I like making dinner. I like making NEW things for dinner. I think all people get into a cooking rut where they have a rotation of food they make all the time and it gets boring, like having Taco Thursday. Wait, forget I said that. Taco Thursday sounds like a great idea. But you know what I mean. You go to the grocery store every week or two and pick up the same crap you picked up before, and make the same stuff you made last week but this week you got some potstickers in a freezer bag or something so you feel excited.
Do you suffer from food boredom? If so, I have one word for you: roasted parsnips.
Don't ask questions.
Just do it.
Making new stuff is always an adventure where you have a bunch of pots and pans with a bunch of food doing a bunch of different stuff and you may or may not destroy it all. I find myself constantly saying, "Is this how this goes? I don't know wtf! MORE HERBS LOL." Like tonight I wanted to roast vegetables because I could live on roasted vegetables. (If little girl Jacky ever travels through time and meets grown up Jacky she'll think she grows up to be a host for a yeerk who is trying to get Visser 1 to give her her own cooking show. If you don't know what I'm talking about, be depressed.) I didn't have that many veggies, only 3 parsnips left from two nights ago, one orange bell pepper and one onion, so I chopped up a green apple and roasted that too. With balsamic vinaigrette. It was awesome.
And I made rice. Screw rice cookers, I did that shit on the stove in a pot like the cavemen did. The one thing I don't like about rice is that you're supposed to put a lid on it and not peek. I hate that. There are some stuff you're supposed to just leave the hell alone and let it do its thing. Whoever came up with the whole glass pot lid thing probably saved some lives. If you have high blood pressure and are NOT ALLOWED to look at your rice for 10 whole MINUTES, maybe you shouldn't make rice. I don't have high blood pressure but I am a control freak, and my pot lids are opaque. You know that Shroedinger's Cat theorem, where the cat is in a box and the chemical may or may have not degraded enough to kill the cat, so that cat might or might not be dead, and you don't know until you look? Zombie cat rice.
I've been thinking a lot about food budgets because I may have to stick to one in the near future. The whole Make Your Own versus Eating Out debate has been weighing heavily. Because you can go grocery shopping with the best of intentions and do so well for about 4 days, and then somebody invariably will say, "I feel like pizza tonight," and even if you didn't feel like pizza before you definitely feel like pizza now, and you just spent $80 on food 4 days ago, but what's another $20 on pizza when you'll have leftovers for tomorrow, and that's really not so much more, right? But you never have leftovers. And if you do, you eat them for breakfast the next morning. So you had the pizza last night and now you're looking at a refrigerator full of 2 day old stir fry and leftover spaghetti sauce which would have been good yesterday but you go the pizza, and they just don't look appetizing at all and you could literally walk to Chipotle, and the gas you'd save by walking certainly makes up for the money you'd be spending on more food you don't need to be buying, but it all evens out in the end and as long as you promise to do better next week there really isn't any harm, I mean your body needs food and there is some food right down the street, and all this grocery stuff will stay good for at least another week so you don't even have to go shopping again for a while. Well, you'll probably have to go get some more pastrami on Friday because you've been eating it for lunch all week and that saved you some money, which really, is just another reason why you should reward yourself tonight with a burrito.
I remember a conversation with my friend P when we were both in college. I had the great pleasure of living with my aunt for 2 whole years of college where I was fed and sheltered and warm and comfortable every single day, but P went to an art college that had bought out a few floors of an apartment complex in downtown DC, dropped the students into poorly kept rooms, and left them to fend for themselves in all regards. I called her around 9 at night, and this is how the conversation went:
P: I've hit bottom, dude.
J: what do you mean?
P: Can you guess what I'm eating right now?
J: Frosting.
P: I wish. There is literally nothing to eat in this kitchen. Nothing. I think there is ketchup in the refrigerator. I am eating rice...out of a pan...uncooked.
J: no.
P: yes.
J: You don't even like rice.
P: I know.
J: It's a texture thing.
P: I know.
J: why is it uncooked?
P: I don't know, dude. I don't know.
J: Cook it!
P: I don't know how! I DON'T LIKE RICE SO I NEVER LEARNED TO COOK IT!
J: look on the bag!
P: The bag is gone! It's in a ziploc!
J: Look on the internet!
P: It's down! THE INTERNET IS DOWN!
And so was mine. We were, through some awful twist of rice-hostile fate, both internetless.
And I realized I, also, did not know how to cook rice.
But really, if you can cook rice, you will always have food. If all you have to your name is a dollar in quarters you harvested from upturned couch cushions, you can go buy some rice and cook it and you will be sustained for another day, or at least long enough to figure out what the hell you're going to do about having nothing but couch money.
POVERTY RICE:
It's a one-to-two ratio. One cup rice, two cups water. Two cups rice, four cups water. A little less than 1:2 ratio makes fluffier rice. So maybe you like a 1:1 and 1/2. Or 1:1 and 3/4.
Put in the water.
Put in the rice.
Bring to a boil.
Turn down to a simmer.
Put a lid on and simmer for 10 minutes.
= rice.
You can make not-so-poverty rice by using chicken or vegetable stock. I like to toast the rice before I boil it because it makes it nuttier. put 2 tablespoons of butter in the pot and melt it up, put in the rice and stir around without any liquid. Keep it moving. When you can smell the warm rice smell, it's toasted. Pour in the liquid, continue as poverty rice.
=rice.
There you are, my friends. Never starve again.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Babies.
So, my afternoon just opened up, which is great because now I have lots of time for important things like blogs and laundry and soup. The lady who was supposed to show me an apartment in Columbia called and bailed to take her sick kid to the doctor. I forgave.
We never bought our bed. We did go to the Sleepy's where Tom was supposed to be, but he had called out for some reason so a manager lady was there instead, and she told us a lie, so she ruined my enthusiasm for being nice to salespeople. We had lain down on some other mattresses that weren't so expensive just to explore a little more, and she said if we wanted to buy one of the Simmons Beautyrest mattresses we needed to do it that day, because Simmons ups their prices at the end of January and the same bed we liked today could be $200 more next week. And that's a lie. I don't know anything about Simmons as a company, and I don't know how I know this is a lie, but it is. CS made a good point - products only go down in price over time because they get old and newer models come out. If anything, the price should go down.
