to his camera man and say: Chuck. I wasn’t going to ask you before, but what the hey, we’re in Ecuador. I’ve noticed you’re getting some gangrene on your left arm and I’m wondering if I could just take a small bite out of it? I’ve always wondered what human gangrene arm tastes like. It won’t be a big deal: We’ll call it quits on filming for the day...I'll take a bite...then we’ll jump in the stream afterwards, maybe dance on some volcano coals later?)

We sat there visually and emotionally traumatized, our mouths hanging open. We were like living versions of the The Scream painting.
If we felt that way, think of how the guinea pig felt.

Side Note: The show has a blog and during the Ecuador episode blog post someone in the comment section was all: Hey Mr. Zimmern, the wife and I love your show man; is it possible to get recipes for this episode?

REALLY?!

Photo Credits:http://www.worldwidehealth.com/ecards/6397_tn_avocados.jpg

How to Pull off a Successful Boycott

Strangely enough, in the two years of maintaining this blog, the post that has gotten the most traffic is one explaining exactly what hipsters are. It got hundreds of hits and till today I can’t really understand the general fascination with hipsters.
Anyway, in the spirit of writing the occasional socially informative blog post, almost a year later I’m doing an additional in-depth post on another generation X? Y? Z? (who knows anymore?) trend.

How to pull off a successful boycott:

1. Do not pick a cause, let a cause pick you. Never boycott just to boycott, if you do that you won’t have the drive or personal willpower to withstand temptation when the boycott gets challenging. I am boycotting the 2009 Beijing Olympics and have been since March.
I was furious that China had been given the honor of hosting the Olympics despite their horrible human rights record and I felt helpless about it, like a newborn baby that wants to hear some Michael Bubble instead of that inane Barney CD on repeat, but has no idea how to express this desire to its well-meaning but obviously misguided mother. One afternoon I decided to go for a run, while tying my shoelace (like an Olympic track runner) I realized something: I COULD do my part to show my disapproval. I would join Reporters without Borders and boycott the Olympics. Sure, boycotting was a tiny drop in an ocean, but sometimes a tiny drop can morph into a really BIG wave that a high-end Jet Ski can ride on for a while.

2. Be informed about the topic you are boycotting. Not being informed about the topic you are boycotting is like being a married United States Senator caught soliciting sexual favors with your pants down in a public restroom at an airport. You should be able to succinctly and BRIEFLY explain to anyone at the drop of a hat why you are boycotting. You should also be able to back it up with a more informed opinion than your own. In my case, this New York Times editorial does a great job of briefly explaining why China shouldn’t be hosting the Olympics, so do these Beijing 2008 updates from Reporters without Borders. Without facts to back it up, you are nothing but an irksome talking head—much like Geraldo Rivera during his infamous, anti-climatic
Al Capone’s Vault television special.

3. Run your boycott like a military command center—an organized boycott is a successful boycott. I have boycotted the state of Michigan (6 months), pears (5 months) and for the past two years, all things R. Kelly (seriously people, how many underage girls have to be inappropriately touched by him in order for you to stop watching Trapped in the Closet part nine?) During my boycott of Michigan, our boycott leader sent us clear details about the boycott. I.e. “Good Morning Boycott participants, the boycott of my ex-boyfriend’s state will start today at 12 noon and will end whenever I get over him. I look forward to boycotting Michigan with you.”
The last day of the boycott—around 6 months later—she sent us an email formally thanking us for participating in the boycott and relieving us from further Michigan boycott activities. If you are a boycott leader, keeping fellow boycott participants abreast of all decisions and formalities is necessary. In the off chance that your boycott might make it on the national news—which, if you run it well it very well might—you want Anderson Cooper to say: “Wow, this is one of the most organized social boycotts I’ve come across in my illustrious career as a hard-hitting journalist AND a major unattainable white-haired heartthrob.”

