ShiftlessBadger

Timed Map of Europe's Airspace Rebooting

2010-04-28T08:51:00.003-05:00

Yeah, I'm a nerd. Get on board. This is crazy cool.

Airspace Rebooted from ItoWorld on Vimeo.

Read This Now

2010-04-09T08:35:00.004-05:00

I just finished reading Sag Harbor, a novel by Colson Whitehead.

I apologize that the title is italicized instead of underlined, as I know that is really going to bother some of you. If you know the html coding for how to get underlining to happen, let me know and I'll be happy to change it. Otherwise I recommend underlining it yourself on your monitor using a permanent marker. But I digress.

I hate reviewing books, but I want you to read this one, so I've devised an express format:

Sag Harbor is a community in the Hamptons on Long Island that has a historically black settlement in it, populated by wealthy, professional black people from the five boroughs. The story is set in that community, and reflects the dichotomy that having parallel wealthy, but racially divided, communities creates. That separation occupies a surprisingly large amount of both the novel, and the character's emotional space. But really it's about two brothers that spend the summer in Sag Harbor at their family's summer house, largely unsupervised, and the broad possibility of re-invention that a summer alone brings.

Language: Sometimes lyrical, always lush, you'll want to lick it from the page. Also: sometimes there is early 80's rap used, and it's hilarious to read Whitehead's description of why rap was important.

Point: Call me unprepared, but I had never thought about the fact that a wealthy, successful class of black people wouldn't have had anyplace to go. Now that I've thought about it, I want to know more. It must feel like the way that being gay used to be harder but also it was more of a club, and now that it's more accepted it feels like less of a bond. Difficult.

Counterpoint: But not really about the separation of wealthy blacks and whites, really about the awkwardness of trying to transform yourself from a boy into a man.

Hilarity?: Oh, in spades. Re: Early 80s rap lyrics, trying to sneak into a club by dressing as a preppy kid, stealing old coke because new coke was terrible and your stockpile was dwindling, summer jobs scooping ice cream, turf wars over what is acceptable white culture and what is not. Apparently, Kraftwerk was ok.

Tragedy?: There is a passage where the main character's dad gets drunk and angry as he prepares to grill some chicken, the number of drinks punctuated by the onomatopoeia of the liquor cabinet quietly opening and closing as refills are poured. The quiet, assumedly-pleasurable process of getting ready to barbecue takes on the milestone-counting quality of a march to doom, punctuated by the sound of the liquor cabinet door. The tension was delicious.

Thanks for the Support

2010-04-09T08:33:00.001-05:00

Thanks everyone for your overly kind pep-talks. I was just, in the words of Kath and Kim, an excellent Australian comedy, "feeling a lot of feelings, deep within myself." Josh passed, I'm excited, crisis solved.

Untitled

2010-04-06T07:33:00.005-05:00

Josh is taking the Foreign Service Exam right now. Today's the big one; after this test they tell you if they want you or not. I dropped him off this morning after being the good boyfriend and making him lunch, and then bringing him down from his pre-stressful situation freak-out/high that he loves so much. It's the little things that keep the magic alive.

Can I put this out there, real quick? I took the Foreign Service Exam before I moved to Japan. It used to be structured differently, but I passed the first round and was invited to take the exam that Josh is taking today. And I didn't take it because I wasn't sure that I wanted to work for the State Department under George W. Bush. I know that my life would be completely different if I had passed that exam and not moved overseas at that point- I wouldn't have met Josh, I wouldn't have met most of the friends I have now, I wouldn't choose to do things differently. But still. Just this one time, be slow to judge.

I'm just a little jealous.

Josh got into school at the school where I didn't. And now he's sitting the exam for the career that I thought I wanted. And after wishing him the best, and trying to do everything I can to help him succeed, and hoping with him that he gets this thing he would be amazing at: maybe I want to be the one sitting in that room nervously trying to appear both intelligent and modest at the same time?

Don't tell anyone this part, but sometimes looking down at my scarred cook's hands, being able to cook isn't enough.

UPDATE: Josh PASSED! WHOO HOO! Beer drinking begins!

Yinz are Jagoffs. Gumbands!

2010-04-05T08:34:00.006-05:00

Josh and I had a scheduled mini-break for the weekend. It was going to be in New York- I'd bought some very romantic bus tickets to ride us up to the big lights in style, and we had grand plans of eating falafel, french fries, drinking at dive bars, and being grungy, but in an out-of-towner way. Unexpectedly, the death of a man two thousand years previous really makes people want to go to New York for the weekend, leaving, fittingly, no room at any of the inns.

Plan B was Pittsburgh, which was unexpectedly delightful. I mean, I think living there all the time would do me in, but visiting for a weekend was fantastic, not least because they use a bunch of words that should have died out along time ago, including gumbands instead of rubber bands. Because it's Pittsburgh, we stayed at a four star hotel for half the price hostel beds were going to cost in New York, beer was $1, and we went to see an Arthur Miller play, The Price, which was unexpectedly fantastic. Also: ate donuts, rode an incline, ate a pork shank, had something called a Strong Island Iced Tea which caused dancing later in the evening. Weekend success.

In summary: we are easy to please.

Careful now, I've heard it inclines.

That's one hell of an incline. Cleveland's got nothing on you Pittsburgh.

It's all here in Pittsburgh.

The Scales Fell from Their Eyes.

2010-04-02T09:05:00.002-05:00

It's the first day the windows are all opened at ten o'clock in the morning, and the air doesn't smell dead any more, and the trees have the beginnings of leaves on them and maybe, just maybe, winter has left. Let's hope so. I've been serving coffee and the other guests have been jangling their car keys in their pockets for like an hour now. Let's wrap it up Cold: dinner party over.

So on the agenda for the warm?

1. Find purpose in life.
2. Have Josh find purpose in life.
3. Not wear coats anymore.

So really, not that much on the to-do list.

Beach Causes Retardation

2009-12-31T03:52:00.000-05:00

No really. It does. Sitting in the sunshine and then running off to splash in the waves is making me dumber by the moment. I have spent the last two days memorizing EIGHT thai vowels. And I'll be honest. I'm not sure I actually have them down. But thanks to the side effects of the sun and water, I have become too dumb to notice.

Tonight, on the final day of the year, there are gigantic speakers being set up on the beach, as well as ridiculous amounts of beverages being laid in by the beach-side bars. The full moon has decided to sync with the evenings events, piling even more tinder onto the bonfire of twenty-something beach goers that are ready to puke into the surf to celebrate another passing year. Hurray! A pinnacle for western civilization!

I'm being entirely too cynical, because I plan to have more than the recommended dosage of beer and dance my ass off under the stars. Don't be surprised when I drunk dial you at your mom's house.

Singapore, 6:15am

2009-05-14T18:14:00.002-05:00

Hey party people: I'm gone. We packed up our stuff and said good bye to the old life for the summer. It's all Southeast Asia for the next four months. I'm kind of in stasis with this blog, so I decided to start a new one that just focuses on what I will be doing this summer: eating, and being sweaty. J. has an internship in Malaysia, so it's going to be all kinds of good food and learning how to cook and eat, with pictures of food and recipes. And of course, the kind of google-eyed yapping you have all come to know and love.

Here's the first post from Badger Eats Asia, where I will be posting from for the summer. See you on the flip side.

A woman in a headscarf walks by, trailed by two girls in Islamic school uniform, like black and white ducks following their more colorful mother. A kid in a square cap comes next, and a old, old, old Chinese man, who should be smoking an opium pipe, but isn't, and is smoking a cigarette instead. I'm wearing shorts and flip-flops. It's already almost 85°F/30°C, and the humidity hangs from the low sky in invisible curtains. I can't sleep any more, even though it's just six fifteen in the morning. We arrived last night, greasy and butt-sore, twelve hours off our schedule, twenty-six hours later. Numbers are confusing. That's why I am drinking a cup of too-sweet nescafe and watching Singapore wake up, happy to already be sweating into my pants, happy to be wearing sandals and feel the heat, happy to smell that smell of rotting and spicy food frying and damp air. Happy to be here.

Wanderlust-o.

2009-04-14T23:32:00.004-05:00

I made posole for dinner tonight. It's a stew of pork shoulder and hominy, spiced with cumin, chili powder and jesus. Ok, he wasn't in it but it reminded me how amazing Mexican food is. I should move there and learn how to cook the entire pantheon of mastery over defeat that defines Mexican food.

Self-Employeed Tuesday

2009-04-14T14:11:00.001-05:00

Sitting snug at my kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and listening to the rain, I realize that I haven't put on any pants (that's trousers for you foreigners) yet. And it's 11 am. But I've been working. And that makes me decide if working from home is the best scam ever, then working for yourself is the biggest scam in the history of scamola. It's the boyband of jobs: you hate them, but how did they get their hair so perfect?

God I love it. No office, and therefore no uncomfortable office birthday party in which everyone stands around and makes small talk before trying to grab a piece of cake and slip away unnoticed. No boss, so really, if you want to search craigslist for mopeds or read what the interweb has to say about building your own sauna before you answer any emails, then that is what you do. I mean, you have to do work sometime, but let's be honest: out of the 40 hours one spends at the office, most of the work can be completed in like ten hours.

Actually, let me correct myself: all of the work can be done in ten hours. Or at least that's how it worked out for me. I am sure that some of you are out there saving babies and nursing the rainforest back to health and recycling whales or whatnot, but I was making a lot of flow charts. Granted, I get paid for about ten hours of work, but whatever. Either this will work out or it won't. It's about fifty-fifty right now.

An Open Letter to the POTUS

2009-04-07T22:17:00.004-05:00

President Obama-

No, really, you are doing a great job. Is it hope we can believe in? Unclear, but what it seems to be so far is soft hearted pragmatism. That's all I ask for. Let's look at the mess we have ourselves in and decide to do the best with it that we can, and let's try to make the solution not destroy the lower or middle class.

I think it is hilarious to listen to Fox News parrot on and on about how forcing the CEO of GM out signals a new “socialist blueprint” that the agenda is following, or to read The Economist drone on and on about interfering in the free market while glibly calling it “Government Motors”. I can't believe that I just lumped Fox News with the Economist, but there it is.

Guess what: I don't care if the President made the CEO quit. It affects me not at all. I hope you start firing people right and left. It makes the business world jumpy that “some egghead in Washington”, to quote a Fox talking head, could analyze the situation, see that appropriate remedy had not been implemented, and told the boss-man to get out. That is exactly what happens to every worker who doesn't do what their boss asks of them. They get fired. And as soon as the car companies took tax dollars to cover up their own years of failing management, they became employees. See? Some other egghead in Washington was also able to clearly analyze a situation. It's not rocket surgery. Keep up the good work.

Love,
Badger

PS. I would totally love, like OMGZ, some health care if you could hook that up.
PPS. Tell Michelle to show those arms off. She looks best when she is holding up that flag for working motherhood that people seem to want her to drop. Maybe that's how those arms got so toned.

Carpet we can believe in.

Hello Neglectarinos!

2009-02-23T11:01:00.006-05:00

In the words of Ned Flanders, this post is do-didley-belate-arino. And he would be correct. Let's catch up by me throwing a bunch of mess together and you deciding to read it or scroll by while screaming LA LA LA LA so that nothing leeks into your head.

I quit my job.

Yeah. It was great. I feel good. I have decided that 2009 is the year of working for myself, because I am an awesome boss. I was working seventy hours a week, on average, at the restaurant. In the beginning, I didn't really mind it, because I felt like I was learning. I could forgive the poor accounting, late paychecks, and strange directives the owners would issue because I was getting to cook some amazing food and was really enjoying learning how a kitchen should (and more importantly, should not) be managed. But after explaining for like the tenth time that our paychecks were late, or we were only getting paid for half of the pay period, or that we were out of butter or milk or wine or carrots or some other mundane thing, I decided I was done. I don't mind explaining my own incompetence away, but it's unpleasant to do it for others. I will defend my employers to a point, but beyond that point I will grab my pitchfork and torch and join the others demanding what is theirs.

