Heat wave. Day 4.
Denver has been hotter than Hades. (Contrary to prior belief, the saying isn’t “Hotter than Haiti”, which accidentally slipped out after the earthquake and prompted looks of disgust from everyone around me. “Too soon”, they said.) Suffice it to say that it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock—that seems pretty safe.
It’s tough to get jazzed about the day when there’s a story on the morning news about “heat safety” and how to avoid heat exhaustion. The normally upbeat weatherwoman appears lethargic, scared. Well, Kathy Sabine, you don’t have to warn me twice—once I got heat exhaustion at basketball camp and then ate a spoiled Lunchable that had been sitting in the sun all day, so I simultaneously had heat stroke and food poisoning. You better believe I learned something about heat safety that day. And a 4-foot-tall little girl has no business being at basketball camp to begin with.
My flowers are dead again, in case you were wondering. The pot on my balcony is officially a place where beautiful flowers go to die. It is so depressing. I often whisper “I’m sorry” before leaving for work, but it doesn’t feel like enough, especially because the pots on the balcony below are abounding with healthy petunias. (I get it, 6E, gardening is your thing. You’re a green thumb.) My mom, always the optimist, suggested that we plant a nice “hearty house plant” in the pot, but I don’t have the stomach. I simply cannot kill again.
Sometimes, on my lunch break, I go and lay out on my parents deck because it is close to the office, and I refuse to allow something silly like a job prevent me from getting an irresistible sun-kissed glow. This was a delightful summer routine in June. Recently though, I feel lucky to make it out of those lunch hours alive. I oil up and read my book and convince myself that “this is the life”, but then sweat drips into my eyes and bugs get stuck in the oil and all I want is to be back at my desk crunching numbers.
I have what feels like a life-or-death struggle every day after work because my black car with black leather seats feels more like a Cherokee sweat lodge than a fuel-efficient Jetta. I try to prepare by wearing a power skirt that can be hiked up in the car, but the seats burn my legs and I whimper for the first 5 minutes of my commute home. No! Don’t tell me—yes, another chap stick has melted into the cap. By this point, I’m parched beyond belief, but the only water bottle in sight has been boiling in the car all day, and taking a sip would surely kill me. The AC takes forever to get cold, and hot air blows on me like an unforgiving Sahara wind. Now I’m in survival mode. I put the Jetta in sport, lay on the accelerator and avoid the I-25 like the plague. An icy Perrier and a cold compress await me at home, and this keeps me forging ahead.
Not to mention what this heat wave is doing to my workout routine. A run in the park? I’ll faint. Hot yoga? Get real. Expending any extra energy in this environment can’t be healthy anyways, especially because I drink one cup of coffee in the morning and am automatically dehydrated for the remainder of the day. All I want to do after work is eat snow cones in my underwear while a hot ass spritzes me with Evian upon demand. Is that so much to ask?
