Thursday, July 2, 2009

My Brother, Casanova

My cousin recently got married in Sutter Creek, an old mining town in the Sierra Nevada Foothills that features nothing but bars, antique shops, and slutty girls in its historic downtown area. My family spent an entire weekend drinking that little town dry, and it is quite possible that my brother single-handedly did fifty percent of the work.

The night before the wedding there was a "Martini Party" for out of town guests. The bride's father's first mistake was allowing this event to be Open Bar, and his second mistake was inviting my family. There was only one way this evening was going to end, and it wouldn't be sober.

I drank with my family, went to a pretty PG-13 bachelorette party, and then crashed early, gearing up for the wedding extravaganza the following day. Despite the earplugs that I had shoved into my head I was jolted awake when my very large, very drunk brother, and just as drunk (but not quite as large) cousin came barreling into our hotel room at full speed trailed by beer-farts.

I peeled one eye open to see my brother lying on his back on the adjacent bed with two muffins: one clutched in his giant hand and the other shoved entirely in his mouth.
"Hey, Bren..." I asked, "Where'd you get those muffins?"

Through a fine spray of crumbs he slurred, "I have NO IDEA."

"Great." I thought, "Just great. Not only is he drunk and loud, he is also a muffin thief."

Unprovoked, he launched into a long and strange story about how he managed to woo some towney-chick by flashing his friend's NFL player card, and telling her he played for the Miami Dolphins. The story concluded with him saying, "On a scale of one to ten...I'd give her a four." Umm...what? He lied so he could make out with a FOUR?

Once the muffins had been consumed/ground into the carpet my brother and cousin passed out to the sound of their own OUTRAGEOUS snores. They snored so loud I was tempted to further my attempts at muffling the sound by shoving bits of muffin in my ears, but I chose zero sleep instead.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Recent Quotes

I nearly died of laughter when I heard these next two quotes:

1. "Sometimes burritos are more important than friends." ~Lee Black


2. "I chose my college based on how likely I would be to meet to meet Eddie Vedder." ~Name omitted to protect the not so innocent

The aforementioned Eddie Vedder lover also added that she used to love him so much that she once lost all control of her bladder during a particularly intense moment at a Pearl Jam concert. I would have paid a lot of money to witness that.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Oh Grass Valley...

Please see the following link to get a little glimpse as to why I love Grass Valley.

Male Pedicurists: Masters in Their Own Right

A few summers ago, my friends Jill, Kelsey, and I chose to go to a nail salon close to my house in Grass Valley. Jill and I smiled and laughed nervously as we watched the people working below us, slightly self-conscious of the condition of our feet. As it turns out, working at a Summer Camp in the dirt for two and a half months wearing only flip-flops can really do a number on your feet. As we had just returned from our summer-long dirt extravaganza, the dirt had become so ingrained in my skin that I honestly began to think that my feet were just naturally a different skin tone than the rest of my body. Needless to say, Jill and I felt somewhat rude showing up at such a classy place (and by classy, I mean Jades Nails located next to the Fish and Chips dive in the GV) with such atrocious limbs. In some feeble attempt to save face, I offered the explanation, "Uhh, we work at a camp." To which one of the pedicurists retorted, "I can tell." Whoops.

As my pedicure progressed, I looked down and realized that the all-too-friendly Asian American man that was working on my feet seemed to be breaking out in a sweat. He had been attempting to file off the calluses on my heels for a good fifteen minutes, and to no avail. He finally said, "You want calluses off? I charge you five dollars."

I was slightly taken aback, thinking that he had just said he was going to charge me five dollars extra to continue sawing on my hooves. However, I glanced at his little cart of goodies next to my chair and realized that he was motioning to a corroded looking jar with a well-worn label. I picked up the jar, and upon closer inspection I realized it was a jar of well...ACID. A jar of acid that they had obviously had in stock for far too long, and that was only cracked open when people with freak-show feet came in with concrete calluses. " want to put acid on my feet?" I questioned. He nodded encouragingly.

