26 March 2008
Yeessssssss.
I saw Nancy Pelosi at work a week or so ago. She was there for a fund raiser of some sort. She is shorter than I had envisioned.
Coming out of the bathroom, I was retying my apron. She was walking to the bathrooms. Her smile was so large that I thought maybe we could go spelunking and use it as illumination, the way it was gleaming in the dim light. You know, hold her aloft to light the way for us intrepid explorers, and such. Whatever. You have weird thoughts sometimes, too.
This is where she went into the bathroom, and I realized that I am the reason everyone gets a security detail in Washington, DC. What the hell is wrong with me? At the very least I could have been like “Big ups for Balmer, Nanc! How's those grandkids treating you?”.
Instead, with a slow yeesssssss, I ensured I am placed on an FBI watch list.
*It was not. I clearly remember thinking political parties will eat anything and be happy as long as it is accompanied by booze.
.
Coming out of the bathroom, I was retying my apron. She was walking to the bathrooms. Her smile was so large that I thought maybe we could go spelunking and use it as illumination, the way it was gleaming in the dim light. You know, hold her aloft to light the way for us intrepid explorers, and such. Whatever. You have weird thoughts sometimes, too.
Me: You are Nancy Pelosi.
Nancy Pelosi: Yes I am.
Me: (slowly, and kind of creepily) N a n c y P e l o s i.
N.P.: Yeesssss. (smile dims significantly)
awkward silence
N.P.: Thank you for cooking tonight. It was delicious.* (smile looking very strained, as if her face might soon crack)
Me: Yeesssss.
This is where she went into the bathroom, and I realized that I am the reason everyone gets a security detail in Washington, DC. What the hell is wrong with me? At the very least I could have been like “Big ups for Balmer, Nanc! How's those grandkids treating you?”.
Instead, with a slow yeesssssss, I ensured I am placed on an FBI watch list.
*It was not. I clearly remember thinking political parties will eat anything and be happy as long as it is accompanied by booze.
.
Kitchen Games: Latin Versus Non-Latin Cash
One night we had a contest to see had the most cash. I lost. I had two dollars. Everyone else looked at me as if I was a naïve fool who would be caught cashless by the debt collectors and thrown in debtor's prison. The winner was a dishwasher named Juan, who had $327. Everyone roundly agreed that this was a wonderful thing. Everyone I work with is hispanic, except for the chef and chef de cuisine.
For the rest of the evening, several people advised me, in an older-brotherly manner, that I really should be carrying more cash.
I mean really, they said, what if you need a lot of cash for an emergency? I would just use an ATM, I countered. Blank stares, some raised eyebrows, as if I just said that I would make some money with crayons and construction paper, or rely on my magic wand to get the cash.
My money is in the bank, I would protest. No one can steal it from there. This would normally be met with raised eyebrows. 'It's federally insured!', I wailed. Hardened faces, as if I was repeatedly spitting on the proof of a loving God.
Two nights ago one of the line cooks, Raul, reached into my back pocket and fished out my wallet.
“You know, your should really start carrying more than $40 dollars...”
Jesus Wept.
.
For the rest of the evening, several people advised me, in an older-brotherly manner, that I really should be carrying more cash.
I mean really, they said, what if you need a lot of cash for an emergency? I would just use an ATM, I countered. Blank stares, some raised eyebrows, as if I just said that I would make some money with crayons and construction paper, or rely on my magic wand to get the cash.
My money is in the bank, I would protest. No one can steal it from there. This would normally be met with raised eyebrows. 'It's federally insured!', I wailed. Hardened faces, as if I was repeatedly spitting on the proof of a loving God.
Two nights ago one of the line cooks, Raul, reached into my back pocket and fished out my wallet.
“You know, your should really start carrying more than $40 dollars...”
Jesus Wept.
.