4. It is okay to make n00b mistakes. In the midst of my pear boycott I ordered a huge Cosi signature salad (if you’ve had one you are probably smacking your lips at the thought of it—if you haven’t…don’t continue reading this—just run as fast as your legs will take you to the nearest Cosi). Halfway through the salad I realized what I thought were apples were actually sweet and crisp pears. I was distraught about this and felt that my moral boycott compass had been compromised—I stopped eating the salad. Looking back now I realize that was a n00b (definition: amateur, inexperienced) boycott blunder. NEVER be angry at yourself for an innocent slip-up—I should have picked the pears out, held my head up, and continued on with my $8 dollar salad. Now If I had KNOWN those were pears and CONTINUED eating them, then I might as well have changed my name, worn a wig, and moved to another country. Going against your own boycott ideals is underhanded—and it strips you of your personal honor.

5. ALWAYS sweat the small stuff. If part of your cause seems too insignificant to boycott, BOYCOTT it. ALWAYS boycott when in doubt.
Example: A couple of weeks ago I was invited to a cook out. One of the items the host specifically asked me to bring was coke.
This was my second Beijing Olympics boycott trial (the first one was resisting an offer to play the Beijing Olympics Wii game) and it came in aisle 7 of Bloom (formerly know as Food Lion) grocery store. I stuck a liter of Coca Cola in my basket. When I reached for a second liter I noticed ALL the rest of the coke bottles had BEIJING OLYMPICS 2008 signs all over their labels. What was I to do? The coke liter in my basket was the only one that wasn’t a Beijing Olympics one—but I NEEDED another bottle of Coke. Was I being nit-picky I wondered? Do I just buy it, Olympic sticker and all? These party attendees needed their coke! At the end of the day I had to forfeit my brand-name social status and bring one bottle of Beijing-free Coca Cola and another bottle of Fizzy Cola—generic coke (eek). It was embarrassing, people noticed, and even though they made fun of me and labeled me a cheap skate—I STILL don’t regret it. You do what you have to do to protect your ideals.

6. Never let others mock the boundaries of your boycott.
Let us say you are boycotting cows in general and someone says to you: “If you are boycotting cows WHY are you wearing leather Kenneth Cole sandals?” Do not be discouraged or contract a defeatist attitude about this.
The only thing that matters in a boycott is that you stick to the rules YOU set for yourself at the commencement of the boycott (your boycott rules must never change mid-boycott; they can’t be adjusted to comfortably fit your lifestyle). If you decided at the beginning of your cow boycott that you wouldn’t eat beef or say “moo” then you stick to that and ignore the critics. As long as you stay true to your standards then people that are mocking you are just lazy beef-eating hecklers with no self-discipline or ideals of their own to stand up for.

7. Tricky social situations that will try to complicate your boycott will come up and you must always be prepared to handle them.
Sometimes you can run through drills beforehand to prepare. For example if someone says:
“Hey, come to our Beijing Olympics party. We’re going to cook out, drink cold beers, and watch Michael Phelps win the Gold for America! USA! USA!” (Note—this is a tricky situation as declining will make you make you look crabby, anti-Phelps, and very unpatriotic).
In response, one should say:
“No thanks, as much as I’d like to attend a party where everyone cooks out, drinks cold beers and rewards China for their horrible human rights record, I think I’m going to stay at home, soak in some Entourage on HBO and maybe watch The Kennedy Curse on the History Channel during the commercial breaks.”
Note—you now look cool AND you sidestepped the accusation of being anti-American by mentioning the Kennedy family. They are as American as the American flag, all-you-can-eat buffets and the national anthem. (If you ever get erroneously accused of being a terrorist, just mention the Kennedy’s and all the airport security TSA officers will slap you on the back and affectionately ruffle your perfectly gelled hair).

8. STAY informed about your boycott topic. Especially if you are boycotting a volatile situation. Nothing is more embarrassing than boycotting a situation that has been resolved. For example: Standing on the steps of Capitol Hill and defiantly boycotting the Vietnam War—that would be weird. In order to stay on top of all Chinese Human Rights violations I use Google alerts. Each day Google sends a list of freshly gathered new stories and blog posts from the web about Chinese human rights to my G-mail account. Fabulous.