That's all well and good. Either way, she chewed up and spit out all my good vibes I was trying to send, so we didn't buy it. Then a week later a full-fledged American Express card showed up in my name with the Sleepy's logo on it. This wasn't one of those cardboard fakes they usually send, with the name Jane Cardholder. It was real. All I had to do was call and I was good to go. I didn't think credit card companies could still do that - I thought the age of real credit cards in solicitations was over with some kind of regulative legislation years ago. I've gotten probably 50 offers from Chase alone in the past 2 years, and it's always the cardboard card. This Sleepy's card was heavy plastic and had my name and all my info as if I'd already signed up. It was a little scary, and creepy, and saddening. I gave you my info, Tom, and you screwed me. Now your little credit card with the little cartoon man in a nightcap is chopped up into 2o pieces and I'll never go to Sleepy's again. Great business plan, fellas. Didn't have to be this way.
I wonder why mattress buying evolved the same way car buying did. Is there any other industry like these two? Where a salesman actually sits you down and tries to romance you with shit like, "Well, I can't go any lower on this price...but sometimes, only sometimes, I can call my regional manager and she'll be able to authorize it." Sometimes, my ass. She'll always authorize it. It's part of the dance.
I can't think of any other things for which you have to boogie around like this. TVs? Not really. I guess because mattresses are supposed to last a long time and so you don't buy as many? Why isn't couch buying this stressful? Or is it? I haven't tried to buy a couch, so I wouldn't know. But everyone of every age needs a mattress, and that's not true for cars. Even the poorest of us will usually have a mattress. Not true for cars. And there are mattresses EVERYWHERE. Most hotel rooms have two a piece! And hotels, more often than not, have no cars at all! One golf cart, if it's lucky! This makes no sense!
I guess I'm glad we don't have a mattress yet. No place to put it, really, and I guess I'd rather not have a warehouse hold a mattress until we are ready for it. Ugh, I never thought I'd be talking so much about mattresses. This is even more tedious than people who can't shut up about their babies. But if I ever get one of those, I probably won't shut up about it, either. In fact, I know I won't. It will be All Babies, All the Time. And really, I don't think people talking about their babies is tedious. I actually love hearing about babies. Over 5 years I've been watching my friend L's twin boys grow up and it's 100% awesome. I do think irresponsible people talking about how many problems they have because they accidentally had babies is tedious. I'm sorry, I don't care that you can't "get your drink on" this weekend. Please change his diaperNOTONMYRUG, jesus christ. Grow up.
That's why I can't watch those Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant shows. They're supposed to be this cultural phenomenon that's so controversial - every single one of them regrets it, and young girls really do need to see how difficult it is. But ohmigawd, I cannot listen to another spoiled bitch tell her girlfriends that her mother is getting on her nerves with all the baby stuff. If Teen Mom and 16 and Pregnant had spoiled bitch boot camp after they recovered from delivery, maybe I'd watch it. Those were the BEST Maury shows, weren't they? All that who's-the-father nonsense was just filler between the boot camp shows and the shows where the guest was a drag queen and you had to guess if it was a woman or actually a man. Maury and Ricki Lake did it right. Get the big black guy into the dark fatigues with the pinched-dome military hat and make him scream in their faces until they slinked out of their chair and sulked back to the green room and had to do 50 push ups. And then they had to do one f*cking day of boot camp. One semester, that's what I say. Send these teen moms to one semester of boot camp. It's not like their babies will suffer. Gramma is taking care of the kid for its first year of life either way, so might as well send the teen to a place where she can learn to appreciate all the gold stars and ass-wipings she's gotten for the past 16 years.
We have a few cousins who are having babies right now. My cousin C is having a girl and CS' cousin K is having a boy and their due dates are about 2 months apart, which is so insanely fabulous because at some point in the near future I get to go shopping for baby stuff, and if I see something cute it doesn't matter WHAT gender it's for, I CAN BUY IT. This is full-license, no restrictions, hog heaven baby shopping, people. I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like to win the lottery. And what makes it even better? Neither of the babies are mine. pinch. me.
I mean, someday, sure. But now, while I'm half-employed, homeless and mattressless, I'll stick with the kitty.
MindBodyVagina*
I WILL WRITE THREE BLOGS TODAY. It will not make up for the lack of bloggage for the past two weeks. Three weeks? I suck.
I've actually had a blog commission about something serious. I thought about it all night, because the purpose of this blog is more to entertain and convince myself I can still tell stories. I'm still one of those people who doesn't think the internet is a good forum for serious things, or for regular people to be serious in. If your job is to write articles about serious things and then post them on the internet, that's good. If your job is to use your vast expertise on a serious subject to publish literature and philosophy about that subject, that's good. If your job is to give cash to crack addicts at a scrapyard, maybe you should keep your ineloquent and often incendiary opinions to your nightly one-way conversations with the news anchors on TV.
In lieu of my own opinions I usually post to facebook well written articles I agree with, who explain my stance with clarity and usually have about 9 or 10 relevant, current sources to back up all the wonderful facts and quotes they use to make their point. I don't have time for that. Actually, I do, but forgive me for not wanting to write another research paper without a grade to look forward to, or a commission check. The actual work of writing about serious topics should be left to people who, due to deadlines, audiences, and expectations of quality, are willing to put in the work to make it as intelligent, impartial, and reportive as possible. Absolutely - their bias will show through. It always does. No one is impartial. But with the right amount of effort and time, a serious, important topic can be written about and posted to the internet in a useful, informative, and thoughtful manner.
That said, I would like to take this opportunity to disclaim the following post: I am about to write a blog about abortion.
1. I will not be quoting sources.
2. I will not be getting paid.
3. I have no exact dates, names, or facts of any kind.
4. I am not interested in hearing any opinion that differs from mine, because I am a blogger and I have no obligation to be fair and balanced. I admit it.