Kitchen Games: Or Harassment By Any Other Name
Chef likes to pick on people. Not really in a mean way, but also, not really in a nice way. My second day he told me he was going to make me cry. I told him I would stab him in the hand with a fork when I was half way there, just so he could gauge his own effectiveness at making me cry. He paused. And stared at me. And I prepared to be fired.
To date, I have not been fired nor have I been made to cry. So detante, perhaps?
.
To date, I have not been fired nor have I been made to cry. So detante, perhaps?
.
24 March 2008
21 March 2008
Like the slow leaking of air from a bike tire, it's all slowly deflating.
I've been awake basically the entire week. It was our last week of classes at Chef School. We had a final in wine pairing. We had a final theoretical exam. We had our final practical exam (gourgeres, flounder filet meuniere, steak with bordalaise sauce, pear jalousie), which, incidentally, I did awesome on. And today, we turned in our massive notebooks, filled with every recipe that we prepared over the last six months. And now. It's. Over.
And I don't quite know what to do with myself. Except nap. Most definitely nap.
I've been awake basically the entire week. It was our last week of classes at Chef School. We had a final in wine pairing. We had a final theoretical exam. We had our final practical exam (gourgeres, flounder filet meuniere, steak with bordalaise sauce, pear jalousie), which, incidentally, I did awesome on. And today, we turned in our massive notebooks, filled with every recipe that we prepared over the last six months. And now. It's. Over.
And I don't quite know what to do with myself. Except nap. Most definitely nap.
18 March 2008
There was music? And, uhhhh, merriment?
So, Shamrock Fest 2008 was all about the music. I mean, my favorites were there, the Carbon Leaf, the Everyone But Buddah, the Charm City Saints, even the Burnt Sienna. Ok, I have no idea who any of those people are. Their names were printed on my ticket.
Mom, this is where you stop reading. I suggest following this link. In the end you will thank me. It's about pistachios.
I arrived late because I was at work. Booooo work. Everyone else had been drinking since around, I would say, the dawn of time. But! My tickets entitled me to as much beer as I could drink, two cups at a time. A time line follows.
3:50p: Arrive
3:55p: Take pre-emptive pee in amazingly full port-a-john. Seriously, this festival has been in motion for less than four hours and this port-a-john is on the verge of explosion? Gird your loins.
4:00p: Locate friends and well wishers among massive crowd of ethnically diverse crowd. (Kidding. I know it was in Southeast, but there were like two black people there. Two. I counted.)
4:05p: Finish first two beers. Sweet relief of alcohol sets in. Thank jeebus.
4:10p: Meet people I don't know. Immediately begin to judge them.
4:15p: Nevermind. They are fine people.
4:20p: Whhhhhhahahhaha. No one gets this but me.
4:45p: Maybe five beers in now. Girl I just met has money in her bra. I try to explain about the Bank of Monica. A girl I know used to keep lots of cash in her bra for safe keeping. Her name was Monica. No one gets it. I demonstrate. All the sudden a moment of clarity hits me, allowing me to see that through the magic of alcohol, I have my hand down a girls bra, and I don't even like girls, and yet it's all OK, and no one is calling the cops. Demonstration a success.
6:10p: Lose count of beers. However, at this point, we begin playing spin the bottle. And I kiss some other people. A lot of other people. Why does anyone play this game? Oh right, white people are up tight. J does not get mad.
6:15p: Crotch grabbing ensues. Don't ask. This guy started it.
6:45p: Crotch grabbing ends.
6:46p: Judging time begins. Everyone is either a tranny or a hot mess, or a hot tranny mess. Limited options available causes game to cease early.
6:51p: Begin rating other guys on a scale of -infininty to +infinity. Basically, the higher the number, the more liquored up one must be in order to desire them, where as a negative integer means the amount one would pay to do them. It's a game with predictable, yet hilarious, results. I am, of course, a negative eight bajillion million.
Time ceases to exist here, frankly, and I watch Paul Oakenfold play the same stuff I have already heard through a double chain link fence. Feel as if I am a refugee. A refugee with an unlimited supply of beer.