9. NEVER have a boycott dress code. Only the military, formal prep schools and cults regulate what people wear. Your boycott is none of these things. (You may say: “But wait! Earlier you stated the boycott should be run like a military command center!” This is true. But the military’s organizational model is the ONLY thing you should imitate. You must draw boundaries somewhere. Are you going to fly around dropping bombs too??). If you limit what people wear you will eradicate the individuality in the boycott group which in turn will lower morale. Let them keep their pink hair streaks and their inappropriate bustier-enhanced, flesh-colored spandex leotards! It’s their ideals that count, not their outfits.

Keep these guidelines in mind and Godspeed on your boycott.

Photo Credits:http://www.asianews.it/files/img/MYANMAR_-_Boicottaggio.jpg

The Espy Awards: The funniest awards show that no one saw

I haven’t watched an awards show since the "2007 MTV Music Video Awards" which I thought everyone on the awards show planning committee at MTV should be fired for. Then the other night I accidentally caught the ESPY Awards—the annual sports awards show run by ESPN (the crowd is usually a mix of sports, music, and movie stars). What peaked my interest was this: the host.
It was Justin Timberlake.

My first reaction: Did Jay Leno, John Stewart, Conan O’Brien AND Billy Crystal ALL have Ebola? For crying out loud, as a desperate attempt they could have even stuck Regis and Kelly in there, surely that would have been a better Hail Mary pass for a host?

How did this happen? How COULD this happen? Who was in charge of picking the Espy host? A group of high-strung female executives who used to love N’Sync and had just fanatically listened to the FutureSexLoveSounds CD on repeat for 24 hours straight?

Then Justin delivered his monologue. I laughed—a deep, mirthful belly chuckle. I didn’t want to, but it escaped. He was funny.
I reasoned: everyone has their funny moment though. That was probably his only one.
Then I laughed AGAIN. And AGAIN. And AGAIN.
He was consistently funny—throughout the entire show.

He made fun of all the stars in the audience (which is a necessity for any good awards show host). He teased David Beckham, poked at Brett Farve, and he mocked Terrell Owens. Eli Manning didn’t escape either…
Excerpt:
Justin: "Eli Manning won the super bowl …and finally got to see a woman naked. (Turns to Eli) Congratulations! It's cool isn't it?”
(Eli looked really confused and awkward. The generic-looking blonde next to him looked horrified but kind of proud at the same time. It was weird).

Yesterday the internet was buzzing about Justin too: Newsday and People magazine commended his performance as well.

Overall Justin rocked the hosting gig (you just know Britney was somewhere chewing her hair in a padded room, watching with a sense of regret). The entire show ran like a well-scripted episode of SNL (the classic SNL that actually used to make people laugh).

Click here to watch Justin’s funny Sports Rock Opera on Youtube.
Will Ferrell concluded the show by accepting an award on Tiger Wood’s behalf—(AS Tiger Woods): it was like a game winning three-pointer right at the buzzer.

Photo Credits:http://www.ireporter.tv/Upload/www.sportsnut247.com/bigstockphoto_sports_section_of_newspaper_69897.jpg

Hotel Etiquette: When a Porter Expects your Piggy Bank

Two weeks ago I found myself caught in a sensitive social situation.

The facts of the situation are these:
I walked up to the entrance of my hotel with my suitcase and stopped right at the base of the staircase.
My suitcase was a small, red, carry-on that weighed less than 20 pounds—it was the ultimate “I packed light” achievement for a female, and it only took me 48 hours of confusion and three headaches to achieve it.

The porter or bell-man or whatever the term is these days, was a dapper gentleman—he looked about 52 and was in great shape.
He immediately walked up to me and said: Can I help you with that ma’am? and then proceeded to hoist ALL 20 pounds of my luggage up the staircase.
SOMETHING TO NOTE: the staircase I am referring to was comprised of EXACTLY THREE steps.