Usually, and unfortunately, regular everyday everyweek typical bloggers like myself do not have the pressures that will yield a great, or even good, article. Nope, the only pressures most bloggers have are the 10 minute countdown til their World of Warcraft character respawns and the 4 minutes left on the microwave. We bloggers have absolutely no obligation to say anything good or of value. In fact, we can say whatever we goddamn well please, because this is 'merica and there's laws about freedom of speech. Every human being has an orifice which, constitutionally, is absolutely free of all outside governing except what happens in your own little brain.
How nice.
Everybody's got a mouth, and mouths are so great. It's in my top 5 body parts. And how lucky are we, that everyone in this country can say whatever they want and be protected by the constitution? What a gift. To be able to govern your own thinking. No one is ever, ever going to take that away from us. People have tried, and there can be consequences for saying certain things, and slander is a big to-do, but everybody's mouth is pretty much sacred. And your mouth is so special in that it is half your mind and half your body, and even the body part of your mouth is protected in freedom. It's this whole interlaced universe of freedom, MindBodyMouth. You decide what goes in, you decide what comes out, you decide when to close it and open it, and you can even decide if something that initially went in needs to get ejected.
Sometimes, a foreign body does enter yours through your mouth and you didn't mean for it to get there. It happens all the time. Little viruses hitch rides in uncooked meat and lollipops. Sometimes people ingest an entire bottle of pills. Sometimes your body gets rid of it all on its own. Sometimes you can take a medicine and it is forced out. And sometimes you have to go to the doctor and get a procedure to have it removed.
We are so lucky as a society to have a free orifice. Most societies don't even have that.
Wouldn't it be great if MindBodyMouth was applied to the rest of you? Like, MindBodyHand? Well, we have that. Just don't kill anybody. I guess we also have MindBodyFoot, and MindBodyButt, and MindBodyPenis. Man, wouldn't it be just awful if the government took away MindBodyPenis? MindBodyPenis wasn't around until recently, when 'Merica recently decided that homosexuality isn't a punishable crime. But now it's here! Hooray for MindBodyPenis. You decide where it goes, what goes in, what comes out, what to wear on it, and whether or not you want to get it snipped. Thank god for safe, legal, healthy, available, health-care covered vasectomies. I would put MindBodyPenis up there on the list of Great Ideas of the 20th Century.
MindBodyVagina is definitely on the short list of Great Ideas. You decide where it goes, what goes in, and what comes out, what to wear on it, and whether or not you need to get a procedure done to eject a foreign body. Thank god for safe, legal, healthy, available, health-care covered abortions.
OOPS. Just kidding. There is no MindBodyVagina. Sometimes, you can't control what goes in, like when you get raped. And now a lot of people are trying to revoke it and take back the legal part, so it will be illegal and expensive to to get an abortion when a 13 year old girl is raped by her 30 year old uncle.
http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2011-01-31/gop-abortion-bill-redefines-rape/?cid=hp%3Amainpromo8
Because what is forced in and gets left there by a rapist is far more sacred than the orifice itself.
Can we talk about clusters of cells for a minute? All things start off as a cluster of unrecognizable cells. Humans start off as a cluster of unrecognizable cells. Sometimes, a woman's body ejects them all on their own, because they are a foreign body. This is called a miscarriage. In the early stages of pregnancy, a woman's body is trying very hard to eject the foreign body that has taken up residence. There is morning sickness, a little vaginal bleeding, and all different kinds of fun gastrointestinal responses. Because one body does not recognize the other, because it is a cluster of unrecognizable cells. Like cancers, and viruses. During this period, when the cells aren't quite sure what they are yet and the body is trying to eject them, legal, safe abortions can happen, just like a lumpectomy or a biopsy.
We can eject all other kinds of clusters of cells, but not these kinds. Because religious people think they have souls.
****STAND BY FOR MY OPINION*****
They don't. They don't have souls. They don't have heartbeats. They have potential in the same way a bunch of rogue cells in your brain can become a tumor. Right now, women can decide to allow these cells to grow into a human, and get a heartbeat and a brain, or they can decide to eject the cluster of cells and go about their business. That's their decision. They have MindBodyVagina*, which allows them to make decisions but not without a lot of extra input from every religious wingnut in the world. And by input, I mean clinic bombs, and legislation to redefine rape, and murdered doctors, and huge financial strife.
There will never be a MindBodyPenis*. Nobody is going to shoot a doctor for performing a vasectomy or bomb a hospital for offering the procedure, even though the same potential for life is there and what is a testicle but a massive cluster of cells? But if you need to get rid of the cluster of cells your cousin deposited in your vagina after he fed you a roofie and tied you to the bed, buy some kevlar and cancel your plans. Because you don't have a free orifice.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Bed.
Who's got two thumbs and is terrible at blogging? This guy. I mean, really.
I'm buying a bed today. A big one. An EXPENSIVE one. It's the king size Sleep to Live blue 400 series, and with the boxspring, frame and mattress protector it's probably going to be about $2,500.
We worked it out yesterday and decided if we have it for 10 years that's $250 a year, a little less than $20 a month. I am not used to thinking about beds in this way. Wherever I have gone there has either been a bed already there or a bed purchased for me. The things I think about in terms of broken down cashmoney are cars, pants, foods, and gym memberships. Not beds or furniture. I know I'll be laying in this new bed thinking, "all right, I plan on sleeping for seven hours tonight, which will make good use of the 79cents this night is costing me. Well done, frugal-me." Hooray, adulthood.
We didn't plan on buying something so expensive, but here's what happened: there is this one guy who scraps metal who has some kind of special back door relationship with Costco. I don't know what it is, but every now and then he'll bring us danishes or boxes of cookies from costco that no one bought and were in danger of going stale, and he'll have other things from Costco like ripped sweaters or opened boxes of sharpies...and mattresses. Apparently, if a mattress is returned Costco can't re-sell it. I can appreciate this, because who knows what kinds of health hazards happened on that bed before it was returned? For all we know, someone opened that mattress, killed someone else on it, doused it in cocaine and gave it back saying it was uncomfortable. And then replace it with another mattress from somewhere else. It would be a great way to cover your trail.