Later that evening: Wander home, and begin long recovery.
Shamrock Fest 2009? Yes please, more like this.
K Thx Bai!
Mom, this is where you stop reading. I suggest following this link. In the end you will thank me. It's about pistachios.
I arrived late because I was at work. Booooo work. Everyone else had been drinking since around, I would say, the dawn of time. But! My tickets entitled me to as much beer as I could drink, two cups at a time. A time line follows.
Academics take a front row seat at this celebration of American Irish Pride!
3:50p: Arrive
3:55p: Take pre-emptive pee in amazingly full port-a-john. Seriously, this festival has been in motion for less than four hours and this port-a-john is on the verge of explosion? Gird your loins.
4:00p: Locate friends and well wishers among massive crowd of ethnically diverse crowd. (Kidding. I know it was in Southeast, but there were like two black people there. Two. I counted.)
4:05p: Finish first two beers. Sweet relief of alcohol sets in. Thank jeebus.
4:10p: Meet people I don't know. Immediately begin to judge them.
4:15p: Nevermind. They are fine people.
4:20p: Whhhhhhahahhaha. No one gets this but me.
4:45p: Maybe five beers in now. Girl I just met has money in her bra. I try to explain about the Bank of Monica. A girl I know used to keep lots of cash in her bra for safe keeping. Her name was Monica. No one gets it. I demonstrate. All the sudden a moment of clarity hits me, allowing me to see that through the magic of alcohol, I have my hand down a girls bra, and I don't even like girls, and yet it's all OK, and no one is calling the cops. Demonstration a success.
6:10p: Lose count of beers. However, at this point, we begin playing spin the bottle. And I kiss some other people. A lot of other people. Why does anyone play this game? Oh right, white people are up tight. J does not get mad.
6:15p: Crotch grabbing ensues. Don't ask. This guy started it.
6:45p: Crotch grabbing ends.
6:46p: Judging time begins. Everyone is either a tranny or a hot mess, or a hot tranny mess. Limited options available causes game to cease early.
6:51p: Begin rating other guys on a scale of -infininty to +infinity. Basically, the higher the number, the more liquored up one must be in order to desire them, where as a negative integer means the amount one would pay to do them. It's a game with predictable, yet hilarious, results. I am, of course, a negative eight bajillion million.
Time ceases to exist here, frankly, and I watch Paul Oakenfold play the same stuff I have already heard through a double chain link fence. Feel as if I am a refugee. A refugee with an unlimited supply of beer.
Later that evening: Wander home, and begin long recovery.
Shamrock Fest 2009? Yes please, more like this.
K Thx Bai!
13 March 2008
Shamrock Fest 2008
Sometimes, during times of potato famine, you have to come to the big city and shake it. That's right. Shake it. You do what you have to and you never look back. That's the Irish way.
So, being properly Irish and all, what with all of my grandparents either readily admitting that they are German, or claiming that they are Scotch-Irish (what does that even mean? It means German and embarrassed, that's what it means.), I am going to celebrate St Patty's Day this weekend. Ich bin ein Proper Irish Lad. And lad-like is the type of behavior that I hope to participate in on Saturday. Shamrock Fest seems to have an interesting mix of music (Paul Oakenfold, anyone? Where the hell has he been? Obviously waking up way later than I have been.) and a hell of a lot of beer.
So some of you who don't really know me well might not understand that I hate crowds, people anger me, and everyone is normally wrong and/or broken. That is my standard modus operandi. I am going to try and push that all aside and love that I get to spend Saturday afternoon drinking beer with some friends, and listening to bands that I either vaguely remember/have never heard of. Sláinte!
For those of you that wish to join me in making merry/silently judging people, Shamrock Fest is here.
Top of the morning to you, you pasty slackers! K Thx Bai!
P.S. I will be reporting back as to hijinx achieved at this excuse to be drunk during the day. Love!
01 March 2008
I hate you, March.