At the top of the THIRD STEP the porter dropped the suitcase and waited for me to ascend. Once I skipped up the THREE STEPS he nudged the suitcase back to me for me to wheel to the hotel lobby myself. For a moment I was slightly bewildered by this—I thought a porter took luggage to ones room or at least the lobby—but ultimately I had no problem with it, I could wheel it myself. I thanked the porter for his brief help and grabbed the handle of my carry-on.

But the porter/bellboy/whatever sort of hung around unmenancingly in my path until he had made eye contact with me.
This made me feel awkward and for a moment I couldn’t understand why he was intent on staring at me. His brow furrowed—very briefly—and then his face straightened out into its pleasant expression again, and he amicably bid me a good day and then returned to his post—on top of the THREE STEP stairway.

Then it hit me.
He wanted a tip.
He wanted a tip for a three step staircase lift.

That’s like a cabbie wanting a tip for leaving you four blocks and one busy intersection away from your desired destination.


What has happened to the hotel tipping industry?
It used to be back in the day (i.e. a year ago) a porter/bellboy/or a monkey-with-a-bell would grab your eighty-pound suitcase, stick it on his head and carry it up to your room. You’d thank him by giving him a FIRM handshake that transferred a couple bucks, a stale Rolo, and some pocket lint into his hardened palm and both parties of the transaction would go their own way, each side happy to fulfill their part in the chain of hotel life.

But now, a man lifts a 20-pound carry-on up THREE STEPS, leaves it for you to carry the rest of the way, and then expects a Lincoln? Ludicrous.

But perhaps I am wrong?
Perhaps times have changed.
Perhaps in this day and age in order to get a five-dollar tip all a porter has to do is wink at you and lazily slap your butt as you pass by rolling your own suitcase to your room.

Photo Credits:
http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/uimages/la/atla-032608-tipping.jpg

DON’T WATCH 300 WHILE MAKING BREAD PUDDING

So last night I decided I was going to make white chocolate breading pudding for my friend’s birthday.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m no Martha Stewart.
I’m a baking one-trick pony. White chocolate bread pudding is the ONLY thing I know how to bake. And one day people are going to notice and it’s going to be awkward. Sort of like this:
Friend: Hey. Can you please make me a cake for my birthday?
Me: Um, I can make you white chocolate bread pudding.
Friend: Well, I actually REALLY hate bread pudding—it’s gross. Can I have a cake instead?
Me: Understood. I’ll make you white chocolate bread pudding.

So I’m sitting there and I’m watching “300”—a movie my roommate recommended to me about oh…one, two…THREE HUNDRED TIMES.
(She spent about 5 minutes explaining to me why Gerad Butler had to yell: THIS…IS…SPARTA! before he kicked that dude into the everlasting pit of doom and at the end of her intelligent and in-depth explanation I was still all: Yea… but why scream: THIS IS SPARTA? Why not just say it quietly but firmly while playing hopscotch?)

Anyway, so I really started to get into the movie. Everyone was slashing everyone else, Xerxes looked like a freak, people were getting beheaded—the whole thing was emotionally exhausting. So while caught up in this world of valiant fighting and really funky gladiator sandals, I started to lose my focus with the bread pudding.
First, I lost the first page of the recipe—I knew if I looked for it I would miss part of the movie—so I made the recipe up (one egg, two eggs…it’s all the same right?). Then instead of making the white chocolate sauce in a saucepan, I made it in a wok—finding a saucepan would have taken too long. Then I kept on forgetting things. I forgot to put the white chocolate sauce into the bread pudding—I remembered after the pudding had been in the oven for 20 minutes (so I whipped it out and added it anyway—better late than never?). Then I forgot to cover it, so it got all weird and burnt on top.