While this whole event unfolded, Jill was nearly falling out of her chair she was laughing so hard, and I think Kelsey may have peed a little. In the most polite voice that I could muster, I replied, "Umm, no thanks, I'm going organic. I don't put acid in or on my body."

He smiled at me as he motioned to my impenetrable skin and said, "Dis why you single. Dis why you have no boyfriend." Amazing. Not only was he able to look at me and deduce that I was single, but he could also pinpoint the exact reason for my solitary life. Independence, Choice, Non wavering belief in staying away from anyone who belongs to a Clan or Guild are, apparently, not among the reasons that I am currently flying solo. Nope, the man giving me a pedicure had, in five minutes, deduced that I am single because of my Camp feet.

Well, this really pushed Jill and Kelsey over the edge, and they immediately deemed Jades Nails the best place EVER to get a pedicure. They agreed that the hour long drive from Sacramento was well worth it for the comedy show.

The man shrugged his shoulders, and, mood unaltered by my rejection of the acid, began dutifully filing my feet. However, in a final display of comic genius, he did begin singing Cisco's heartwarming and well known hip-hop hit "The Thong Song" in a voice that only an Asian American male pedicurist can produce. "Let me see dat thoooooong!" He crooned, as he looked up at me. I silently cursed myself for, once again, wearing a skirt while getting a pedicure, and I shoved the folds of fabric on my lap deeper in between my legs so that not even one sliver of light would reach my "no-no" parts, as Kelsey called them.

On the up-side, my feet looked FABULOUS, and the three of us did manage to completely weird-out an elderly woman who was getting her nails done by having a rather loud conversation about Brazilian waxes. I figure I broke even with humiliation/entertainment that day.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

The Many Smells of My Home

I knew I was making a gamble the first time I ever set foot inside my current residence. Although it had just been "repainted,"* upon first setting foot inside the building an unusual smell that I described as a mix of stale cigarette smoke and Chinese food came at me like a smack in the face. Not being a stranger to horrible smelling places in San Francisco, I figured it was merely remnants of the previous 8+ tenants and that the place would eventually "air out" after we had moved in. I could not have been more wrong.

During the past four months that I have lived in the Brothel (as it is known amongst its inhabitants) I have experienced one of the oddest evolutions of smell that has ever existed. The Smell (which is now its own entity and requires capitalization) evolves daily, and, much like a box of chocolates (Holla, Forrest Gump!); you NEVER know what you're gonna get.
Each day before I open the door to my home I turn the key with a mix of anticipation/impending doom. It's never a question of whether or not The Smell will be there (because there is ALWAYS a smell), but whether or not the Smell will be so severe that it will make me gag as I walk up the stairs, or if it is in one of its more dormant phases and is currently being poorly masked by a scented candle or a cleaning product. And while the Smell is ALWAYS bad, the answer to the question, "WHAT is that smell?" is always different.

Some days The Smell is mold. Some days it can be described as old throw-up. I typically find myself associating The Smell with a wet dog, as its intensity tends to increase with inclement weather. No matter the form The Smell chooses to take on a particular day, it is evident that this beast is a shape-shifter the likes of which my roommates and I have never seen.

The largest problem with The Smell is that we cannot figure out where it is coming from. It seems to be most intense at the top of the stairs, but countless searches for a would-be rotting animal/piece of trash have left us puzzled, empty handed, and nearly sick to our stomachs. It appears that The Smell is inherently a part of the building, as if it were actually included in the blue print. It is entirely possible that The Smell is an integral part of the structural integrity of the building, and the entire thing would come crashing down if we ever did locate its source/secret hide out/lair. (I like to imagine that The Smell has a secret lair located somewhere underneath my staircase where it plots against me).

While one of my favorite things to do is solving mysteries and investigating strange occurrences, I have accepted that this is one case that I will just never crack. It is with this knowledge of defeat that I have come to terms with The Smell. While we will never be friends, we have learned to live together civilly...with the help of half a dozen scented candles.

