Random Access Babble

Bottom? Needs Work!

2009-10-09T11:47:00.005-04:00

My job involves sometimes watching a lot of preroll video advertisements. these ads appear right before the games I maintain on a website that shall remain nameless. Unfortunately the site runs about 3 ads at a time so if I have to play a game say 10 times a day I'm see the same ads over and over again and then I have way too much time to think... Right now this is one of the ads we're running:

Right.

To summarize for those of you too lazy to watch that stellar commercial: Baby Bear comes out of bathroom (one assumes this is a thicket). Mama Bear checks that he washed his hands and brushed his teeth (Are you supposed to brush your teeth after doing business in the thicket? I had no idea. ok, whatever). And then Mama Bear checks his butt (As someone who has taken a 3 year old to the potty I recognize that this is a necessary duty that reminds one that love will make you do anything, even look for stray dingleberries on a kid's ass. The world is a beautiful place.). And then Mama Bear's all, "No way my little bear friend, you have pieces of toilet paper stuck all over your furry ass! go back and clean them off!" And this is the selling point for the toilet paper. "This toilet paper will totally not get stuck on your ass!" People, is this a problem that you have? Are you ever caught thinking life would be so sweet if only you could count on wiping your ass and not having it riddled with pieces of paper fluff? I do not have this issue. Do I have an especially nonadhesive tuckus? Is this a gene I should be thanking my mom for or did she just really kick ass when she trained me to wipe my butt?

Etsy + Twilight = Profit

2009-10-05T14:35:00.025-04:00

Let me start by saying, F-you blogger formatting. Sorry this post looks like crap, I did everything I could.

Unlike the hordes of haters out there I embrace my love for the truly trashy Twilight franchise (also being embraced: my love for alliteration). I read all of the books (albeit with a bit of cynical eye rolling), I blogged about them once, and I very much look forward to sneaking booze into the New Moon movie (because the first movie should have received some sort of special comedy recognition at the Oscars). But none of this means that I do not see the inherent humor in the craziness of the Twilight industry.

Inspired by Regretsy and Amy, who dared me to look up Twilight on Etsy, I bring you the best (aka worst) of the 706 (!!) pages of Twilight themed goodies up for sale at the internet's favorite craft fair.

1. Twilight Brings the Sexy

Timberlake is such a fucking copy cat.

2. Twilight Brings the Perspiration

Deodorant? OF COURSE ("my vampire boyfriend gets me all hot and then I sweat and then I stink... or I *would* if it weren't for my awesome Twilight deodorant."). And it's vegan (DOUBLE of course!) cause I may be ok with drinking human blood but I also love animals so much that I consider eating honey blasphemous.

3. Twilight Brings the Stupid

There are a lot of artists (?) on Etsy using the business model "Twilight quote + crap I made = PROFIT." Part of me thinks this is brilliant and that I need to start creating my own brand of Stephanie Meyer potholders or toilet paper or golf tees but I'd like to think that not every teenage girl is will to wear a necklace proclaiming their stupidity. I mean wouldn't this shit get you beat up?

4. Twilight Brings the Sharpie

This "artist" didn't bother to do anything other than scribble on a Kmart bag with a Sharpie -- She's probably already swimming in greenbacks.

5. Twilight Brings the Creepy

I'm pretty sure it is not safe for 14 year old girls to wear anything this woman sells.

6. Twilight Brings the Fuzzy

From the description:

This cute little puff ball comes to you from trees right in your backyard. Some loose there balance and fall out seeking human life... The one you are looking at is named Edward. He's a vegetarian vampire, can't you tell by his amber eyes.

Obviously.

6. Twilight Brings the Abs.

Not technically Twilight themed just awesome.

7. Twilight Brings the Creepy Again (no surprise here)

Um. Ew. The tongue and just... gah. No need for that watermark, I'm pretty sure the only people who want to steal this are sex offenders looking for style tips.

8. Twilight Brings the.... Yarn?

From the description:

This batt is hand-dyed merino wool, luscious white bamboo, some hand-dyed nylon, and angelina for sparkle! It is the softest batt I have ever carded. The colorway represents Jasper Hale, the former Confederate general in the Twilight series.

Seriously?

9. Twilight Brings the Half Assed Attempts at Art

Step 1: Rip page out of book
Step 2: Paste to block of wood
Step 3: Sequins+masking tape
Step 4: Collect $2

10. Twilight Brings the Holiday Cheer

Lastly, I am happy to report that Christmas shopping for G is TOTALLY DONE.

If only I could decide which gift he'd like best....

Then Again I Don't Seem That F-ed Up

2009-09-25T15:20:00.003-04:00

Lately you hear a lot fist clenching and concerned look-making over the topic of just how badly the children of mommy bloggers will need therapy. The theory goes that once 4 year old Blog Fodder Jr. grows into 14 year old Googling Alldaylong he will find mommy's little online journal where his every goo and poo was documented and commented on by the mothers of half the population of his freshman class and the mere thought that Ms. Nextdoor has heard about the stinky green turds he layed down from ages 1-3 will cause our good teenager's head to explode. The end.

I have never been capable of taking this tsk-tsking very seriously since I choose to document my own goo-ing and poo-ing for all to read and look! I'm totally fine! (seriously.). But today as I tried to make sense of this story over on The Sneeze where his kid runs around "drive-by anusing" his parents I finally felt a little sympathy for our perhaps over loved tots because for some reason this story reminded me of a little story of my own....

*cue wavey screen effect signalling blast from the past*

When I was really young -- probably from age 2-4 we had a family, we'll call them The Yothers, living in the house located pretty much in our backyard. I have little recollection of these years which is unfortunate because the older sister of the Yother clan turned out to be much more popular than me in high school and if only I'd had some good blackmail material ages 15-18 may have been smoother. But alas.

Periodically throughout my later child years (say 8-18) my family would run into Mr. Yothers, the dad of the family, and he would of course take every opportunity to reminisce about when they lived in our back yard. This might not have been so terrible except for that fact that his only memory from that time period if of me at age 3ish coming out of the house to tell my dad that I had pooped my pants. For Alex this is the best and most hilarious story ever told. For Brianna not so much. In fact I distinctly remember dying on at least 47 different occasions, death by poop story embarrassment is not pleasant.

A horrible tale, no? Now picture that little nightmare repeated over and over only this time everyone you know can access the play by play of your greatest pooping hits. They can print out a poop score card and plaster the school with it. They can do dramatic readings at open mike nights. Frankly I doubt these kids will live past age 12.

Turns Out I'm an Awful Human Being/Daemon From Hell

2009-09-08T17:44:00.002-04:00

Last Friday was a much appriciated random day off from work so G and I took advantage by finally getting around to visiting Governer's Island. We strolled through colonial homes, admired the Manhattan skyline juxtaposed against a little New England town, saw some art, picnic-ed on some fabulous cheese and generally had a wonderful time but this post is not about any of that. This post is about G and I being awful people who deserve a painful and embarrassing death by tragic disease or at least to be yelled at really loudly in front of our peers.

Everyone visiting Governer's Island rents bikes. This allows New Yorkers to feel very European (which is also why we love things like socialized healthcare and organic produce -- I expect very short shorts on men and a refusal to shave one's pits to make a splashing debut at the next Fashion Week). There is only one bike provider on GI and the line morphs from a trickle to a torrent whenever the ferry docks but when G and I popped over to rent bikes 15mins before the next ferry docking we waited all of 5 mins (consider this post's one Governer's Island tip). Sadly, the system for returning bikes was far more painful due to some combination of very slow credit card machines, a lack of bike rental employees and the fact that as horrible people we are very impatient and (spoiler alert!) as daemon's from hell we scorn the bright cleansing rays of the sun. The line for bike returns stretched a good 20 minutes down the prestine tree lined block.

We waited and waited and finally day turned to night, the seasons changed, man walked on the surface of Mars, etc and G and I were 3rd from the front of the line and could almost taste the post biking margaritas that we'd promised ourselves. And then a random older lady (55ish? maybe 60?) walked up and emitted a huge huff and with a glance at her watch, another glance at the snaking queue of people as far as the eye could see, and a mean shake of her head muttered to herself, "What time is it? Is this the line!?!?" and then... she got right in front of us and scooted into the edge of the line! G and I exchanged raised eyebrows and waited... Just as the line was about to move G took the initiative and casually joke, "Ma'am I hope you're not planning on staying there." She turned around and again with her trademark huff whined, "oh come on, give me a break, I'm an old lady!" A lady so old that apparently senility had set in and caused her to forget everything she learned in Kindergarten (aka all anyone needs to know!). I can only guess that she has no recollection of the deliciousness of PB&J, the joys of playing kissy girls, or her ABCs but I can testify without a doubt that she totally does not remember the rules associated with butting in line and how it might result in another kid crying to the teacher and/or kicking you in the balls. How sad for all of us (mostly for G and I). I responded to her claims that old ladies don't do lines as nicely as I could, "yes, but it's a really long line and we all waited." At which point she upped the ante -- "I have a disability!" And here is where G earns all of my love and respect even if he's a little embarrassed at the words that crossed his lips, "That's an interesting disability -- riding bikes around an island for 2 hours? Totally fine! Standing in line? No way!" This produced shock and a look of complete scorn which caused G to back down a bit and apologize for pushing things too far (which I maintain he didn't do because she did just bike her not-really-that-old ass around and island! So GOOD POINT G!). As many readers may have realized we were now snowballing out of control down Mount Grumpy Old Lady.

MGOL: I HAVE CANCER! DO YOU WANT ME TO TAKE OFF MY WIG?!?!

Brianna: No!

MGOL: Just let me go in front of you! I don't feel good.

G: Why don't you ask the nice people behind us if you can cut in line in front of them?

And with another huff -- she transformed into Poor Widdle Old Lady. Over our shoulders we heard the following:

PWOL(voice suddenly quiet and raspy): Excuse me, I have cancer and I'm very ill and I was wondering if I could please go ahead of you in line. I nicely asked these people in front of you but I guess they don't care about senior citizens with cancer. Also, I think that they are deamons brought upon us from hell itself. I wouldn't get too close, occasionally plumes of sulfur shoot out from their eyes.

Good Summaritan/Evil Harpy from Long Island: OF COURSE!!! My mother had cancer last year! Please, go ahead. I can't believe how rude some people/daemons are!

That's us! The rude daemons from hell! Should it be at all shocking that daemons are rude? Has this woman never seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Daemons are always crashing parties and biting people and generally pooping all over social decorum.

(Note: the author has taken a few liberties with the actual quotes used above. Changes may include but are not limited to: the addition of all caps, the use of somewhat unkind nicknames and the claim that anyone called the author or her boyfriend a daemon. These changes have all been made to better represent the intention of the speakers whose general attitudes can best be described as super crazy ridiculous. Rest assured that the author is now reigning it in and pretty much everything from here on happened in real life even though it also seems totally insane.)

GS/EHFLI (now in a much louder voice): I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW AWFUL THESE PEOPLE WERE TO YOU. WE'LL SEE HOW THEY FEEL WHEN THE'RE OLD! I HOPE PEOPLE ARE AS HORRIBLE TO THEM AS THEY WERE TO YOU! I HOPE THEY BURN IN HELL! YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING EXCUSES FOR HUMANITY!

