Arrest-room

On one of the episodes of "Enter the Chasm"- the podcast I was creating and co-hosting, I discussed one of my biggest pet peeves. Due to technical difficulties, this portion of the show never aired, but I still felt it was an interesting enough topic that I would instead write about it here.

What's my latest pet peeve? Bathroom attendants.

I know, I am horrible, and I apologize to anyone reading this who makes a living doing this job, but I can't stand walking into a bathroom with an attendant there. It's like walking into a coffee shop and having an employee walk you to your table, stand there, and ready to wipe any crumbs from your muffin off your table. And then expecting a tip. I can wipe off my own muffin, thank you very much.

I guess I've gotten particularly annoyed lately because I seem to keep running into them. About a year ago, I went to see a show at Rams Head Live. After dropping dough on parking, getting a ticket to the event, and buying a bottle of beer (Budweiser, for God's sake) I realized my funds were dwindling. I finally had to make a quick trip to the bathroom and as soon as I pop in, there she was. Complete with a big basket of toiletries and fresheners, she stood waiting, soap pump in hand.

I silently groaned, but what could I do? Nature was calling and I was already in her lair. Once inside the stall I sorted through whatever bills I had left- only to discover the smallest I had was a five.

Now I believe I have also made it abundantly clear that I am a rather cheap person. So the thought of forking over a $5 for someone to squirt some soap and hand me a paper towel seemed not only indulgent, but insidious.

Still, I am also a fearful, timid, and guilt-ridden individual, so the thought of trying to quickly squirt my own soap and grab a towel, sheepishly sneaking out without dropping money into her little glass jar made me even sicker to my stomach than my Budweiser.

So, with teeth-clenched, I walked out and let her hurriedly satisfy my sanitation needs. And then, making sure she saw the five spot I was handing over, placed the bill into the jar.

She seemed pretty grateful, so that took some of the bite out.

On another occasion I walked into the bar bathroom and spotted another bathroom attendant. This time, she had put up several signs all around the sinks explaining how she makes next to nothing, except for whatever she gets for tips. God damnit- I sunk another $2.

Finally, on a most recent trip, I walked into the cramped bathroom of a Tex-Mex restaurant down in Power Plant, and again, there was a bathroom attendant. Son-of-a..

All these previous times I had been guilted and prodded to just bite the financial bullet and tip these ladies.

Maybe it was the particular mood I was in; maybe it was the 3 Dos Equis coursing through my veins; or maybe I just felt it was time I took a stand and said "no more".

Or maybe it was just the fact that I had gone to the bathroom without my wallet.

In any event, I allowed the nice lady to squirt my soap and once I had rinsed off, hand me my towel. I dried my hands, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and bolted for the door.

I never looked back.

Peeling the Layers

Since I'm sorta new to the whole "cooking" game, I still find it interesting what I discover about myself and food. Through handling food and preparing it by my own hands, I am able to reveal facets about myself I never knew or thought were impossible. I like cheese- did you know that? Not all kinds yet, and I'm still texture-picky, but by making dishes I have found an unrealized love of cheese.

And I like onions. Onions, however, do not like me. Because every time I meet a fresh onion, I wind up looking like a character from a slasher-film in her final showdown scene- my eyes tearful and hand clutching a knife, trying to eliminate the enemy.

In other words, onions make me cry. Terribly. Painfully. I have realized from recipe to recipe that for some reason, my eyes are highly and helplessly susceptible to the burning sensation the smell of onions gives off.

I first thought it was a novelty. I had always heard that cutting up onions can make people cry, so it wasn't all that shocking when I started tearing up. What I had not factored in was WHY they made people cry.

It buuuurns, it BUUURNS. I remember the first time; proudly leaning over my new cutting board, nice new sharp knife in hand and trying to mimic the quick slicing I had always seen on Food Network, when the board became blurry. My nose began to run. And suddenly I began wincing.

It felt like I had just dumped a whole bottle of soap detergent directly into my eyes; the burning was incredible. I stepped away, trying to rub my face without letting my hands actually my skin. After several moments of blinking so much I looked like I had an odd tick, the burning subsided at last.

From then on, I knew the drill; the second that initial bite hit my eyes, I quickly moved over to the kitchen door and breathed in the fresh air. It worked sometimes- other times I was too focused and stayed in my place, and by the time I stepped away it was too late; my eyes burning so bad I couldn't tell which tears were from the onions or the pain.

So when the recipe for tonight called for chopped red onions, I was ready. As soon as I began peeling and slicing, the painful burn began to penetrate my eyes. In that second I walked away and breathed the fresh air. I had to repeat a few times just to get the onions ready, but it worked! I left them on the cutting board while I made the other parts of the dinner, tears still inside the ducts.

A short while later, I was sitting with Joe at our kitchen table discussing something, when my eyes began to itch. And then water. And then burn.

What the hell? I thought. I chopped those damn things over 10 minutes ago! As I tried to wipe away the tears that were now starting to stream, Joe asked if I was alright.