"Detective Finder!"
"Yes, Apprentice Gumshoe?"
"This mattress is completely clean of all evidence! It's a mystery...we did find a receipt for a mattress purchased at Costco, but that club is so exclusive. We'll never get in with out a club card."
"You'll learn the ropes one day, Gumshoe....let this be your first lesson. Always join the discount clubs-" *whips Costco card out of wallet and throws it onto bed with two fingers*
*gasp* "you're the whole enchilada, Detective Finder."
So this guy came to the yard after going to Costco, and they had given him two mattresses they couldn't sell again- a king and a queen memory foam. He sold them to two of our employees for $100. ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a memory foam mattress. Despite the danger of crime scene contamination I almost bought the queen but had absolutely no way to get it home. Everybody else who works there has a truck and I have a wimpy (but economical) honda civic, so the only way I was getting that mattress home was by bribing somebody or bungee-cording it to the top of my car and praying it was a police holiday. So I didn't buy it. My friend M was the one who bought it, and the scrapper delivered it directly to his house.
I came home and told CS this story who told me I should have bought it anyway and we'd figure out the rest later (cest la vie) but we got all giddy over mattresses and started looking online to find Sears offering a 50% MLKjr sale (which, I'm sure, is exactly how he would like to be remembered). So we went to Sears and found some eh-so-so mattresses for $600 and aroundabouts and decided to price some mattresses at a store like Sleepy's.
It was either a big mistake or the best idea ever. As soon as we walked in the door we were escorted to a lumbar profiling machine by a salesman named Tom which we laid down onto and discovered I need a firmer mattress and CS needs a not so firm mattress, so Tom led us to a Sleep to Live with two separate coil firmness sides and we fell for it. After that one, no other bed was going to live up. It was about $2,400 more than I wanted to pay for a mattress, now knowing that scrappers can pick them up from Costco and sell them for $100, but whatever. Just money, right?
Tom tried to wheel and deal us to close yesterday but we wouldn't. He was sad because he wasn't going to be in that Sleepy's store today when we said we'd come back, so he wouldn't get our sale. It must be hard to be a salesman. I don't care if you enjoy it. I don't think anyone enjoys it, really. I was a telemarketer for about three weeks and I thought I was going to kill myself. I just hate the sales culture in general. Somehow this entire method of interaction has evolved where the buyer is conditioned to be immediately hostile from the beginning and the seller is conditioned to be immediately....I don't know, sales-y from the beginning. Both of you know what's going on and both of you are determined to come out the winner in the end, and you will fight for it with smiles and handshakes. It's like a placid lake with a raging water tornado right underneath that only now and then disturbs the surface. I don't get it. I even wanted to buy a bed yesterday and still I found myself saying things like "watch him, he's shady, he's a salesman." and "how do you know this bed isn't $100 at some other store?" and "see that smile? he thinks he has you." It's terrible. Tom was a nice guy. I'm sure he loves his grandkids and has a hobby like model airplanes or train sets.
At one time a few years ago my dad wound up in a Honda Dealership four times in a six month span, either to buy himself a new car, my mom a new car, help me buy a new car, or buy another car, and every time the ride there was like prepping for a football game where the losing team was murdered for the crime of failure. "Ok, you gotta go there and act like you don't care, got it? Don't be too interested, or they'll swarm down on you. You gotta pretend like you're not gonna buy - don't say you like this one, or you like that one, just nod and agree to test drive it without giving too much away. He's going to try to swindle us, they all do. Their entire job is to get as much money from you as possible, and we can't let them do that. These guys are jerks. Terrible, terrible people. Just watch me and follow my lead, ok?"
And I'm sitting in the passenger's seat thinking, "Is this necessary? The check is signed, here. We're buying a car today. We are leaving this lot with a new vehicle. I feel like this could be a much more positive experience for all involved." Am I naive to think if I walk up to a salesman and say "hello, I am buying a bed today. I want you to know that. I want to trust you not to screw me on a price or I'll just go to Mattress Discounters and buy a bed over there. Can you show me what you have?" am I naive to think that will work? That that is the way we can do things as a sales culture?
Maybe it is. Maybe it's silly to think we can all be nicer to each other. I saved up enough money last year to make possible the things that need to happen this year, like moving and buying furniture. I think we deserve a luxurious bed, and I don't really care what else is out there. I don't care about the reviews I read online where people were dissatisfied with their beds. After sleeping on it for a night (in a bed that is no comparison for the Sleep to Live), I'm pretty resolved I want this bed, and we're going to go to the other Sleepy's store today where Tom will be working and buy it from him there so he'll get our sale after all, because I think human beings have a responsibility to treat each other civilly, even if it's just some guy trying to sell you something.
I'm buying a bed today. A big one. An EXPENSIVE one. It's the king size Sleep to Live blue 400 series, and with the boxspring, frame and mattress protector it's probably going to be about $2,500.
We worked it out yesterday and decided if we have it for 10 years that's $250 a year, a little less than $20 a month. I am not used to thinking about beds in this way. Wherever I have gone there has either been a bed already there or a bed purchased for me. The things I think about in terms of broken down cashmoney are cars, pants, foods, and gym memberships. Not beds or furniture. I know I'll be laying in this new bed thinking, "all right, I plan on sleeping for seven hours tonight, which will make good use of the 79cents this night is costing me. Well done, frugal-me." Hooray, adulthood.
We didn't plan on buying something so expensive, but here's what happened: there is this one guy who scraps metal who has some kind of special back door relationship with Costco. I don't know what it is, but every now and then he'll bring us danishes or boxes of cookies from costco that no one bought and were in danger of going stale, and he'll have other things from Costco like ripped sweaters or opened boxes of sharpies...and mattresses. Apparently, if a mattress is returned Costco can't re-sell it. I can appreciate this, because who knows what kinds of health hazards happened on that bed before it was returned? For all we know, someone opened that mattress, killed someone else on it, doused it in cocaine and gave it back saying it was uncomfortable. And then replace it with another mattress from somewhere else. It would be a great way to cover your trail.