March is the month that I hate the most. I know most people bitch on endlessly about February. They are wrong. I ask you: what's so bad about a month in which depression is allowed, it's cold all the time so you had better spend it under a blanket reading books and watching moves, and that has a pleasing, exactly four week long time period? Except every fourth year? When leap day is sort of an exciting non-event? Nothing is so bad about that, especially compared to some of the other loser months.
No, March is the bee in my bonnet. The thorn in my side. The apple of my eye? I never understood how to use that last one. I hate that the whole month is about getting ready for spring. Everyone is going to start talking about it. We are all going to be on the look out for stupid signs of spring, e.g. bunnies, birds, sunny days, trees that don't look dead. But I have news for you: Spring doesn't happen in March. Oh, now before you inundate me with ones of emails about how spring is totally awesome and how it DOES get warm in March, I ask that we consider the facts before the spin.
March is cold. Get used to it. Yeah, there might be a warm day here or there, but it will never be as warm as you think it is going to be so you will spend the afternoon shivering and rubbing your arms to return feeling to your hands because you, ever the fool, thought that it was warm enough to go with out a jacket. God I hate March.
March is windy. 'In like a lamb, out like a lion' mom used to say. While she was full of crap on many other topics (what girls want, the importance of popularity in high school, how being yourself will win lots of friends), she was right about this. From where I am sitting this fine March morning, it's pretty calm. So, applying basic algebra to meteorology (a win-win situation if I ever heard of one), get ready for a few days of hurricane gale. Also, it will still be cold. Stupid March.
I hate looking for signs of spring, which don't really happen in March in the mid-Atlantic.
March is stupidly long. Why give 31 days to a month that has so little going for it? Let's lop off a couple and give them to other months that are relegated to 30 day status. But not February. I like that it's short.
In summary, March is cold, windy, long, and everyone acts like an idiot.
No, March is the bee in my bonnet. The thorn in my side. The apple of my eye? I never understood how to use that last one. I hate that the whole month is about getting ready for spring. Everyone is going to start talking about it. We are all going to be on the look out for stupid signs of spring, e.g. bunnies, birds, sunny days, trees that don't look dead. But I have news for you: Spring doesn't happen in March. Oh, now before you inundate me with ones of emails about how spring is totally awesome and how it DOES get warm in March, I ask that we consider the facts before the spin.
March is cold. Get used to it. Yeah, there might be a warm day here or there, but it will never be as warm as you think it is going to be so you will spend the afternoon shivering and rubbing your arms to return feeling to your hands because you, ever the fool, thought that it was warm enough to go with out a jacket. God I hate March.
March is windy. 'In like a lamb, out like a lion' mom used to say. While she was full of crap on many other topics (what girls want, the importance of popularity in high school, how being yourself will win lots of friends), she was right about this. From where I am sitting this fine March morning, it's pretty calm. So, applying basic algebra to meteorology (a win-win situation if I ever heard of one), get ready for a few days of hurricane gale. Also, it will still be cold. Stupid March.
I hate looking for signs of spring, which don't really happen in March in the mid-Atlantic.
Coworkers: Oh wow! Did you see the daffodils bloomed in front of the building?? How great! It's really going to warm up soon!
Me: Uhhhh, did you not notice the landscaping company planting those very same flowers this morning? Remember how yesterday there was just a lot of ground cover there, and now, magically, it's all flowers?
Coworkers: We hate you.
Me: Uhhhh, did you not notice the landscaping company planting those very same flowers this morning? Remember how yesterday there was just a lot of ground cover there, and now, magically, it's all flowers?
Coworkers: We hate you.
March is stupidly long. Why give 31 days to a month that has so little going for it? Let's lop off a couple and give them to other months that are relegated to 30 day status. But not February. I like that it's short.
In summary, March is cold, windy, long, and everyone acts like an idiot.
This lady totally loves March, but it screwed her over again because it's cold and she didn't wear a jacket. Also, she thought she saw a baby bird, but it turned out to be chewed gum.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