Silly lady, we're DAEMONS! Not even your regular old demons but the kind with a random a at the beginning! Do you not understand how evil we are? Be glad we didn't rip that woman's cancer wig off and defile it with our throbbing daemon genitalia!

Through this diatribe G and I stood quietly staring straight ahead not talking and generally trying to melt into the asphalt. Not because we were embarrassed and feeling bad about not letting Our Lady of Cancer butt her ass in line (Be serious! We made the total right call on that one! Also, we're evil daemons so feelings of guilt are somewhat beyond our limited emotional abilities.) but because neither of us is very good with people yelling. I contemplated pointing out that everyone could go ahead an claim they had "cancer of standing in line" willy nilly without proof and then where would be be? Or that I totally had a friend who got cancer at 27 (aka way younger then you and therefore TOTALLY MORE TRAGIC) and that I was so helpful that I pretty much received an honorary membership in the cancer survivor brigade. Or that using a disease as an excuse to butt in line is practically asking God to smite your ass with even worse cancer in the future. But I held my tongue least I actually breathed fire at them.

In conclusion I must report after this little fiasco the margaritas were more then just delicious.

I Don't Feel Like Runnin' No Sir No Runnin' Today

2009-08-20T11:59:00.002-04:00

A couple of weeks ago I was reading dooce's account of giving birth to her second child (be warned all who click here for there be vaginas) in which she mentions that the last 12 minutes of labor were the worst and that 12 minutes doesn't seem like that long of a period of time but that it totally felt like forever. I could immediately sympathize because I have recently confirmed that 12 minutes is an eternity specifically if you spend that 12 minutes running (or, apparently pushing a child through your loins, something I have not done but which sounds almost as painful as putting foot in front of foot in front of foot at a 10 min/mile pace).

It turns out I'm not so good at running. This is no surprise having been a remedial runner since developing asthma in junior high mostly to avoid the mandated 10 minute mile tests, but it was a bit discouraging. I had kind of hoped that losing 30lbs and spending some time at the gym might have somehow turned me into a running savant or at least a somewhat mediocre but totally passable runner. No such luck. Yet.

The running thing was actually going OK for a while there. After work I'd head over to the gym and do my prescribed Couch to 5K run on the treadmill while listening to Dan Savage rant about all things moist and tantalizing. There were plenty of days when running felt only slightly more fun then being waterboarded but despite the constant messages from my feet, legs, heart, lungs, etc warning that I was killing them I managed to finish all of the runs up through week 7 and was feeling mighty proud of running 25 minutes straight.

Then a couple of things happened. Firstly, I decided to try running more outside -- after all I live near a very nice park and the 5K I was targeting in October certainly would not be run on a treadmill. All of the runners I knew swore that running outside was the super bestest thing ever that I'd feel so good and run so much faster and love love love it so much. Right. Actually running outside was great at first -- and by at first I mean for the first half of the first run when I was whizzing around the park rocking out to I Don't Feel Like Dancin by the Sissor Sisters and feeling light on my feet and speedy. That lasted right up until minute 9 when I lied down on the pavement and died because apparently outside+rocking tunes+running like the wind can be sustained for exactly that long before my whole body revolts.

Then things really started to go downhill. I was sent out of town on a week long business trip where the hotel gym was a sad little room in the basement which couldn't compete with walking around beautiful downtown Seattle. Then I went on vacation to California where it was routinely 97 degrees and where I did go on a 12 mile death march of a hike with my family but did no running.

And now I'm back and summer has finally arrived in New York City so I'm pushing myself to run in 85 degrees and air just wringing with water and... it's hard. I'm finally back up to 20mins straight without any walking but man am I dying for it.

I can run about 5 minutes before I have to start bargaining with myself. I make promises of brief stops at the water fountain, I do math in my head comparing the remaining time to the length of TV programs, movies, airline flights, etc in an attempt to trick myself into believing that the time will just fly on by no problemo ( "Only 15mins left! That's only a quarter of one True Blood episode, that's NOTHING! AND that's only 68% of your average 22 minute TV program-- just imagine if you were watching The Soup right now? You'd wish it was longer!"). I keep waiting for the time when running comes easy enough that I'm distracted for whole stretches of time not noticing the pounding of my heart, the aching of my calves, the constant complaining of my thoughts. I've been telling myself that it's good to do things that are hard, that it will feel so great to run that 5K, that even if 20mins of running doesn't sound like a very long time very few people are actually out there running anything at all. I'm not sure any of these pep talks are working -- it's a good thing I really hate being a quitter.

And yet I still dread the 5K. I fear that not being able to run the whole thing will be a sign that I am meant to be fat -- that today it's walking part of a race and tomorrow I weigh 500lbs. I fear that all of my really awesome supportive runner friends will be fake clapping for me at the end of the race when I finally drag my ass over the finish line eons after them. I fear that my ass will be drug over long after my friend who will be 6 months pregnant has pranced over it, gotten some water, stretched, yawned and decided to run back down the route to find me. Hopefully she won't have to carry me but I can't make any promises.

On the Inadequacies of Sending and Receiving Mail in NYC (aka Please Mister Postman, seriously, PLEASE)

2009-07-01T17:49:00.003-04:00

One of the burdens of living in New York City is the responsibility one feels to comfort non NYC dwellers who insist that I live in a very very scary place. On a recent trip to the heartland it occurred to me that even worse then living in New York City (where at least they have all of those fabulous musicals) is living in Brooklyn. Inside the city limits of the Big Apple, Brooklyn means baby carriages, composting and jamming with your band but everywhere else it means the mob, knife fights and really annoying accents. And as I discovered in May while visiting an old folks home in Wisconsin, no one's grandma wants them living in a dump like that. My own Grandma and Grandpa along with all of their senior friends feared the crime, the grime, the subway, etc -- but strangely no one ever seems to bring up the truly horrifying things like the supermarkets and the mail. If only they knew.

When I moved to New York almost five years ago the first challenge was figuring out my address. It seemed that somehow I was living in as many as 4 different cities at one time. I thought I had moved to Astoria, but my mail came to Long Island City. And somehow I also lived in Queens. And also in New York City. This confusion stems primarily from the borough system which totally makes sense *in theory* but in actuality still confuses me even after almost 5 years in the city. Basically, it seems that in order to make all of the boroughs (Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx and Staten Island) part of one big megacity this weird borough thing had to be invented. It turns out that my mail would be delivered to me if addressed to any the 4 places listed above. I assume that the postal system hates New York City for this selfish deviation from the "works for everyone else" system and that the pains I detail in the coming paragraphs are the direct result of retaliation from postal employees. Honestly, I can hardly blame them.

Once I got settled in I had a few letters to send a few bills to pay. I stuck these in the mail box outside of my house on my way to work -- there was no flag to put up but I figured the mail carrier probably knew the deal, "oh, new envelopes with uncanceled stamps, this is outgoing!" Yet every night I would come home to a mail box stuffed with delivery menus, new bills, 5 copies of the Victoria's Secret catalog (Obama should look into putting those mofos on the finding Bin Laudin task force they can track down anyone) and all of the outgoing mail that I'd left in the box that morning. Curious. I quickly concluded that I had a lazy bastard for a mailman and resolved to schlep all of my outgoing mail to the office until some Saturday when I could confront the man in blue at my door. Luckily my chance never came because I soon found out that in New York City mail carriers do not pick up outgoing mail. So actually ALL mail carriers in New York City are lazy bastards. At least I wasn't being singled out. Much Googling has been spent trying to get to the bottom of how it came to be that NYC mailmen won't pick up the netflix return envelope and my rent check all to no avail. I did discover that mailmen also don't pick up in Canada so I have to assume that this is just one more way that the liberals in NYC are trying to turn us all commie. Normally I drink the blue koolaid and support all efforts to bring the socialism but here I must protest, Canada obviously knows nothing about how badly I need to avoid walking 3 blocks to the mailbox (you'd think a country that is normally covered in snow could relate).

I really adore getting packages (queue, "I've got a package you might like little lady..."), so much so that I might occasionally order something online just to have the thrill of looking forward to receiving a package in the mail. This small joy has almost been beaten out of me by the mail system in NYC. I've determined that if you ask for something to be delivered to your house there is really only a 1 in 3 chance that you'll ever receive it. This statistic varies little from mail system to mail system. USPS, UPS, FEDEx, they're all equally f-ed up.

Typically, this is how things go down. I place an order for say a really cute dress by Penguin that I've somehow managed to score for $40 and then I begin obsessively reloading the order info page until I crash online store. Eventually the web services team is called in, stability is restored and my order goes from "processing" to "shipped." And then I start praying that the package will actually show up at my house -- oddly, god rarely intervenes on my behalf.

Things that might happen in place of coming home to the joy of ripping open cardboard:

Your mailman may decide that he doesn't feel like carrying a package all the way to your door so instead he'll just leave a "we were here but you weren't home" note the gist of which is "haul your ass down to the central processing center if you ever want to see that beautiful necklace you ordered off of Etsy." Note that actually being home when the mailman stops by to drop off this note will in no way ensure that you avoid this outcome.

Your mailman may decide for no apparent reason that the same stoop that he happily left packages on just last week is suddenly VERY UNSAFE (perhaps my grandma called him) and that he could not possibly leave packages here where the gangsters might pounce on them (gangsters love nothing more than an Amazon box full of trashy vampire liturature! Except heroin.). No amount of pleading notes left for the mailman saying "seriously, it's COOL! Leave the package right here!" will be at all effective and again your presence will be requested in central processing land (Do you think the subway goes there? No, it does not.)

Your mailman may decide to not even attempt delivery but to instead just claim he tried to deliver the package but that you said "please, no, do not bring it to my house, I would love to travel down to central processing and pick it up myself, i love a good walk through the projects."

The irony that I can get someone to bring a Vietnamese sandwich or an order of ceviche to my house at 1am but Amazon.com is beyond my reach is not lost on me.

The US Postal service recently raised the price of a first class stamp for about the 13th time this week and I can only assume that all of these extra funds will be directed to the vast pool of resources that they dedicate to coming up with new ways to screw NYC and as I said before -- I get it. But Please Mister Postman, Mister Fedex, Mrs. UPS -- do not continue to punish the good citizens of NYC for the selfish decisions of our forfathers, they had no idea that they were thwarting an organization that would go on to pretty much patent the act of going crazy and shooting all of your coworkers.

Adventures in Dining Part 2

2009-06-25T13:52:00.006-04:00

part 1 is back here

Despite my fears of being Gordon Ramsey-ed I returned to the domain of A Razor a Shiny Knife the next afternoon to assist with dinner prep -- this time without G who (wisely, perhaps) choose to spend his Saturday at his job where they pay him in money rather than at an empty condo in Williamsburg where compensation is offered in the form of eye rolls and deep sighs of disapproval. Oh, and really yummy food.

When I arrived at 3:45pm lunch service was still in full swing. I felt lucky to secure a job drying dishes which I was 75% sure I could execute well enough to at least fly below the radar of our host. Dish drying proved to be a wonderful job because in addition to avoiding commentary on my screw ups it also afforded me the opportunity to make a good buddy in my dish drying companion, Paul. Even better lunch was still being served and occasionally someone would come by with an extra plate of food for us to nosh on (oh crispy fried soft shell crabs and raw asparagus salad with poached egg how I have loved you).