I know what some of you are thinking: “Add some humidity and then you’ll know what hot is!!!” or “Spend a summer in Louisiana and then we’ll talk, honey!!!” To that I say, shut up. This isn’t a competition; this is man vs. wild, and last time I checked, we’re all humans. Now, be a doll and fetch me a Zima—it’s gonna be another scorcher.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
24" of Hot Dog
It seems like just yesterday that I was singing the praises of the cold fronts descending upon Colorado; how nice it was to pull on a sweater and jeans and just ooze in front of the fire with a nice cup of spiced cider. Now, it’s May, and I literally hate sweaters. I hate jeans. I want to throw the sweaters and jeans into the fire and bail. In fact, come May, I start dressing for summer even if it’s in blatant disregard for the weather. Snowstorms in May do not deserve to be dignified with a response, especially when we’ve waited patiently all winter to pull on a slutty romper and hit the town. Just yesterday, I went for a run in the rain, which turned into sleet halfway through. But since it was May, I kept convincing myself how “fun” the run was and how “pretty” the day was and how “happy” I was to be outside. Two can play at this game, Colorado spring.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
ROCK BOTTOM
Years ago, in a little town called New Orleans, I decided to sample the local cultural flavor and have my tarot cards read. I found myself waiting in line at a quintessential voodoo shop, mindlessly fingering a shrunken head and shaking a jar of what appeared to be a pickled pig fetus. I momentarily questioned my judgment but then resolved to have an open mind—I mean, how bad could my fortune be? When my name was finally called, I walked through a curtain of beads and sat down across from a 90 year-old bald woman with cataracts. The room smelled like burning hair. She had me cut the deck and select eight cards. “No pressure”, she wheezed, “just eight little cards to define your future”. I handed her my selection with a fair amount of confidence, expecting to hear something pleasant like, “You will marry your best friend” or “You’ve selected the card of eternal wisdom” Instead, she swallowed hard, shook her bald head, and regretfully informed me that I had chosen the ROCK BOTTOM card. “I’m sorry..?” She elaborated, “The rock bottom card conjures up images of misery, illness, poverty…” it must have been obvious that I was on the verge of throwing up because she stopped listing off what else “rock bottom” could entail and cheerfully added that I had also selected cards that foretold a future of great wisdom and motherhood and eternal love. It didn’t matter though. It was too late. Nothing matters once you’ve chosen the “rock bottom” card. I paid my $40 (easily the most depressing money I’ve ever spent), and resolved that the words “rock bottom” were never to be spoken aloud, convinced that if I ignored the disturbing reading it would be as if it never happened. I swore off cataracts and tarot cards forever. That is, until last Monday.
I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.
Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.
“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.
And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.
Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?
I was minding my own business, heading to TJ Maxx on my lunch break like any hard-working American gal would, when I spotted a glossy, purple card wedged under my wiper. The first thing I saw was an anime angel sitting on a rock with a glowing bird in her hand. Upon further inspection, it was not just a card, but rather an invitation; an invitation to a “new spiritual journey for a better tomorrow”. Oh, no, I thought, already anticipating what I would find on the back. I nervously glanced around to see if any other cars had the invitation—no, only mine. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the card over, and there it was: “EXPERIENCE THE MYSTICAL TAROT CARDS, OR THE PERSONAL TOUCH OF PALM READING”. It then listed off some other services; among the more intriguing were Angel Soulmate Readings, Clairvoyant Readings and Past Lives. “Iiiiinteresting,” I thought, feeling myself become seduced, but I quickly caught myself. No. Not again. Not after what happened last time. Throw that cursed card away and get to TJ, you Maxxinista, you! I couldn’t throw it away though. It was too eerie that I was being singled-out and beckoned in this way. Could the universe be speaking to me?? Besides, I still had too many questions: the card only had a phone number-- no name. Who is this tarot card phantom? It boasted they had been “nominated by the National Astrological Association as Denver’s Top Psychic Advisor”, but did they win?? Did the inclusion of the anime graphics imply Asian involvement? Overwhelmed, I threw the card in my bag and went to clear my mind in the bedding section of TJ Maxx.
Wednesday 10:25:00—two days later and I am still staring at the card. It stares back, alluring me with its vibrant shades of violet and infinite mystical possibilities. I weigh my options. I could call and hear some awful news, just like last time. (The words “rock bottom” resonate in my ears, and I shudder.) Then there’s a chance I got the card for a reason, and if I don’t call, something awful will actually happen. I decide acting is better than react—Oh, who am I kidding? I am drunk with the magical possibilities. I pick up the phone, dial. A woman answers, and I hear a small child throwing a tantrum in the background.
“Who is this?” I ask in a small voice, waiting with baited breath to hear the answer.
“This is Pam”, she answers with an irritated tone. “Who is this?” It sounds like she may be doing dishes.
“Umm, I got a flyer on my car. Where are you?”
“Off of Colfax and Kipling” she says.