"Detective Finder!"
"Yes, Apprentice Gumshoe?"
"This mattress is completely clean of all evidence! It's a mystery...we did find a receipt for a mattress purchased at Costco, but that club is so exclusive. We'll never get in with out a club card."
"You'll learn the ropes one day, Gumshoe....let this be your first lesson. Always join the discount clubs-" *whips Costco card out of wallet and throws it onto bed with two fingers*
*gasp* "you're the whole enchilada, Detective Finder."
So this guy came to the yard after going to Costco, and they had given him two mattresses they couldn't sell again- a king and a queen memory foam. He sold them to two of our employees for $100. ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for a memory foam mattress. Despite the danger of crime scene contamination I almost bought the queen but had absolutely no way to get it home. Everybody else who works there has a truck and I have a wimpy (but economical) honda civic, so the only way I was getting that mattress home was by bribing somebody or bungee-cording it to the top of my car and praying it was a police holiday. So I didn't buy it. My friend M was the one who bought it, and the scrapper delivered it directly to his house.
I came home and told CS this story who told me I should have bought it anyway and we'd figure out the rest later (cest la vie) but we got all giddy over mattresses and started looking online to find Sears offering a 50% MLKjr sale (which, I'm sure, is exactly how he would like to be remembered). So we went to Sears and found some eh-so-so mattresses for $600 and aroundabouts and decided to price some mattresses at a store like Sleepy's.
It was either a big mistake or the best idea ever. As soon as we walked in the door we were escorted to a lumbar profiling machine by a salesman named Tom which we laid down onto and discovered I need a firmer mattress and CS needs a not so firm mattress, so Tom led us to a Sleep to Live with two separate coil firmness sides and we fell for it. After that one, no other bed was going to live up. It was about $2,400 more than I wanted to pay for a mattress, now knowing that scrappers can pick them up from Costco and sell them for $100, but whatever. Just money, right?
Tom tried to wheel and deal us to close yesterday but we wouldn't. He was sad because he wasn't going to be in that Sleepy's store today when we said we'd come back, so he wouldn't get our sale. It must be hard to be a salesman. I don't care if you enjoy it. I don't think anyone enjoys it, really. I was a telemarketer for about three weeks and I thought I was going to kill myself. I just hate the sales culture in general. Somehow this entire method of interaction has evolved where the buyer is conditioned to be immediately hostile from the beginning and the seller is conditioned to be immediately....I don't know, sales-y from the beginning. Both of you know what's going on and both of you are determined to come out the winner in the end, and you will fight for it with smiles and handshakes. It's like a placid lake with a raging water tornado right underneath that only now and then disturbs the surface. I don't get it. I even wanted to buy a bed yesterday and still I found myself saying things like "watch him, he's shady, he's a salesman." and "how do you know this bed isn't $100 at some other store?" and "see that smile? he thinks he has you." It's terrible. Tom was a nice guy. I'm sure he loves his grandkids and has a hobby like model airplanes or train sets.
At one time a few years ago my dad wound up in a Honda Dealership four times in a six month span, either to buy himself a new car, my mom a new car, help me buy a new car, or buy another car, and every time the ride there was like prepping for a football game where the losing team was murdered for the crime of failure. "Ok, you gotta go there and act like you don't care, got it? Don't be too interested, or they'll swarm down on you. You gotta pretend like you're not gonna buy - don't say you like this one, or you like that one, just nod and agree to test drive it without giving too much away. He's going to try to swindle us, they all do. Their entire job is to get as much money from you as possible, and we can't let them do that. These guys are jerks. Terrible, terrible people. Just watch me and follow my lead, ok?"
And I'm sitting in the passenger's seat thinking, "Is this necessary? The check is signed, here. We're buying a car today. We are leaving this lot with a new vehicle. I feel like this could be a much more positive experience for all involved." Am I naive to think if I walk up to a salesman and say "hello, I am buying a bed today. I want you to know that. I want to trust you not to screw me on a price or I'll just go to Mattress Discounters and buy a bed over there. Can you show me what you have?" am I naive to think that will work? That that is the way we can do things as a sales culture?
Maybe it is. Maybe it's silly to think we can all be nicer to each other. I saved up enough money last year to make possible the things that need to happen this year, like moving and buying furniture. I think we deserve a luxurious bed, and I don't really care what else is out there. I don't care about the reviews I read online where people were dissatisfied with their beds. After sleeping on it for a night (in a bed that is no comparison for the Sleep to Live), I'm pretty resolved I want this bed, and we're going to go to the other Sleepy's store today where Tom will be working and buy it from him there so he'll get our sale after all, because I think human beings have a responsibility to treat each other civilly, even if it's just some guy trying to sell you something.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Gym.
I could be homeless as long as I had a gym membership. I don't mean the carless kind of homeless, just the homeless homeless. You shower there, have something to do during your long hours of not working, can swipe energy bars from the display case, and drink all the fountain water you want. Just have to panhandle $24.99 a month to cover the membership, and you're golden. If I was homeless with a car and a gym membership I'd probably reach my goal weight too (doing nothing but eating weight loss bars, drinking water, and working out) and I'm fairly confident I'd have supermodel good looks if I didn't love food so much, so I could then get a job modeling, buy a house with my millions, and I wouldn't be homeless anymore. Homeless is another word that stops being a word the more times you look at it. If I look at it too long I want to start saying hom-ee-leess, like homilies, which I think is some kind of worship song. Dictionary says: sermon. Which is a word that looks like "salmon," but as if someone was saying "salmon" with with a mouth full of marbles. What a horrifying thought. I hope I never find myself with a mouth full of marbles. I choked on mouthwash the other day and I'm so shellshocked I haven't been able to gargle since.
My dad put me on his gym membership for the few months that we're here, and I forgot how much I love the gym. I really do. It's so clean and everybody is sweaty and everybody else looks just like you. I don't know where this image of gyms filled with perfect sweatless bodies came from - must be the west coast because here on the east coast (in Maryland at least) we all park our crabbin' boats at the pier (all MD establishments have piers), strip off our waders and Gordon's fisherman raincoats, drop our natty at the door and make our doughy asses move on treadmills while we cringe at each other's massive sweat stains on the weight equipment. It's great.