So now I am one of those people who earns a living doing a little of this or a little of that. It feels weird, but also organic. I consult for a pasta company on shelf-life issues. I am organizing a series of cooking classes for a local kitchen store. I have a little catering lined up. I assist another chef who teaches. I hope to do a little personal chef work. And since I have an attention span of exactly five minutes, it's good to have a lot of projects on the go. I still wake up at night sweating profusely, dreaming about running out of money and having to live off of J.'s tip money (the shame! the shame!). Sometimes I worry that it's not a career in the standard sense. Then I remember that I am my own boss and that, midwestern upbrining be damned, maybe I am one of those people who work to live, and not the other way around. It's been the best resolution I have ever made.

Inauguration

Yes, yes, the excitement is over. But still, I got to be there. It was a strange day in DC, to say the least, but my favorite image has nothing to do with the ceremony and pomp; I loved walking under the capitol on the I-365 expressway that had been closed to traffic. It was very post-apocalypse meets Mardis Gras. Which is kind of what I hope for the post-apocalypse period.

But, thanks to Black Jesus, we no longer have to worry about the apocalypse. He's going to fix everything.

more mess to follow...

SNOWTASTROPHY!

2009-01-27T09:44:00.003-05:00

Oh hai, blog. Yeah, it's been awhile.

The following things have happened:

I returned from the midwest without accidentally buying a house, again.
I quit my job.
I watched Black Jesus take office on Jan 20.
J. finally got back from Thailand.

I promise an entire blog post on each one of those topics this week. That's right! Four!

For the present, it's snowing and snowing and snowing, with the explicit promise of ICE and FREEZING RAIN tonight! And because this is DC, there is an implicit promise that when I go to Safeway this afternoon a woman in a parka will be fighting a woman wearing flip flops for the last roll of toilet paper because SNOW IS THE END OF THE WORLD.

Run from the falling death! And have some hot cocoa!

Transit Bliss

2008-12-23T22:46:00.000-05:00

I missed my flight at the airport and now I am sitting in the bar, wishing malice and destruction on almost everyone around me. But not the bar tender. Who else would bring me refreshing beers? I'd have to get them and we all know that isn't going to happen. I can't believe that I missed my flight. I mean granted, I arrived at the airport like four minutes before the plane left and all, but still. Who do I blame this on? There's a list, like usual.

1.Dulles. That's right, I am starting by blaming the ENTIRE airport. It's in the middle of no where and there is no train.
2.Fat Stupid Woman at Security. She stood there, holding the entire line up as she asked the Transportation Security Authority Officer about every item of clothing she had. “Do I have to take off my shoes? My hat? My puffy coat? My socks? What about my hideous sweater that I found at the bottom of a bargain bin?” Then she proceeded to put through the x-ray machine the following items, each of which caused the entire line to wait while the TSA riffled through her baggage to find the offending item: a full size bottle of shampoo, a liter bottle of Mountain Dew, a laptop, and a jar of honey. I kid you not. A jar of honey.
3.United Airlines. Uhhhhhh, the sign says that passengers must be on board ten minutes before the flight departs. It's twelve minutes before departure, Mr Gate Monkey, and you are informing me that the plane has left and you cannot let me on. The plane hasn't left, my ugly friend. I can see it, It's right there. When I point that out you get offended. Feel lucky that I didn't point out that you aren't moving much further in life.

The frustrating thing is that all around me are flights departing for London, Munich, Rome, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg... places that I would like to go. I'm going back to a square state, bitches. Let me on the plane. NOW.

Flight #6482

2008-12-18T09:02:00.002-05:00

Sitting on the plane, learning how oxygen masks may drop from the ceiling in the event of pending doom. Going to Toronto! Going to be great! I heard they have a paved road up there now. Good job, Canada.

2008-12-17T02:58:00.002-05:00

I just talked with J. He's on the otherside of the world right now, learning Thai. While I am so happy that technology provides a means that I can call him while also shopping for groceries at Safeway, I feel hollow. I think that hollow feeling is me missing him. Alot. He's twelve hours ahead of me. And I'm twelve hours behind him. And that's where we'll be until the end of January.

And I don't like it.

12 behind, and 12 ahead. Fail.

Singularity.

2008-12-12T22:12:00.002-05:00

A point in time in which one doesn't quite know what to do...that's my kind of singularity. That's what I've got right now. My boyfriend leaves for Thailand tomorrow and I feel kind of lost. Directionless. He'll be gone for six weeks, and I guess I have to remember what it's like to not have a partner. I mean, it's not like he died or anything, but still.

It's going to be quiet in here.

I'm Taking Over the World

2008-12-05T20:32:00.004-05:00

I started a business today. It took like five minutes. I started doing some consulting work, and since I can't afford liability insurance, I decided to hide behind a corporate shell. Hurray laissez faire capitalism! No, for serious: appearantly, in America, by signing my name to a peice of paper, I can kill children as long as I do it as a representative of my fake corporation.

I can't believe that in the same city that cancelled my driver's license for no reason at the drop of a hat allows someone to set up a corporation in, seriously, five minutes on the webbertubes. Click, print, write a check and guess what? I'm the CEO of Square State LLC. That's right.

C. E. O.

I plan on taking a ridiculous compensation package and then getting bailed out by the federal government. Hurray!

Oh hai.

2008-12-03T01:08:00.003-05:00

I forgot to mention that I am two timing. I am posting at this other site sometimes... this week is a tale of one man's fight against Latrice.

You'll love it and stuff.

Go here.

Smoking Gun Pointed at Idiot Reviewer

2008-11-20T11:41:00.005-05:00

In the good old WaPo the other day there was an opinion piece by Michael Kinsley that discussed if Barak Obama had quit smoking or not. This is my favorite line:

"Obama's steely calm is now one of our country's major assets. If he needs an occasional cigarette to preserve it, let's hand him an ashtray, offer him a light and look the other way."

Uhhhhhh, what? The article is basically about how Obama might not be trust worthy but we should all just look the other way as if having a president that smokes matters to the rest of the world. Really, does anyone care? Right now my 401(k) is evaporating, my health care is dependant on if rich people continue eating out every night, Social Security will not be able to support my parents, much less myself, and we are sitting in the smoldering ruins of what used to be a country of idealism and opportunity.

Smoke em if you got em, Obama. Let's just get this cleaned up.

I'm not. Uhhhhh. Drinking.

2008-11-12T23:09:00.006-05:00

So let me tell you a story. Mom, this is one of those times that you might want to, say, not read any more. You've been warned.

I like booze. A lot. It's the best. We've been BFF since I started drinking. There's so much to love! Available in multiple colors, flavors, sizes, strengths and combinations! Cheap beer for white trash times, expensive beer for city-living times, cheap wine for most of the times, expensive wine for foodie times! And then the liquor! Hurray. What other intoxicant offers both social acceptance AND the ability to be a snob about it when need be?

Cigarettes lost that along time ago- everyone acts as if lighting up is the equivalent of pooping on a public sidewalk. Marijuana used to have sort of an acceptance amongst a section of the population, and it definitely still has its devotees, but it never was able to break out into the mainstream. Cocaine? Maybe socially acceptable for clubbing and the like, but who wants to go down to the corner pub to do a few lines? Nothing relaxes me like hanging out with five people who all feel the chemically-induced urge to talk at the same time! Plus, what, it comes in white and that's it? No mixers? No different flavors? What is this, a commodity?

No, it's brother booze for me.

But the other day I woke up feeling predictably horrible and I had a thought: do I always feel like this in the morning, or is it all that wine I drank the night before? And I have to say I don't know. I have absolutely no idea.

Because I can't remember not drinking at least one glass of wine or a beer or a cocktail or something during the course of a day. Can't. Remember. I think it was last winter when I got sick. It's a chilling thought. So I am taking a week off from the drinking. It was daunting at first. I was kind of worried that maybe I would find that I was much more in the thrall of the bottle that I had assumed. Cause if it's always around, who knows? The good news is that it has been really easy. Simply replace booze with something not quite as delicious and life continues on. End of story.

Here are my discoveries:

I still feel like crap every morning.
All that forgetting stuff? Yeah, that's because I am forgetful. Seems to have nothing to do with drinking.
Late at night, I feel tired. That seems to also have nothing to do with the booze.
Know what is great about not drinking? I'm five days in and I lost six pounds. That's right! Booze has calories! Unacceptable.

I'm out to finish my week. I started the week on the wagon, and I'll finish it on the wagon. And then I'll go on a bender. Kidding.

It does throw into relief how hard it must be for people who do not drink because they are alcoholics or religious or just don't like alcohol. So much of what there is to do during a cold November (well, so much of what I am used to doing- I suppose there are church pot lucks and bible studies and book burnings that I am missing out on) involves going out for a drink, going to a friends house for a glass of wine, having a beer and reading on the couch.

And I kind of miss that part of it.

Tea anyone? No? Oh. Right. Tea does suck.

90 Bus Versus 70 Bus, A Comparison

2008-11-12T21:50:00.005-05:00

Some of you might think that I write about Metrobus a little but too much. Rest you assured, you have never been more wrong. There is no possibility for this to be true. Metrobus, even when awful, is awesome, even if it is awesome just for it's sheer awfulness. Circular logic? Never heard of it. Must be big in Japan.

Some friends of mine like to claim that the 90 bus is the worst bus in the District, while I contend, after living for more than a year on Georgia Ave, home of the 70 bus, that the 70 bus is the bus that epitomises the "bus" experience. What, pray tell, is the "bus" experience? You'll understand by the end of this post.

Today I had the pleasure of riding both buses. That's right. I did it on purpose. For you. I'm always doing things for you.

First, The Ninety Bus:

Requisite person with missing limb, requisite person in a wheel chair. These two things are required for ALL 90 bus trips. I don't know if Metro issues every bus with a set of each or if there is just some unstudied symbyosis. The bus stopped on average twice a second to let on ten people and let off two people. Buy the time I got off the bus there were people sitting on the roof a-la-indian train.

The Seventy Bus:

I sat in urine. When I jumped up in disgust/horror, the woman behind said "What, you didn't smell the seat before you sat? Foolish!"

Any bus line where customers would be expected to smell the seats for urine wins, hands down. Game. Set. Match.

Sidenote: Ignore the sirens you might be currently hearing. It's just the fire department attempting to douse a blaze in my front yard. It's amazing how much gasoline urine-soaked pants require to ingnite, but once they do, stand back, friends.

Metro staff perform a routine cleaning of a 70 bus.

A Primal Yulp

2008-11-07T14:47:00.004-05:00

I cried when Barak Obama gave his victory speech. I won't lie. I had tears streaming down my face. Well, I mean I would have if I had let them stream down my face and then stood under a light to underscore the piquant portrait of a man moved by a historic moment. In reality I just wiped them with my sleve a lot and then talked loudly about allergies.

Will Barak Obama make a difference? I have no idea. But it was moving to cast a ballot for someone who I believed in, not just a set of ideas espoused by someone I wasn't sure about. Am I setting myself up to be disappointed? Of course. That's what politics is about, after all; it's all voting for ideas that are hard to achieve, and therefore, don't always come about.

But good God the man can talk; it's rain on parched plains falling in a soft light.

The district was a fun place to be (well, if you voted for Obama). I was at work the whole night, and everytime Barak won a new state, the shouts from the bar and lounge drowned out the bad techno we listen to (it makes the food tastier if you cook it listening to Eurotrash-pop from 1998). After I got done, all the cars along Pennsylvania Ave were honking their horns and everyone was giving high-fives. And for just a minute, it felt really good to think that maybe everything was going to be alright.

EVER SO TRUE.