After a few hours on dish duty I started to feel the rhythm of the kitchen and, perhaps because I paid my newbie dues with the dish rag, the rest of the kitchen staff/paying guests suddenly seemed nicer. Eventually I grew brave enough to venture back onto the line to tackle the peaches destined for dessert. When G arrived at 6:30 (in theory only 30mins from the sweet reward of our yummy 8 course meal) he was put to work chopping strawberries. I was also put on marshmallow making duty which ended in marshmallow syrup which we tried in vain to turn into frozen marshmallow candy. Somehow despite the obvious failure of this dish I manage to escape any chef wrath. I was feeling much more like part of a team.

We sat down late for dinner at 8:45 (posted dinner time was 7pm) and because of a somewhat OCD need to pull off this whole affair in exactly 24 hours we were asked to forgive the rushed serving of the courses. I appreciate a good attempt at doing the crazy obsessive thing just for its own crazy obsessive sake (see: my color coded closet, my rearranging of card piles every 3 minutes when playing Settlers of Catan, and my entire life) but even I felt a little peeved that the foodies who lunch got to lounge around for hours while I was being asked to scarf my tasty morsels at a starved puppy pace.

The food however, could not be argued with. It was well worth being chastised for my subpar vacuuming skills, worth drying a mountain of dishes and even worth being rushed through. Below, a play by play of exactly why I will not have lost any weight this week despite running probably like 8 miles (note: a lot. do not argue. I am the next Flo Jo, I pretty much just need to work on the nails).

First the amuse -- a rye bread flavored pana cotta with salmon roe and pickled mustard seeds.

The host expressed some concern that this might be a failed attempt at deliciousnesss but it was surprisingly successful -- creamy, salty, a little crunch on the end. And on top of that look how pretty it is!

Foie gras mouse featured a cucumber coulis and strawberries ala Mr. G

Just look at the sweet slicing on those babies! I think i might be the only foodie who can't quite get behind the foie gras love. I mean it's good, rich, creamy, fatty but I often find it just a little too overwhelming and... (dare I say it?) somehow still bland. This dish was no real exception though the the strawberries and cucumber did admirably balance out the richness and make foie gras feel much more summery than I would have thought possible.

Fresh pasta with lobster and meyer lemon.

Certainly the most simple of the dishes on offer but the combo of the lemon peel and lobster was really great. Shellfish + lemon is obviously no great culinary leap but I was still shocked and just how great these ingredients complimented each other.

Short ribs with morel mushroom and garlic scapes

I got 4 curly little garlic scapes in my recent CSA delivery and this dish certainly inspired me to experiment with them -- the delicate flavor avoided overpowering the meat and mushroom with garlic and made this dish (which might have seemed a little boring) exciting and beautiful.

Chawan Mushi with bacon broth.

This was the one menu item that I had to Google but Wikipedia's description of "egg custard" did nothing to prepare me for the awesomeness of pork belly+eggs+cream -- SO GOOD! As the person who declared the death of bacon months ago I would like to use this broth as evidence of how bacon should be used -- it was flavorful, smokey and meaty and DELICATE. The dish didn't come out and whomp you over the head all "LOOK! BACON IS HERE! EVERYONE LOVES BACON!!!" but instead stood in the corner waiting for the ladies to come to him, and come I did. (Dirty.).

Whipped truffle potatoes with smoked egg yolk.

This was divine though G made a good point that it was mostly just because everything tastes great with truffle oil. It is probably true that if the potatoes had been sawdust and the egg yolk a yellow bouncy ball I still would have swooned.

Flourless chocolate cake with cherries.

This was the only course that left me shrugging my solders. I'm not a fan of flourless chocolate cake -- in fact, I basically think it's the bacon of the pastry world and is only served by lazy chef's looking to appeal to the most base palettes. Everyone loves chocolate, the richer the better, right? No need to try harder. This cake was really no better or worse then your average fudgey fair. That said, in the words of Bill Cosby, "Dad is great! Give us the chocolate cake!" I shrugged my solders at an empty plate.

Compressed peaches with cocoa butter enrobed peach pudding.

While I want to say that this was the best thing ever since I contributed heavily to its production I cannot. It was fine. I suspect that like every contestant on Top Chef (and myself it would seem) the powers that be at A Razor a Shiny Knife could due with some lessons in pastry arts. I'd like to see one of their next events focused entirely on kicking some dessert ass.

I'm full again just writing that. Full and wishing I had a little bowl of pork pudding to slurp on.

I'd also like to say that in addition to the amazing food the dinner companionship was top notch -- I sat across from a hilarious navy dude who offered to give G and I a tour of his sub next time we're visiting G's parents in Groton CT and next to my friend from the night before who, like me and G, was well rested and ready to eat. I also sat across from a vegetarian who I was alternately amused by (seriously, why would you come to this?) and pitied (did your friend not tell you that this meal would totally have a lot of meat?). When one of the pro chefs (a man from Columbia) found out about the veggie in our midst he came by to inquire about her dietary limitations in an effort to accommodate, "You are a vegetarian?" "yeah, I eat fish though, and veggies." "What about beef?" Awesome.

You can view a time lapse video of the entire event here-- some highlight include "wow, Brianna you look kind of fat in the dress," "Geoff get your hands out of your pockets!" and "I want to put that in my mouth over and over again forever."

Adventures in Dining Part 1

2009-06-22T17:20:00.003-04:00

As our latest and great cute couple surprise date I decide to surprise G with a night of cooking his own food in hopes that he would be inspired to drag his ass home from work one night and whip me up some veal sous vide and a nice rambutan mouse. Also because he LOVES cooking, this gift was not at all the Brianna form of giving your girlfriend lingerie.

I had been stalking the events of A Razor A Shiny Knife for a few months. The group, referred to as either an under ground restaurant or a private dinner club, specializes in bring to life crazy cooking ideas in a magical poof of yumminess. I had long been on the look out for an event when no previous engagement prevented us from taking in an evening of gluttony and finally, a few weeks ago, the calendar gods came together and we were signed up for the club's 24 hour cooking extravaganza (the dinner only because (1) we're not yet rich and (2) I feared that 3 meals of 8 courses each could lead to acute stomach explosion syndrome). The details I received were as follows: Show up any time after 10pm on Friday the 19th to help cook, show up at 7pm the night of the 20th to partake in the deliciousness.

We arrived at the secret location (a yet to be inhabitable building of condos deep in artsy Williamsburg and complete with a 45 foot waterfall in the lobby, day glow plastic chandeliers in every hallway and a broken elevator which afforded us the luxury of pretending that climbing 5 flights of stairs totally made up for eating a dish composed entirely of pork belly, cream, eggs and bacon broth) in our best khakis and linen to a sea of hipsters all, "oh hi, yes I did just get back from yachting, is that a tattoo of a boat on your shoulder, right next to the one of bar code? We have so much in common!" There were about 10 people suited up in aprons chopping, boiling and mixing and it was impossible to determine who among us was a pro chef and who, like us, was just paying hundreds of dollars to play dress up. Even though it was only 10:05 everyone was hard at work and not speaking to us which left us feeling, as G said, "like we were being snubbed by the caterers." Noting this obvious problem was a huge mistake on his part as it turned me into the pout-master for a good 20mins which we spent on the balcony all "ok so what should we do? can we leave? will we look lame? can we just grab something at random and start chopping?" In moments like this I think a little direction goes a long way and I felt tempted to offer the crew of a Razor a Shiny Knife my keen project management skills -- what more they could accomplish if only someone had made a spreadsheet.

Finally we were put to work making what the host of the evening (a man of totally indeterminate age sporting a very magnum PI mustache who either had an amazing memory for names or just couldn't forget me, the girl who was sure to ruin his event with her ham handed attempts at playing chef) described as "pickle pops" which made it sound like these would be some kind of frozen vinegar treat (Yum?) but turned out to just be vacuum sealed bags of pickled veggies. Our mission was to use this massive vacuum sealer to divide 20 plastic bags into 4 evenly sized pickle pockets. I had some past experience with vacuum sealing because my father bought one of those home food preservation contraptions at Costco years ago and proceeded to demo it's abilities to every dinner guest to walk through the front door. The minute the ladies ran off to, I dunno, powder their noses (note: this has never happened in my house, my mother is strictly anti powder, in fact "powder their noses" is just a euphemism for "drink scads of tequila") my dad would be dragging the boys off to a small corner of the kitchen to just seal random crap. But the machine at Friday's event was nothing like my dad's entertainment model. The beast was at a 2 foot power cube that G mused might be able to create actual black holes. Lucky for the entire Milky Way G and I would be doing no actual vacuuming -- just sealing.

Immediately we broke the machine. In a moment of panic as we moved the top down to begin the first seal one of us (I shall not name names but I think we all know who) announced that the line on one bag wasn't straight so I flung the lid back up which stopped the vacuuming by freaking out the beast. No longer would he suck air. Luckily, with some random mashing of buttons, I was able to save the day. So we're sealing. Bags are getting put into two piles: "oh shit, hide that one in the back" and "these should theoretically be usable." when Magnum comes by to check on us. "Things are going ok, you know, not perfect yet but we're working on it!" I quip. To which he replies, "we're looking for perfect." People, it was like I was on Top Chef and Coliccio packed my knives FOR ME.

The pickles were, thankfully, on the lunch menu so we could avoid the uncomfortable moment when someone at the table wrinkled their nose all, "my bags are not even, my entire meal has been ruined!" One assumes that this was quickly followed with, "yeah some blond J Crew freaks with zero ink totally fucked those up, last time I let the WASPs in."

As the evening progressed we slowly realized that almost all of the people who we originally took for super intimidating professional chefs were actually just ambitious foodies like ourselves. We managed to make a few friends all of whom seemed nice and nonjudgey if, a little eccentric. One girl (who I love) even leaned over in the middle of butchering a whole pig belly to conspicuously ask if we were crazy enough to consider staying up all night to cook and then sighed happily when we announced that we liked sleep way too much for that silliness (which begs this Sophie's Choice of a question, "if forced to choose between food and sleep where would a lazy glutton like myself stand (or, more accurately, lie down)?).

I suspect the open secret of A Razor, A Shiny Knife is that none of their meals are executable without a ton of help from their guests because there seemed to be only 4 or 5 pros in our midst. The good news is that there was no babying of the guests -- everything from slicing strawberries to flash freezing puddings was available for experimentation. This opportunity to play with nitrous oxide and learn how to make butter from scratch is, for me, half the fun of the event but I do have to warn future participants that one should arrive armed with a good amount of cooking knowledge and a suit of body armor protecting any thin skinned egos. I often felt a little bad for G, who I do put on carrot chopping duty in our home kitchen but who generally focuses his food knowledge on tasting over preparing. The impromptu learning opportunities at the event were not designed for amateurs. Among my friends I have a fairly solid "good cook" reputation but even I often felt far far out of my league, especially during the first hour or so when direction was at a minimum.

That said, ultimately the evening turned out to be fun. And when we got home at 1:30am our preview of the next evening's dinner had both of us salivating in our sleep. More on that in my next update (soon, by Thursday for sure...) until then a picture of our first course -- our amuse to amuse you.