This gym is really big and clean and open. It's very, very new, has a pool, and fantastic locker rooms. Really classy, like deep mahogany wood locker doors and lovely tile backsplashes. No scales, though. Which is weird. Yesterday was my first time going and I looked everywhere for the scale, and on my way up to the front desk to ask where it was I passed the trainer desk and a regular old K-mart style bathroom scale on the floor. I puzzled at it and kept walking, but it turns out this is the only scale in the joint, in this wonderful new gym, a scale someone picked up at the store on a toilet paper run and brought to work, in the middle of the main floor.
Um, no.
There was a spin class going on when I got there this morning - people never look so miserable as the people taking a spin class. Some people swear by them, but whenever I see a spin class it's just a sea of misery. That said, there's something mesmerizing about them, and I want to try one. I think it's the spinning silver thingies. They are hypnotizing. They look like the future, when everybody is bioengineered to be the perfect weight and build and no one has to work out ever again. Ahh, the future. Fingers crossed it happens next Wednesday.
I want to be a yoga instructor. Mom and I went to yoga yesterday for the first time (we've gone before, but it was run by this enormously fat man in his attic so I don't count it) and the yoga instructor was toned and thin but not, like, overwhelming to us who are not toned and thin. I can see how she got that way, because after 15 seconds of kneeling on the ground in a dog pose with my left arm straight out and my right leg straight back I felt like my body was screaming at me. According to the yoga instructor, at that point I should have listened to my body, respected what it was saying and changed position, but come on. 15 seconds? My body will have to deal with it. I'm tired of it being a brat.
I really liked the yoga stretches. They felt really nice. I don't think I could do the hardcore yoga with the crazy poses or the hot yoga (EFF THAT, seriously) but the stretchy yoga, I'm in. Although I couldn't be an instructor because I don't have yoga toes. Every yoga instructor I've seen has had yoga toes, so it must be a thing. Yoga toes are thick and reedy, and the big toe is the longest. The tendons stand out a little and you can see the veins, but yoga toes and yoga feet are thick and heavy like they were carved out of wood, and no, they are not something you acquire by doing yoga. My feet will always be flat like pancakes and really smooth, and my big toe will never be longer than the toe next to it, which hangs out of peep-toe shoes and thus I hate peep-toe shoes. My other toes are kind of smallish and bent-y, like they don't know what they're supposed to be doing. "Yeah, we're here, but why?" Yoga toes are like frog toes, and each toe is straight and has a flat part that makes steady contact with the ground like a suction pad. Next time you're in yoga, check it out. The people who are really good have yoga toes.
So I could never be a yoga instructor. But I could be homeless, because I have a gym membership. And a car. And you can have any kind of toes to be homeless.
My dad put me on his gym membership for the few months that we're here, and I forgot how much I love the gym. I really do. It's so clean and everybody is sweaty and everybody else looks just like you. I don't know where this image of gyms filled with perfect sweatless bodies came from - must be the west coast because here on the east coast (in Maryland at least) we all park our crabbin' boats at the pier (all MD establishments have piers), strip off our waders and Gordon's fisherman raincoats, drop our natty at the door and make our doughy asses move on treadmills while we cringe at each other's massive sweat stains on the weight equipment. It's great.
This gym is really big and clean and open. It's very, very new, has a pool, and fantastic locker rooms. Really classy, like deep mahogany wood locker doors and lovely tile backsplashes. No scales, though. Which is weird. Yesterday was my first time going and I looked everywhere for the scale, and on my way up to the front desk to ask where it was I passed the trainer desk and a regular old K-mart style bathroom scale on the floor. I puzzled at it and kept walking, but it turns out this is the only scale in the joint, in this wonderful new gym, a scale someone picked up at the store on a toilet paper run and brought to work, in the middle of the main floor.
Um, no.
There was a spin class going on when I got there this morning - people never look so miserable as the people taking a spin class. Some people swear by them, but whenever I see a spin class it's just a sea of misery. That said, there's something mesmerizing about them, and I want to try one. I think it's the spinning silver thingies. They are hypnotizing. They look like the future, when everybody is bioengineered to be the perfect weight and build and no one has to work out ever again. Ahh, the future. Fingers crossed it happens next Wednesday.
I want to be a yoga instructor. Mom and I went to yoga yesterday for the first time (we've gone before, but it was run by this enormously fat man in his attic so I don't count it) and the yoga instructor was toned and thin but not, like, overwhelming to us who are not toned and thin. I can see how she got that way, because after 15 seconds of kneeling on the ground in a dog pose with my left arm straight out and my right leg straight back I felt like my body was screaming at me. According to the yoga instructor, at that point I should have listened to my body, respected what it was saying and changed position, but come on. 15 seconds? My body will have to deal with it. I'm tired of it being a brat.
I really liked the yoga stretches. They felt really nice. I don't think I could do the hardcore yoga with the crazy poses or the hot yoga (EFF THAT, seriously) but the stretchy yoga, I'm in. Although I couldn't be an instructor because I don't have yoga toes. Every yoga instructor I've seen has had yoga toes, so it must be a thing. Yoga toes are thick and reedy, and the big toe is the longest. The tendons stand out a little and you can see the veins, but yoga toes and yoga feet are thick and heavy like they were carved out of wood, and no, they are not something you acquire by doing yoga. My feet will always be flat like pancakes and really smooth, and my big toe will never be longer than the toe next to it, which hangs out of peep-toe shoes and thus I hate peep-toe shoes. My other toes are kind of smallish and bent-y, like they don't know what they're supposed to be doing. "Yeah, we're here, but why?" Yoga toes are like frog toes, and each toe is straight and has a flat part that makes steady contact with the ground like a suction pad. Next time you're in yoga, check it out. The people who are really good have yoga toes.
So I could never be a yoga instructor. But I could be homeless, because I have a gym membership. And a car. And you can have any kind of toes to be homeless.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Nose.