The good thing about bread pudding is that it’s kind of odd and swampy-looking so if it’s a bit weirder and swampier than usual, no one really notices or cares. Then after watching the end of “300” I felt pent up with emotional angst-so I took a little chunk out of the bread pudding—you know to taste it…
Bad move—in addition to being slightly burnt and a super-odd consistency, it just looked REALLY weird because of the obvious chunk missing. How could I present it to her that way? I tried to fill in the chunk with some foil but that looked even weirder. (It reminded me of “The Cosby Show” episode where Bill ate the middle of Claire’s forbidden cake (until the interior of the cake was hollow) and then covered it up with frosting so the cake still looked untouched).

So to Lauren (yea, using a REAL name): I’m sorry I watched “300” while making your cake.
I’m sorry I got caught up in the ancient battle of the Spartans vs. Xerxes and forgot to put the white chocolate in the bread pudding until it was half done. I’m sorry the bread pudding looks like crusty Sheppard’s pie instead of a volcano cascading with streams of white chocolate. I’m sorry I secretly borrowed your miniature fan last week while you were on that business trip in Georgia and let its cool breeze caress me while I slept but then made fun of you for sleeping with one. And I’m sorry that I used to tease you for eating chicken-in-a-can—with an optimistic attitude, a large array of spices, and a bit of imagination chicken-in-a-can can almost taste like real chicken.

Happy Birthday Love!
Photo Credit:http://juiced.files.wordpress.com/2007/09/birthday-cake.jpg

onion articles that make you HICCUP(!)

Last week I read this uproarious Onion article titled: Bill Clinton Sadly Folds His First Lady Dress Back into the Box and laughed so hard I hiccupped. This week I came across it again, and the entire laughing/HICCUPPing process repeated itself.

Now it’s your turn to laugh and HICCUP(!): read it.


Photo Credits: http://supplementalscience.files.wordpress.com/2007/04/glass-of-water.jpg

WHY THIS CITY WILL MAKE YOU GO CRAZY

So a friend and I stepped inside the metro yesterday morning and promptly came across an odd sight directly in front of us.
A professionally attired middle-aged lady was seated in one of the chairs; she was reading a newspaper and had her index fingers dramatically plugged in both ears (As if she were a petulant seven-year-old in the back seat of a car with her annoying five-year-old sibling screaming “I KNOW YOU ARE BUT WHAT AM I?” at her).

My friend and I exchanged puzzled glances. The metro wasn’t particularly noisy, it had just two college students—obviously interns—dressed in business casual attire carrying on light conversation.

The good thing about coming across a woman who has her ears plugged on public transportation is you can discuss her right in front of her. She's not going to hear you.
So I did.

I turned to my friend and said (while looking directly at plug-your-ears lady): Why is this normal-looking woman plugging her ears?
And the friend (who was a bit uncomfortable at the idea of discussing the woman as if she were a science experiment, not a real person) shrugged and gave me a “I-have-no-idea; I’m-just-as-floored-as-you” glance.
But I wasn’t satisfied.
I turned back to my friend and said: Maybe she’s reading a REALLY IMPORTANT article in the paper. The kind of REALLY IMPORTANT article that makes you plug your ears so you can concentrate?

I peered at plug-your-ears-lady’s newspaper.
She wasn’t reading something important. In fact, she was reading the gossip page at the back of the paper.
(You know, the page that talks about Sting making out with the Dali Lama and Britney driving a Go-Kart on the highway in rush hour traffic?)

At this point I was really thrown. I couldn’t understand it.
As I quietly pondered the situation I started listening to the conversation between the college interns behind me that had gotten LOUDER.
It went like this:
Girl: Omygod, I love Katie. She is SO awesome!(giggle).
Boy: Yea, Katie’s really cute. My FRAT bros think she’s SO hot. We think she’s a DREAM girl.
Girl: Oooooohh…(enviously).
Boy: Yea, we want to make her the OFFICIAL DREAM GIRL of our fraternity.
Girl: The official one? OMYGOD! She is SUPER CUTE. All my SORORITY sisters like totally love her. (giggle).