In the Beginning There was a Really Big Belly Under a Christmas Tree

2009-05-29T17:21:00.005-04:00

This is the story of my birth as I've always told it and I fully expect that my mom will read this and immediately be scandalized by my bastardization of the details in a story that is rightfully much more hers than mine. As a bonus I'm also going to throw in the story of my brother's birth because it's related and because it might further annoy my mom which will teach her for learning about the internet. (Private to AngryMom in CA: At least your daughter shares her blog with you, most moms aren't that lucky! Let her slide on the embellishments, after all she's been stuck in an entire year of writer's block, she needs this!).

I was born on January 5th 1978 (mark your calendars! shop post Christmas sales for presents!) which was about 2 weeks later than I was supposed to be born thus affording my mom and dad the luxury of taking a hilarious picture of her huge belly under the Christmas tree with a big bow wrapped around it -- to this day I'm sure my mom finds much irony in the thought that I would be a great gift and not just a never ending source of lost sleep and so much eye rolling (like all babies I'd like to thank Mother Nature for those awesome post pregnancy hormones that made me lovable despite not being very lovable -- I'm not sure who I should thank for giving mom the strength not to try literally slapping me out of my funk every day of my life from age 13 through 17).

I actually know very little of what happened between me playing the part of Christmas package and being born. I assume at some point on the 4th or 5th of January there was a rushed ride to the hospital and hours of screaming and you know, blood and doctors and such but mom was never one to regale me with "Do you know how much pain I went through to bring your sorry ass into the world?" I was born in the hospital where my mom worked as an ER nurse (and now works as the Nursing Supervisor) so the birth was well attended and mom claims much of it was broadcast over the nurses' walkie talkie system. This seems insanely cruel -- can you imagine all of your coworkers listening in on you giving birth to your first kid? Strangely mom never mentions killing whoever made this happen (I assume not talking about the murder is all part of the mass cover-up -- good job mom.).

And then, you know -- here I was (the sun came out from behind the clouds, the heavens smiled, the birds sang, national holiday, etc). But the real hilarious bit of this story starts when we get out of the hospital. I'm not sure how long my new family was actually home before my mom had to be returned the the hospital because there was a lot of blood not staying in her body where it belonged, but it wasn't long -- maybe a day or so. So back to the hospital where mom is admitted to the ICU (that's right folks, the hilarious part of the story is when my mom gets put into intensive care! good times!) and so they're wheeling her away and dad's standing there all "Hey, dudes, you forgot the baby! HAHA!" and the dudes (in this case doctors) are all, "No, it's cool the baby is FINE, take her on home!" And then dad is all "But! DUDES! Please god take the baby back! What the hell am I supposed to do with her when I don't have the magic milk producing body parts!?!?" And then I think his head explodes and he gets put in ICU too. No, just kidding, he goes home and calls my aunt all "Doctors are such bitches, please come help me before I kill your niece."

Let me pause here to say that my dad is super amazing and I'd hate for this story to make him sound incompetent but that's kind of what makes it a good story and my dad is hopefully so awesome that he doesn't mind being the butt of this particular joke. But just in case he's a little miffed I offer this proof of his awesomeness as a counterbalance: Because my mom worked nights growing up my dad was Mr. Mom every morning and he kicked major ass at everything from packing lunches to making a full breakfast (seriously people we had eggs and fruit and bacon or banana pancakes or french toast EVERY MORNING, dude was not fucking around). He was slightly less awesome at doing my hair as evidenced by my 3rd grade school picture where I appear to be rocking some sort of half crimped/half bed head combo do but I've mostly stopped blaming him for my "nerd table" lunch status that lasted through to high school (after all it wasn't him who forced me to join the math team, that was ALL ME). And also: I'm fine, he took me home as a newborn without my mom and totally didn't kill me so GOOD JOB DAD.

Now back to the story. Mom gets better, I learn to walk, everyone is happy.

So fast forward a couple of years and mom is rocking the bump again, my only real memory of her being pregnant with my brother is a conversation about baby names that took place in the car in which I refused to even discuss the possibility needing to consider boy names. I also seem to remember having strong feelings about naming my baby sister Michelle. So April 9th rolls around and again with the hospital and the pain and the breathing exercises. Only this time it sucks even more because my baby brother was born breach (As an older sister this was a god send -- oh the years of "born butt first like a real butt head!" jokes! HILARIOUS) and things really did not go well. Basically my mom died. She lost a ton of blood, she flat lined and while the doctors worked on bringing her back to life (note: successfully, thanks dudes!) she went on a little ride through the dark tunnel to meet with none other than Jesus Christ.

Mom and JC are up on a hill you know, chillin' when he brings up the awkward elephant in the room (er... the field...the heaven?). "So, Kay, umm you have a couple of kids back there in the world who kind of need a mom, you can't let Horst raise them alone, he can't handle it." That's right folks -- JESUS didn't believe in my dad's single parenting skills. And my mom is basically all, "no J-dawg, it's groovy, Horst has this shit! I'm gonna just chill here, lay back on a cloud, take some harp lessons, you know, angel stuff." Luckily our lord and savior is having none of it and basically pushes my mom back down the long dark tunnel and into her body. So big thanks to Jesus for giving me my mom back, I totally forgive you for misjudging my dad's parenting skills. And mom? I'm not even angry about you wanting to dessert me for heaven, I'm sure it would have totally beat changing Kurt's diapers and teaching my stubborn ass to tie my shoes.

Make Me Up Before You Go Go

2009-05-25T15:36:00.002-04:00

Flashback!!: It's Saturday morning in DC where I've gone to see yet another friend walk down the aisle and I just happen to be in the mall waiting for Geoff to finish getting his hair cut (aside: he went to this place where they gave him a free gin and tonic thus making $50 seem like a totally reasonable price to pay for a trim!) and so I'm browsing the stores when I remember, "perhaps this is a good time to go into the M.A.C. store and see if they have any good pink lipsticks." You see, I have been on a quest to find this one perfect shade of pink since seeing it on Kristen Bell in one of the later episodes of Veronica Mars last summer. Now, it is highly likely that this color, if it exists, will look like crap on me. And it is almost 100% likely that trying on lipstick and then mentally thinking "does this look like Kristen Bell?" will convince one that she is super duper ugly with a cherry on top.

Obviously a glutton for punishment I wander into M.A.C. and start smearing lipsticks on the back of my hand thinking "too purple," "too sheer," "too horrifically ugly" when of course one of the M.A.C. girls comes over to help me and I try to shoo her away but I'm too blinded by her florescent yellow eyeshadow to do anything other than mutter "I kind of want some pink lipstick." I'm always hoping that these makeup ladies are actually going to be helpful, that one of them will be a color genius and not just especially gifted with a trowel and that she will take one look at me and whip out the perfect color and then sprinkle some magic dust over my head and voila! Beauty queen! (but with like 500% less makeup than actual beauty queens).

God knows I need the help since I have no idea how to do makeup. I mostly blame my mom who taught me that tomato plants like full sun and that horses are very afraid of plastic bags but, like a true woman of Woodstock, never put a compact in my hand. I try to roll with it and like the basketball player who "meant to miss" I've embraced the bright side of no makeup by claiming that I generally don't see any need for it. And this isn't entirely a lie. Most days I am happy with just my lip gloss and mascara (2 pieces of makeup whose application process is thankfully only one step long). But whenever an invite for an event of the gussied up variety arrives I get a little nervous and as much as I try to focus on wearing a pretty dress and eating yummy cake and drowning my lip gloss in free champagne I can't help but worry about the eyeshadow problem. Because strapless dresses and high heels and poofy hair seem to demand things like foundation and powder and sparkles in places nature doesn't naturally sparkle. But there seems to be no easy way to learn how to do makeup at the age of 31. Asking the ladies at the makeup counter is only an invitation to some sort of "how much makeup can I get on one little face" contest and my last slumber party invite arrived in 1995. Does Avon still come calling?

I eventually hightailed it out of the M.A.C. store when Little Miss Spackle moved on to a customer who wasn't babbling about not knowing anything about makeup. I left without lipstick, feeling embarrassed, inept and ugly and you'd think it would have been lesson learned for the day, but alas, I am a stubborn wench. Next, I wondered into Neiman Marcus and began the process of making up my hand anew, this time with the help of Estee Lauder. and lo and behold I actually found the perfect pink. It didn't turn violet upon touching my lips, it wasn't secretly peach in disguise, it wasn't completely see through, it was so pretty! And just in time for the wedding. Belle of the ball? Here I was. I figured that sure, Estee Lauder was probably pricey, but considering the arduousness of my lipstick crusade I'd earned a ridiculously priced piece of face paint (and a face paint pencil). Amex card out -- charge ahead. Except apparently my idea of ridiculous and Ms Lauder's are not in the same universe because the receipt that came back for my signature was for $115! FUCK THAT. In the past, faced with a situation where something cost way more than I figured it was worth, I might have smiled politely and signed away a big chunk of my bank account rather than look cheap. Ironically, now that I actually can (technically) afford $115 in lip coloring I had very few qualms about denying my signature. Honestly, it was all I could do to resist engaging the sales lady in a discussion called "seriously my boyfriend just bought AN ENTIRE SUIT for only $50 more than that, are the Lauders doing crack right now or are they still passed out from last night's binge?" Also: "fuck the patriarchy and give me my Amex back."

So I went to the wedding makeup-less (save the old standby mascara, some blush and, for as long as possible, the remnants of the perfect Estee Lauder pink which lasted until at least cocktail hour). And none of the other guests blurted out anything about how ugly I was or exactly why my eyelids were that weird shade of nude known as naked skin but I saw the confusion in their (heavily lined) eyes. I can only hope that sometime before the next wedding (and shockingly for the first time in at least 5 years I have zero weddings on my calendar... but they will come) someone will offer to be my guru of rouge, my messiah of makeup my Christ of the cosmetics counter. Is it you? CALL ME.

Rock Stars Revisited

2009-05-01T22:23:00.001-04:00

I am not a rock star kind of girlfriend. I do not like staying out past 1am or drinking PBR or walking in on my boyfriend and a group-o-groupies. I would never qualify for a spot on Rock of Love ("Brianna I can feel in my soul that you're here for Brett but every time I invite you to a concert you not only show up fully clothed but often with a book, I'm sorry to say this but... your tour ends here."). (Aside: I would, however, make a fabulous ex-girlfriend of Brett Micheals, how much fun must those ladies be having watching his series of train wrecks? I have to assume they all gather in some suburban ranch style home to watch the show, sangria in hand, and celebrate what could have been but (thankfully) was not. That sounds like the kind of good time I could get into.). But despit how obviously unsuited I am to be the first lady of rock I cannot help but nurture my rock star boyfriend fantasies (yes, still, despite claims to the contrary).

What does it say about me that I can't help but swoon at the boy with the guitar? Ever since Jordan Catalano started wearing eye liner and getting chubby for movie roles (and, ironically, since he joined a band) I haven't had a really all consuming crush on your average Hollywood heartthrob. Oh sure I think Sayid on Lost is rather dreamy in a bad ass way, and I would sleep with Chuck from Gossip Girl just to say I had but truthfully all of my wet dreams are about rock stars.

The only time I've seriously considered the possibility of cheating on G was at the Drive By Trucker's show I went to in November. Somehow my friend and I were offered back stages passes (normally I'd concede that "somehow" translates to "because we were dressed like the girls most likely to get on our knees" but, perhaps ironically, this wasn't the case -- the place was teeming with girls in mid drift baring tops and we were all corduroys and light jackets). As I gazed up at Patterson Hood's crotch while he rocked his way through some song or other I caught myself thinking "exactly how bad would things be with G if I slept with that dude, I mean he'd have to forgive me, right? He's a rock star!" Least you think I'm a total bitch let me say that I would have totally called G first, and explained how this was like if he met the girl version of Micheal Stipe and she was down to bang (or ok, let's be honest, even the boy version of Micheal Stipe).