*I think the landlord just opened a can of paint and threw it on the wall, coating all light switches and outlets in addition to the walls...and the carpet.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

This One Time at Whole Foods

The Whole Foods across the street from my friend Jessica's old apartment in San Francisco is one of the greatest places in the world. I love all of the food, the people are friendly, and Good God, they even sell yoga mats! Every time I walk inside I can't help but think, "Orange-cranberry vegan cous cous! This place is great!"

One time Jessica and I were standing in line waiting for our organic-vegan-vegetarian-cancer curing groceries to be scanned when I glanced up and took a good look at the man who was running the cash register. Standing at approximately six feet, three inches tall and weighing in at around 140lbs, this guy looked as if he ate about one meal a week. He was dressed entirely in black and sported a plethora of colorful tattoos, most of which featured some sort of scull. His hair was shoulder length, parted on the side, dyed black and slicked back in order to show the world what a tortured artist he really was. To complete his unique look, he had curled the ends of his mustache up to form perfect little curls pointing towards the centerline of his face. Picture the mustache that Captain Hook had in the movie "Hook" and you will have the right idea. Of course, the mustache and his fu manchu were also dyed black.

Now, I'd like to think that I am fairly open-minded. I am fine with many types of life choices including only allowing the color black to touch your body. However, I thought I was going to explode from containing my laughter once I glanced down at our cashier's name tag. The name came into my view, and I quickly had to turn my back to the guy as I regained my composure. Predictably, our cashier's shirt boldly decreed that he went by the name, PANTHER. That's right, Panther. Like a giant black cat who terrorizes the wild lands of India, Panther. Before I turned back around, I leaned over to Jess and said, "Please look at his name tag." Jessica's eyes flicked up, landed on the name tag, and she too had to spin around in order to collect herself.

As we waited in line the man in front of us dropped a roll on the floor that had been balancing on top of his pre-made dinner. Panther, ever the courteous employee, said, "Don't worry; you can go grab another one. Hey...," he motioned to me, "hand me that one on the ground. Three second rule!" I thought nothing of it and bent over, laughing out loud and thinking to myself, "Oh that Panther, he is such a kidder!" However, my humor quickly turned to confusion as he did not throw the roll away, but placed it next to his cash register for safe-keeping.

"Are you really going to eat that?" The girl bagging our groceries asked. I glanced down at the spot where the roll had landed. Although it didn't look particularly dirty, common sense told me that a person should not be eating rolls that have fallen on the ground in a grocery store check out line where foot traffic tends to be particularly high. "Of course I am!" Panther cried. "People need germs and bacteria in their bodies to survive. That's why the Japanese freak out if they get a cold. They are so concerned with germs that their bodies do not get exposed to as much bacteria as they should. When they get a cold they feel like they are dying." Jess, the girl bagging the groceries, and myself nodded, more out of puzzlement than agreement, but Panther continued, "Why do you think all of those pioneers lived into their eighties? Because they didn't worry about germs all the time!"

It was at this point that I realized that Panther had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He almost had me with the Japanese thing, but his statements about the longevity of pioneers quickly changed my opinion. As we left the store I turned to Jess and explained to her that Panther was, in fact, incorrect. The settlers of this country usually died at an early age often due to poor hygiene and a general lack of knowledge of good sanitation practices. Jess nodded in agreement and assured me that the short life of the pioneers was a commonly known fact, although it had appeared to escape the comprehension of our dear friend, Panther.

So we left Whole Foods, and didn't stick around to find out if Panther, self proclaimed germ devotee and historian, decided to eat the roll. However, we did discover that Whole Foods is an equal opportunity employer, as they do not discriminate in the hiring process against large, black predatory cats that are usually found only in Asia.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Don't Forget...

Actual reminders I found programed into my phone:

2.Call Therapist.