2008-10-12T23:03:00.003-05:00

I hate it when ecards are right. Someone sent this to me at the same moment I was looking at immigration requirements for Quebec.

Unclear how to solve problems at work? Immigrate! Passports and visas and landing permission fix everything!

Whatever, I'm right.

I'm an Insensitive Boar.

2008-10-08T23:04:00.003-05:00

Yeah, so remember all intensive purposes?

I would hate to be an insensitive boar, but apparently THAT IS THE INCORRECT USAGE OF THE PHRASE.

I am apparently an insensitive bore.

Let's compare and contrast, shall we? A boar is something that is totally insensitive, obviously, being like 800 pounds of angry/awesome bacon-on-the-hoof. But a bore is just someone that you don't invite back to a party. And if they were insensitive, well then who cares. You didn't want to invite them next time anyway.

George Washington Unviversity Freshman

2008-09-26T06:54:00.000-05:00

It's not that they look ingenuine. It's just that there's something not quite right, like a sweater that's too big on a small kid. Except that's not it. Their clothes are stunningly expensive, perfect in every way. No, it's how they hold their props. Their cigarettes and bookbags: they grab them gingerly as if they might be crushed. The bags are over packed and they barely puff on the cigarettes, instead letting them burn down like acrid incense. Unsureness. It's not insecurity, not at this the most expensive university in the country. But it's heartbreaking.

I know in like fifteen minutes they will all have their collars popped and will be vomiting on my shoes in Adams Morgan and I will want to have them all deported to work camps in Nevada, but just for this one moment, I remember when that unsureness was my own.

Would you like a pillow with that Wanderlust?

2008-09-25T07:52:00.000-05:00

Our friend J. came to visit us the other day. She was standing in O'Hare and decided that because the subway ride back to her apartment was too daunting, she would fly to DC. She's a flight attendant and she can do that. And I am ever, ever so jealous. I mean seriously.

Can I imagine myself wearing a navy blue blazer and pushing a drinks cart? In a word, no. But still... the freedom.

On Babies

2008-09-23T19:45:00.000-05:00

I just went home to check out my nephew, Qball. He's the one who used to look like an angry potato. He looks like a happy potato now, I am pleased to report. Actually, he looks kind of like one of the incarnations of Buddha, what with his little belly and his eyes full of munificence and all. My niece, Kbird, is old enough to do stuff now, which is pretty great. She especially enjoys such games as "Scream" and "Flounce". Scream is pretty self-explanatory, and deafening, where as "Flounce" is being thrown onto the couch by someone else with enough force that you bounce. It looks like fun. I wish someone was big enough to throw me onto the couch. Sometimes "Flounce" morphs into "Scream". It's fun to play when Qball is napping, because nothing will bring the wrath of the tired parent faster than playing "Scream" when the baby is sleeping. But on the bright side, snacks are served after nap time, which runs from 1-3pm. Some people claim parenthood must be stifling, but when was the last time anyone scheduled a nap time for you? Not for a long time, that's the answer.

I sometimes feel like I am missing out on these two. They learn stuff really fast, and change so quickly, and here I am sitting in a steaming kitchen thousands of miles away and not getting to participate. Heading back home, though, I think that maybe there is more to this than just wanting to see my nephew.

Much more.

A dark place full of more.

That place, some corner of my nucleotide map, is starting to whisper disturbing things. It whispers, late at night, that it is approaching that time for the Thing.

That Thing that we are supposed to do. All of us. Even if we don't like kids or think we want to participate. For the species. We are supposed to do it. Our reptilian core requires it. It is working against us. It's a cultural joke for forward-thinking educated people, this urge to have kids. For those of us who haven't had any, we find ourselves both defined by the freedom of childlessness and also hobbled by the fact that maybe, just maybe, we are missing out.

Or is it the sad inevitability that as much as we would like life to be fabulous and interesting and filled with champagne at all times, sometimes it ends up being peanut butter smeared on a car seat in the parking lot at K-mart?

And maybe that peanut butter smear is what is real and good in life, what will sustain us when we are old?

Fall makes me crazy melancholy.

That's Right. Updating from the cafe. Using my nerd phone.

2008-09-22T14:44:00.002-05:00

Typing out sweet love letters to the internet is infinitely more fun when you do it from your tiny smartphone. Sip some coffee. Tap tap tap. Stare out the window. Imagine everyone saying "why look at that smart man over there! He's captured the entire power of the internet on that tiny, stylish baubble!" It's true. I did.

48 Hours in a Square State

2008-09-22T09:56:00.001-05:00

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to Kansas. I'll admit it, I have a soft spot for my home state. From the outside, it must look like what Syria appears to be: a harsh landscape full of screaming hysterics. It's not really. But much like the Syrians, Kansans don't do them self any favors when they vote against teaching children about evolution or decide that the ten commandments should be displayed in court (this law was struck down by the very court in which the commandments were to be displayed, which is delicious irony, dripping with goodness).

Every time I return for a visit, I decide to move back, and within a few days, decide that maybe it would be a better idea to drink bleach or shower holding the toaster. Here's a chart that explains how this process went this time:

Desire to Move Back (Scale of 1-10)	Approx. Time in Kansas	Comments
3	-4.0 h	Baseline level of wanting to move back to Kansas. Board plane.
4	-2.0 h	So many nice midwesterners on this plane! Even the flight attendants are acting like maybe I am not a turd! Also, compared to the hyper-educated world of Washington DC, I am basically Professor Badger amongst these people. Also, I am dressed really cool, even though in DC I look like a refugee.
5	-1.0 h	After plane change in other square state, approaching Kansas. Accent begins to resume it's strange quirks. Creeks become cricks, roofs sound like a dog barking, ten and tin are pronounced identically. Square states look very peaceful from 30,000 feet.
7	0.25 h	Disembark in an airport full of polite people.
10	0.5 h	See my brother! Hurray!
9	1.0 h	Drive fast on an uncrowded, open interstate through the country side. No traffic.
11	1.5 h	See my sister-in-law, niece and nephew! Hurray!
10	4.0 h	Eat lunch at cool restaurant that does really nice food. Feel like maybe Lawrence might be the tiniest bit hip. Meal costs $20 for two and is considered expensive. I swoon.
14	9.0 h	Fun times eating dinner and drinking wine after the kids are asleep with brother and sister-in-law, enjoying deck and yard and big house.
46	22.0 h	After a good night sleep, in which I did not hear the No. 96 Bus or a single ambulance, police car, or helicopter, K informs me that the three bedroom house with a huge yard and a deck next door is for sale and the mortgage would be 200 dollars less than my rent. I weep.
10	38.0 h	Still riding high on real estate heroin, but read local newspaper. In six minutes. I think I might need a longer newspaper than that.
9	39.0 h	I haven't seen a 7-Eleven in awhile. Muy triste.
-4		In the name of research, check out the number of gay personal ads on Craigslist: five. Uhhhh... am I the only gay in the village?
-11	39.5 h	Cousin's crazy girlfriend calls my brother's wife to ask if she can baby sit her kid cause she and my cousin are having some tough times because she forgot to tell him that maybe she is a lesbian but maybe she isn't so anyway she moved in with a drug addict and anyway why don't they get together some time and can you take care of my kid while I get my meds adjusted? I realize there are benefits to living thousands of miles away.
-412	47.0 h	On plane home and nice midwestern lady next to me WILL NOT SHUT UP FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT'S SIX FIFTY-FIVE AM.

In summary, my scale of 10 is incapable of expressing the emotional roller coaster that is returning to Kansas.

Can you tell me how to get...

2008-08-24T15:03:00.004-05:00

Sesame Street has always been awesome. I credit Sesame Street for telling me it was ok to be different, but that it might be difficult so get your shit in order. Not in those words, specifically, but the subtext is there. I haven't watched it in years, but I might have to start, especially with all the hilarity ensuing with pop artists singing versions of their songs with muppets. I. Love. It.

Feist is All Clever with Her Counting:

1-2-3-4 Chickens just back from the shore! Wearing sunglasses! Oh my god I almost peed my pants.

REM Kicking With Some Monsters:

FURRY HAPPY MONSTERS! If this wasn't awesome I would hate it. But it is awesome. My favorite part is when they are all sad, and then all the sudden the decide to be happy again. Michael Stipe sagely consels “Come on monsters! You don't have to cry! We can be happy!” And then they all start doing that muppet dance which consists of waving their heads from side to side violently. Oh Michael Stipe, if only that worked in real life.

That Tease, The Letter Y:

Here Norah Jones was getting it on with the letter Y. And I'll tell you, wearing those tight clothes, I can see why that Y was so damn attractive. But can't she see he is clearly gay?

Sometimes I wish I had kids just so I could force them to like the things that I think are hilarious.

Shout out to two hilarious dudes who don't know who I am: Josh and Josh, from the fantastic blog Josh & Josh are Rich and Famous. They alerted me to feist counting chickens, and I am eternally grateful.

Motion For the Sake of Motion

2008-08-20T21:59:00.005-05:00

I get sort of pent up sometimes, writing wise. There's a lot to say but the words are colluding to evade deployment, battening down the hatches and drawing the blinds, so to speak. And then I can't figure out how to put it all down. I do this fairly often. I need a respite, a break, a change in scenery before anything will come out. To be honest, I need the change in scenery just to want to get anything to come out.

So now I am writing this from a quiet, air-conditioned commuter train that is slicing it's way though the Maryland summer to Baltimore. I never realized how soothing it was to just sit here and look out the window while the country side slides past. It makes me jealous of people who have a commute that includes this quiet train ride. I know that people who actually commute are probably raising their collective voices as they read this, ready to beat me with suitcases and rolled up copies of the Washington Post or the Express, but I maintain that this quiet slice of heaven is not a bad way to spend your evening hour after work. Plus, I like trains.

We are sliding into Baltimore now, skirting past the industrial suburbs by the airport, and into neighborhoods that used to be outlying country towns before the Baltimore/Washington corridor ate them up. Wide porches and bungalow fronts used to house industrial workers, and now house the people who I am riding this train with. Apparently most of their careers involve dressing poorly and reading trashy novels. Postal Inspectors? Assistant Archivist III at the State Department? Secretary to a nameless guy at the Internal Revenue Service? I assume the worst, but most likely they are people like me who are going home to barbecue and read a book and maybe have a shower. But I like to assume that they are nameless drones that get no satisfaction out of life. It makes my wry observations more wry. And that's how I like my observations.

West Baltimore looks like life has been rough; ridden hard and put away wet. At one time I thought we might like to move to Baltimore, to live in a house I could actually afford and have a yard and a dog and be super bohemian in a city that wavers between dark depression and exuberant assumption. I thought maybe I would ride my bike to this very train station to ride this very train south to earn a good salary in DC, returning each night to sit in the backyard and drink beer and roast meat on a grill. I still maintain that this is not the craziest of ideas, however the expression on J's face every time I bring it up conveys a different story. But it does seem like a quaint and distant notion now.

We slip into a tunnel and spend a few rumbling minutes in the dark, flashing past florescent lights that line the wall. And then we are in the sunshine again, in Baltimore.

I'll buy a drink at the train station bar, if there is one, and spend twenty minutes wandering around before getting back on the southbound 4:55, returning me from my pointless trip, back to where I need to be.

For all intensive purposes.

2008-07-24T00:38:00.003-05:00

So I was just writing an email to some long lost somebody or something and was trying to explain that I was almost done with culinary school, but not completely. And I typed a phrase that I have said probably a bajillion times in my life, and hopefully have never written before: "For all intensive purposes."

Staring at it, I had that sinking, sneaking-up-on-you-from-the-back feeling that this phrase was not right, because it made no sense, but also that everyone else knew that it was not right. And that I had been using it with out ever questioning what it might mean. And that I was 31 now, so should have already discovered this remnant of growing up in a state where we pronounce "roof" as if it was the sound a dog makes, and ten and tin as if they were homonyms.

