We've been eating a lot of sandwiches lately.
I think this is because on Monday I went to the grocery store fully intending to purchase the ingredients for a fine, home-cooked, nutritious meal. But as I walked past the things you usually need for such a meal (things that end in "egetable") and contemplated the effort that would be required of me once I got those ingredients home (using the stove) I found myself looking for a compromise.
The thing is, I really wanted to make dinner. In theory. But in reality what I wanted was for my mom to make me dinner. And since she is three thousand miles away and I am thirty-one years old and if I asked her she would most likely offer an apt lecture on self-reliance, I could see the impossibility of my desire.
And then I saw the sandwich meat. And I thought, "Sandwiches!!! Yes! Sandwiches are great! And frequently consumed for dinner although that is usually when you are on your way home from work or maybe on vacation!!" I grabbed a package of cracked pepper turkey and some pepper-jack cheese. And, since I wanted the illusion of tremendous effort, I got a tomato and some baby arugula. Of course I had no intention of consuming the tomato or baby arugula on account of their being vegetables (okay, I KNOW the tomato is technically a fruit) but I felt good about making them available to Paul. Far be it from me, you know?
Later in the week, as we sat at the dinner table eating sandwiches, we congratulated ourselves.
"Sandwiches are wonderful!" exclaimed Paul, and I had to concur.
"This must be what people do all the time," mused Paul, "they make themselves sandwiches. They just go to the store and then they have sandwich stuff readily available. Imagine."
"How about that pepper-jack cheese?"
"Ooooooohhhhhhh yeeeeessss....." bits of baby arugula clung to Paul's mustache as he cast an adoring glance in the general direction of his sandwich.
Paul finished his sandwich and carried his plate to the sink. I finished my sandwich, eating the crust part first so I could finish with the middle. When I turned around, Paul picked up the empty pickle jar.
And then he drank the pickle juice.
Just swilled it down, like it was a nice cold root-beer. I think he even licked his lips. There was moisture condensation on the outside of the jar, like even the pickle juice thought it was something else. This seemed wrong to me. To me, pickle juice is like a dirty secret, or maybe like dirty politics. You know it's there, but you don't do anything about it. If pickle juice was a person it would probably have a dark oily mustache and hang out in seedy bars. If you ask me.
"WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING."
"Drinking pickle juice."
"That's disgusting."
"No it isn't. It has electrolytes. I was just reading an article about it."
"An article about pickle-juice electrolytes? I can't BELIEVE you just drank that. I don't know if I can kiss you tonight."
"Sure, pickle-juice is full of electrolytes. It's pretty much the best thing for you. Plus it's just juice."
"How can pickle juice be the best thing for you? Water. Water is the best thing for you. You really should drink more water."
"No way. What about the electrolytes?"
"Well, you should drink more water regardless of electrolytes, is my point."
"Yes."
My victory felt a little flat. Probably because we should all drink more water. And I was secretly angry with myself for not being better prepared to discuss pickle juice electrolytes.
I picked up Paul's glass of diet coke, but before taking a swig, I sniffed the rim for traces of pickle juice. It was clean.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
ladybugs are best eaten whole
Today, Gilly caught a bug.
Paul and I are so proud.
And also sorry for the bug, which was a ladybug and quite cute as far as bugs go. Had it been a spider or other less attractive insect, Paul and I would not have been sorry in the slightest.
When it comes down to it, Gilly has always been a hunter. One time when we lived in the apartment on Pinehurst we ordered pizza, and we were too lazy to take it all the way down to the garbage. I know that makes us sound really, really lazy, but you had to take the elevator or the stairs down to the first floor and then go out the back door and down these slatted metal stairs to this patio area where they kept the garbage cans. And on this particular night it was probably raining or snowing or neither of us was willing to put on pants.
So, the pizza box was placed on top of the stove, because our counter space was about the size of two shoe-boxes put together and our beloved Kitchen-Aid was renting the space. And after I had put the pizza box on the stove and started my pre-bed ritual of spending 45 minutes in the bathroom washing my face and feeling bad about not having curly hair, there was a muffled sound of scraping cardboard coming from the kitchen.
And there was Gilly, gray stripey tail waving triumphantly below the stove lamp, nose rooting amongst dry pizza crust and half empty containers of garlic sauce. She's never really been a human food type of cat, so I like to imagine that she was pretending to be a jungle cat stalking in a jungle forest where there was perhaps a recently opened jungle Papa John's.
Probably I should have hissed or shooed her away. It's probably not respectable to have your cat sitting in a pizza box on your stove. But I did not shoo, and I did not hiss. I took pictures.
And today, after Gilly defied gravity and her sagging, fur covered belly in the name of KILL KILL KILLING THE LADYBUG, Paul and I clapped. We cheered. And Paul sang:
If you have on gray fur
And you have stripey legs
And you killed a ladybug
Please stand up
And purr inside the circle, circle, circle
Purr inside the circle
Then sit down
Gilly is licking her paws right now. Sissy looks a little mad that Gilly didn't share the ladybug with her, but ladybugs are best eaten whole, in one gulp.
I've heard.