Patterson Hood is not even hot . He's a schlub-y dude who may or may not be giving Christopher Walken More Cowbell in this picture but he ROCKS. I'd like to say that this proves that I am a deep soul who is attracted to men for their talents not their looks but I suspect that isn't entirely true its not like rocking has ever been my thing. If I spent my me time fantasizing exclusively about people whose music I love things might be much more George Strait than rock gods. Perhaps I just have a thing for dudes with drinking problems.

Good Morning Welcome to Pornbook!

2009-04-20T15:41:00.004-04:00

So This Morning on Facebook (capitalized because obviously "This Morning on Facebook" is the "Days of our Lives" of my generation... "Like the unidentifiable crap that builds up on the bottom of your mouse it's time for This Morning on Facebook") I see that a girl I know from high school has commented on the picture of another girl from high school who I sort of know (because my high school was tiny) but not really. Girl #2 is not my friend on Facebook but her picture is now visible to me and (nosy Nellie that I totally am, especially when it comes to random people from high school) I click on it and it is TOTALLY a stripper picture. Like not just a little risque "hey look how sexy I am! Suck it former high school classmates!" (though she is in fact fairly sexy -- what I wouldn't give for those abs (actually -- exactly what I wouldn't give for those abs is more than 100 sit ups a week)) or a sexy little number to tempt single dudes in your area to buy you a drink sometime (both of which are totally something I would (nay, have) post) but a, "lying on a mirrored table in a g-string and a bra with rainbow kneehighs and green patent platform heels and one knee bent up so she can grab the 4 inch heel of the platform while looking at the camera all 'someone better be giving me some cold hard cash for holding this pose.'" So then obviously I browse the entire album which is entitled "Bored, I Guess" as in "hmm my stupid friends bailed on me and no one wants to go see "Monsters vs. Aliens" alone! How shall I entertain myself... oh lookie here, a florescent yellow peekaboo bra and a camera and whoops! I lost my panties!" Happens all of the time. It probably goes without saying that this girl's dad was the guidance counselor at our highschool. And that she has since removed all of the vowels from her name so that what once was a normal suburban monkier now sounds like the spawn of a Welshman and a pair of daisy dukes. I have less of an issue with the lack of underwear than I do with the blatant cliche-ness of this whole enterprise.

After a thorough perusing of the entire lurid album I woke G up to share -- cause he loves gossip almost as much as he loves boobies -- but shockingly he was having none of it. He rolled his eyes! He said I was being catty! He COMPARED ME TO HIS CHURCH OF CHRIST LOVING MOM! Despite what my boyfriend may now think, I really have little issue with the actual stripping (or the selling for dirty pictures which I have to assume is going on because if not then someone needs to talk to StFny (not her actual fake name) about the cow and the buying of the free milk). I would even go so far as to say I support strippers. I don't care if G wants to go ogle some boobies. I think that a lady should have every right to do with her body whatever she wants. If I had heard through the grapevine that this girl was now a stripper I would have surely giggled and called all of my highschool friends to gossip and I would have felt superior and a little bitchy BUT I also would have thought "ok well good for her, I hope she pulls in $1000/night in tips from dirty old bastards." and that would be it. But I didn't hear this through the grapevine. Someone didn't stumble upon her risque profession in a dark back alley and then cuelly out her to the world -- she posted pictures of herself on Facebook! Pictures with her panties around her ankles! So now I have to blog about it -- I may look like a bitch here (and a jealous one at that -- see note above re:abs) but my hand was forced.

Puppy Haters

2009-04-14T13:19:00.003-04:00

One of the benefits of moving in with G (actually the main one) is that he gets a lot of magazines. This is especially fortuitous because he did not see fit to get our cable TV or (much much much more importantly) our internet installed until sometime in 2012 so we’re basically living like it’s 1930 (same lack of modern conveniences different economic depression). So when I’m not unpacking scads of boxes and wondering not only why do I own all this crap but also why did I just pay to have someone drive it cross borough I’ve been reading Newsweek cover to cover. This is how I found out that the Amish are puppy murdering bastards. Apparently not content to rule over just pies and surprisingly cheap (yet beautiful!) faux fireplaces the original men in black are also taking over the breeding of man’s best friend. When they’re not shooting them in the head.

For those of you to lazy to read a 3 page article (Everyone) let me sum up. Basically, desperate for money in our cash strapped times (coke just isn’t selling like it used to), the Amish have taken to cross breeding any old dog with a poodle and raking in the big money from celebrities and wannabees who can’t say no to a doodle of any sort. And the Amish were swimming in black top hats made from the finest cotton and super swank barns (seriously, where do Amish put their extra cash? Blinged out Buggies? (Best reality show idea ever.)) until the public found out that the Amish don’t love cute widdle puppies and were letting them live in squalor with no hugs and lots of parasites. I was on board with the article and ready to form an angry mob to march on Pennsylvania right up until this:

Animal-rights advocates say that culturally, the farmers who breed dogs don't see a meaningful distinction between pets and farm animals raised for slaughter. Sometimes they behave accordingly: last summer Elmer Zimmerman, a dairy farmer in Kutztown, Penn., shot and killed 70 sick dogs on his farm, avoiding big vet bills after a health warden ordered him to take the dogs in for treatment.

Wait a minute. Like the Amish I also see little difference between puppies and cattle in that both are animals that should be treated with a certain amount of respect. Don’t get me wrong, I eat cows and I don’t eat dogs (though perhaps if they were super delicious…) but I don’t think this indicates a major difference in how each animal should be treated while alive. Neither animal should be forced to live in filth, neither animal should be starved, each animal should have a right to an honorable death. And (here is where PETA comes out to kick my ass) both are a livestock products which the farmer should have right to kill in a humane way if he so chooses.

News of the shootings led to protests and prayer vigils outside the Zimmerman farm. Gov. Ed Rendell, a pet lover, marshaled that public outrage to push through a tough new law aimed at improving conditions at puppy mills.

I find this freaked out reaction to puppies living in their own filth a bit hard to take seriously if the same people aren’t equally pissed off about pigs (who might be even smarter than dogs, especially dogs with names ending in doodle) living in their own filth (ok, perhaps a bad example, for the sake of this argument let’s pretend that pigs don’t LOVE filth). And I suspect there are tons more destitute cow, chickens and pigs living in awful inhumane feedlots than there are puppies suffering in mills. Cute shouldn’t be a qualifier for humane treatment (if it were all Afgan Hounds would be thrown to the Amish).

Aside: GUYS! There is a PLAY based on AMISH GONE WILD (aka Rumspriga). I will be seeing this ASAP.

Life has Jumped the Shark

2009-04-08T16:27:00.000-04:00

It all started 2 months ago when suddenly I was over Twitter. Unlike the millions who were born being over Twitter I was actually very into it for roughly 3 months until I realized that most of my updates were from people I couldn't care less about and (even worse) no one was playing proper respect to my brilliant tweets. Twitter was essentially Facebook status updates with a more accurate representation of how much the world cares about the amazing bran muffin I had this morning and the subsequent regularity that ensued (thankfully over on Facebook I have tons of friends willing to pretend that such updates are endlessly engaging).

I am also over Macs. Not that I was ever that into them but I got a mac laptop for my new job and kind of hoped to have the sort of computer inspired orgasm that Apple converts will not shut up about. The laptop is fine I guess -- I mean it certainly looks nice and I like to imagine lots of hipster kids in airports looking at me and thinking "oh man, she must be so cool, I bet she is like the blond Amélie only way less annoying" (actually hipsters totally don't think Amélie is annoying, they love pixie-ish girls who are maddeningly out of touch with reality -- you know, assuming they are also crazy hot.). I generally like the gesture ability that allows me to see all of the things I have open with the swipe of 4 fingers across the mouse and the camera does some cool things. But really none of these seem worth the crazy Mac price tag (though maybe they would have been if I were single and looking to pick up an arty dude in a coffee shop). I am hoping that burying these desparaging comments in paragraph 2 will keep the legions of Mac fanboys from tracking me down and stoning me with apples (Since I assume that like all of my readers fanboys never get past the third sentence and a cursory scan for pictures of my ass).

Most shocking of all is that I think I might be over the JCrew online sale . I KNOW. I'm down to looking at it only once a week and that little visit is mostly me yawning spittle onto my computer screen. I guess a girl can only own so many tissue tshirts, whimsical flip flops and brightly colored chinos before the coma sets in. I recently limited myself to only purchasing interesting items from JCrew and it just so happens that this adjetive only applies to like 5 of the items in their catalouge.

And of course, as you've surely noticed, I'm over blogging. Some might claim that I've been over blogging for almost a year but they would be wrong. While it has been about that long since I could consistently write entries that didn't suck it has only been about a month since I stopped caring. Or rather since I mostly gave up on caring. Cause I would still love to write some rocking blog posts, become famous and (somehow) profit but I find myself completely unable to execute step one (you know, the step where I start typing and the computer screen doesn't transform before my eyes into a pile of poop). Most recently I got over other people's blogs. Oh, surely there are still tons of brilliant essays being penned about obscure Settler's of Catan strategies, 101 signs that Chet from the Real World Brooklyn loves dudes and new and improved ways to eat ice cream but I just can't be bothered to read any of them. This is probably partially due to jealousy -- who are these people with their brilliant ideas and ability to write about them?

I'm sure I'll get out of this funk when it comes to blogging -- I fully intend to force myself to write and post and subject all of you to the drivle that ensues. As for Twitter, Macs and JCrew? Those dudes can suck it.

The Internet Has Spoken

2009-02-26T10:28:00.002-05:00

I have the best ass ever

Thank you to Google for telling the world what RAB readers have known for years.

Kids These Days are Totally Not Gay

2009-02-03T20:56:00.005-05:00

I found out recently that Kids These Days (particular KTDs who are dudes) are keeping up the grand tradition of making sure everyone knows that they are totally into chicks without letting go of the more recent tradition of "giving props" through the invention of the phrase "No homo." This is not a new development, apparently its been popular in hip hop for years but I'm assuming that my readers, like myself, are too old and uncool to listen to anything other than the occasional instrumental break on NPR so my making fun of it here will still feel witty and fresh.

So, a brief lesson in being 16 in 2009. Let's say you're a young dude and you really dig the hoodie that another young dude is wearing but you are very insecure about your sexuality and fear that any compliment given to a member of the same gender could be misinterpreted as a sexual overture that would most likley result in the other dude ripping your clothing off because (as everyone knows) you are super hot despite your chicken legs and face full-o-zits and thus all gay dudes totally cannot wait to get with you. Worry not, the phrase "No Homo." has your back(side). "Yo dawg that is a bitchen' sweatshirt. No homo." See? your boy feels good about his fashion choices without having to wonder/worry that you might be lusting after his sweet 16 year old behind. Brilliant.

Despite the overt homophobic tone of No Homo the communication concept itself is genius and applicable to millions of social situations where one needs to qualify a statement. In the spirit of No Homo I bring you the top 10 No Homo inspired qualifiers.