So just fyi, peeps:

For all intents and purposes, childhood will make a fool of us all.

KThxBai Midwest! Smooches!

Sunday Ennui, Conquered by Guacamole

2008-07-20T19:04:00.002-05:00

Know what makes you feel better when you are facing a lonely Sunday evening? Guacamole and home made tortilla chips. That's right. Salty, crunchy, golden chips laden with bright, spicy avocado, playing nicely with ripe summer tomatoes and red onion. Has any one ever found a better food that guacamole? No. They haven't.

That's right, feed your emotions, badger, feed the emotions. That's how we keep our trim figure.

Update: Oh Morning Before

2008-07-10T08:36:00.002-05:00

Hair hurts. Brain angry.
Going to be a long day.
All I want? More sleep.

Oh Morning Before

2008-07-10T01:29:00.002-05:00

Went to karaoke at a gay cowboy bar after work. Not a great plan. Here is a serial haiku expressing my emotion for me:

Oh Random warbling.
You are so fun at the time.
After many drinks.

But tomorrow morn
I will rue the day, oh yes
There is no free lunch.

Hungover, the game.
Trying to work, the purpose.
Oh, who will triumph?

Thanks ancient Japanese art form! Your poor translation into English syllable-use make expressing drivel so very easy! And fun!

Wherewithal, The Not Having of It.

2008-07-09T08:03:00.004-05:00

I've sat down to write a blog post about fifteen times in the last six weeks, but at each attempt the screen sits there, an unblinking eye, and I end up slowly backing away and turning it off.

Actually, I click to some other place the requires less work, like facebook, or gawker, or one of the many fine places to see boys with out shirts on.

To that end, I have decided that in order to be able to write, I must summarize what has been happening. This is also why I am bad at writing letters or keeping a diary. I feel the compulsion to ensure the stories are continuous. I present the last two months, in telegram form.

SISTER GRADUATED FROM UNIVERSITY WENT HOME WAS NICE FAMILY IS TOO MUCH SOME TIMES STOP

NEPHEW Q BORN VERY CUTE BUT LOOKS LIKE ANGRY POTATO RIGHT NOW NIECE K IS VERY FUN AND CUTE BROTHER AND SISTER-IN-LAW DOING VERY WELL THANK YOU NOT HAVING ANY MORE KIDS EVER STOP

TURNED 31 WENT HIKING ATE CRABS DRANK BEER EXCELLENT DAY WAS HONESTLY TOO TIRED TO CARE ABOUT GREATER IMPLICATIONS WILL SOMEDAY REFLECT ON LIFE BEING SAND THROUGH HOURGLASS ETC STOP

WORK GOING WELL SPEND 60 PLUS HOURS A WEEK THERE SO IT BETTER BE GOING WELL LEARNING A LOT SOMETIMES WISH FOR A WEEK AT THE BEACH STOP

SISTER DECIDED RECENTLY EARNED DEGREE NOT WHAT SHE WANTS FROM LIFE WILL BECOME DIESEL MECHANIC NOT REALLY SURE WHAT THAT MEANS BUT SHE SEEMS ECSTATIC SO I WILL BE ECSTATIC FOR HER STOP

WENT TO FOLKLIFE FESTIVAL LEARNED ABOUT BHUTAN DID YOU KNOW THEIR ONLY VEGETABLE IS THE CHILE THEY MUST SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THE JOHN AN ANCIENT AND INTERESTING CULTURE STOP

BIKE GOT STOLEN BOUGHT NEW ONE FOR MANY A DOLLAR HAD A FIGHT WITH BOYFRIEND ABOUT PROFLIGATE SPENDING OF MY OWN MONEY WAS STILL WORTH IT BIKE IS AWESOME STOP

LEANNE RIMES ATE AT RESTAURANT HAD A SALAD FELT BRIEFLY CONNECTED TO THE WORLD AT LARGE THEN GOT BORED WITH IT DANA PERINO THE PRESS SECRETARY FOR PRES BUSH CAME IN TO EAT THOUGHT ABOUT RUBBING HER FOOD ON MY BALLS BUT DIDNT BECAUSE I TAKE SOLACE IN MORAL SUPERIORITY STOP

LACK OF PUNCTUATION ANNOYING AND NOT CONDUCIVE TO STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS STYLE OF WRITING WHERE ARE MY BELOVED COMMAS AND SEMICOLONS STOP

Other People Are Having a Much Better Time

2008-05-14T22:59:00.003-05:00

I am supposed to be in New York. I was driving up with my friend MB. We were going to watch Jon Stewart. And eat food! And go to the restaurant supply district! But then, my boss's wife decided to have a baby. So now I am watching Top Chef after my 14 hour work day and feeling bitchy. So this guy I know, the DK, makes this sound when he is unimpressed with life. It's sounds like a sad duck. He calls it Indignant Duck. That is the noise I am making now. Mahhhh!

Management is as management does.

2008-05-13T23:30:00.001-05:00

So, at work, I am not officially in charge of anything yet. Nothing. I am doing the in-charge kind of work, but there has been no announcement. Nor any sort of uniform change. I feel I should get a special hat. Or a star. I think I am supposed to be wearing a black apron, but I don't know where to get one and it feels sort of showy, and also I am the sort of person who wears power lightly. Or not at all! Since, and don't tell anyone this, I have never been anyone's boss. Ok, so full disclosure: I used to be in charge of a lot of things that needed to happen, and people had to do them for me, but no one ever worked for me. And now people do. And today I learned why people bitch about having employees.

So, I am the only one in the kitchen who speaks Spanish at a sort-of-approaching-useful level. Everyone else yells out verbs in the first person and then follows them up with English. Which creates directions that would confuse even the most intrepid of linguists. Seriously, what would you do if your boss yelled "And I cut for the potato into the future!" You would weep. That's what.

Today, one guy was very concerned about his vacation pay. And someone else wanted to know if their sister's friend could come in and start being a dishwasher. And another guy wanted me to fix his paycheck problem. And the thing is? I don't know what to do about any of these things. So I just translated, and realized that being in the middle of other peoples problems sucks, because you have to be the face of bad news to two parties in a matter that you don't care at all about. Not even in the least.

Sigh. Pasama otra cerveza, porfa. La merezco.

Engineering by the Gays

2008-05-13T10:58:00.004-05:00

Our apartment was assaulted by the rain this weekend. No, not rain. A monsoon. Of Indian proportions. I felt like we needed a wedding to qualify for this type of deluge.

And our apartment is worse for the wear. A lot of water decided to come through the window casement and pour all over the floor. Hurray! I was at work, so J. had to do some emergency rigging to keep the water off of our precious and ever-soluble Ikea furniture. Seriously, I fear that our Poang chair would melt into a pile of paste if we let it moisten. J. did a fantastic job using nothing but trash bags, blue painter's tape, towels, and some buckets. Impressive.

Art posing as Form.

And as a reward, now begins a long process of repair in which builders will demolish the front wall of our apartment and mess up our beautiful paint job, while simultaneously forcing us to live in a cloud of plaster dust. Excellent!

How much do we REALLY need to fix this? Can't we just ignore it? You know, throw a towel over it or something?

Insane Month Ends With Insane Reversal Of Role. Audiences Stunned.

2008-05-12T00:19:00.004-05:00

So, I'm the intern. Or I was. Now I am the boss. What do you think of that? Yeah, it makes me queasy, too.

It's like if you were working hard at your place of employment and then all the sudden the guy they hired as a temp became your boss.

Let's hope that you really like that temp, because I am that guy.

That. Guy.

I work with about fifteen really talented cooks. They are all Hispanic. Only one of them speaks English well, and he is almost finished studying to be an electrician. He doesn't want to be a sous chef. So, because I never had to crawl through the desert to make a better life for myself, and my parents were born here, speaking the English, I get to be the boss. Blah blah blah, managerial experience, blah blah blah, computer skills, blah blah blah. Let's be honest. Those things I have because I was born here.

Don't get me wrong, I am going to do a fucking awesome job of being the boss. But don't think I don't know why I got where I got.

But for fifteen minutes, I am going to celebrate going from intern to sous chef in the shortest time ever. Ever! When I started this whole culinary world experiment I promised myself I would stop trying to micromanage fate, and I would just let the universe provide.

Hurray Universe! Hurray! HURRAY!

It's Sharing Time.

2008-04-08T12:02:00.004-05:00

These are the things that make my world go round today:

A shiny new blog that my friend the Princess (no, not you Chris.) referred me to that made me spit milk out of my nose this morning. A sample, for your enjoyment.

You know you have them: excess bananas, malingering on your kitchen counters and gradually outliving their usefulness. Unless you’re one of those locavore people who only eat food produced within 1.3 miles of your Berkeley home*, which you built by hand from local stone carried block by block from your homemade quarry (it was a fun family weekend project!). You can go back to steaming your fresh-picked asparagus in the sparkling spring water little Timmy just gathered from the stream running behind your renovated eco-friendly but historically-accurate bungalow. Great job smelting those pots and pans!

I kid because I love! I’m pro organic, local foods that have not spent three weeks sitting in a refrigerated tractor trailer, and look forward to the start of the CSA season. But you know what else? I also love a frigging banana.

Yes. We all love frigging bananas. Also, I love you.

Find more at Thursday Night Smackdown, where she loudly (I imagine) and profanely cooks some damn fine foods.

A Public Service Announcement Brought to You By the Bank of Ghana (and sent to me by the English Guy).

That's right. The Bank of Ghana.

Well, I would hope that if inflationary pressures ever exploded here in the United States and we had to chop off the last four zeros of our currency just so one paycheck wouldn't have to be stuffed into a duffel bag we would get a song this good. But I doubt it. Remember! THE VALUE IS THE SAAAAAAAAAAME.

My favorite part? The harmony on the last word: "TRANSACTIONS!". These people LOVE this new money!

I am pondering the wonder that is my new cookbook. It arrived yesterday from Canada (I don't know why. I ordered from an American company. It was printed in SE Asia and is published by a British house. The wonders of globalization never cease.) But thats not what makes it a wonder to ponder. It is the fact that the entire cookbook IS ABOUT PIE. That's right. PIE.

Full of delicious photography, I've been basically licking the pages for about an hour. I'm not proud. For Americans, pie usually means fruit in pastry, but it can be sooooooo much more than that. Pie can be savory, and full of meat or fish or sausage or any number of things that I want to eat RIGHT NOW. The British are pretty good at pies, and soon, I will be, too.

My favorite thing about this cookbook? It unabashedly calls for lard. And I am going to buy some.

2008-04-04T17:10:00.001-05:00

Been on the 96 bus for two minutes. A high decible arguement has broken out over how much the bus fare is. It's written on the farebox, people.

2008-03-26T19:34:00.001-05:00

An hour ago I had to pee so bad my eyeballs were floating... Now, thanks to the kitchen being 800 degrees, I'm fine. Totally gross.

Yeessssssss.

2008-03-26T12:01:00.003-05:00

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.

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

2008-03-26T12:00:00.001-05:00

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.

.

Kitchen Games: Or Harassment By Any Other Name

2008-03-26T11:58:00.000-05:00

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?

.

2008-03-24T17:45:00.001-05:00

Total time at work: 45 minutes. Times the ever-grating Daddy Yankee song "Gasoline" has been played: 2.

2008-03-21T12:00:00.001-05:00

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.

There was music? And, uhhhh, merriment?

2008-03-18T20:02:00.005-05:00

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.

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!

Shamrock Fest 2008

2008-03-13T18:00:00.002-05:00

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!

I hate you, March.

2008-03-01T09:19:00.001-05:00

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.

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.

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.