Paul and I are so proud.
And also sorry for the bug, which was a ladybug and quite cute as far as bugs go. Had it been a spider or other less attractive insect, Paul and I would not have been sorry in the slightest.
When it comes down to it, Gilly has always been a hunter. One time when we lived in the apartment on Pinehurst we ordered pizza, and we were too lazy to take it all the way down to the garbage. I know that makes us sound really, really lazy, but you had to take the elevator or the stairs down to the first floor and then go out the back door and down these slatted metal stairs to this patio area where they kept the garbage cans. And on this particular night it was probably raining or snowing or neither of us was willing to put on pants.
So, the pizza box was placed on top of the stove, because our counter space was about the size of two shoe-boxes put together and our beloved Kitchen-Aid was renting the space. And after I had put the pizza box on the stove and started my pre-bed ritual of spending 45 minutes in the bathroom washing my face and feeling bad about not having curly hair, there was a muffled sound of scraping cardboard coming from the kitchen.
And there was Gilly, gray stripey tail waving triumphantly below the stove lamp, nose rooting amongst dry pizza crust and half empty containers of garlic sauce. She's never really been a human food type of cat, so I like to imagine that she was pretending to be a jungle cat stalking in a jungle forest where there was perhaps a recently opened jungle Papa John's.
Probably I should have hissed or shooed her away. It's probably not respectable to have your cat sitting in a pizza box on your stove. But I did not shoo, and I did not hiss. I took pictures.
And today, after Gilly defied gravity and her sagging, fur covered belly in the name of KILL KILL KILLING THE LADYBUG, Paul and I clapped. We cheered. And Paul sang:
If you have on gray fur
And you have stripey legs
And you killed a ladybug
Please stand up
And purr inside the circle, circle, circle
Purr inside the circle
Then sit down
Gilly is licking her paws right now. Sissy looks a little mad that Gilly didn't share the ladybug with her, but ladybugs are best eaten whole, in one gulp.
I've heard.
Monday, May 30, 2011
the queen of backhanded compliments
Client: You look different today.
Me: Oh?
Client: Are those different glasses?
Me: Yes.
Client: Huh. Yeah, different glasses.
Me: Yep, I switch them up every once in a while.
Client. Good. With these you look less like Harry Potter.
Me: Oh....right.
Now. There are things to say. First, Client Who Shall Remain Nameless, thank you for liking my current glasses. Second, maybe I WANT to look like Harry Potter. And third, maybe I DO look like Harry Potter. Except for fourth, somehow I still feel like chucking my Tropical Hurricane smoothie with soy protein all over your Lululemon sweatshirt. Fifth, I apologize. That was unprofessional. And hypothetically wasteful.
Me: Oh?
Client: Are those different glasses?
Me: Yes.
Client: Huh. Yeah, different glasses.
Me: Yep, I switch them up every once in a while.
Client. Good. With these you look less like Harry Potter.
Me: Oh....right.
Now. There are things to say. First, Client Who Shall Remain Nameless, thank you for liking my current glasses. Second, maybe I WANT to look like Harry Potter. And third, maybe I DO look like Harry Potter. Except for fourth, somehow I still feel like chucking my Tropical Hurricane smoothie with soy protein all over your Lululemon sweatshirt. Fifth, I apologize. That was unprofessional. And hypothetically wasteful.
Friday, May 27, 2011
the title of my last post was stupid
It was, really. The title should have been "this is the part where I thank my lucky stars for what just happened because I was pretty darn sure I was getting a B and so bragging is out of the question". If you read the previous title and experienced a sudden desire to reach through my computer screen and punch my nose, thanks for refraining.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
this is the part where i brag shamelessly
I GOT AN A- IN ASIAN STUDIES.
BOOYEAH.
I was going to say that I soundly kicked Asian Studies' bottom, but the minus part of my grade would seem to contradict that statement. Perhaps I can say that I engaged Asian Studies in a vigorous but not quite deadly fight in which I was able to inflict some minor but still rather embarrassing injuries.
Whatever. I'll take it.
BOOYEAH.
I was going to say that I soundly kicked Asian Studies' bottom, but the minus part of my grade would seem to contradict that statement. Perhaps I can say that I engaged Asian Studies in a vigorous but not quite deadly fight in which I was able to inflict some minor but still rather embarrassing injuries.
Whatever. I'll take it.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
i blame asian studies
I just took my last final.
That means I'm free. Free from the clutches of a semester from Hades. The underworld. "H" "E" double hockey sticks. New York in mid-July.
I blame Asian Studies.
First, the Chinese have been around for like forever, and because of their being around for like forever, all textbooks about their history, art and literature weigh approximately ten pounds each. So I'm pretty sure that my right shoulder is where my ear should be.
Second, I apparently have no ear for Chinese pronunciation. And my teacher didn't lecture with slides, so every time she'd say the name of a dynasty, or province, or emperor, I'd have to play matching games with my textbook to figure out what she just said. My notebook is filled with scribblings like "Shun-ze? Ten-yi? Cheeyeng-ky-shek?" All with question marks. As I reviewed my notes for the final, I found one page where, right in the middle of a sentence, I wrote "I have no idea what she just said".