I'm up at 7:11 on a Sunday because I'm congested. My nose if full of crap and my lungs are sick. I probably have something diagnoseable like bronchitis or a sinus infection but I'm going to ride this one out and see how it goes.
I don't understand noses. I mean, I understand them in that they are our smell receptors and they are very important. I understand them in that they have their defaults because we evolved from four legged creatures, now we're on two legs and our sinus system is still built for four legs and that's why it dams up and stuff. Our sinuses are supposed to be hanging down with our nostrils to the ground so all this garbage drips out as we go along hunting for gazelle and mongooses, or whatever our ancestors liked to eat. Whatever they ate, it was the sick ones because they were the slowest, so maybe some of our sinus sickness comes from that too. We have evolved into cold-catching creatures because our ancestors habitually caught snotty zebras.
I mean I don't understand noses in that when I blow mine, it should clear out. It doesn't. I see pictures of human skulls and right there are big sinus cavities, empty nothings with a straight shot out the nostrils. It's those suckers who are filling up with crap, so when I blow my nose, shouldn't all that mess rocket out like no big thing? It would fill up again and again because my nose glands would be activated to clear out whatever is irritating it, but the logic seems to be violated by my complete inability to blow out of my nose what is blocking my breathing. I understand that when I lay down, the stuff settles back to block my passages so my breathing is interrupted. I understand that when I stand up, it settles down into the bottom part of my sinus cavity and my passages are usually cleared. But WHAT IS BLOCKING IT FROM COMING OUT. Are there parts to noses that I'm not aware of? Are there cartilages in the sinus cavities like little hedge mazes that the goop needs to weedle through before it can escape? Is it some high-society garden party in my sinuses with minotaurs and droll mimes around every corner?
This explanation would explain the success of the neti pot. pour water in that pushes through the maze and exits through the front. I've only ever seen a neti pot in pop culture, but I guess that's not surprising. A lot of things I've only ever seen in pop culture, like lamborghinis and machine guns. The neti pot I saw on the Office when Dwight Schrute shoved the teapot Jim gave to Pam up his nose, and on Six Feet Under when Ruth found George's neti pot in the cupboard in the kitchen and it sparked a big fight. Oh, Ruth. You have such terrible taste in men. Hiram, Nikolai, George, Arthur (as played by Dwight Schrute).
It's not so bad being up early. I feel like my day is longer and I can do more. I used to hate getting up early on the weekends but now it's fun. And I hate snow, and I love roasting vegetables, and I'm totally responsible with my money. Must be old.
Roasting vegetables, man. I've never been so excited to make some potatoes and carrots. I've never, ever been excited about carrots. I don't even like carrots. But I've never had them roasted, so it'll be a whole new thing. I'm thinking about a little brown sugar. We have to do something with them, because I bought a whole bag and dad bought a whole bag. There was a lack of grocery communication. This also happened with a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing. We also have a lot of tomato paste. I do not know what one does with so much tomato paste besides stirring a tablespoon into a huge pot of soup or some pasta sauce here and there. There is no tomato paste casserole and I do not think there is a great demand for one to be invented.
I think I'm turning a corner in my cooking ability where I don't need a printed recipe in front of me all the time. This is great, because now I can save trees while I cook. Less paper! I made butternut squash soup the other day and it was awesome. The recipe just called for butternut squash, chicken stock, salt and pepper, but I added allllll this other stuff and it was fab. I didn't have amounts, like teaspoons and stuff, and I hadn't seen it on the food network so much, so I was on my own and I succeeded! I can pretty much make anything now as long as it doesn't call for celery or fennel. I hate both of those things. They ruin everything. I also avoid meat now. I'll make it for people who eat it but I don't eat it. Mom and I are trying to go all organic, and she said to me yesterday, "I guess we're just going to have to go to Whole Foods from now on," which is a little like telling me we're going to celebrate my birthday once a week. Whole Foods...and Trader Joe's...all the time? Damn, I'll wake up at 7:11 every Sunday if you tell me I'll get to go to Whole Foods.
I don't understand noses. I mean, I understand them in that they are our smell receptors and they are very important. I understand them in that they have their defaults because we evolved from four legged creatures, now we're on two legs and our sinus system is still built for four legs and that's why it dams up and stuff. Our sinuses are supposed to be hanging down with our nostrils to the ground so all this garbage drips out as we go along hunting for gazelle and mongooses, or whatever our ancestors liked to eat. Whatever they ate, it was the sick ones because they were the slowest, so maybe some of our sinus sickness comes from that too. We have evolved into cold-catching creatures because our ancestors habitually caught snotty zebras.
I mean I don't understand noses in that when I blow mine, it should clear out. It doesn't. I see pictures of human skulls and right there are big sinus cavities, empty nothings with a straight shot out the nostrils. It's those suckers who are filling up with crap, so when I blow my nose, shouldn't all that mess rocket out like no big thing? It would fill up again and again because my nose glands would be activated to clear out whatever is irritating it, but the logic seems to be violated by my complete inability to blow out of my nose what is blocking my breathing. I understand that when I lay down, the stuff settles back to block my passages so my breathing is interrupted. I understand that when I stand up, it settles down into the bottom part of my sinus cavity and my passages are usually cleared. But WHAT IS BLOCKING IT FROM COMING OUT. Are there parts to noses that I'm not aware of? Are there cartilages in the sinus cavities like little hedge mazes that the goop needs to weedle through before it can escape? Is it some high-society garden party in my sinuses with minotaurs and droll mimes around every corner?
This explanation would explain the success of the neti pot. pour water in that pushes through the maze and exits through the front. I've only ever seen a neti pot in pop culture, but I guess that's not surprising. A lot of things I've only ever seen in pop culture, like lamborghinis and machine guns. The neti pot I saw on the Office when Dwight Schrute shoved the teapot Jim gave to Pam up his nose, and on Six Feet Under when Ruth found George's neti pot in the cupboard in the kitchen and it sparked a big fight. Oh, Ruth. You have such terrible taste in men. Hiram, Nikolai, George, Arthur (as played by Dwight Schrute).