And just like that, the magic is gone. The stars are not aligning. I have not been chosen by the universe. This isn’t some mystical Asian tarot phantom summoning me to divulge the details of my destiny; this is just some mundane soccer mom on Colfax doing dishes and preying on spiritually-vulnerable people like me. “Shame on you” I whisper, and I hang up the phone.
Who actually falls for that stuff anyways?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Working On My Avatar Butt
Going to the movies used to be fun, until recently when all you see in the previews are little sneak-peeks of the world ending. The previews just make you want to end it now because, guess what? Tomorrow looks horrible. Humans being farmed for blood, meteors crashing into earth, biochemical warfare… Jodie Foster is going to make a killing in the next few years playing her standard frantic roles. I, personally, am kind of an old-fashioned gal. What if I just want to see a Rom-Com and not something that brings back that familiar feeling of Y2K panic? I’ve burned a hole in my When Harry Met Sally DVD. Get to work, Jennifer and Julia! Get off your ass, Cameron, and give me a mindlessly stupid love story. If movie previews are any indication of what’s to come, the future is exceedingly frightening and I don’t wanna go.
Two nights ago I saw Avatar, which was a surprising move for someone who normally hates all things futuristic and/or Sci-Fi. But let me tell ya: It was amazing. So amazing in fact that I’m now blogging about Avatar, which is by far the nerdiest thing I have EVER done. I will say this: it helped me on a very personal level. My new year’s resolution is now officially to get my butt as tight as an Avatar’s. The problem with Avatar, aside from granting Michelle Rodriguez yet another opportunity to wear a soiled wife beater in the jungle and use dykie one-liners while doing so, was that it made me hate humans. Here you have Pandora, a utopian indiglo forest on a faraway planet, flowing with a network of the positive energy of all living things and inhabited by docile, gentle creatures. And what do the humans do? Bomb the shit out of it. Blow it to smithereens. (Side note: I would hope that by the year 2154 we’d have something cooler to scream in battle than “GET SOME!!!”) It’s no big secret that humans are inherently greedy, but if they could stand to ruin a place like Pandora, Earth doesn’t have a fighting chance.
I am afraid for my own personal success in the future, because I am already struggling with today’s technological challenges. For example: Redbox. Redbox has just bent me over and had me. It all started one evening when I was feeling particularly techy and decided to rent a movie from a Redbox outside of a 7-11. I ran into my first challenge when I was unable to figure out how to get a synopsis of the available movies, and was thus left with just the title and the cast. After much deliberation, I chose something with a pleasant title and an array of Hollywood’s finest. Long story short, it turned out to be a horror movie that I watched alone in the dark and had nightmares about for a whole week. So that was killer. Three weeks passed before I remembered I had to return the stupid thing, and there began the real trail of tears. I went to one 7-11 and three McDonalds in one day, an afternoon that would be completely inexcusable under any other circumstances, trying to return the movie. All Redboxes were full. I then sat on hold with Redbox Customer Service for 30 minutes, listening to their recording that said, “Did you know you can return your movie to any Redbox location? Now that’s convenience with a capital ‘C’!!!” No, that’s an infuriating lie. When I finally got a representative, I told him flat-out that I would not be paying any fees because of the emotional trauma that my afternoon of McDonalds hopping had caused me, and he waived the charges. Victorious, except that I still have yet to return the movie. See?? I’m hopeless. If I’m expected to wrangle a pterodactyl and ride it bareback anytime soon, I’m doomed.
Luckily for people like me, there is still a semblance of normalcy in the world. I still have the option of making my deposits with a teller at the bank and having human interaction. I can still read a newspaper, go hiking without seeing anything man-made for miles, and travel to parts of the world untainted by “progress” and the problems that go with it. Those things are important to me. And as for next time I decide to rent a movie from Redbox? I’ll just let my Avatar handle that.