Friday, April 10, 2009


My trip to Colorado to visit my friend Rusty was INCREDIBLE! I loved absolutely every second of my trip, and I sorta wish that I could move there. Boulder is beautiful, Denver is so fun, and let's face it: Rusty is the only friend I really need.
Here are some of the highlights of the trip:
1. Being introduced to Rusty's friend Trev Mac. Trev Mac said, "Robin isn't just gorgeous...she's GOOOORGEOUS!" (high-pitched, squealing noise). I think we are soul mates.

2. Driving through the mountains of Boulder with Rusty's friend Jayanthi. We took so many beautiful pictures, including some of some men who were climbing the side of a very snowy mountain. I was really impressed by their abilities until I realized that they were all drinking out of a flask. This means that their common sense was deteriorating by the second, and I didn't want to be around when one of them plummeted to his snowy death so we left.

3. Going to a Meadery (Mead is honey-wine), and two Breweries and only spending six dollars.

4. Eating at Casa Bonita, Denver's very own super-crappy theme park-ish Mexican themed restaurant. Here is a video that comes close to capturing the Casa Bonita experience, but really doesn't do it the justice it deserves:

5. Going to a drag show! The first performer we saw frightened me a little, as I felt like he/she was defying laws of human anatomy with the outfit she was wearing (which was basically underwear and pasties). When I asked Rusty how in the world she was able to pull that off he replied, "painfully." But the evening soon took a turn for the EXTRAORDINARY because we met MISS NINA FLOWERS, First Runner Up from Ru Paul's Drag Race! She is approximately 1000 times better than me at makeup, and 40 times better than me at dancing.

My only regret regarding my trip to Colorado is that I left a pair of pants and a shirt in Rusty's washing machine, which were covered in soup do to an unfortunate incident involving a spoon and a bread bowl over lunch. Needless to say, that event did not make the highlights.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Epic Fail At Bed Bath and Beyond

Today I had big plans to buy an iron. After dealing with wrinkly clothes for, oh, I don't know...(let's see, I moved out of my parents' house at 17, I'm now 24...carry the two...) for SEVEN YEARS, I finally took one more step towards legitimate adulthood and set out to buy an iron.

*Sigh* I went into Bed Bath and Beyond to buy one, single iron. $180 and two shopping bags full later, I left the store feeling like I had just had an out of body experience. How had this just happened? How had I spent nearly two hundred dollars at Bed Bath and Beyond when all I really wanted was an iron?

I did a quick inventory of all the things I bought, and I was relieved to find out that I hadn't bought anything that I didn't necessarily need. Soap, razors, dish towels, and...POT-HOLDERS. That was it! Those damn pot-holders, while not solely responsible for my epic fail, had played a large roll in my home store demise.

I have also gone for a good two months without a pot-holder in my home. I have been using towels, several wads of paper towels, and even my own clothing upon occasion to remove things from the oven. After a near disaster involving some baked salmon I also made a mental note to buy some pot-holders, a memory that was jogged while I was in my semi-comatose state at Bed Bath and Beyond.

When I made the decision to buy the pot-holders in addition to the iron I didn't have very stringent criteria. Color? Don't care. Shape? Don't care. Cost? CARE!
It was like finding a damn needle in a haystack trying to find an affordable pot-holder in that money pit. They had so many pot-holders, all of which claimed to do something else in addition to their intended function. Pot-holder/dish towel? Not interested. Decorative pot-holder? I'll pass. Pot-holder that also doubles as a cocktail dress? No thank you (I didn't actually find one like that, but I felt like I might have if I had continued to search). Really, all I wanted was a piece of fabric that would allow me to remove a hot dish from the oven and emerge with all five fingers still attached to my hand. Anything additional was not necessary.

I eventually found those elusive pot-holders (for ten bucks a pop, jerks) and then a salesman tried to sell me a $70 iron. Ha! Boy was he screwed from the beginning. I asked him if the iron could travel through time, and when he told me no I said, "Well, then I am NOT interested!"