It's not so bad being up early. I feel like my day is longer and I can do more. I used to hate getting up early on the weekends but now it's fun. And I hate snow, and I love roasting vegetables, and I'm totally responsible with my money. Must be old.
Roasting vegetables, man. I've never been so excited to make some potatoes and carrots. I've never, ever been excited about carrots. I don't even like carrots. But I've never had them roasted, so it'll be a whole new thing. I'm thinking about a little brown sugar. We have to do something with them, because I bought a whole bag and dad bought a whole bag. There was a lack of grocery communication. This also happened with a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing. We also have a lot of tomato paste. I do not know what one does with so much tomato paste besides stirring a tablespoon into a huge pot of soup or some pasta sauce here and there. There is no tomato paste casserole and I do not think there is a great demand for one to be invented.
I think I'm turning a corner in my cooking ability where I don't need a printed recipe in front of me all the time. This is great, because now I can save trees while I cook. Less paper! I made butternut squash soup the other day and it was awesome. The recipe just called for butternut squash, chicken stock, salt and pepper, but I added allllll this other stuff and it was fab. I didn't have amounts, like teaspoons and stuff, and I hadn't seen it on the food network so much, so I was on my own and I succeeded! I can pretty much make anything now as long as it doesn't call for celery or fennel. I hate both of those things. They ruin everything. I also avoid meat now. I'll make it for people who eat it but I don't eat it. Mom and I are trying to go all organic, and she said to me yesterday, "I guess we're just going to have to go to Whole Foods from now on," which is a little like telling me we're going to celebrate my birthday once a week. Whole Foods...and Trader Joe's...all the time? Damn, I'll wake up at 7:11 every Sunday if you tell me I'll get to go to Whole Foods.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year.
Someone once told me that the thing you do when the new year hits is the thing you will do that entire year. Therefore I am glad I was sleeping instead of puking out my guts, which is what I was doing for 4 hours before the new year. Was it a migraine? Was it food poisoning? Was it the thing that everybody is getting? I don't know. But I felt wonky driving home, laid down for half an hour, and then life was just awful. An eternity of awful. I always forget just how outrageously terrible throwing up is. Every second is a thousand years of pain and nausea. And it ALWAYS RUINS MY PLANS. I'd rather be sick on Christmas.
At least my first conscious action in the new year was to self assess - "phone is ringing...am I sick? What hurts?....nothing. Ok, sit up a little....nothing. I think I'm good. Walk around. We're ok. It's over." I looked at the time and it was 12:05. So if my friend of years past was correct in any way, and the thing you do as the new year hits is the thing you do all year, I'll be realizing over and over again that I'm ok. I can live with that, even if I didn't get to drink champagne with my friends.
Once the worst was over and I was hanging out with CS waiting for my parents to get home from their friends' house (party animals), he said "you look really pretty, though!" which is very sweet to say to someone who just very violently eliminated every bit of sustenance from her innards. Is it brash to say I actually did look kind of pretty? Is that weird? My skin gets all pale when I'm sick and my eyes get really bright and glassy, and sweat forced out of my pores by the strength of my dry heaves humidifies the air around my head and my hair curls right up like some freckled kid on a beach in the summer. The end effect is the kind of thing I would spend hours trying to achieve with curlers and makeup, if I ever took the time to do my hair or makeup. I've been wondering whether this is a silver lining to being sick and I have decided it is not. I'd rather be well and hideous than sick and attractive. Looking pretty as a byproduct of extreme illness is kind of like losing everything you own in a fire and collecting the insurance money.
Watching sports today with mom, dad, and CS (who is now officially a computer scientist and already has a job offer - happy graduation, CS!), I have realized that commercials really love to use Vampire Weekend's music, and Vampire Weekend has no qualms about selling out to commercials. It has made me not really enjoy Vampire Weekend anymore. I feel like I knew about Vampire Weekend before lots of other people did, but I don't like to say things like that because it sounds snobby. But really, Oxford Comma and Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa and A-punk were on my shuffle playlists years ago. Now I don't want to listen to them because all I see are Subarus and GPSs.
More later, maybe. Gonna go call all the people who need calling. Happy New Year!
At least my first conscious action in the new year was to self assess - "phone is ringing...am I sick? What hurts?....nothing. Ok, sit up a little....nothing. I think I'm good. Walk around. We're ok. It's over." I looked at the time and it was 12:05. So if my friend of years past was correct in any way, and the thing you do as the new year hits is the thing you do all year, I'll be realizing over and over again that I'm ok. I can live with that, even if I didn't get to drink champagne with my friends.
Once the worst was over and I was hanging out with CS waiting for my parents to get home from their friends' house (party animals), he said "you look really pretty, though!" which is very sweet to say to someone who just very violently eliminated every bit of sustenance from her innards. Is it brash to say I actually did look kind of pretty? Is that weird? My skin gets all pale when I'm sick and my eyes get really bright and glassy, and sweat forced out of my pores by the strength of my dry heaves humidifies the air around my head and my hair curls right up like some freckled kid on a beach in the summer. The end effect is the kind of thing I would spend hours trying to achieve with curlers and makeup, if I ever took the time to do my hair or makeup. I've been wondering whether this is a silver lining to being sick and I have decided it is not. I'd rather be well and hideous than sick and attractive. Looking pretty as a byproduct of extreme illness is kind of like losing everything you own in a fire and collecting the insurance money.
Watching sports today with mom, dad, and CS (who is now officially a computer scientist and already has a job offer - happy graduation, CS!), I have realized that commercials really love to use Vampire Weekend's music, and Vampire Weekend has no qualms about selling out to commercials. It has made me not really enjoy Vampire Weekend anymore. I feel like I knew about Vampire Weekend before lots of other people did, but I don't like to say things like that because it sounds snobby. But really, Oxford Comma and Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa and A-punk were on my shuffle playlists years ago. Now I don't want to listen to them because all I see are Subarus and GPSs.
More later, maybe. Gonna go call all the people who need calling. Happy New Year!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)