Archive for July, 2008
The Salad Ballroom hit its first major snag Sunday evening, when I caught a man having a conversation with his elderly father over whether the crab-pasta salad was mayonnaise based. You’d think that by the very nature of its WHITE CREAMINESS and PASTA SALAD-NESS that its mayo-ness (lots of OBVIOUS NESSES) was a total no-shitter, but apparently, you would be wrong. You be wrong, because the man actually DIPPED HIS FINGER INTO THE PASTA SALAD AND LICKED IT, and continued on his merry way. And later, OH LATER, I watched him do the same to the poppyseed dressing WITH THE SAME FINGER.
I think this is why people are afraid of salad bars. I just happened to have lived my 32 and a half years without witnessing such an incident first-hand. But I ask you: how the HELL do you not know if a) a WHITE CREAMY PASTA SALAD has mayo in it (Hint: IT DOES); or b) what poppyseed dressing tastes like? I’m sorry, but if you don’t know the answers to either a) or b), then you don’t have the right to visit a salad bar. They should do random spot checks for such knowledge to avoid such vomitous contamination.
In other, equally stomach-churning news, it seems my basil plants have Japanese beetles. And folks, I’m PISSED. I LOVE my basil plants and use them almost every day, and while I really don’t want to go on about how absurdly proud I am of my garden (I’ll tell anyone who walks, “Hi! I HAVE A GARDEN AND IT IS AWESOME”), the truth is that I AM, and I’m not in any mood to tolerate any little iridescent beetle eviscerating my preshus baby basil plants.
Unfortunately, they were able to nearly eviscerate me, for when I went out and bought the traps (DIE BEETLES DIE), no sooner had I peeled off the protective backing to the bait was I — I mean, my body, my head, my PERSON — completely swarmed with beetles. As in, I later unearthed a beetle carcass from my bra. That shit is apparently uh, attractive to them. Too bad I was too much of a dumbass to put it ON TOP of my basil plants, thereby leading them to the food source. (Am smart.) This is total evidence that I should not have a garden and further evidence of such claims is that I found a set of mating earwigs in a lettuce head I’d just harvested and proceeded to THROW the lettuce across the room in my kitchen, losing the earwigs entirely. Somewhere in my kitchen there is a set of mating earwigs spreading their pinchy assedness throughout my entire house. GRAH. See also: screaming fits when encountering garden slugs.
Can you tell there isn’t much going on here, other than work and sweat, work and sweat, work, sweat and Dexter (season two, y’all!)? Well, that, and a visit to a farmer’s market with a friend tomorrow (artisan cheese!), and if THAT’S not riveting, I don’t know what is.
Also, look, there’s been something kind of big I’ve been keeping from you — from everyone, really — and I’m not sure how I can go on. Many people know my secret because I’ve really sucked at keeping it, and was hoping to NEVER EVER HAVE TO ADMIT IT, EVER.
I joined Twitter. Ski slopes are being groomed in Hell.
I don’t even know WHY I joined — on a Friday night, no less — but I do know that I did it on a total whim, decided to “follow” (WORST TERM EVER) Sundry, who unfortunately knew of my Twitter-hate, and within ten seconds had a direct message with little more than “HAAAAAAAAAAAAA”, followed by a similar one from Whoorl saying the same. There was a lot of laughing at my expense, and while I still hate it, sort of, I’m USING IT. AND EMBARRASSED ABOUT IT. BUT IT’S NOT STOPPING ME.
And now you know. Mock me, for I deserve it. I mocked Twitter mercilessly and now I’m uh, Tweeting (GROSS). Someone hold me or stone me or something. Because I am a hypocritical piece of crap, I KNOW.
(Between you and me, I’m only outing myself because Tessie and Swistle joined and I felt like I was HIDING when I followed them, because surprise! AM TWITTERING.)
Happy Wednesday!
*The Vapors
July 8th, 2008
Oh hi! How was your holiday? Did you eat hamburgers? Ribs? Chicken? Corn on the cob? CHECK CHECK CHECK AND CHECK over here, and they were all delicious.
We went to Syracuse — well, Manlius, if you feel like getting VERY SPECIFIC — and spent the weekend with my brother-in-law, his wife and their two wee ones, ages 7 months and two years. And let me tell you, that bit of age difference is something I’m not sure I can handle, and I think my sister-in-law should be awarded some sort of life-size medal of honor made of solid gold ingots or perhaps a lifetime of creme brulee on demand — a fountain of creme brulee, if you will. Because MY GOD. No no. I don’t want two kids that close together, no thank you. And to those of you who do, the next time I see you, I’ll bring you copious amounts of the dessert of your choosing, only because I can’t afford that many gold ingots. My sister-in-law is a trouper, nay A HERO.
(Also, can we talk about how much it bothers me when people use trooper in lieu of trouper? Yes, I realize it doesn’t make sense, and this makes me utterly obnoxious, but it IS trouper, as in a person who is a solid performer under any circumstances. As in, THE SHOW MUST GO ON. Trooper also makes sense in the “brave little soldier” concept, but it’s not really correct in the traditional sense, sadly. I also feel this way about sherbet and sherbert, as I’ve discussed before.) (SHERBET OMG.)
(This is how I’m becoming my mother, the woman who refuses to call a chaise longue anything but. Oh, you thought it was chaise lounge? No no, it’s French for “long chair”. And if you say otherwise, my mother will publicly correct you and engage in a lively discussion about its etymological significance, at which point you will be in equal parts charmed and incredibly annoyed.)