Sunday, March 22, 2009

My Uncle's Wake

My Uncle Rudy passed away last week, and while it wasn't a complete surprise (he had been pretty sick) it is still so sad for everyone in our family. However, my family is not one for funerals; instead, we have wakes. That means instead of formally going to a church after someone passes away, we go to someone's house, barbecue, and drink boxed wine.
While I was attending my uncle's wake yesterday these are some of the statements that I overheard:

My father: "Oh, yeah, Johnny's old wife. Jean, Jean, The Adultery Machine."
My uncle: "She was kind of loose, wasn't she?"

My cousin: "Okay, who else wants to see the new baby's webbed toes while his sock is still off?"

(During a portion of the wake where some of my cousins had removed their shirts to compare their various tattoos)
Me: "Umm, Jesse, is that a swastika tattooed on your middle finger?"
Cousin Jesse: "Yeah."
Me: "That is disgusting. You need to get that covered up with something else."
Cousin Jesse: "I will! I just need to find someone who will laser it off for cheap!"

There was also a portion of the afternoon where one of my uncles revealed to some of my cousins and I a sampling of the XXX porn he has stored on his cell phone. He thought it was funny, but I'm pretty sure we are all scarred for life.

RIP Uncle Rudy! At least you went out in style!

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Jazz Taxi

Riding in a taxi cab in San Francisco is always a gamble, and this fact has never been more clear than before this evening, when I was driven home by a cabby who brought multi-tasking to a whole new level.
My roommate Alyssa and I climbed into a cab, and she immediately began hyperventilating and gasping out the words, "FLUTE! FLUTE!" over and over again. At first I didn't think much of it, as she had been drinking for a good five hours. I figured flute hallucinations must be pretty par for the course after an all day binge, but I then heard a medley of wind-instrument notes erupt from the front seat. Being seated behind the driver, I had to crane my neck to see what was creating the noise from the front of the car. I peeked over the driver's shoulder and: BEHOLD! The cabby was steering the car through the crowded streets of San Francisco with his KNEES. Normally, I would consider this to be a silly maneuver, as drivers typically have at least one free hand to steer their vehicles. However, it quickly became evident that this cabby had no choice but to use his lower half to steer his car, as both of his arms were occupied with a CLARINET (Apparently, after a few drinks clarinets are interchangeable with flutes). That is correct: The cabby was playing a clarinet while flying down Van Ness and steering with his knees.
For reasons that I am still trying to reconcile, my immediate reaction was not of fear, or horror, or even anger, but rather of intrigue. I began asking the driver about his clarinet, and even wondered if he would take requests. He attempted to play a few little "ditties" on his horn, none of which I really recognized.
It was then that our driver revealed that not only was he a master multi-tasker, but that he also let his dog drive his cab upon occasion. (I am still not clear if the dog also plays an instrument while behind the wheel). Additionally, this man passed out a business card (which features the aforementioned dog at the wheel of a cab) with his phone number and WEBSITE. Yes. Homeboy has his own website. I encourage everyone to check it out for themselves at Here are just a few of the highlights I have come across:
1. Under the title "Taxidriver Therapist," "Resolving the Trouble with Society............"
2. The story of how the Jazz Taxi came to be: "Out of nowhere I ended up owning a fleet of taxi cabs--my lifelong dream. Out of nothing--Because while I had a gunshot wound in one hand; the other hand had the tendons severed when I crushed a Coke bottle on the assailants face. With both of my hands wrapped up--and I had also been hit in the head with a bat--I was understandably not in good shape to look for a job."
Truly, these two examples are just the TIP of the iceberg, and I encourage everyone to go check this out for themselves; it is too good to be made up.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Medical Jargon and Five Year Olds

The following is an actual event that occurred today at work. It is so outrageous that even I am reluctant to post it, which is saying a lot, as I am not easily embarrassed. Okay, here goes.

One of my students walked into class this morning and announced loudly, in front of everyone,

"I think I have yogurt in my penis!"

I froze, as other children started to snicker, or say, "Ewwww he sais penis!" before I collected myself and quietly said, "Ummm...okay, let's not talk about that during Circle Time..."