Chopping for the World

2008-02-20T21:00:00.001-05:00

I chop a lot of things. It's sort of a zen thing at times. Other people have their Tai Chi or Yoga or Catholicism that allows them to enter the realm of connectedness with the universe. I take bell peppers and make them into tiny squares.

I think calling it connectedness with the universe might be pushing it actually, but if that phrase really means "thinking about random crap with out a common link", then I am the Pope. A sample conversation with myself from earlier this afternoon while attempting to chop identical, tiny cubes of carrots and celery 1/8" by 1/8":

I wonder if they still make Tab? Oh wait, I think I saw that they do. It's some sort of energy drink now. Dumb.

I wish for a cookie.

My foot itches. Maybe I should buy some of that powder that old people advertise. What's that called? Bond Paper Powder? Bond Street Powder? James Bond? It's probably an extravagant expense. I'll just itch it later.

What was my locker combination? I swear if I have to cut it off with the bolt cutters again I will scream. That's like 20 dollars in locks so far. I really should start going to the gym, too. [Crazy Person's Explanation: I also use a combination lock at the gym. Thus, this crazy segue.]

I always wanted some shirts like Balki in Perfect Strangers. I guess as an adult I could just buy some, but they seem like something that should come from your mom.

I still want a cookie.

Oh look at that, I cut myself and am bleeding in an amazing manner. At least these carrots look awesome.

Well, Now, Six Weeks Is a Little Overkill

2008-02-18T19:38:00.002-05:00

Yeah, I needed a bit of a vacation from posting. The way I needed a hole in my head. Because before I took six weeks off of blogging I was so very, very good at blogging every day.

A lot has happened, that I will expand on in the next couple days. I work at Sonoma now, a great restaurant in DC. I do a lot of chopping. A lot.

I love President Clinton's Education Tax Credit. Thanks for all the cash, Federal Government! I'll be sure to spend it on booze and floozies, the way Bill intended.

The second phase of cooking school has been awesome. It feels excellent to be good at something. Something that I can describe in one sentence, that doesn't require the words "synergy", and which produces a tangible thing at the end of the day.

I voted for Barak.

I continue to love Eastern Market and its myriad sausage and cheese eating opportunity.

I've started riding my bike to work again and I love it.

Now I have to watch tv for awhile, so more later. Kthxbai!

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: Dec 31, Home at Last

2007-12-31T17:07:00.000-05:00

It feels good to be home.

Don't get me wrong, Kansas was great, but it's nice to see my couch again.

A cocktail in my hand.

Me and J. having our traditional post trip fight.

A new year to screw up on my doorstep.

Life is good.

The Curse of Being an Adult

2007-12-30T18:41:00.000-05:00

My mom is a chaplain. She works for a hospice system and provides spiritual support for people who are dying. And she is so comfortable doing it. She can talk about death and dying to people who are dying and to the people they are leaving behind. She can fly into hospitals and spot the family strife and separate for these people what is important right now (helping Uncle Joe die) and what isn't (what Uncle Joe did in 1975 to Uncle Harold). It's quite amazing. But sometimes it is disconcerting.

She has a patient who was basically an ass his whole life. He was a loud, ex-army son-of-a-bitch. I imagine him in sansabelt pants, complaining about integration and how liberal Nixon is. But he got what was coming to him, didn't he? He's dying. He wasn't there for his wife when she died, and now his new wife isn't there for him. He was worried about what would happen to his dog when he died. And today his dog died, and Mom thinks that he is going to turn his own oxygen off because he is ready to die. And she says this while she is washing out tupperware to put into the dishwasher. It makes my heart stop, because if you are that comfortable talking about this, does that mean that someday you will turn off your own oxygen? And leave us here alone?

And what will we do then?

Home for the Holidays Update: Dec 30

2007-12-30T18:34:00.001-05:00

Today I made Hollandiase sauce from memory and it was the best damn sauce I have ever made. It was golden, creamy, yellow, and just the right amount of lemony bite.

So, who wants to give me a million dollars to open a hollandaise sauce restaurant?

Home for the Holidays Update: Dec 29

2007-12-29T18:30:00.000-05:00

One of these things is not like the other.

At a holiday get together with a friend of mine from highschool: my brother, his wife, their baby, my friend, his wife, their baby, my friend's older brother, his wife, their baby. Me, my boyfriend, and our bottle of scotch.

Kidding, we only wished we had a bottle of scotch.

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 28

2007-12-28T10:02:00.000-05:00

The Salina Journal is our local paper here at my parents. My parents live, well, a long way from most things. For example, it takes two hours to get to an airport that has jets, and three and a half hours to an airport that has useful flights (The closest airport has great flights to useful places such as Phoenix, Denver, and Memphis). I am sure that some people need to go to Phoenix, Denver, and Memphis, but not me.

I spend a lot of time defending Kansas. I don't even know why I do it- I am not really that fond of the state in which I grew up, but it seems that people have the wrong impression. And that bothers me for some reason. So the brief summing up of my position: it's not a flat wasteland full of red necks, it's cheap and easy to live there, it's a great place to raise a family.

And then I come back and I realize that these are all phrases, that said slightly differently, are used to damn with faint praise.

"She has a great personality" = "It's a great place to raise a family" = "Fugly and boring."
"It's not a flat wasteland" = "But he's really nice!" = "Kind of boring, really."
"It's cheap and easy to live there" = "She's totally a whore." = "No seriously, it's cheap. Cause no one wants to live there."

It makes me feel like a traitor to look at my homeland objectively. Maybe sometimes you just have to love it for love's sake? And then the Salina Journal cements my impressions with the following comments taken from the newspaper December 28:

"Computers Generate Confusion" - an op-ed piece written by a crotchety old man who doesn't like computers.

"Wild Animals Can Always Surprise: Wall Around Tiger Pen Slightly Lower Than Recommended Height" - what. the. hell.

"I won't let my kids eat animal crackers 'cause I don't want them growing up thinking all animals taste the same." - from the section of the newspaper in which readers can call in comments.

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 27

2007-12-27T21:55:00.000-05:00

My sister, who is ostensibly a college student, also works at Sears. She used to sell tires and spoilers and new shocks, but now she has been promoted to fixing tires and installing new shocks. She is over the moon about it.

I have never heard her mention something that she learned at University, but she talks all the time about fixing things for Sears. As long as she is happy, I don't care what she does. Especially as long as she lets me wear her Sears jacket. I love wearing her Sears jacket.

Yes, I am holding a pitchfork.

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 26

2007-12-26T16:44:00.000-05:00

Laaaaaaaaazy days with a baby.

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 25

2007-12-25T23:06:00.000-05:00

We never did get around to buying a Christmas tree, so we passed gifts from under the palm tree that we put lights in last night. Mom normally keeps it front of the windows, but strung with lights, it looked very "Christmas Tropicale". It was surprisingly charming. Maybe we will get a holiday palm again next year.

Christmas Dinner Menu:

Grilled Marinated Shrimp with Cocktail Sauce, a la 1964
---
Brown Sugar Glazed Ham
Roasted Winter Root Vegetables
Smashed Red Potatoes with Horseradish and Chives
Challah, served with butter (rendering all the work unkosher)
Brandied Cranberry Sauce
---
Winter Citrus Salad
---
Flaming Christmas Pudding

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 24

2007-12-24T16:37:00.000-05:00

J. and I drove my grandma to my parents house from Kansas City. Every time I come back to Kansas, the wide openness of it all takes my breath away- flying down I-70 at eighty five miles an hour, we pass a car maybe every five minutes. Arriving at the homestead, it's disarray and madness. Last week my parents had no electricity because of an ice storm, while at the same time remodeling their kitchen. The kitchen was completed, but none of the holiday arrangements were. So J and I flew to the store, mixed and baked and got a little bit tipsy doing so- but everything was ready by Christmas Eve.

I would never say it out loud, but all the mixing and baking and wrapping and decking and twinkling shininess of Christmas makes me all nostalgic and emotional.

Home for the Holidays Daily Update: December 23

2007-12-23T13:13:00.000-05:00

So, Christmas is a big deal in my family. There is a lot of eating, general merriment, and of course, repressed passive-aggressive tendencies because everyone becomes eight years-old again when you go home. Kidding! Our family would never be passive-aggressive: it's just that if you didn't eat so much, you would be thinner. That's all I am saying and I am saying it because I love you.

That's right, up front they get coffee in real mugs and employees at least act like they give a shit about you. Viva la revolucion, when the working classes will break through that flimsy curtain and take the real china and free drinks that is rightfully theirs.

J. and I got bumped up to first class, where I drank many a Baily's and coffee out of a real coffee cup and stared out the window, regretting that I don't get to fly more. Then, on our connecting flight, we sat in coach, where we belong, and I felt warm and fuzzy about the fact that I no longer travel for work.

What is the lesson here, children? Booze makes all the difference.

Three Months of Cheffing

2007-12-16T10:20:00.000-05:00

I could write a long thing here about blah blah blah how great going to culinary school is, but I won't. On Monday I have my final practical examination for Phase I which marks the half way point in class work, and a quarter way though the entire program. Instead I leave you with the five greatest things I learned, and the three worst.

The Greatest

Meat Braised with Wine is the best food in the world. This technique rocks far and wide and always brings all the boys to the yard. Or something. It is great, and the only reason that western civilization hasn't actually fallen apart yet. Beef bourguignonne, coq au vin, short ribs braised in red wine, modern American barbecue, carnitas, goulash.... all of this deliciousness stems from this one technique. Amen.

Do Not Fear the Alternative Meat. Rabbit? Yes Please. Goose? I think more like this. Venison? Yes. Boar? I'll take five pounds. Calf livers? I was skeptical, but ultimately wrong. Sweetbreads? Well, when we were preparing them they sort of oozed in this uncomfortable manner as if they were self-ambulatory and trying to excape. But they were ever so delicious.

Puff Pastry. A thousand layers of delicate pastry separated by 999 layers of delicious butter? A golden wall of flakey layers that I created with my own two hands and a rolling pin? So this is what it feels like to be God.

Salt. Everything needs salt to taste like itself.

I can do this. I am really good at it. My hands sometimes seem to be working by themselves, as if they know what to do so I can sit back and relax. It feels good to let them go.

The Worst

Screaming is the acceptable form of encouragement and criticism in most kitchens. Not looking forward to that.

I look stupid in my magic cooking dress. Also, cooking is hard physical work. I am tired and sore most days.

Hell is other people. OK, I knew this already, but this class is definitely cementing that impression.

Wish me luck on my exam tomorrow!

I will get around to this, I swear.

2007-12-09T20:20:00.000-05:00

I made some amazing food this week. And I shaved my mustache. And school was awesome + hard. I *will* update this week, including a clean shaven pic, but not tonight. I have to watch cartoons and feel sleepy.

Movember Comes to a Close

2007-11-30T10:33:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry, does my sexy mustache make you feel uncomfortable? Racist.

Well, it's been an entire month of Mustachioed Glory. It's been great to share the mustache love with the world but it's time for it to be over, to be honest. Parents have started full on grabbing their children and shielding them from me at the grocery store. People edge away from me on the train. And moreover, it's getting long enough that food gets in the ends of it and that is totally wrong and broken.

But, The Committee for the Restoration of Alex Trebek's Upper Lip Hair, AKA Alcohol and Razors, has raised over $3500!! Many times over our original goal of $1000, we thank you so much for your generous donations!

For those of you who hate men and want them to die so didn't contribute, I feel ambivalent towards you. You can, however, buy my love, by donating now!

For those of you who just forgot, all is not lost! Today is the last day, but you can still get your contribution in! Donate now!

Tonight the shaving begins, but before it does, please feast your eyes on the month old mustache, in all it's glory. Mustache, you powerful beast you. We stand in awe.