Just to Clarify

10. Tempah is really growing on me. No veggie.
9. In Italy we visited the Vatican, the architecture was beautiful. No Catholic.
8. I like your jacket "Thanks, its Prada but no richie, it was on sale"
7. I've just started brewing my own beer. No Alchie.
6. I'll take a scotch on the rocks for my boyfriend and just a soda for me. No preggers.
5. I think Miley Cyrus is really hot. No pedo.
4. I could totally kick your ass at Risk. No geek.
3. The reverse no homo (for the macho gay dude): I can totally change the oil in your car! No breeder.
2. I bought the most killer tiedyed shirt at last night's Phish concert! No stoner.
1. This sauerbraten is delicious. No Nazi

Special thanks to G, Sky, Lisa and Mike for all of there hilarious help with this post!

On Being a Very Good Eater

2009-01-30T15:21:00.001-05:00

My attempt to lose the 10lbs that I somehow managed to gain over the summer is not going so well. Oh sure I'm eating salads and going to the gym where I have been doing some RUNNING (Seriously. I have been running. Who am I?) but I'm not actually losing any weight. This is probably due to my love for food.

You see, I love food a lot. Often I'll find myself eating some food and excitedly thinking about the food I might eat next. It'll be lunch. I'll be munching on a nice crunchy salad with artichoke hearts and boiled egg and blue cheese and thinking to myself, "hmm what shall I eat for dinner? I could make spaghetti! Or order Thai basil chicken! Man tomorrow morning I get to have that yummy yogurt again, with the dried apricots, I CAN'T WAIT!" This cannot be healthy, right? Surely I must have some sort of hole in my heart that I'm trying to fill with food but when I try to recall being abused by the elementary cafeteria lady I quickly get distracted by thoughts of sloppy joes and chocolate malts. I think the hole I'm filling might just be my bottomless stomach.

I recently observed that having few buddies at my new jobs means I'm much more likely to eat a healthy lunch to which my friend Lisa replied, "Good Point. If you [worked here] we'd be all 'hamburgers!' every day." This is not true, sometimes I would want mac and cheese and some other times I would want Chinese pork buns, and least you think I only want to eat food bathed in grease sometimes I would just want roasted broccoli covered in lots of red pepper flakes. Part of my problem with food is that I love healthy foods which seems like a good thing until you're eating a trough of it and gaining 5lbs JUST FROM BROCCOLI.

Sometimes I fantasize about getting really fat. Because sure, I would miss my toes and sexy underwear and living past the age of 50 but maybe all of that is a reasonable price to pay for unlimited ice cream consumption? Maybe once I got past being the woman that kids moo at in the grocery store I could cover myself in a yummy blanket of ranch dressing and dig my way out with a truck load of french fries. Perhaps TLC could do a show on me (Half Ton Blogger?), perhaps they would pay me for humiliating myself on national television not with a free gastric bypass surgery but with my own personal chef who will make me endless supplies of fresh pasta covered in spicy tomato sauce. Doesn't sound half bad, right?

This fantasy is partially fueled by my desire to succeed. I am not always successful at eating less than 5 servings of jalapeno corn bread or doing my personal trainer prescribed squats at the super slow speed that makes my thighs shake in fear. Despite past successes I am not at all sure that I can succeed at losing the 10lbs that appear to be cling wrapped to my thighs. But I know without a doubt that I could kick ass at being really fat. I would eat ridiculous quantities of grilled cheese sandwiches. I would lounge around in a muumuu. I would be very good at sitting in a very large chair.

The Winner Parade Entry 6: Behind the Scenes on My Crazy Blind Date

2009-01-21T17:06:00.003-05:00

So remember back when I was famous for being perpetually single and so frustrated with the ridiculous system that we call courtship (and by "we" I mean old people like myself; I believe the kidz call it "Laying the Jezzy on Some Hos")? Good times. Oh wait, actually... BAD TIMES.

For those of you who were not here a year ago and who have not spent your weekends memorizing my archives: Firstly: FOR SHAME. Secondly: A refresher. So I discovered Crazy Blind Date back when I needed two things: 1. Some lovin' and 2. Some blog fodder. I went on one date that was, in the end, neither Blind (since he read my blog predate) nor Crazy (since he was a pretty normal dude) and then I wrote a brillant blog post about it. This post was soon found by the owners of the dating service which is how I became the one woman spokesperson for dating random dudes. Shortly thereafter I got an email from the site founder asking me to go on another date which would be filmed by The Mike and Juliet Morning Show. More chances at free loving and blogging: SWEET. This post is the public face of that little adventure and THIS POST (the one you're reading right now) is the behind the scenes sweet juicey meat of the same experience.

So for the sake of faux anonymity let's call my copilot in Crazy Blind Dating for TV Mr. Slick because even though I'm 98% sure he does not read this blog (and 53% sure that he cannot read at all) and 100% sure that you could go back to the first post about our date and get his name I'd like to keep pretending that I am not a horrible person willing to publically throw former paramores under the bus in exchange for a brief respite from my writter's block.

Ok, so I went on the filmed date with Mr. Slick and it was fine I guess. He was cute, much cuter than many of the guys I date BUT I don't even like cute. Or, not that kind of cute. I like floppy hair over lots of gel, I like ironic tshirts over starched collars, I like eye rolling over googly eyes. Slick was The Bachelor and I was looking for... someone who would not be considered muscle-y enough for reality TV. He was also very eager, so much so that he managed to insert himself into my post date plans by tagging along to the Roller Derby even though it meant posing as press to get around the sold out tickets situation. When I mentioned to a friend the possibility of getting together for a board game night he again tried to force his way in, even insisting that we should play games TOMORROW. On face value this seems like it should be flattering he must really like me to be trying so hard to hang out but really how could he like me so much after 2 hours of hanging out half of which was on camera and therefore totally not real? And even if he *did* like me that much shouldn't he know better than to be so obvious about it -- have some damn shame/pride. Anyway I managed to not see him again until we were both sequestered in the Green Room with Mike and Juliet (this was a feat, the boy texted me AND called me multiple times -- keep in mind that the time between date and TV appearance was about 36 hours.).

And now a brief pause for a moral lesson, listen up kiddies. I have often in dating made the "oh give him another chance" mistake. I mostly blame my friends (oh, and my self esteem issues). you see when you're single and not so thrilled with it and friends with a lot of married ladies who want nothing more then to live vicariously through your (theoretically) exciting single life it goes something like this:

Friend Who is Sick of My Whining: How was your date?
Me: ehhhh ok i guess.
FWiSoMW: Was he cute?
Me: Sure
FWiSoMW: Did he do anything weird?
Me: Well... I dunno, I guess not.
FWiSoMW: Give him another chance!
Me: But... not funny... and.... kind of boring....
FWiSoMW: He was nervous! And shy! ANOTHER CHANCE!

And so a second date, and sometimes a third and I never get any more into it and the dumping is even more painful than it might have been. I'm not usually one to argue for intuition over facts but dating is a unique little beastie and one should probably just go with her gut. Lesson over.

But back to Slick and our date #2 which I agreed to because "but you were on TV! That didn't count! He's cute!" We went to a wine bar which is how I ended up at his apartment at 3am. Well, that and the promise of meeting his dog -- I'm a sucker for dogs. The dog was nowhere near the coolest thing in his apartment. He lived in a small studio in the East Village which would have been ho hum if it weren't for the HANGING BED. He (or, I suspect, one of his smarter friends) had rigged up a pulley system for the bed that allowed you to push the entire thing up flush with the ceiling or pull it down to dangle in the middle of the living room for sleeping. He even had counter weight book shelves! Frankly, this changed everything. I mean, sure, he was kind of boring and weirdly eager and not too bright but when would I get another chance to experience the wonder of a hanging bed? And wasn't the existence of the hanging bed a sign that deep down under the sweater vest and all of that hair gel he was probably a totally cool guy? I managed to resist slutting it out for the bed that night but things got even worse when I started telling people about the bed. My Settlers of Catan buddies at work put it best, "Well, you pretty much have to go out with this guy like 12 more times cause after 5 dates you can probably bring your girl friends by his place but you'd have to be pretty serious to get away with inviting over a bunch of random nerdy dudes from your office and WE TOTALLY NEED TO SEE THIS BED."

And so... a third date. We met for coffee, mostly because I couldn't imagine spending more than an hour with this dude without falling asleep. Mid coffee drinking he started to tell me a story about his recent bar tending gig. Apparently one of his coworkers was kind of annoying and so one day during the time when the supposed jerk was in charge of the till Slick took a bunch of money out of the cash register and put it into his pocket. And then jerk guy got fired for losing/stealing the money! and Slick got to keep the cash! HILARIOUS, right? No. Who shares stories about that funny time when they stole some money? Crazy, boring, not so smart guys who looks ok on the outside but turn out to be not worthy of a date 4 no matter how cool their bed might be. And so me and the swinging bed were never to meet again because while I might sacrifice my virtue for the sake of playing Jane and Tarzan in a swinging boudoir I could not ignore the fact that Tarzan was a baboon.

Move Over Bacon

2009-01-08T17:29:00.003-05:00

Bacon is over. It was fun a few years ago when the world first discovered the novelty of adding bacon to everyday foods but it's 2009 and bacon has officially jumped the shark. Searching for "bacon" on youtube yields 22,100 results. a Google search results in 45,700,000 hits. There is bacon chocolate, bacon brittle, bacon ice cream, bacon fried steak, bacon bacon burgers, bacon bandaides, a bacon tiara... I have even found numerous web pages suggesting one fashion a bacon condom, have sex and then... make breakfast. Enough.

I don't dislike bacon. It's salty and sweet and meaty. It makes a good addition to most foods. It's cheap. It's fun to eat. it's meat candy. I KNOW. But seriously -- it's way overdone. Its gotten to the point where every wannabe foodie in America has given up on actual creativity in favor of stacking bacon on top of any old crap and calling it genius. It is all but impossible for me to meet any new bacon application with anything other than a roll of the eyes. It's time for a new food king; a new condiment to rule them all; a new bacon.

Obviously the new bacon needs to be tasty but taste alone will not be enough for our new ultimate additive. Bacon is ubiquitous because it is a pretty snazzy little food and its replacement will have to be equally exceptional. Bacon 2.0 will need to be as appealing atop a burger as it is mixed into ice cream. It will need to be cheap and prevalent enough that most Americans can easily afford to experiment. And, perhaps most importantly and certainly most elusively, it will have to have a certain flair. People like bacon because adding it to food serves as a big fuck you to doctors, vegetarians, that muscle-y guy in the gym, cholesterol and every other flag waver in our diet conscious society. They may have thin thighs and a long life span but we have smoked pork belly! Piling on the bacon gives people the little adrenaline rush of being naughty and its replacement has to give us a similar spark of rebellion (without really risking all that much, I'm leaving out contenders that might actually kill you, sorry blowfish).

And so without further ado I bring you the foods that might save us all from frat boys, bloggers and lazy chefs waving around strips of bacon like the checkered flag in the Digg Bait 500.