"Well, my penis really does hurt!" he retorted, as I tried my absolute hardest not to laugh and to distract the other children with the "Buenos Dias" song. "We'll talk about it later..." I whispered to him, silently praying that he would just drop it, which he did.

Later on in the day I pulled this student aside to revisit the conversation we had had earlier in the day. Here's how it went:

Me: Hey, (insert name here), I wanted to talk to you about something.
Child: Okay.
Me: Well, I remember you saying earlier that your private parts were hurting. Is that still true?
Child: Yeah!
Me: Well, did something happen?
Child: Yeah, well, you know how when you pull back the extra skin of your penis and it is usually red inside?
Me: (desperately racking my brain for the correct way to answer a five year old who just asked a woman if she ever pulls back the extra skin of her penis) Ummm...yes?
Child: Yeah, well, I did that, and when I did it was all white.
Me: (Trying not to lose it) Okay. Did you tell your dad?
Child: Umm, I don't remember
Me: Is it okay with you if I tell your dad?
Child: Yeah, but it really does hurt!
Me: Yeah, I believe you. You don't have to participate in dance class today if you are not feeling well.
Child: (While performing a gyrating hip movement) It hurts when I do this!
Me: Okay, then just go sit down on the big chair.

He proceeds to the corner of the room where the big chair is located, but not before he turns to the entire class and announces to his peers as well as the dance teacher, "I'm not dancing today because my penis hurts!" This was followed by more laughter, to which he screeched at one child, "HEY! How would you like it if your penis hurt and someone laughed at you?!" Good point, my friend. I would hate it if my penis hurt and someone laughed at its expense.

So, just to recap, I had a conversation about possible yogurt being in a student's penis. I want to die. I don't know that I will ever have a more hilarious/awkward conversation in my life.

Afterthought: While I felt uncomfortable having this conversation, I can only imagine how humiliated this child's father was after he received the Your-son-claims-he-has-yogurt-in-his-penis-call. Eeesh.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

How Do I Become a Member of This Secret Club?

I am just going to admit it: I don't know a lot about music. I really don't. I mean, I enjoy music, and I understand the concept of music, and I once even played the clarinet in Fourth Grade for three whole weeks, but there is a lot about music in general that escapes me.
First of all, I have no idea how people discover "great new bands!" I can recall numerous occasions where I have heard friends/people I was eavesdropping on say, "Oh, have you heard of (insert nonsensical band name here)? They are sooooo great! Seriously, their music changed my life." Now, I just cannot help buy wonder, where do people find these great, new, life changing bands? From their friends? From hours of browsing on itunes? From a daily e-mail chain that I have yet to subscribe to? Or is it something far more sinister, like a list of band names sealed inside an unmarked envelope slipped underneath their front doors at an unknown hour every night?
Whatever the case may be, I am definitely out of the loop, and certainly not a member of the Secret Envelope Club. I am the person who says, "Oh, have you heard of Counting Crows? They're that great band that wrote a song for Shrek 2! I love that movie because there is a talking cat in it!"
Or maybe this knowledge of the latest and greatest music comes from going to lots of concerts, which is also very problematic. I have been to a few concerts and here are some observations that I have made:
1. You cannot sit down for the entirety of the show.
2. You cannot hear anyone you came with, as the music is usually deafening.
3. Any drinks that you buy are outrageously expensive.
4. All venues are FILLED with a thin haze of pot smoke.
5. Everyone in the crowed, while they are not permitted to sit, must awkwardly sway in time with the music in order to fit in.
6. More often than not, one cannot understand any of the lyrics being sung, either because the acoustics are bad, the crowd is too loud, or the singer is drunk.
7. Shows always start 2 hours after their advertised times.