"Yes!" I said, "it's those damn onions! I haven't touched them in almost 20 minutes! How the hell could they burn my eyes now? And from here!?"

Finally, with a few swipes of my sleeves, the burn subsided. I guess those onions will find a way to get me one way or another. No sense crying about it....

Eye Contacts

Don't you hate it when someone is walking towards you and you don't know how long to hold the eye contact?

I was walking down the hallway at work today and was about to pass a coworker. I glanced up, and rather than doing my usual quiet "hello" and small nod, which I usually employ for people or coworkers I'm not too close with, something possessed me. He's a nice guy and we've hung out in a group for after-work happy hours, so I guess my mind was trying to process something a bit more congenial.

Meanwhile, my eyes were still locked with his. It wasn't until he finally broke in with a "Hey" that the spell was finally broken and I responded with a "hey", too. As we finally passed each other I began cursing myself, imagining what my coworker was thinking of my dumbstruck, open-mouth appearance, as if I was short a few chromosomes.

I do the same kind of eye-contact stand-off every day when I first come into work. I always pass the security desk on my way in, and normally the person behind it is too busy to notice my coming. However, there is a lady security guard who, when not on her phone, usually notices me. If I'm not paying real attention I might keep my head down, kinda diverting any eye contact at all.

But typically, I mindlessly look up and find myself in an another eye-lock. I wait, and wait, and the finally mutter out a "mornin'" when I can't stand the pressure anymore.

Maybe I should just start wearing blinders; anything it takes to escape the minute instances of social discomfort.

The Freedom Tale

I suck. I know. I have been neglecting this blog like the fruitcake at a dessert table.

But I have been waiting for something really good to write about, and thanks to Joe, I now do. And we are both still feeling it.

It all began last Thursday…

“So I’ve been thinking,” Joe said, collapsing next to me. I was relaxing and reading in bed, when he came in with a glint in his eye. I’ve been with him long enough to know that glint.

“How would you feel about going to Boston?”

Before I could register my feelings about what he meant by that he explained how he had been hearing more and more details about what was happening with the Occupy Wall Street protests, and in particular, that things were heating up in Boston.

“I just feel like I really have to be there. I really want to film it, I want to talk to people, and just really document what’s going on.”

He looked ecstatic. I was slightly skeptical. I kept asking questions, like, where we would stay, what would we do with the dog, can we afford it, etc. With every question he had a ready answer: we would find a place to sleep up there, we would take the dog with us, and that he would take care of everything.

I tried to be positive and hopeful, but my nagging pessimism kept at me. After some deliberation and compromise, I finally got on board.

We were to leave Saturday morning at *gulp* 3 a.m. yet I, still being on weekday-mode, found myself still vegging on the couch till around 11 p.m., leaving me only 4 hours of sleep.

I think I paid for that stupid mistake the whole weekend.

The alarm went off after what seemed like only 20 mins. and I stumbled helplessly to my feet like a newborn giraffe.

As we finished packing and at last got on the road, I suddenly got a flush of excitement. We would be witnesses to something so specific to our generation; something we might add to our list of experiences and tell grandkids about if it should ever make the history books.

Six seamless hours later we found ourselves in the financial district of Boston, and smack dab in the middle of a tent city that had been erected by the protesters.

We parked the car and made our way back to where the tents were. After discovering Joe was allowed to film we got to work talking to whoever would be willing to be on camera and had something to say (which was everyone). Joe interviewed all kinds of people- professionals and students, young and old, musicians and lawyers; yet their one unifying strand was that they were all disenfranchised and dissatisfied with the global governments and big businesses.

While Joe filmed, I looked around for some way to make myself useful. I noticed a guy walking around with a box of trash bags shouting for help with the garbage. Without really thinking I raised my hand and grabbed a bag, handing the dog leash off to Joe.

After some garbage picking I walked back to where Joe was, only to notice a crowd gathering. It appeared that a religious anti-homosexuality group had arrived with a bull horn, expounding hateful rhetoric. In response, several protesters began surrounding them and chanting things like “Hate is a Choice, Homosexuality is Not”, and drawing hearts with chalk all around them. I found myself chanting along with them and writing hearts as well.

I realized, standing there with garbage juice on my jeans and sweatshirt, chalk in my hand, and shouting alongside dozens of people, part of something. I wondered if this was what the people of the 60s felt when they were showing their support or discontent with something. It was very unifying, and unmistakingly American.

But, there was more America to experience- particularly the “Freedom Trail” which I pestered Joe about walking along since we were in Boston.

After we toured outside the old city and found the headstones of founding fathers John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Paul Revere, we started to make our way back to the car and were told we couldn’t go down a certain street.

“Sorry guys, this street’s closed off,” a man with a walkie talkie and ear-piece in his ear explained.

When we asked why he responded, “They’re filming a movie.” And I couldn’t help but ask, “Really? Who’s in it??”