Tabasco

Tabasco is already one of those foods that showoffs turn to less for flavor than for bravado yet I think it has a lot of untapped potential to bring the party to new foods. I'm especially intrigued by the idea of sweet tobasco preparations. The torrid love affair between chili and chocolate has already been well established by the likes of Jacque Torres but I want to try tobasco creme brulee. Another advantage is that tobasco is cheap and can be added to almost anything with a simple shake of the bottle (no actually purchasing or cutting up of chilies required). Sadly, liquids are at a bit of a disadvantage in this competition if only because no one will ever be able to fashion a Tobasco bra unless they hunt down the actual chilies and a girl with especially callous nipples.

Gorgonzola Cheese

I know everyone has wet panties for pork fat but I'll take cheese over pig any day. (Did I just use cheese, pork and a reference to my panties in the same sentence? Yes. Sexy, right?). Gorgonzola also has the bonus of being a strong flavor that can probably hold up any dish, I've had it both on a burger and bathed in honey and loved each dish equally. I am excited about the possibility of gorgonzola ice cream and gorgonzola chocolate truffles, but somehow gorgonzola doesn't have the hype of some of the other contenders. Despite being fattening and flavorful and badass-y (you're eating mold!) I can't really see chefs and foodies getting into an uproar over the concept of blue cheese slathered all over breakfast lunch and dinner.

Chicken Schmaltz

Like bacon, schmaltz is cheap peasant fare made up almost entirely of fat. It certainly has the flavor profile to elbow itself into the starring role in any dish it enters but I'm not sure the flavor is really that easy to marry to other food. Not even my adventurous stomach feels ready for the likes of chicken fat ice cream and I'm not even sure that I'm that interested in a schmaltz burger. Also, you'd pretty much have to make schmaltz at home and most of us are way too lazy to do that.

Bourbon

Like tobasco, bourbon suffers from the sin of being liquid. That said I think bourbon is well positioned to take over -- it has a strong, easily identifiable flavor that tastes great with sweet or savory preparations and high cholesterol has nothing on alcoholism when it comes to badassness.

Duck Confit

Duck confit might be most able to compete with bacon for the title of "food most likely to serve as the catalyst for a coronary indecent." since it actually comes enshrined in a shiny coating of rendered duck fat. It's also the ingredient that I'm most intrigued with from an experimentation perspective -- duck confit mac and cheese? yes. duck confit and eggs? yes. duck confit donut? YES. I do worry a bit that duck doesn't have the flavor punch of bacon -- it would taste great in almost anything but doesn't assert itself in a way that inspires total devotion. I also expect people to argue that duck confit is too fancy pants to be considered easily accessible but I was able to walk into a corner grocery and buy a leg for $6.99 (This may be easier to do in NYC than Iowa City but I assure you that New York is often no prize winner when it comes to exceptional grocery stores ). However, duck confit also has the extra cache of being French and is there anything more rebellious than loving the French?

So who wins? Whose combo of flavor and flair reigns supreme? Personally I like anything enshrined in fat almost as much as I like pissing off people in Alabama with my love for the French so I gotta go duck confit but I'm open to being schooled in the comments.

Hickory, Dickory, Crap.

2008-12-30T20:42:00.003-05:00

I accidentally acquired a chinchilla about 5 years ago when a friend asked me to watch him while she was on vacation and then refused to take him back. He's a cute little guy and we have a symbiotic relationship that is based entirely on me giving him banana chips and craisins and him giving me big puppy eyes that send the message "more craisins please!". Chinchillas are generally pretty solitary dudes and so I thought Mr. Grumps preferred the bachelor life free of chinchilla ladies who, one assumes, will not shut up about how you never clean up your cage (human ladies have also been known to bitch about this). However, recent events seem to indicate that I have misjudged Grump-n-stuff, in his old age he seems to be inviting friends over to party down at his place.

The fact that my crib was a new trendy hang out first became evident a couple of weeks ago when I turned on the kitchen light and *thought* I saw a scurrying in the corner. I chose to deal with this potential situation in the same way I deal with the very slow drain in my bathroom and how bad my hair looks most mornings: ignore it in hopes that it'll go away. No such luck. On the 19th when G and I returned from our preChristmas Christmas celebration we were greeted by a special holiday gift from my apparently very appreciative house guest(s). Mouse turds. On my couch. Now I know that admitting this discovery likely means that none of my human friends will ever come over to my house again but honestly I'm not that troubled by the presence of a mouse (or, heaven forbid, mice) my general feeling is "hell, this beats bugs." Which isn't to say that I want them to feel welcome.

Soon after cleaning the poops off of my furniture G caught sight of the poop maker crawling swiftly up the side of the chinchilla cage. And what was the chinchilla doing while his abode was turned into a jungle gym? Chilling in the corner all nonchalant and "oh, hey little dude, how's it going?" Obviously I had to have a little chat with Grump-a-roonie. I let him hang at my place, rent free I might add, and he goes and invites over a bunch of other rodents to mooch off the free grub? Talk about not earning your banana chips. But once the lecture was over I had to stop stalling and actually confront the mouse situation. We moved the chinchilla cage away from the wall and discovered two things: 1. A huge gap between the floor and the base board known as The Transcontinental Mouse Highway and 2. The world's largest collection of mouse turdlettes. Again, I know everyone now thinks I live in squalor but remember this: I haven't seen a waterbug in over a year.

There was much talk of mousetraps but despite the stirring of mice it was mere nights before Christmas and I was on my way to California for 7 days the next morning. Ultimately I decided that I would rather come home to a mouse infested house then a dead and possibly rotting corpse. Instead we stuffed all of my excess brillo pads into the mouth of the mouse hole, pushed the cage back against the wall and went to brunch.

Special note to Amy: So now you know that I let you come over and feed Grumpzilla while a mouse scurried about. Sorry, I realize this is especially cruel given your painful history of mice infesting your room in college but I couldn't let Grumpers starve so I figured what you didn't know... and look, you lived through it! Don't you feel stronger?

It took less than 12 hours back in the NYC to discover that The Rodent Boom Boom Room was still in operation. As we sat lounging on the couch bemoaning the passing of days spent lounging on the couch the little mouse invader again scaled the chinchilla cage. This time we were on to the bugger. G saw him on top of the cage but did not spy him climbing down and with a cursory review of the covered box that I keep on top of the chinchilla cage (and full of chinchilla food) found a mouse sized hole gnawed into the back corner. Figuring the mouse was trapped I told G to flip the box over so the hole was on top and the mouse was (hopefully) trapped inside (you'll note that despite my lack of mouse shame I am still unwilling to touch the box that the mouse is inside of, this is how I retain my girl status). We stuck a book on top of the hole and I sent G to release his catch out into the cold outside far far away from my house. He had barely gotten down the stairs when I heard the screams.

Apparently up until that morning my boyfriend didn't know that mice could crawl up walls and his little heart (and lazy little feet) wanted to double check that the mouse was in the box before he ventured down the street. So he removed the book from the hole and his curiosity was rewarded with a face full of mouse. Were this a cartoon or a snippet or America's "Funniest" Home Videos here is where we'd cut to the "Mouse: 1 Humans: 0" scoreboard panel. If you, like me, are holding out hope that a mouse can't possibly be brazen or smart enough to climb back upstairs and return to the scene of his capture you would, sadly, be wrong.

So we resorted to traps. I went into the drugstore with the intention of buying some hippy-ass no kill traps but apparently much like organic food and shops selling hipster knick knacks Astoria isn't ready for letting their mice run free. So in an attempt to further alienate myself from everyone I know ("She has mice in her house and she kills them! dirty and evil! let's string 'er up!") I bought your standard "put cheese here and watch mice die a gruesome death" traps. Now, every morning I wake up and steal myself to peak inside of the box in hopes and fear of finding a mouse corpse. But, despite my best efforts, my homicide record is still clean. Of course this means that my house is infested with some super smart race of mice that is untrappable, next thing you know they'll raise an army of waterbugs and I'll be forced to live on the street.

Pay It Forward

2008-12-14T21:14:00.006-05:00

Long ago in a land known as September Gillian posted the Pay it Forward challenge on her blog and I managed to snag a coveted IOU for Gillian made treats. Then less long ago in November she gave me a shiny tin full of two different kinds of chocolate chip cookies which were so amazing that the next day G and I took them to the zoo and chose to eat roughly 15 cookies each rather than get a real lunch. And then last week I had to get a personal trainer to work off the cookies. And this week it's your chance to get fat.

The first 3 people to comment on this post will receive a Brianna made goodie provided you're willing to submit to the contests rules:

I agree to send something fun, cute, and nice to the first 3 blog owners who post a comment on this entry. In turn, those three will post this information and pick 3 people they want to send something to and so on. ~~Unfortunately, due to postage costs, I can only pay it forward within the United States.~~ If you are interested in participating, be one of the first 3 blog owners to leave a comment!

You have to promise that you will then post about this on your blog, link to me, and then send something to the first three people who comment on your blog so that this continues. When the first three have commented I will email you a request for your shipping address and I will send out something that I hope will make you smile!

A Letter to My Personal Trainer

2008-12-08T22:34:00.003-05:00

Hi! I am writing you this letter in hopes that you will find me hilarious and then you'll like me and probably not want to yell at me and/or make comments about how fat I am. This also seems like a good opportunity to warn you about my personal workout quirks. Firstly, you should not take the fact that I joined the Gym and just threw out the term "workout" all casual-like as an indication that I'm a Gym Person. I don't much enjoy feeling the burn or paying for gain with pain or running. I have also noticed that working out has a horrible return on investment. For example on Friday I did 30 minutes on the elliptical machine and apparently only burned 235 calories. Do you have any idea how many pieces of pumpkin pie I could eat in 30 minutes?

When you called last week to confirm our appointment I was glad that you were a dude. I had this fear that you'd be a girl exactly my height who weighed 50lbs less then me and who would say things like, "See my thighs? Yours are a lot bigger." I am still hoping that you are gay so that you can occasionally compliment my ass in a totally nonthreatening sort of way.

I am super not interested in being weighed at the gym. I lost 40lbs a few years ago and since then regularly weigh myself at home but I fear using a new scale which could show me as heavier and that could cause me to have a break down here in the gym. I would probably cry and that would probably be embarrassing for both of us so let's just stay away from the scale. I lost my weight through a diet I invented called "I Have a Very Acute Sense of Personal Guilt." Basically I wrote down everything I ate and felt so badly about eating fattening things that I eventually learned to avoid them. I never increased my exercise though I am naturally a "if it's only 3 subways stops away you might as well walk" kind of girl.

Despite all of my stated fears that you will make moo-ing noises at me while I stumble my way through a step routine I don't really think I'm fat. I just think that Gym People have ridiculous standards. Most of my fear of fat stems from the fact that I gained about 10lbs this summer and am having a tortuous time trying to lose it. This has lead to daily hallucinations in which I wake up one morning suddenly so fat that I can't actually fit through the door of my bedroom. On the bright side I don't usually keep food in my bedroom so this could turn into the most effective diet regime ever.

The main problem I have is that I really like food. Have you noticed how delicious it is? Here is a brief list of a few things that I very much wish I was eating right now: salt and vinegar potato chips, won ton soup, Greek yogurt with honey and almonds, pasta with really spicy sausage and broccoli, heirloom tomato salad with fresh mozzarella, Ben and Jerry's coffee coffee buzz buzz ice cream, left over thanksgiving stuffing, blue cheese with the black truffle honey that they make at Otto... I could go on. You'll note that I am not eating any of those things right now which is a sign of my incredible self control. If denying yourself food burned calories I would weigh 4 lbs.

