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!"
Monday, March 30, 2009
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!
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 www.taxijazz.com. 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.
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 www.taxijazz.com. 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.
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...
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.
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!
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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