Third, remember how my teacher didn't lecture with slides? Well, that doesn't mean she didn't use slides. At the beginning of every lecture, she'd turn off the lights, and show us a picture, of an emperor, or some ancient Chinese map, and then she's leave the lights off for the rest of the lecture. So, I would sit, in the dark, eyes inches off my notebook, scribbling phonetic attempts at a completely foreign language while trying to not fall asleep.
I'm just realizing this sounds a little bitter. Do I sound bitter? I might be coming off the sugar. Last night I ate somewhere in the neighborhood of ten pounds of jolly ranchers, starbursts, half a can of reddi-whip, pop-chips and drank like two gallons of diet dr. pepper, and I might have forgotten to keep the cycle going today. I love school. I love it. Every time I set foot on that campus I fall in love all over again.
It's just that I'm so pleased to have my brain back for the summer. I really missed it.
That means I'm free. Free from the clutches of a semester from Hades. The underworld. "H" "E" double hockey sticks. New York in mid-July.
I blame Asian Studies.
First, the Chinese have been around for like forever, and because of their being around for like forever, all textbooks about their history, art and literature weigh approximately ten pounds each. So I'm pretty sure that my right shoulder is where my ear should be.
Second, I apparently have no ear for Chinese pronunciation. And my teacher didn't lecture with slides, so every time she'd say the name of a dynasty, or province, or emperor, I'd have to play matching games with my textbook to figure out what she just said. My notebook is filled with scribblings like "Shun-ze? Ten-yi? Cheeyeng-ky-shek?" All with question marks. As I reviewed my notes for the final, I found one page where, right in the middle of a sentence, I wrote "I have no idea what she just said".
Third, remember how my teacher didn't lecture with slides? Well, that doesn't mean she didn't use slides. At the beginning of every lecture, she'd turn off the lights, and show us a picture, of an emperor, or some ancient Chinese map, and then she's leave the lights off for the rest of the lecture. So, I would sit, in the dark, eyes inches off my notebook, scribbling phonetic attempts at a completely foreign language while trying to not fall asleep.
I'm just realizing this sounds a little bitter. Do I sound bitter? I might be coming off the sugar. Last night I ate somewhere in the neighborhood of ten pounds of jolly ranchers, starbursts, half a can of reddi-whip, pop-chips and drank like two gallons of diet dr. pepper, and I might have forgotten to keep the cycle going today. I love school. I love it. Every time I set foot on that campus I fall in love all over again.
It's just that I'm so pleased to have my brain back for the summer. I really missed it.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
three messages
A text, from Paul, after he found out he had to work tonight:
Miss you. Oh, the pains my tender soul has inflicted upon it every second we are apart. (He's probably been reading Jane Austen again.)
A voicemail message at work:
"Hi. This is Barbara. I talked to you earlier. You said you were going to early cancel me. I CAN'T COME TO CLASS BECAUSE I'M COUGHING UP YELLOW GUNK. I just got an email that you late cancelled me. WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME. (Barbara's voice is Long Island accented, and coated with about thirty years worth of cigarette smoke and whisky. I replay the message twice before calling Barbara back to apologize for the mistake, after which she thanks me and calls me a doll. Twice.)
A second voicemail at work:
"Hi. This is Floyd Clerkin. I live in Indiana and sometimes I get these faxes from you guys. My daughter is an instructor and she teaches. Anyways you have this picture of this lady on your fliers and she looks like a poor man's Jacqueline Kennedy. She's got sunglasses and a black dress and she's biting her teeth or something. It's really unattractive is what I'm trying to say to you. Really you should do something about this- SHE LOOKS LIKE A POOR MAN'S JACKIE KENNEDY. This is Floyd. Thanks. God bless." (I replay the message three times, save it, and commit it to memory. You don't want to forget someone like Floyd Clerkin.)
Miss you. Oh, the pains my tender soul has inflicted upon it every second we are apart. (He's probably been reading Jane Austen again.)
A voicemail message at work:
"Hi. This is Barbara. I talked to you earlier. You said you were going to early cancel me. I CAN'T COME TO CLASS BECAUSE I'M COUGHING UP YELLOW GUNK. I just got an email that you late cancelled me. WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME. (Barbara's voice is Long Island accented, and coated with about thirty years worth of cigarette smoke and whisky. I replay the message twice before calling Barbara back to apologize for the mistake, after which she thanks me and calls me a doll. Twice.)
A second voicemail at work:
"Hi. This is Floyd Clerkin. I live in Indiana and sometimes I get these faxes from you guys. My daughter is an instructor and she teaches. Anyways you have this picture of this lady on your fliers and she looks like a poor man's Jacqueline Kennedy. She's got sunglasses and a black dress and she's biting her teeth or something. It's really unattractive is what I'm trying to say to you. Really you should do something about this- SHE LOOKS LIKE A POOR MAN'S JACKIE KENNEDY. This is Floyd. Thanks. God bless." (I replay the message three times, save it, and commit it to memory. You don't want to forget someone like Floyd Clerkin.)
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