Mustache Update: End of Week 2

2007-11-17T11:20:00.000-05:00

For those of you who have been screaming for an update, there were some difficulties with the technical aspects of posting a picture. Namely, someone lost the cord that charges the camera battery, so J and I had to waste the morning looking for it/blaming the other person. But through the magic of mobile phone technology, I present you with a grainy, low res, yet awesome depiction, of my rocking, child-molester mustache.

There's some candy in my van...

Hurray! I Embedded Things!

2007-11-17T08:55:00.001-05:00

I should be given a medal of honor. I worked out one of the simplest things to do ever, by myself, with out even looking more than once at google for directions! I embedded video! Champagne all around. And to celebrate my new found skill, I shall embed yet another video, this time a song by an Australian named Ben Lee. Apparently, there he is loved/hated, like Kelly Clarkson would be here if she could do any songwriting on her own. Oh snap! That's right! I made a pop culture reference! More champagne!

The Machine is Us/ing Us

2007-11-17T08:48:00.000-05:00

For some reason, this clip makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and excited inside about the webertubes. I mean, I know that they are just a series of pipes and junk that pours ones and zeros into my apartment and allow me to waste extraordinary amounts of time, but maybe, just maybe, the internets will save us all one day.

Also, my dad sent this to me, which made me feel behind the times, considering it appears that about 10,000,000 people have already seen this clip, and I am not one of them, but he is.

Things that I've done, or, that have been done to me.

2007-11-17T08:19:00.000-05:00

I remembered this morning that I have a blog. I was reading another blog and it made me laugh and then I remembered- oh right. There are tens of people out there who are wondering what has happened to me as of late. And so, for my ones of fans who are not related to me and don't already know this, here are the last two weeks, in list form:

Things I Did:

I painted the apartment with J. Very, very, intense colors. It will take 500 coats of white to return this place to its prior condition. But vive la difference!
I trapped two mice. They died mysteriously during detention. Investigation pending.
I scored the highest score in my class at Cheffing School on my first practical and theoretical examination. Hurray!
Before school, I would read at least one book a week. Currently, I have been reading Nigel Slater's Toast for a month now. So far, it's great. I have been trying to read Hosseni's A Thousand Splendid Suns because my sister-in-law wants to talk about it and because it will piss off some of my friends. I'm looking at you, Princess and Arjewtino. Just a word to the wise, not liking something because everyone else liked it is the stupidest form of snobbery. Love with kisses!
I drove too fast.
I changed the oil in my car. Well, let's be honest. I paid someone else to do it.
I pillaged IKEA and then, it had its way with me as I tried to assemble its seductively modern furniture.

Things Done to Me:

I was given a speeding ticket. Thanks Maryland!
I received a strange handwritten note on my car windshield that was most definitely not for me, as I do not know who Patricia is, and I never took the key's from her baby daddy last Sunday when it was raining.
Safeway's new self-checkout lane charged me 999.99/ lb for red peppers. I was given a significant discount when the mistake was discovered, and good laugh was shared by all. I waited until I was out the front door before I cursed their incompetence.
Chef hit me on the ass with a cutting board. I think he was kidding, but much like an abused puppy I flinch every time he picks anything up.

Mustache update to follow.

MOVEMBER UPDATE: Ladies A'Flocking

2007-11-05T21:11:00.001-05:00

Dollars Raised: Not Enough. Click Here.
Children Scared: More Than Plenty.
Ladies A'Flocking: Fewer Than Estimated.

You Can Bet Your Ass You Are Going to Thank Me Someday.

2007-11-01T15:46:00.000-05:00

What, friend?

You think this greasy mustache is just for the sheer pleasure of having an awesome mustache? You think I just did it so that the men would want to be with me, and the ladies would want to be able to grow a mustache like me?

Oh, you are so shallow, friend.

I am growing this greasy mustache for charity. That's right. To prevent you from getting cancer of the ass. I do all this for the health of your ass. After all, today starts Movember, the month in which one grows a mustache. I bet you want to reward me, don't you? I know you want to shower me with one dollar bills, don't you? No, no, you may not place them in my underwear. That is a dance that is entirely different than the dance we are doing right now.

You can reward me by donating to the cause: The Prostate Cancer Foundation. I am but a simple servant, they are the real brains behind the stopping-of-the-ass-cancer movement.

My team, The Committee for the Restoration of Alex Trebek's Upper Lip Hair (aka Alcohol and Razors) is going to raise at least a thousand dollars. Or maybe more, because, I don't know if you have heard, but we are kind of a big deal. Movember is new in the US- our Australian brothers have been growing lip hair and raising disgusting amounts of cash for a couple years. Help us catch up!

This is where you come in: tune in over the month and enjoy my greasy, child-molesting* trucker mustache while simultaneously contributing all of your spare gold doubloons. I've seen your car. I know you have extras. Let's put them to good use.

*No children will be molested.

Who are these illustrious members of The Committee for the Restoration of Alex Trebek's Upper Lip Hair? Oh, I think we need a veritable montage. One can depict a lot of information in a short amount of time in a montage, so they say.

Our Captain, and my boyfriend, Foxy Moron, looking crazy-young with his now nude chin:

Arjewtino, such a sexy sexy, and now, clean-shaven, jew (also slightly scary looking now):

Mr N, now helping the federal government, with a mustache:

And then there were the three of us who, for various reasons, have no beards to shave:

INPY, who you will find is holding a donors only party at the end of Movember (details to come- just know you have to give me ten dollars to end ass cancer or you have to bring your own beer.)

Rory, who looks to the Right.*

And I, who looks to the Left.*

*Not representative of our actual outlooks on life.

Check back for (almost) daily badger-mustache updates. Donate now!

An Uncomfortable Warm Feeling

2007-10-23T19:27:00.000-05:00

So I was waiting for my car to get fixed late this afternoon and perusing the Washington Post, enjoying one of the reasons I love Washington. Seriously, the Post is one of the best things, ever. I flipped the page and there was this whole section of attractive military guys, sort of like a year book.

I had been trying to decide which one was the hottest for about five minutes when I realized that I was looking at all the service people who died this fall.

Uhhhhhhhhhhh...

Sorry about that.

Shopping For Meaning

2007-10-21T13:35:00.001-05:00

I am at an outlet mall. I am a student now, living off the student monies, so it's an exercise in unfulfilled wants.

Cruel But Fair.

2007-10-20T15:29:00.000-05:00

I would like to just be totally cruel and punishing for a moment. My friend DC Katastrophe and I drove out into darkest Virginia yesterday to rape and pillage the Target. I needed to cut the cord on my computer so that I could surf the net while eating, watching TV, or, lord yes, even using the john. God I love technology.

Ms. Katastrophe had regaled me with war stories of the difficulties of setting up this wireless router. I would be calling Verizon. I would be calling the manufacturer. I would be calling India. I would be plugging and unplugging alot of things.

As I unpacked the box, I must admit, I felt a certain trepidation. There was an awful lot of documentation. There were many phone numbers supplied to assist me in reaching the people that understood the magic that is this wireless router. There were bright red stickers that told me to not plug in this son of electronic-Beelzebub until specifically instructed to do so, lest my files become corrupted, my internet become severed, and all my days be spent in the desert of no youtube or flickr.

All that sweat on my brow was for not, as my installation consisted of the following steps:

1) plug in router.
2) plug in internet to router.
3) select name for network.
4) choose password (this took me the longest of all- i never do a good job choosing passwords, and then ten minutes later I can't remember what they are and I have to "recover" them using a baseball bat and my visa card.)
5) use internet.

That was it. So, to be cruel but fair, I must be the smartest man in the entire universe. Take that, world.

The Trials of Being Useless

2007-10-18T16:51:00.000-05:00

I've gotten used to being a competent adult. I can drive a car. I can manage a bank account. I buy plane tickets, go to Target, pay taxes, hold a passport, send birthday cards (ok, well, I don't really do that. Everyone has limits). I was able to apply for and be accepted to culinary school. A French culinary school, to be exact. However, time is proving one uncomfortable truth: I cannot cook French food. Not even close.

There is a magic alchemy of butter, salt, pepper, and leeks that eludes me. It must be very salty. It must be very buttery. The leeks must melt into everything else. It must not taste of pepper. What is my natural style? Well, it appears that I cook unsalty, peppery leeks that are not melting. I still like everything to be very buttery. I'm only human. On Tuesday Chef told our team that the bordelaise sauce we were making was “...shit, and you have ruined the meal. Is this what you meant to do? Ruin my beautiful potatoes. You have ruined my potatoes.” Then he did that Gallic thing where somehow his eyebrows go up and down at the same time, and then he smiled a little bit and his shoulders rose up, and then fell again, and he waggled his hands around, indicating, I am assuming, that the potatoes were sad to have been ruined.

I understand that critiquing our food is what we are paying for, and I also know that he is not being personal, but it does start to wear a little bit on the psyche. The only time I have made something that he loved I left out an entire major ingredient. I forgot the butter, which, as far as I can gather, is the French equivalent of being a pedophile. I sort of kept that to myself, but as good as it felt to know that he thought that my lemon tart was the most delicious, it was kind of deflating to realize that I hadn't REALLY made what I was supposed to make.

This next Friday we have our first written exam, followed by a practical exam. Maybe I won't add butter to anything that I make just to see what happens.

A lot of hand waggling is my guess, followed by my immediate execution. Sigh.

More butter? Yes, please!

2007-10-15T16:49:00.000-05:00

Normal butter usage at the Shiftless Badger household? ½ lb per week.

Culinary school butter usage at the SB household? 2 lbs per week.

That's right. A fourfold increase. Hello heart attack! I guess, really, I will just have to avoid a heart attack by flushing my system with red wine. It's a sacrifice I am willing to make. What? The gym you say?

WHHHHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAAahahshasdhhshahahaha! OMG, have we met?

SALT. ADD MORE SALT.

2007-10-10T16:42:00.000-05:00

I have never ever had as much salt in my food as I have here at L'School. Some days I will add three or four times what I would normally use. Chef tastes it and says “Non. Is bland. More salt.”.

And that's when my pan of sauce implodes because the sauce reached a critical mass, imploded, and became a black hole. Stupid sauce. Just take more salt. You're making me look bad.

This appears to be just the right amount of salt for the French.

Day One and Two

2007-10-03T19:51:00.000-05:00

Starting school has been a whirlwind. I will summarize, as I am sure that you, dear reader, do not want to hear about every single thing that happened. I realized this when trying to tell someone about my first day and their eyes glazed over and then they lost consciousness and fell down a flight of stairs. I, if nothing else, learn from maiming people who are close to me.

Our class is big- 23 people. Our teacher, two Michelin star Chef G, has promised that there will be only twenty of us by the time this first term is over. Which, on the first day, is news that is terrifying when delivered by a balding and slightly crazy looking French man. I wasn't worried. I'm smart. I can arrive on time. I can take notes. I was sure I would be fine, until today. We began our knife skills practice.

I. Suck. At. Cutting.

Oh, humble pie, you are not sweet.

Give me a big ol' chef's knife and a Frenchman staring me down and all the sudden the onions in my hands some how separate themselves into crazy, unwieldy, uneven piles of slices. I performed what I would call a ch-ice. It's a cross between a chop and a dice, and it is none the prettier for being from two worlds. An unclassically trained observer might called it “mashed-up onion”, or possibly just “butchered onion”. Bleeding to death quietly, my onion sat in a sad pile and stared reproachfully at me as Chef G suggested I quit holding the knife “like your girlfriend holds it”.

More tomorrow.

Run food! Run from me! I will cook you in my magic cooking dress!!

Bits and Pieces:

We have six hundred pounds of reference books, including a tomb called the North American Meat Buyer's Guide which is full of delicious animals I will eat.

Cooks wear way to much clothing. My daily uniform: ridiculously loose and wildly patterned pants, designed by MC Hammer, clogs that even the Dutch would be wary of claiming as their own, an undershirt, a cotton-poly blend chef's coat that has the twin virtues of being both hot AND non-flame resistant, a kerchief (that's right- tied in a Windsor knot), and, to complete this heat-retaining outfit, a four foot long apron.