These observations have lead me to this: I don't like concerts. There. Now everyone knows that I think concerts are pretty much miserable. It's crowded, smoky, you can't sit down, you can't talk to anyone, you can't sing along to any music because you usually can't hear it, and you have to do the awkward-sway for the duration of the show. And, really, why do they always start late? What the hell are these band members doing all day? Oh, I know, getting drunk so that they cannot sing the lyrics of their own songs, that's what.
So if I am not a member of the Secret Envelope Club, and I don't really want to go to concerts, what am I going to do? How will I ever know that the song *"Feather Words" by *Baby Toe Spin Project is the greatest love song that has ever been written, at least for this week?
Finally, I don't know why those who do seem to have the "insider information" on Life Changing Bands seem to always think that any British band that blends some sort of weird synthesized keyboard noises into their music is actually worth listening to. A majority of the bands on people's Life Changing Music lists are just this sort, and I am always left scratching my head, wondering, "Why am I listening to a man with a Cockney accent whine to the accompaniment of Techno beats?" Bueller?

There is one thing about music that I do know for sure: Show tunes are the greatest things that has ever happened to music. I love, love, love musical theater, I love show tunes, and I could watch one hundred Broadway shows and never grow tired of it. So while I may not be a member of the Secret Envelope Club, I have absolutely no problem paying money to go see a musical theater number where I can sit down, there is no pot smoke, the audience is quiet, the lyrics are clear, and the shows always start on time. Plus, they usually additional bonuses, like a green witch, special effects, and talking cats.

*"Feather Words" and "Baby Toe Spin Project" are names that I made up, but all of you know they could just as easily be real song and band names. If they aren't already...

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Onion: The WORST Secret Ingredient

This Valentine's Day my coworker Rebecca and her husband, Bill, had a few people over for an Iron Chef-esq type competition. Everyone threw the names of secret ingredients into a hat; however, only one was chosen: ONION. Every single dish in the competition had to feature onion in some way. While I do like onion, I like it sparingly, and I have never eaten six courses all completely devoted to a plant that makes you cry AND smell bad. While I would have opted for some other secret ingredient, I was a guest, and was not about to cause a stink.(Pun intended)
The evening was a outrageously fun. There were pots boiling, onions flying through the air and falling on the floor, and lots of wine being consumed. I received the wise words from one of the "Head Chefs," "Do not be afraid to bruise an onion!" I nodded in understanding, as I was just a lowly sioux chef, and listened to the words of the resident Onion Master as I attempted to caramelize about 50,000 onions at once. Time was not something any of us factored into the event, and we were still eating well until 1:30 am.
When it was all said and done my team emerged victorious. While our onion pudding with whipped cream nearly blew it for us during the dessert competition (it was seriously the worst thing I had ever eaten), what our dish lacked in actual edibility it made up for in presentation, something that our drunk judge Katie seemed to really appreciate.
Iron Chef was a hilarious experience to say the least, one that definitely carried over into the next day, as everything that I wore to Bill and Rebecca's house now WREAKS of onion. I mean, I smell like the back of a taqueria in the Mission, and not even one of the good taquerias, more like one of the super shady we-always-fail-our-health-inspections ones. Looks like tomorrow is laundry day, big time.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

New House!

Happy 2009!
Out at dinner the other night my roommates and I were talking about new beginnings, and we all agreed that we are so looking forward to new things, starting with our new living situation. In honor of starting a new year, my roommates and I have moved into a new brothel/house! We were sad to say goodbye to Bomb, but happy to say hello to a home with a common space: a living room complete with blood red carpeting and dark wood paneling. Basically, it looks like a cougar den/whore house, and I just love it. Now all we need is the leg lamp from a Christmas Story and a tiger fur rug to really complete the look. Our kitchen is all brand new and lovely, which goes umm...nicely? with our living room, which was probably last updated around the same time as the Industrial Revolution. In addition, there is no central heating, but the landlord has thoughtfully installed electric wall heaters in some of the rooms. In order to maintain any sort of livable temperature a room heater needs to be turned on full blast, and all doors to said room must stay shut, creating somewhat of a hotbox effect. Yup, we're well on our way...!

Big thanks to all the people who helped us move in!
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