Listening to them was the equivalent of having a green bottle fly buzzing in your ear.
They continued:

Girl: Omygod I am so over everything. I do NOT want to go back to Florida next semester.
Guy: Yea, me too. My brother is going to Miami this fall.
Girl: OMYGOD Miami? That is NOT cool (fake pout).
Guy: Yea totally. Do you live close to the metro?
Girl: Yea, I live walking distance from it. But I totally get my dad to drop me off every morning.
Guy: Hahaha—me too! My dad drops me off at the metro every morning as well!
Girl: Omygod that’s totally hilarious and awesome!
Guy: Yea, walking to the metro even though it’s walking distance? Screw that! Not when you have a dad!

By this time my friend and I had both realized something: we wanted to plug our ears.

I wanted to plug my fingers in my ears and scream: MAKE IT STOP! WHY DID YOUR DADS DROP YOU BOTH OFF AT THE METRO THIS MORNING? WHY DIDN’T THEY JUST CONTINUE BEING ENABLERS THAT STUNT YOUR GROWTH BY BATHING AND BURPING YOU AS WELL? WHY DIDN'T THEY DRIVE PAST THE METRO AND DROP YOU OFF AT YOUR VARIOUS OFFICES WITH A PACKED LUNCH THIS MORNING? IF THEY HAD, YOUR FATHERS WOULD HAVE BEEN DOING EVERYONE IN THIS METRO CAR A FAVOR!

SHALLOW college kids are what drives a mature adult to publicly plug her fingers in her ears.

In that moment, crazy-plug-your-ears lady wasn’t so crazy anymore. She was actually the sane one.

Photo Credits: http://betsydevine.com/blog/pictures/MoonFlip.gif

The Deadly Sins of Blogging...

I've broken one of the deadly blogging sins. Particularly: Rule #1.
(Rule #1: ALWAYS update your blog frequently).

I’ve been in Vermont for the past week—which is like saying: I’ve been trapped in a giant cocoon of cheddar cheese and maple syrup for the past week.

Now I'm back and will resume blogging tonight!

Photo credits: http://www.countryhome.com/images/img_eatdrinkbemerrylg_2.jpg

When a City Runs Out of Men…

Me: Is your little sister still dating that weird old guy?
Friend (cringes): Yea….
Me: Oh no, that means they’re serious! They are probably in love by now…
Friend (despondently): I know! He’s forty and jobless. He told her the reason he hasn’t found a job is because he used to be a cop in Miami. According to him he worked on this BIG case where he put a bunch of guys in jail and he had to testify against them. Now he’s on the run because they are after him. He says if he applies for a job it will alert them and they’ll find him and kill him!

(Long pause as I soak this in and finally decide it sounds like a hybrid of a familiar CSI-Miami episode and a Law and Order rerun).

Me (tentatively): Now that’s a convenient reason to be jobless. Why isn’t he in witness protection then? Isn’t that what witness protection is for?
Friend: Exactly! How can she even fall for that story?
Me: If a guy I had just met told me he was on run from guys who were trying to kill him I’d be like:
“Here’s the thing: I’m not doing the whole “Romeo and Juliet” ride or die thing with you. Bye!”
Friend (hopelessly): Agreed. And he’s not even cute. He has a shaved head. (Thoughtful pause). It makes him look like a pirate.
Me: We need an intervention with her or something. Wait I have an idea—if he did testify it’ll be public record. I still have an old Lexis Nexis account from the time we were researching the prisoner that was writing me letters. We’ll just look up your sister’s boyfriend and see if he testified in any trials.
Friend (happily): That’s a great idea!
Me: Okay, what’s his name?
Friend: Um… I have no idea what it is…I never really paid attention to it. That was my rebellious way of not acknowledging his existence. I’ll find out though.
Me (triumphantly): Well if we prove the whole Miami-cop-on-a-big-case thing isn’t true will she realize what a liar he is and break up with him?
Friend:…I’d like to think so, but to be honest with you…I’m not really sure she would…

Women.
(Sigh).