The State of Maryland required us to take an examination today that certifies that we read and write at an eighth grade level. I'm not sure everyone in my class passed.

I love this so, so much already. Gimme more, gimme it now.

Quebec Photos, Plus-Bonus extras!

2007-10-03T19:30:00.000-05:00

These are my peeps doing birthday things, London-style. London, Ontario that is! Represent zoo animal part hats! Happy Second Birthday, Dorein!

Did anyone mention that I am gay? Well, if not I am sure that everyone found out when I spend a whole day crafting an Elmo cake. Hurray!

Quebec's trees even dress better than ours here in the District of Colombia.

This sandwich, smoked samlon and tomato on olive bread, would cause Cosi to explode into a supernova of failure. It cost $1.75 and is the best sandwich I have eaten if four years. A woman named Chloe or some other ridiculous French name made it , and she called me mon cheri.

OH MY GOD THE CHEESE. The reason the rest of Canada couldn't let Quebec separate is because they are hooked on this cheese, the crack of the Quebecqois. I don't blame them. I envy their addiction.

Looks like the Pope used to kick it here too. Good for him.

I'm sorry, do you not live on a ski mountian? Oh, what a pity. I don't either, but I did get to for three days and it was fantastic. I pretended it was all mine, and when it was taken from me, I vowed revenge. I was also kind of lonely, ne pas?

Even the bridges are ridiculously photogenic. Really, I am telling you, I have found where I will emigrate to. I will live under this bridge in a box. And eat fish from the river. And enjoy nine months of winter.

MY NIECE! She has gotten so cute, and also ornery, which means practical jokes will abound soon.

At Last! It Begins!

2007-10-01T15:44:00.000-05:00

I have a bunch of photos of Quebec to upload and some of my neice who I went to see last weekend, but I am not at all in the mood right now. Soon. I promise. Tomorrow I start culinary school and I am excited! Too excited... sort of levitating above the floor right now. It's such a good/vomit-inducing feeling. Hurray!

Canadian Adventure Update: Shorts

2007-09-16T09:45:00.000-05:00

Bus from London to Toronto

How do you shut up Canadians who are talking on their mobile on the bus? Well, it's not by glaring at them. That seems to be most ineffectual.

Richmond Street, London, ON

I walked into a smoke shop in London, Ontario and was blown away by the rows of potting soil, hydroponic equipment, racks of seeds with names like “purple haze” and my personal favorite “the devil's stomping boots”, and racks of dangling grow lights. Also, tie died t-shirts and the requisite hippie behind the counter. Legalization seems to have gone over well in Ontario.

Argyle Mall, London, ON

What is Canadian Wal-mart like? Exactly the same, right down to the over riding nationalism. Just walk into your Wal-mart and replace every reference to America (of which, if you have not already noticed, will amaze you- what exactly does Wal-mart sell to small towns? Patriotism, it seems.) to Canada. It's low prices from province to province: Walmart Keeps Canada's Prices Falling, eh!

Outside

It's already fall here. I didn't bring enough socks.

Canadian Tire, Toronto

Canadian Tire sells all kinds of crap, including picnic tables, tools, shoes and cameras, but I didn't see a single tire (Update: I have been informed that Canadian Tire does sell tires, just not in it's downtown Toronto location). Has anyone considered changing the name?

Vomitown, ON

I've had an awesome time staying with my friend and her baby. But damn, babies take a lot of work. Do you have shirts that have been vomited on? No? Well, you can have some of mine. I have plenty. I'll trade you for a full night's sleep. Parents are brave creatures.

On the Bus from Toronto to Ottawa

The man sitting next to me on the bus, who is dressed like a quaker right down to the white beard and broad brimmed hat, just pulled out an iPod. I've heard of buffet catholics, but quakers? “Yeah, well I won't use rubber wheels- those are the devil's wheels, but the iPod- that's God's consumer electronic device.”

Elmo's World

2007-09-16T09:42:00.000-05:00

After spending the week with a baby, I would like to pronounce judgment over something: Elmo rules, Barney drools.

Two year olds have a pretty good sense of humor. It edifies me and warms my heart that babies can find Elmo hilarious. Because he is hilarious; he named his fish Dorothy. Don't even act like that isn't awesome. Also, when he sings songs about things, he just sings any tune, and makes his subject the only word. For example:

The Sandwich Song

(Tune: Old Mac Donald)

Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich, sandwich, sandwich sandwich sandwich!

I do that all the time.

The Severance Pay Song

(Tune: White Christmas)

Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-verance, severance pay severance pay severance pay!

Severance severance severance pay!

Unmitigated kickass-ness.

Also, if Elmo was a ninja instead of a three year old monster, he would have Barney and Friends dispatched with lighting speed in the dead of night. Because Barney is the most earnest, unfunny show I have ever seen. I know that his earnestness is supposed to set a good example for children about how we should always be nice to people, but what it is simply unthinking dullness. People are not always nice. Things in life are funny. And I mean funny, schaudenfraud, laughing-at-you, laughing-at-me, hilarious circumstance funny. Not “Dur Dur Duh! I think I see a butterfly! Chuckle”. I could cut that Barney.

The Good, The Bad, The Unmentionable

2007-09-12T09:56:00.000-05:00

The future, I ask? Unclear, the cosmos mumbles. Thoughts on ditching my real job to go to culinary school:

The Good:

No more cubicle. Cubicles should be hated with a passion. It's the beige regularity, the illusion of privacy that makes other people place loud phone calls to their lovers and then complain when you make fun of them, it's the fact that there was no door, nor a window. And... it was just so beige. And cubicle. And... uhhh, beige

I will get to be creative at work. My boss once said to me “You are so very creative with these TPS reports. I really appreciate that.”. Mmmmmk. Let's be clear. That wasn't me being creative so much as staving off suicide. Or, more likely, murder-suicide.

Food. All the time. I already think about it, read about it, plan for it, plan to thing and read about it. I am perfectly happy to spend an entire day chopping things. I might as well do that for money.

The Bad:

Stupid, retarded hours. What will J do if I am at work until midnight every night? Hopefully not dump me and find a boyfriend that has normal, real person hours.

Dumb Pants. Chef's wear stupid crap. The coat I understand, but the pajamas pants... we are going to have to work on that. Pajama pants make my ass look fat. And not good fat, just fat fat.

Huge, fat ass after eating Food, All the Time. As my wise friend Chris advises, spit, don't swallow. But we all know how unattractive that is. Let's hope being on my feet the entire day will discount the fact there will be eight hundred pounds of butter in my work place at all times.

The Unmentionable:

What if I fail?

I've been having nightmares.

The Poopypants Complex

2007-09-11T10:08:00.000-05:00

This post is going to make me deeply unpopular. Deeply. Be forewarned. Maybe if you already have children, then you should just stop reading it now.

There is a phenomenon that afflicts some people with children. Let's call it the "I-procreated-therefore-I-get-to-do-whatever-the-hell-I-want” complex, or “Poopypants Complex” for short. I know lots of kickass parents. They are really good with their kids, and they are also fun people to hang around with, both when the kids are awake and when the kids are in bed. I like kids. I like families. Hurray for propagating the species!

But some parents, oh, woah is me. How do do you ever expect to convince the gays to participate in rearing our collective young when you act like this?

Let's explore the poopypants complex, shall we? We shall.

Normal Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this bag of potatoes with me, and, well, I'm embarrassed to say this, but it's a lot heavier than I thought it was going to be, so could you switch seats with me so that I can sit close to the front of the plane?

Passenger Dos: I'm sorry, what?

Passenger Uno: Move seats so me and my bag of tubers can be in front of the plane.

Passenger Dos: I will cut you.

Other passengers: Hurray!

Poopypants Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this baby with me, and well, I'm embarrassed to say that the baby wants to sit close to the front of the plane so we can get off earlier. Could we switch seats?

Passenger Dos: Look, that's why I chose this seat- I have a tight connection to make in Detroit. I'm sorry.

Passenger Uno: But- a baby! I have a baby! I did something that every species has done forever since the beginning of time, and that entitles me!

Other Passengers: Kill him! Baby hater! Maybe they like your kind in Detroit, but not here! Boooooo!

Now, we should all be considerate of people on whom destiny has placed heavier burdens than our own. People should give up bus seats for old people, and disabled people, and yes, pregnant women. It's hard being those things, and it's hard work having kids. But other things is life are hard too. So if you chose to have children, remember to replace them with a bag of root vegetables and rehearse conversations in your head to determine if you are making a polite request, or being a fucking raging bitch with an ugly baby. Smooches to you, lady in seat 23B!

**Disclaimer: the only babies in my life are M and K and D, who are, of course, amazingly beautiful babies, and have awesome parents who I would never refer to as raging bitches. Also, I was not a party in the above conversation, just an observer. I would have hit her, not argued with her. Don't wave your baby at me like some limitless credit card.**

Detroit

2007-09-10T10:57:00.000-05:00

Riding the bus from the Detroit airport to the cross-border tunnel: this city is punctuated with smelters and burn off towers and exhaust stacks. There is no one on the streets- everything is a strip mall; the bus is full of the people who can't own a car in the Motor City. I've been riding this bus through this abandoned factory of a city for longer than it took to fly here from DC.

On the Road

2007-09-10T09:27:00.000-05:00

Whoohoo! Work's done, severance pay delivered, office supplies
repurposed. Now it's time to take a deep breath and consider the
future. Or, rather, it will be time to freak out because no matter
how calm and composed I may appear, I am screaming a bit on the
inside. More than a little bit. I'm on a plane as I write this, and
the seatbelt sign just dinged, signaling unlimited possibility and
possible terror. Hurray!

Shiny and New Update

2007-09-04T13:58:00.000-05:00

The boxes have been lifted, the furniture has been hoisted and wrangled, all of the odds and ends hunted down and thrown into bags where they will most assuredly never be found and will perish when I get tired of looking at all of the unpacked things. Thanks to the friends that helped, we even got done in record short time. Now comes the part where everything must be sorted and put away.

A place for everything, but most things on the floor.

This is How Catholicism Was Created

2007-08-29T07:16:00.000-05:00

Guy: i was recently thinking about taking two weeks off work to read Proust

i'm really not cut out for capitalism

me: it's true- neither of us are

I don't care enough about winning

I am happy to have some booze and something to read

also, a plane ticket

Guy: yeah i love just pottering around looking at stuff

drunkenly

it's this sort of conversation that leads to people becoming tramps

me: it's true. all we need now is a stick and a handkerchief to tie a bundle

and some train cars to ride around the country

me: i'd like to write a book in ten years that starts out "I had a promising career... and then I decided to become a tramp."

Guy: sounds like a blues record, can i sip on some thunderbird?

wahahaha

it would have to go in the opposite-to-self-help section:

the self-destruction section

me: haha! that would be great! It could be a book about how maybe self destruction is really the path to self help

it would mess with the lives of thousands of young people AND make us rich

what better?

Guy: it's perfect

you have to destroy the old you to find your true self

might as well have some fun while you do it

me: exactly

plus bonus section: how to drink and drive for fun and profit!

Guy: Heroin & Parenting: How your crippling, hellish addiction can equip your child with the tools to handle anything life throws at them

me: Being Poor and Having More Kids: How not being able to support your children and equip them to live in the modern world will allow them to develop alternative means of support, such as stealing and robbing, making them into well rounded and independent entrepreneurs

Guy: wahahaha

this genre just writes itself

me: it really does

which is why we should write it

Guy: we could be 'self-destruction gurus'

that's a job title

me: I was reading this "guide to happiness" that someone had left at my office, and it said that the most rewarding job was one that came easy to you, but people found valuable.