I suppose you're going to ask me what my goals are. Gym people probably answer this question with things like "get a six pack!" or "run a marathon" or "work it." Mostly I want to eat more yummy food without getting fat. I would also like to avoid getting older and having some doctor say, "you have a life threatening disease that could have been prevented by doing a few sit ups 3 years ago." I would also like to find a way to see working out as fun. I know other people speak of this mythical feeling that washes over them post workout (perhaps it's in the sweat?) but though I promise I have done plenty of sweating I have never experienced this. I suspect the whole workout high thing is like magic eye posters -- i.e. a vast conspiracy maintained by all of humanity only to make fun of me. Would I like to be stronger, or more toned, or able to leap tall building in a single bound? Of course, but I need to be realistic. I will likely only make it to the gym 3 times in a good week. I will likely only stay for 30-45 minutes. I will likely behave as if this makes me some sort of martyr/hero combo pack.

Can we work together or shall I find the nearest Korean yogurt to drown my sorrows in (only 90 calories!)?

Winner Parade Entry 5: Fight! Fight! Fight!

2008-12-01T21:28:00.003-05:00

After some initial eye rolling I have come to love Facebook -- this is mostly due to the iphone application which allows me to while away the minutes I spend waiting for late trains stalking my friends. The great thing to hate about facebook is not how easy it makes for other to stalk me since I generally encourage all citizens of the internet to embrace the fascinating reality that is Brianna but how difficult it is to avoid people whose 5 times a day updates on their latest crush, sandwich topping or bowel movement has you threatening to swear off the internet all together. So I am coy when it comes to approving friend requests because I hate being left with a news feed full of minutia about people I didn't like in person, much less in digital. I am also coy when it comes to hitting "Ignore" because I am a huge wimp who hates to digitally offend people even when they're people I don't much care for. However there are some for whom ignoring is all too sweet.

I received a friend request this morning from someone I was hoping I did not know. In his profile picture he is wearing a prison uniform. I am going to give him the benefit of the doubt that this is a Halloween costume and not his mandated wardrobe. His chosen hair style seems a bit harder to explain away. His head is shaved and the part of it that is not disfigured with an unsightly mole (one imagines he was surprised to pull the razor away and find that little genetic gift) is covered with a huge (likely fake) tribal tattoo. I have to admit that were any of my friends to go the extra Halloween mile and pull out the Bic I would think they were awesome. But the difference between all of my friends and this guy is that my friends actually are awesome.

Sadly, I do know this boy -- much more intimately than I care to admit. Be glad I sometimes think of this blog as a confessional. This is a boy I once had the mental retardation to agree to making out with during my senior year of college. This is probably the single most embarrassing hook up in a somewhat lengthy 800 car pile-up of bad dating decisions. I met him at a Frat party (I know.). Obviously I was drunk-ish. Later that night, in a the most poorly executed attempt to get in my pants ever, he told me how he and his brothers were really into "fighting." Not boxing or even "ultimate fighting" which might even be a real sport but just, "fighting". This was listed as a sort of hobby like "ya, my bros and I like to get together on Sundays for a rowdy game of monopoly followed by baking bread and gossiping all night!" Except with fewer descriptive words, "I like to fight." At this point I knew two things 1. I would have to devote the rest of the year to avoiding eye contact in the lunch line and 2. We better do some more kissing before he starts jabbering again and makes things even worse. Luckily, this young man seemed to sense that we just weren't made for each other ("Yeah, I met this girl last night, she mentioned that she likes to eat ice cream. Like that's hobby! I told her to check out fighting. Anyway, total loser.") until one night at least 2 months later when he called me at 3am to see if I wanted to "hang out." I'm not sure why one would even bother with a euphemism for "get it on" during such an obvious booty call -- unless he was actually calling looking for some hard core fightin' action. Either way I giggled and hung up.

While its tempting to approve his friend request in hopes of receiving hilarious status updates about fighting ("Kick to the groin! I am HE MAN!!!") I cannot risk this dude tracking me down for kissing. Or fighting, "Ignore."

Got Vampire Sex? No.

2008-11-20T23:53:00.003-05:00

Vampire Porn spoiler alert.

The Twilight books contain no sex. This is especially shocking because the books are essentially paragraph after paragraph of foreplay with a little blood letting mixed in for spice.

I'm only half way through book four but let me summarize the plot for those of you who are not drooling over the books between multiple viewing of High School Musical 3:

Angst. Mope. Oh Hottie. Ahh Vampire! Mmmmm Vampire! Love. Love. Love. Love. TRAGEDY. Depression. Doom. Whining. Angst. LOVE. Love. Maybe they'll get it on. Love. Love. Minor scary bit. Survived! Totally time for sex now. LOVE. Oh. I see we're going to be all chivalrous about the pootang. FINE. Wedding. Yawn. OK SEXY TIME IS NOW. Skinny dipping! HERE COMES THE BOOTY! Morning After. Wait.... let me go back a page. wtf? W? T? F? I WANT MY NAUGHTY VAMPIRE SMUT!

Now obviously I was super upset to find out that the books would be skipping over all of the good stuff, but mostly I was worried about the children. I know we usually give all of the hormone credit to teenage boys, but naughty girls need love too. And while the lads have Hustler and The Girls Next Door and looking up "fine art" in the encyclopedia, lassies are left with far fewer options for scratching the hormonal itch, so I think it's especially cruel for these books to be such a cunt tease.

I may be 30 years old, but I promise you that I am very in touch with the pulse of adolescence. A friend once even told me that I was perpetually 15 years old and, though this is the biggest insult ever and a curse worse than death, it makes me uniquely qualified to speak on behalf of teenage girls everywhere in the following letter to Stefanie Meyers, the author of the Twilight series:

Dear Stef,

I am 14 years old. My life already sucks A LOT. I have acne and braces and all of the boys in my school are losers. My parents have installed Net Nanny™ on the family computer. It will be at least 4 years until I go off to college where, god willing, no one will ever find out that my mom still only buys me Barbie panties because college boys are way too mature to pants someone in the lunch line. If they even have lunch lines in college which they probably do not because everyone is too busy drinking coffee and writing poetry to care about tater tots. Anyways. All I wanted. Nay, all I NEEDED to get me through high school was a little sweet vicarious vampire loving. Why must you deny me this you evil Mormon harpy?

Sincerly,
Every 14 Year Old Girl In America (except the slutty ones)

But this letter speaks not only for the girl next door but for the girl next door to 1601 Pennsylvania Ave. According to US Weekly, Barack is reading Twilight with his daughters. I'm going to ignore the fact that this is the single creepiest thing since Purity Balls and just say that I am 100% certain that Barack does not want to have to teach his little girl about the vampire loving and that he would be super happy if Ms. Meyer's would just do that for him. Unfortunately, she hates freedom.

Certain that there were some patriotic perverts out on the web, I did what any independent adult with unfettered access to the internet would do. I began searching for fan fiction. Surely someone had taken care of Meyer's oversight with a little vampire P in the human V short story action and perhaps my good deed of the millennium could be distributing this smut to junior high students nationwide. So I sorted through every Twilight themed entry on the Adult Fan Fic site (putting myself at great risk of spoiling the ending of book four I might note). There were werewolf on vampire stories, group vampire orgy stories, vampires as cowboy lover stories and even one vampire on Hogwarts entry. (I AM NOT KIDDING ). But apparently NO ONE has thought to write the most obvious and necessary of all perverted internet content: hot young virgin gets more than bitten.

And so I say, Internet Perverts, This is your big chance to do what Ms. Meyers could not! The Twilight movie comes out today, this shit is about to go VIRAL and you could ride its coat tails. Get to ye olde keyboard and start typing up that smut because I promise you that whomever can capture the passion of "Edward and Bella: Horizontal Feasting" will be the most famous creepy dude on the tubes. You might even get a cabinet post.

Road Trip: Las Vegas to Bishop, CA

2008-11-18T13:24:00.004-05:00

There are at least 3 roads leading from civilization to my hometown of Bishop, CA and all of them travel through the middle of desolation. There are very few towns, very few other cars and no cell phone service. The closest airport is four hours away in Reno but nonstop flights are practically nonexistent and even the flights with detours in Denver (not my favorite place ) are usually super pricey. I tend to start my drive in Las Vegas where flight costs are subsidized by the casinos and the drive home is an hour longer.

I made this drive on Saturday in a rented PT Cruiser even though I had been promised an inconspicuous Ford Focus. This is the 3rd time a rental car company has stuck me with a surprise cruiser and I have to assume this is some elaborate practical joke for the people of Hertz.

Once you escape the clutches of Vegas suburbs you can kiss civilization goodbye. You'll pass through the Las Vegas Paiute reservation and the Air Force base in Indian Springs which skirts the edge of Area 51. There will not be any aliens or government secrets to spy on -- only a minimart with the claim of "Last Gas Before Area 51!" One assumes that aliens have access to alternative fuels.

The only real town you'll pass through is Beatty which, though it was once featured on an episode of that Aaron Spelling SNL show as a rough and tumble cowpoke town, is actually an old mining town which now is mostly occupied by the gas station Eddie's World. I discovered Saturday that they're laying claim to the title "most beautiful gas station in the world" which I guess might be true -- they do have a turret outside. I tried to twitter from here with that sunset picture on the left but it turns out Beatty is not exactly iphone friendly. For some reason the market at Eddie's World specializes in bulk dry goods. There are no nut trees, gummy bear factories or pea plants within 200 miles of the outpost but the store is filled with 2lbs bags of snack food. I bought some rice crackers on the theory that they were more healthy than corn nuts which is probably not at all true.

Outside of Beatty the road is peppered with whore houses my favorite of which (yeah, I have a favorite whore house, doesn't everyone?) is "The Shady Lady" which is housed in a trailer. I guess I can imagine some trucker needing some loving on the road and even imagine maybe paying for it (imagine, not condone) but I'd think that even a dirty trucker dude would be all "a trailer? HELL NO." Apparently not.

There are two ways to get from Beatty to Bishop, the normal way and the Horst Klemm way. Dad's way is admittedly about 50 miles shorter than the other way but it also takes you along a windy mountain road that prohibits speeds in excess of crawling so I fid his claims that it's faster somewhat dubious. The road is also famous for making people who don't usually get car sick demand frequent puke break (and by people I mean me). This has no effect on Dad's insistent that this be the road of choice for my entire childhood. Regardless of the speed and high probability of barfing I'm enough of Daddy's girl to always take his road -- assuming I can find it. The turn off appears suddenly in the middle of dessert, it used to be marked by the Cottentail Ranch (that's ranch as in "we have girls who will sleep with you for money" not, "we have cows") but that was raised a couple of years ago and now I have to consider the implications of not being able to find my way home without the becon of a brothal to light my way.

CA 168 travels through the White Mountains and would be beautiful if i didn't drive it every time I wanted to go to Wet Seal from the ages of 10-18. In the 85 miles from NV to the 395 turn off in CA I passed 4 other cars and almost ran over 2 mice, a rabbit and a fox. I also almost got into 45 car accidents as I tried to push the PT above 45 on curve after curve. I eventually made it to town, passed the radio station, the BBQ Bills, the feed store with a huge red horse statue outside, the garish dutch bakery in the middle of town, the sad empty former home of KMart, and my parents house. It was probalby worth the 11 hours of travel time.