Two nights ago I saw Avatar, which was a surprising move for someone who normally hates all things futuristic and/or Sci-Fi. But let me tell ya: It was amazing. So amazing in fact that I’m now blogging about Avatar, which is by far the nerdiest thing I have EVER done. I will say this: it helped me on a very personal level. My new year’s resolution is now officially to get my butt as tight as an Avatar’s. The problem with Avatar, aside from granting Michelle Rodriguez yet another opportunity to wear a soiled wife beater in the jungle and use dykie one-liners while doing so, was that it made me hate humans. Here you have Pandora, a utopian indiglo forest on a faraway planet, flowing with a network of the positive energy of all living things and inhabited by docile, gentle creatures. And what do the humans do? Bomb the shit out of it. Blow it to smithereens. (Side note: I would hope that by the year 2154 we’d have something cooler to scream in battle than “GET SOME!!!”) It’s no big secret that humans are inherently greedy, but if they could stand to ruin a place like Pandora, Earth doesn’t have a fighting chance.
I am afraid for my own personal success in the future, because I am already struggling with today’s technological challenges. For example: Redbox. Redbox has just bent me over and had me. It all started one evening when I was feeling particularly techy and decided to rent a movie from a Redbox outside of a 7-11. I ran into my first challenge when I was unable to figure out how to get a synopsis of the available movies, and was thus left with just the title and the cast. After much deliberation, I chose something with a pleasant title and an array of Hollywood’s finest. Long story short, it turned out to be a horror movie that I watched alone in the dark and had nightmares about for a whole week. So that was killer. Three weeks passed before I remembered I had to return the stupid thing, and there began the real trail of tears. I went to one 7-11 and three McDonalds in one day, an afternoon that would be completely inexcusable under any other circumstances, trying to return the movie. All Redboxes were full. I then sat on hold with Redbox Customer Service for 30 minutes, listening to their recording that said, “Did you know you can return your movie to any Redbox location? Now that’s convenience with a capital ‘C’!!!” No, that’s an infuriating lie. When I finally got a representative, I told him flat-out that I would not be paying any fees because of the emotional trauma that my afternoon of McDonalds hopping had caused me, and he waived the charges. Victorious, except that I still have yet to return the movie. See?? I’m hopeless. If I’m expected to wrangle a pterodactyl and ride it bareback anytime soon, I’m doomed.
Luckily for people like me, there is still a semblance of normalcy in the world. I still have the option of making my deposits with a teller at the bank and having human interaction. I can still read a newspaper, go hiking without seeing anything man-made for miles, and travel to parts of the world untainted by “progress” and the problems that go with it. Those things are important to me. And as for next time I decide to rent a movie from Redbox? I’ll just let my Avatar handle that.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Can we not call it "Tom the Turkey" this year?
My two favorite holidays are the 4th of July and Thanksgiving; 4th of July because you can wear an American flag thong bathing suit and chase vodka shots with Otter Pops, and Thanksgiving for more meaningful reasons.
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Playthings of the '90s
Last night at dinner club, we started talking about how great it was growing up in the ‘90s. Not just because we were approaching the dawn of a new millennium or because Hannah Montana wasn’t “being Miley” yet, but because the absolute BEST toys came out in the ‘90s, and we were at the perfect, ripe age to enjoy them.
Arguably the most high-maintenance ‘90s toy was the Tamagotchi. I had it clipped to my backpack to ensure easy accessibility, and I absolutely fussed over it all day. You can’t blame me though; I had the neediest little virtual pet on the planet. I’d feed it, clean up after it had disgusting accidents right in the middle of the screen, and feel a surge of maternal pride when it would hatch into something new. It was all fun and games until it hatched into Bill Clinton once, which was far from the mystical Japanese creature I had been awaiting with baited breath, and I let it die.
I’m convinced that childhood obesity was lower when we were growing up purely because of another unforgettable ‘90s toy: the Skip-It. I used to Skip-It on my driveway until it was too dark to read the counter, which by the way, was absolute magic. How did it know how many times I’d Skip’d-It? It was technology at its finest, and I was pushing it to the limits. I made it to 999 several times and was horrified when it would reset to 0. There goes a whole after-school afternoon. Great. I could have been chatting with a friend on my landline.