I think we have found that job

Guy: i always new my calling in life was to wreck other people.

for profit!

me: bwhhhahahahaaaa

it's the best plan ever

Guy: jesus would've approved, he was the king of self-destruction

and the jews

me: those jews are just full of self loathing. plus Jesus- he was totally about self destruction. Leave your families, friends, children and walk around the desert with me for some unfathomable reason, he said unto them

Guy: also, the only man in history to be nailed to a cross and still somehow come across as being smug

me: wwwwwwwwwwHAHAHHAHAHA

so true

We are going to hell now, you know that, right?

Guy: he's a perfect icon for the 'cause'

"yes i have truly destroyed myself, and all for you my brethren"

clever

me: yes, not only taking his own self destruction as a good thing, but claiming that all others are in debt to him for it!

we are really onto something now!

Guy: next time i get drunk and arrive late for work, i'll say i was doing it for mankind's sins

me: yes! and if I forget my mom's birthday I'll say it was to save the jews

Guy: entire new outlook on life springs into operation

me: hurray!

Ô Canada! Terre de nos aïeux

2007-08-27T20:48:00.000-05:00

For all of you nay sayers, you can just shut it. I love me some Canada. It's nice. It's polite. They have excellent beer and people don't die just because they don't have insurance. I harp on about it, I am aware of this. But really, it's quite a feat.

Also, it's nice to have Canadian friends. They are just like us, except normally slightly better. Like this friend here:

This is C. We met her during the Tsunami. She has, at different points in her life, saved both Christmas and dinner. She later moved into our apartment in Japan. She is basically, as the Quebecois would say, "Le Totally F***ing Awesome". She can drive a boat.

She can also look mysterious in an arty-style picture while driving a boat. Well done! Oh, the practice she put in to that. Also, she is an amazing water skier. I, you will be shocked to hear, am not. What? I know. Your previous assumption that I was perfection in male form has been shattered. It will be ok. We will heal together.

I do look quite fine *in a boat*, I think we can all agree. Where is sexy J.? He had to take pictures this trip because my camera is broken.

These are C.'s sisters. They are hilarious. From left to right, we have J, ever smart and attractive, C, smart boat driving Le Awesome, S, who just graduated from Halifax and is full of hilarity, and M, who pulls off being both some sort of super intelligent being AND able to ice skate. The talent was non-stop, I tell you. We were eating a delicious feast of grilled things. It was raining outside, so it felt very drunk-swiss-family-robinson. Good times.

The LCBO is where Ontarians buy the liquor. I think in other provinces they buy it elsewhere, but it's hard to tell. Ontario is huge. It's cold in Canada, so people need a lot of liquor. I am apparently, for some unknown reason, demonstrating that we are experiencing a slight decline.

What's better than relaxing on a deck on a lake? Drinking Bloody Caesars on said deck.

Like I said, it was beautiful.

This is C's family dog, Jersey. When she said it's name was Jersey, I raised my eyebrow and asked "Like the cow?". C stared at me as if I had just pooped on the floor. "No, like the candy bar. She's brown. Like chocolate. It's not very original." No, but it is confusing for someone from a country where they don't have Jersey Milk Chocolate Bars. This dog is the most fun dog ever. We played swimming fetch, where by I throw something into the lake, and she goes to get it. Or, I jump into the lake and the dog tries to drown me/love me with her sharp, sharp claws.

That's right: Trees. Like it.

This is one of those things that doesn't make sense until you try it. Poutine is french fries with gravy and cheese curds melted on it. Heart attack in a paper carton? Oh yes, yes indeed. It was delicious. I would eat it again in a heart beat. Or lack of heart beat, which ever happens first.

It's OK to eat four pounds of grease if you are doing it outside.

For all of those who grew up in flat-square-state America, I am sure you will recognize the IGA, which was probably your hometown grocery store. It was kind of dusty and the only sold apples, potatoes and mac and cheese from a box, but you hung out in the parking lot being really cool in your jean jacket. Canada has IGA, too. This one sold avocados, duck, rabbit, and tins of foie gras. Will the wonders never cease? No. No they shan't.

So there it is: it was an awesome trip. Driving up there, I felt that maybe taking a six day trip that required twenty four total hours of driving was a mistake. But it was totally worth it. Plus Bonus!

Up Next: Moving this weekend! Next Friday: Last day of work!

When the Going Gets Tough

2007-08-21T09:19:00.000-05:00

Yeah, things at work have been bad. Everyone has been laid off, no one is in a good mood, and best of all, management wants to know why everyone is being negative. It's not rocket surgery, people. That's why I am going to Canada. That, and because friends have a free cabin to sleep in! So take that work- you stay and simmer in your own juices, I will go play cards in front of a wood fire in a cabin on a lake and drink beer. Who is having the better time? Yes, I think we know the answer.

Back with stories and some pictures on Monday!

The Flu in Summer: Abomination, or Just Plain Wrong?

2007-08-20T19:15:00.000-05:00

Sorry about the paucity of posting lately- I spent the last four days sweating and then shivering, being achy and then not being able to sleep, which seriously universe, is the most perverse form of sickness ever. But things are looking up, health wise anyway. Onwards towards victory! And to standing up again.

I seriously spent the entire weekend either on the bed, on the couch, or in the shower. It's all I could muster.

Trivia! Yeah, Jealous?

2007-08-15T15:15:00.000-05:00

Last night we went to trivia at the Pour House, and we are freaking awesome. We won $20 of free beer (which is probably why we did worse in the second round). Go here for an awesome drawing of our kick-ass trivia knowing team. Go Team Icanhasanswers!

UPDATE: No scanned drawing as of yet... some sort of technical difficulty, no doubt. I'm sure technicians are working 'round the clock to solve this important problem.

Apartment, Found.

2007-08-13T19:54:00.001-05:00

At long last, the contract is signed, the ink has dried, and a breathtaking sum of money has been wired to the landlord. We have a new place to live.

After looking at 32 apartments (that's right. Thirty-two. Not a typo.), one worked out. It's a one bedroom with a great kitchen only three blocks from the metro. It's a hundred dollars more than we wanted to spend, but considerably better than anything else that we saw.

What have I learned from looking at thirty-two apartments in our nation's capital? Oh, I've learned a lot. Get a drink.

(1) Real estate agents are full of shit. At all times. They speak a language that, while similar to standard English, is not really English.

(a) Cosy means so small you can cook a delicious omlette while simultaneously bathing.
(b) Charming means decrepit.
(c) One Bedroom sometimes means an apartment with one, separate room for sleeping, but it also means studio, efficiency, one big room for everything, or livingroom with attached closet that you could sleep in if you were 4'2. Studio and efficiency also have variable meanings, but often they mean closet with a stove and a toilet.
(d) You are going to love it means "this building is currently on fire".

(2) People who own property are incapable of telling the truth about their own buildings.
(3) "Convenient to Metro" indicates that, from the property in question, it would be convenient to be able to fly to the station, because otherwise you are looking at a half hour walk.
(4) People don't like it when you point out what can generously be called embellishments, but more honestly can be called lies:

Agent: "This apartment is a steal for 1400 dollars! It's metro adjacent and has alot of charm!"
Me: "It's in Anne Arundel County. And there is a racoon living in the ceiling."
Agent: "Well, the owners might not like to rent to a person with a negative attitude."
Me: Punching the agent in the head until their ears bled.

(5) You will hate finding an apartment more than almost any other thing you have to do in life.
(6) Karma does not apply to the real estate market. Mother Theresa would be hard pressed to find an affordable one bedroom in this town.
(7) This process will be easier if you just break in a window and squat in an unused condo. I know that's what I am going to do next time.

So, up next! Moving fun! Plus, a chance to explore our new neighborhood, Capitol Hill. Huzzah!

The Intern's Commute, Change to the Green Line at Gallery Place.

2007-08-08T13:06:00.001-05:00

Oh, What, like Five Posts in One Day?

2007-08-07T16:06:00.001-05:00

You know you love it.

TenPhen: Swoon.

2007-08-07T16:04:00.000-05:00

I have a new restaurant boyfriend, and it is TenPhen. I mean, it’s not exclusive or anything, as I already have a date lined up with Acadiana on Wednesday, but whatever. Ten doesn’t need to know about that yet. It’s not like we went all the way.

I wish my digital camera wasn’t broken, so that I could taunt you with the delicious pictures of the amazing food that I ate, but you will have to just read the descriptions and drool. Drool I say! The meal started off with an amazing calamari salad- still warm, seared, tender squid was served in a bed of tender spinach leaves. I ordered a whole crispy fried fish, which arrived fragrant and blissfully crunchy with a fish sauce and palm sugar sauce in which to dunk my still sizzling manna from heaven. Dessert was a chocolate mousse so intense it made you pucker, the roasted banana whipped cream taking the edge off. Totally amazing. I love restaurant week.

Working Though the Burn

2007-08-07T16:03:00.001-05:00

I still fail to see the wisdom of having workers stay in their positions after they haven been informed that their jobs have been eliminated. I just took a walk around my department. This is what was going on, cubicle-by-hideous, soul-crushing cubicle:

Reading Novel
Working on Resume
Absent
Internetting
Working on Resume
Absent
Absent
Empty cubicle, now sporting someone’s gym towel and an empty bag of Doritos
Reading Express
Internetting
Internetting
Absent
On Business Travel (I am guessing they are just reading magazines, albeit in a different time zone)
On Business Travel, (One of the few who did not get ‘realigned’, this one can’t read, so most likely looking at advertisements on airport walls for Hanes, thinking about where he can buy a clarinet)
Internetting
In process of leaving, two hours early
Temp- she is actually working
Writing cover letter
Craigslist.org
Emailing Mom
Stealing office supplies and stuffing them into her backpack
Absent

I’m not judging, I’m just asking the question: why won’t you just pay us to do this from home? We’d be happier, you’d lose a lot fewer office supplies. The same amount of work would get done. It’s win-win, people!

The Next Big Thing

2007-08-07T16:01:00.002-05:00

Yeah, so, well, it’s hard to say this, cubicle. I know, we’ve had some great times. Remember when I was 21 and got my first real job working in a cubicle? Yeah, we were so close then. I used to keep delicious treats in your drawers. I hung pictures. You didn’t feel like the beige interior of some airless crypt. Not yet, anyway. But now, well, we’ve grown apart. I hate you now, Cube.

Also, office humor? Yeah, I am kind of done with you. No more laughing about the weather with that old guy from down the hall who always talks to me like we are friends but who I have never actually met. You, fluorescent lights humming away, maddeningly, as the air conditioning units whoosh, and all one can hear is other people typing and it makes you go all sallow and like you might just breathe out and never breathe back in? I am done with you, too.

Precious computer, you I will miss most of all. I mean, I know that I will still have you at home and all, but there is a certain bliss to reading page after quivering, electronic page of bad blogs and google searches, the New York Times and all those British papers that are so much fun to read, until one is hardly conscious. One continues reading until your only ability is to click a link and scroll silently down with that rolly-button-thing in the middle of the mouse, knowing that this is easier than watching the clock for quitting time. I love you, but you are bad for me. You make me numb.

I am going to be a cook. I hesitate to say chef, as that implies that I actually know something about running a kitchen. Maybe I can call myself that in a couple years. I was accepted to culinary school, and I am never going to work in a cubicle again. It’s pretty exciting. I can’t wait to start. It’s going to be hard work, and the hours are terrible. But for me, I need to do something different. Just once, once in my life, I want to have a job that I am excited about doing. I am trading in my 401(k) security for something more exciting and dangerous. I might regret this, but really, what decision doesn’t come with regrets? .

I’ve been aching to blog about the process leading up to this career change, but my old job would have been less than impressed had they found out about my ship-jumping plans. Do excuse, I beg. But now, who really cares. What are they going to do, fire me again? No, shan’t.

October 2, the big day. Wish me luck!