“Ryan Reynolds and Jeff Bridges. But they aren’t on set right now.”

Damnit.

A fine American day spent exercising American rights and walking along early American history could only be topped by crossing paths with great American actors. But we got close enough.

At last we found our car and made it back on the road to find a hotel and then head over to New York. What happened next? Dogs, dilemmas and disappointments…

Macabre Movie Month

Well, it's October and we know what that means: apple-picking, fall festivals, and crisp nights. At least, that’s what October means to all of us, but October has another special meaning to me. It’ll mark our 8th anniversary of being together (yay!). But there is another significance…a dark significance.

Yes, it’s that time again- time for scary movie month.

Ugh.

I feel as uneasy as I do when I’m being pushed along onto a roller coaster (another activity that I try to be a good sport for).

And while I have already gone through all the anxiety I feel in a post last year, I must mention how this year’s scary movie month is going.

Day 1, Movie 1: “Warlock”

Joe scrolled through the Netflix listings and stopped on this one, claiming “it’s a pretty cheesy 80’s movie about a warlock that comes to modern times.”

Cheesy? 80s? How bad could that be?

All in all, it wasn’t terribly scary OR gory, but instead, it was just kinda disturbing (and I don’t care if that makes me a contender for “Biggest Wuss”). Tongues being torn out, eyes being gouged out, children being butchered- yeah, where the hell was the cheese factor- besides the Warlock’s blonde Nelson-like ponytail.

Needless to say, I had a rough time at bedtime because every time I closed my eyes my torturous brain would conjure up one of those more hideous scenes for my reviewing pleasure.

Day 2, Movie 2: “Black Death”

“Black Death”. Similarly to the previous night’s movie, “Warlock”, this one had a religious connotation, which at first intrigued me. And plus the fact that it was based around the Black Plague, and therefore has a historical angle, I figured it wouldn’t be too bad.

I may have escaped ghouls and monsters, but instead I got buckets of realistic gore. I can handle gun shot wounds for the most part. I even handle sword-fighting pretty well.

The two things that make me most queasy are 1.) Guts and 2.) Violence towards women and/or children. And bingo! I got both.

It’s supposed to be centered around the plague that demolished 2/3rds of the European population, but instead it was more about witch-hunting and torture.
I sat there with a pillow over my mouth, and very vocally exclaiming, “no…no..no.no..no.non NO! OOOOH GOD!”

Meanwhile, Joe, content as you please, sat silently watching, unfazed.

I know that I should just be a good sport about it all. I mean, after all, I torture him with the televising shows I love or movies I suggest, so I should muster up enough courage to get through one lousy month of scary movies, right?

Fortunately October is also one of our more busy months, with lots of things to do, so if just happen we miss a day or week or two, he can’t be that mad…..right?

Dance Dance Evolution

Much apologies for my absence, but it was certainly for a good cause, so I hope you don’t mind.

I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.

Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!

Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.

What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.

Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!

The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.

Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.

Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.

I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.

Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.

Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.

Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.

Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.

And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.

Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.

I'd Lik to Buy a Bowel - The Search for Poo

So after a sleepless night, trying to not hear Georgia's shivering, Joe and I got up and packed Georgia into Joe's car for her second visit with the vet.

As I saw them off I began getting myself ready for work, yet all I could think about was what the vet would say.

At around 10:30 a.m. I received a call from her.

“So we have Georgia here, and I just don’t like the look of that lump, so I think surgery is going to be necessary.”

My heart sank.

But I quickly agreed with her decision, and then proceeded to feel the onslaught of questions hammer into my brain once again.

Finally, at around 7 p.m., we were able to pick her up and take her home, with orders to bring her back again for a fresh round of fluids and treatment.

The night was rough; Georgia barely let us touch her and she seemed completely out of it. I was nervous not just because I feared hurting her, but I also feared that somehow, when she had gone under the knife, her personality would’ve changed.

The next day, after dropping her off again and another long day of anticipation, my fears were happily abated.

The vet led us back to see her and we were greeted with a super excited, tail-wagging dog. We were given some further instructions, a couple of medications, and, the piece de resistance, a plastic cone to keep her from licking herself.

We were also told to be on the lookout for vomiting or constipation, so for the past few days, we have been following and watching Georgia’s bodily functions. Luckily there was no vomit and in fact, her appetite had become ravenous.

The one thing we still hadn’t seen was her poop. I began to get obsessed. Every time Joe took her out, I’d ask if she pooped. I’d constantly watch her to see if she pooped. I was even hoping to come home to the smell of poop, just so I knew that her bowels were working again.

I was beginning to get sincerely crazy when Joe texted me that, hurray, she pooped!

I haven’t seen the evidence myself, though. So, even tonight, I found myself standing in my pajamas and bathrobe, feet in slippers, standing in my yard at 8:30 at night, watching my lamp-shade wearing dog for the slightest squat. Classy, I know.

Still, it really says something about how my priorities have changed, even just at 27.