GAK was a great '90s toy, if you can even call it that. I honestly don’t know how to categorize GAK. First of all, it was made by Nickelodeon, which was weird. And was it a solid? A liquid? Did it cause Cancer? Could you eat it? Who knows, and honestly, who cares. I used to goop it around in my hands for hours, allowing myself to just get lost in its questionable composition. I have a vague memory of blowing bubbles with GAK, which had to be an absolute germfest, because let's face it: if you brought GAK to school, you could count on at least 9 elementary kids fingering it with their grubby little monkey bar hands.
Two words: Polly Pocket. Polly lived the most awesome life in her pocket-sized world. There wasn’t a whole lot you could do with her other than move her two inches to the other side of her case and marvel at how pretty she was, but that was OK, because a tiny person was living in a tiny universe in my cubby. I always wondered what she was doing in there while I was in class. (Obviously I read Indian in the Cupboard too many times…)
Puppy Surprise was a hilarious '90s toy. You bought a pregnant stuffed dog with a Velcro stomach and basically just prayed it had a nice healthy litter inside. The ultimate let down was tearing into that mama dog’s uterus and finding one lousy puppy. No one wanted the worthless runt, and this scenario often resulted in Puppy Surprise being abandoned in favor of Baby Alive, who would pee or poop her diaper without fail every time. At least kids of the ‘90s could count on something.
You know what was an absurd 90’s phenomenon? Toy crazes. The fanaticism over Beanie Babies may be the best example, but let us not forget about Tickle Me Elmo and Furby (which, by the way, were both absolutely terrifying with their alien voices and predator-like movements). Moms would literally beat each other DOWN over $20 toys, and it was always fun to see the K-Mart carnage on the news, especially during the holidays.
If I'm honest, I feel bad for Millennium babies. Nickelodeon hasn’t produced a carcinogenic substance in years. And how are little four-year-old girls supposed to practice their mothering skills if their dolls don’t even soil their diapers anymore? Don’t even get me started on how many children would probably just keel over and die of exhaustion if the prehistoric counter on the Skip-It was replaced with a digital one. No, my friends, we made it out of childhood just in the nick of time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go feed my Tamagotchi. It’s been alive for 12 days and I think it’s about to win a Nobel Peace Prize.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Fall: Leather Jackets and Cranberries CDs Allowed
I look forward to Fall’s arrival for many reasons. Besides the obvious (stunning color changes, small children divebombing in piles of leaves, leather jackets being acceptable/not pervy for a few short months), I like the fact that people stop putting so much emphasis on the goddamn weather. During summertime, if it unexpectedly rains or gets cloudy, people lose their shit. “I WANTED TO GO TO THE POOL TODAY!!!” In the Fall, you just expect it to be damp, dark and emo, and you’re cool with it.
Why does it have to be sunny every day anyways? Granted, I live in a state where it is sunny 300 days a year, so a cloudy day is like a fun event. When it’s cloudy and cold, we all drink tea and put on like 30 layers and feel cool walking around with an umbrella. You’re allowed to feel feelings and write in a journal and listen to The Cranberries in your car. Someone inevitably wants a Starbucks to tote around when we’re out and about, more for the look than the actual beverage.
It does get a little ridiculous how many things people use the cold as an excuse for. Any cloudy day is automatically 2 things: a great movie day and a great day for baking. When it’s cold, people simply hate being productive. “I was gonna go for a run, but it’s so icky out!!” Ok, but that doesn’t mean you can eat cookie dough in bed all day like a fatass. No wonder people gain weight in the winter. Likewise, just because it’s cold doesn’t give you the green light to wear disgusting sweatpants or flannel PJ bottoms in public. Pulling on a pair of jeans doesn’t require that much extra effort, I promise.
Something I really hate is when people act like they’re the only one affected by the weather.
“I just feel so blah today. Must be the weather.”