The weekend included snacking on the aforementioned delicious nephews, the older of whom has an utterly charming habit of answering “Mm HMM!” in the affirmative, in addition to shouting, “I LOVE YOU AUNTIE JONNA” on command, while the younger one will shamelessly flirt with anyone who smiles at him. It was the sort of weekend that summer holidays are meant for — a whole lot of nothing except barbecuing out and helping kids in the sandbox. Oh, and there were fireworks. Finally.
And there was Target. OH YES. TARGET. HOW COULD I FORGET. Honestly? It was even sweeter this time. I hate to admit this, lest I sound all consumerist and obnoxious and stuff, because I live in God’s country, and big box stores are frowned upon, I KNOW I KNOW. But something in me changed the second I smelled the store and I became more excited than I’d been in a long time, which makes it that much more disappointing in that a) I only spent $140, which is getting off easy for a Target trip, as any addict will tell you; and b) the majority of that cash was spent on an ungodly amount of Method products, for while I have and use all green products, right down to the laundry soap, NOTHING is as good as Method. Nothing. They have everything, and yes, I know, it sort of defeats the purpose by buying environmentally friendly products that come on giant trucks that burn oil oil OIL, but sometimes a girl has to smell ylang ylang in her clean shower mist, you know?
And finally, I had blood work done last week — one a routine glucose test, the other my thyroid levels — and the ogre-like womanbeast who drew my blood positively BUTCHERED me, I’m sorry, she did. I’m not usually squeamish about needles and blood and whatever, but not only did I almost faint, but I have a bruise extending the length of my upper arm, starting at the tender inside where she conducted her cruel bloodletting. Insult is only added to injury when I learned that while my thyroid levels are blessedly normal, my glucose is a little high and guess who’s been advised to cut down on the sweets during prime creme brulee season? The same person who is now STARVING and off to make herself, I don’t know, a BOWL OF BROCCOLI or something. Pah.
Happy Monday!
*Yo La Tengo
July 6th, 2008
Our phone number must be similar to that of a woman named Edna, and let me tell you: Edna gets around. I’ve received multiple phone messages confirming dates with Edna, despite the fact that our answering machine CLEARLY STATES, “Hi, you’ve reached ADAM AND JONNA” and at least twice a week — sometimes daily — I answer the phone for people seeking Edna and at least half of them are men who are clearly in the twilight of their lives in search of what sounds like a … a … well, it sounds like a mid-afternoon booty call, which is I guess what happens when you’re too old to stay up past 8 p.m. Today, a gentleman caller offered with a laugh, “Well YOU sound pretty! Do you want to have coffee? I’ll tell Edna to take a boot in the ear!”
This is all somewhat related to the fact that a quick glance at Google made me realize that I fall into the demographic of the … cougars. I’m … I could be a cougar? I think being a cougar requires a firmer waistline and a lot more swingy hair, and while no, I didn’t harbor any notions that I was young and nubile, being mocked as a potential dating prospect by the younger generation is a bit of a slap in the face. Thank God I’m married, is all I’m saying. This knowledge comes on the heels of the fact that I realized that I can no longer watch MTV without getting an enormous headache from the agony and woe that has befallen the youth of our nation. I weep for you, youth of our nation. WEEP.
Thank you for all of the tips re: the washing machine situation, and for the record, and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, I was talking to my mom on the phone and idly started doing an empty hot vinegar load and realized too late that I just filled the washing machine with two cups of red wine vinegar instead of the white vinegar I intended to grab. This is information you all probably have already, but red wine vinegar smells like a salad and it lingers. Ergo, while my towels no longer smell like the inside of someone’s ass, they DO have the vague sensibility of a salad bar.
Which reminds me of the OTHER big thrill this week, which is that we discovered a restaurant that has — my fingers are trembling at the memory — a Salad BALLROOM. That is, it has an entire ROOM devoted to all things Salad Bar and say what you will about salad bars and their cleanliness, a) I’ve never had a problem (oh ha ha, let’s JINX OURSELVES, why don’t we?); and b) I’m not particularly squeamish and I don’t eat things like say, CHUNKS OF HAM resting in a mysteriously viscous liquid. (I honestly just gagged. GAGGED). No, no, I stick to the uh, salads and fresh-type things, but mostly, I’m after the accoutrements like soups, pickles and croutons. Also, there is c) like anything, you should only eat salad bars from reputable places and this place is KNOWN for its SALAD BALLROOM.
Anyway, where I was I? I was distracted by the grand ballroom of salads. Ahem. What I meant to say before I got caught up in all of this Salad Talk was that not only does my washing machine smell like a freshly tossed salad (and wow, that works in every possible meaning of that phrase, doesn’t it?), but when it reaches maximum spin, it shakes the entire house — most specifically, our bed — like a 1970s-style PORN BED. It would be pornier if it were more subtle, and also if, say, the windows weren’t rattling off like a train was whizzing past the station. And all this is a rather daunting challenge for a person who loves to do laundry as much as I.
And with that, I’m off to watch more Dexter and pass out into the drooly abyss where I may or may not drown myself, but not before I make a surprise trip to the grocery store, because someone, I swear to God it’s not even ME, thought I said “Skittles” when in fact I’d said I’d bought “Sunkist” and is now lying supine like Cleopatra demanding a married-people joint trip to the store for Skittles. And who I am I to refuse a CANDY-RELATED ROAD TRIP?
Happy Wednesday!
*Poi Dog Pondering, which was given to me on a mix by my friend Andy, whose father is a dentist and hits the bong EVERY NIGHT before he goes to bed. HA HA. That kills me.
July 1st, 2008
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