Photo Credits: https://www.duianddrugcrimes.com/images/cop_car_lights_w70s.jpg

A Cactus Garden—My version of ADT

My roommate and I had the fake plant vs. real plant battle the other night. This battle was inevitable, but still sort of snuck up on us. It went something like this:

Me: Blah Blah Blah Blah…and I need a fake plant for my bathroom…
Roommate: Wait—WHAT? A FAKE PLANT?! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! (Shock and horror)
Me: Err, is this another Texas thing? Dude all I said was fake plant.
Roommate: There will be NO FAKE plants in this apartment (painfully cringes when she says “fake plant”).
Me: Yea there will. It’ll be in MY bathroom—you don’t have to see the FAKE PLANT
Roommate: Can’t you at least start out with a real plant? Please? (Kind of desperately).
Me: I accidentally kill ALL plants and I’m not going to buy a living plant to replace every plant I kill. Do you even know how much money I would burn? Besides, I told you that you could hang up your KINKY FRIEDMAN poster in the apartment.
(This prompts a miniature speech from her about how awesome Kinky Friedman is and she reiterates her ban on fake plants).
Me: Well I’m getting some fake grass!
Roommate: If you get that I’m going to jump from our 3rd story balcony.
Me: Don’t do it!
Roommate: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA (JUMP).

Okay the last three lines weren’t true.

But, we finally came to a compromise: First I will try putting a cactus in my bathroom (instead of a fake plant) AND then we are going to have a succulent garden. (After thought—is it just me or was this compromise one-sided?)

Since succulents (cactus and other plants that need no frequent love, attention, or care) barely need to be watered, we decided we would try growing the succulent garden in our balcony. Rows and rows of prickly greenery that generally need nothing from us except some water, rock music, and the occasional shot of jack, and then they’ll grow into large, menacing cacti that eat unwanted visitors? Perfect.

And one day—when my roommate is distracted or away on a work related trip—I’m going to buy the BIGGEST jug of Miracle Grow I can find and saturate all the plants with it and then just sit back and wait for the Cacti to become gargantuan and come to life. Then in delight (and slight horror) I’ll watch as they start eating all our nosy neighbors that hate vibrant twenty-somethings. Not that this is personal or anything…(PRISSY MAN ON THE 1ST FLOOR WITH THE FROU FROU POODLE: I know you are the resident condo snitch and I have my eye on you!)

Bottom line: a succulent garden is everything I could ever want in a garden.
AND it’s the only kind of gardening you’ll EVER see me do.

Photo Credits: http://austincss.com/data/Small%20Cacti.jpg

My Favorite New Photographer: Adam Smith

I’ve always claimed to dislike uptight music posers. In addition to that I severely dislike stuffy art people who are all: “So I’m an amateur art collector and last week I discovered this wonderful surrealist gem that Dali may or may not have painted during his early years…you ARE familiar with Dali’s earlier works right?”
::shudder::

However, I’m always receptive to unpretentious recommendations about fresh artists who have raw talent. Based on the recommendation of a friend with a good eye, I came across some stuff by Adam Smith, an architecture student from Minnesota—no Maine—no Michigan (took me a while, but I eventually got there…).

His photography—which is a side project—happens to be extremely engaging. His architectural perspective comes across well in his photographs and his work always seems to have a cool sort of graphic design element to it; his images have a lot of vivid color, depth, and are always rich in texture (texture always wins me over). It seems the critics at Betterphoto.com like him a lot as well, quite a few of his pictures have the “EDITOR’S PICK” tag.

Here are some samples of his work:


Green Chair


Structure


Firebox

I ordered a LARGE Firebox print (pictured above) from him; he mounted it for me in an extremely modern, architectural way; the result is a brilliant piece of art.
Some of his stuff is limited edition (i.e. The Firebox shot will retire after he sells 25), so get them while you can!

If you want more info on him let me know, I’d be happy to refer you.
Photo Credits: Adam Smith