“I wish I was still snuggled up in bed instead of here at work.”
“It took me 20 extra minutes to get here today because the roads were so bad. (Dramatic sigh)”
Or how about people who bitch about the weather when they choose to live in a place that gets cold?
“Man, I should move back to Cali!!” Then go, bro!
When it starts getting cold, I like getting all of my winter clothes out of storage. It’s like Christmas comes early, only better because it’s free. My change of emotion towards my cold-weather garments is funny, because when I put them away last spring, I despised them. They were homely and mundane. Now, seeing them again for the first time in months, they are delightful and full of potential. I lovingly hang them in my closet while I stuff my disgusting summer clothes into boxes. See you next year, you haggard rags.
Also, two words: CROCKPOT COMEBACK. My favorite kitchen accessory sat on a shelf all summer looking pathetic because chili and stew somehow didn’t sound too good when it was 97 degrees. As soon as the temp drops below 60 though, it’s on. There is nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that the raw chicken and random canned goods you dumped in the CP standing in your towel at 6am will be the greatest kitchen creation of all time when you get home. It almost feels like cheating.
You may think me a simpleton for enjoying these things so much; SO BE IT. Let me have these fleeting days of pleasure, because come March, my “trendy” winter clothes and my “fun” cloudy days and my “tantalizing” Crockpot creations will all send me into an emo rage that will make me want to end it. I won’t though, because spring will be near, and I’ll have another blog to write. Mark your calendars.
Why does it have to be sunny every day anyways? Granted, I live in a state where it is sunny 300 days a year, so a cloudy day is like a fun event. When it’s cloudy and cold, we all drink tea and put on like 30 layers and feel cool walking around with an umbrella. You’re allowed to feel feelings and write in a journal and listen to The Cranberries in your car. Someone inevitably wants a Starbucks to tote around when we’re out and about, more for the look than the actual beverage.
It does get a little ridiculous how many things people use the cold as an excuse for. Any cloudy day is automatically 2 things: a great movie day and a great day for baking. When it’s cold, people simply hate being productive. “I was gonna go for a run, but it’s so icky out!!” Ok, but that doesn’t mean you can eat cookie dough in bed all day like a fatass. No wonder people gain weight in the winter. Likewise, just because it’s cold doesn’t give you the green light to wear disgusting sweatpants or flannel PJ bottoms in public. Pulling on a pair of jeans doesn’t require that much extra effort, I promise.
Something I really hate is when people act like they’re the only one affected by the weather.
“I just feel so blah today. Must be the weather.”
“I wish I was still snuggled up in bed instead of here at work.”
“It took me 20 extra minutes to get here today because the roads were so bad. (Dramatic sigh)”
Or how about people who bitch about the weather when they choose to live in a place that gets cold?
“Man, I should move back to Cali!!” Then go, bro!
When it starts getting cold, I like getting all of my winter clothes out of storage. It’s like Christmas comes early, only better because it’s free. My change of emotion towards my cold-weather garments is funny, because when I put them away last spring, I despised them. They were homely and mundane. Now, seeing them again for the first time in months, they are delightful and full of potential. I lovingly hang them in my closet while I stuff my disgusting summer clothes into boxes. See you next year, you haggard rags.
Also, two words: CROCKPOT COMEBACK. My favorite kitchen accessory sat on a shelf all summer looking pathetic because chili and stew somehow didn’t sound too good when it was 97 degrees. As soon as the temp drops below 60 though, it’s on. There is nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that the raw chicken and random canned goods you dumped in the CP standing in your towel at 6am will be the greatest kitchen creation of all time when you get home. It almost feels like cheating.
You may think me a simpleton for enjoying these things so much; SO BE IT. Let me have these fleeting days of pleasure, because come March, my “trendy” winter clothes and my “fun” cloudy days and my “tantalizing” Crockpot creations will all send me into an emo rage that will make me want to end it. I won’t though, because spring will be near, and I’ll have another blog to write. Mark your calendars.
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