Monday, September 30, 2013

It's Official. I am Too Old to Understand the Concept of "Cool."

Tomorrow is my birthday.  Happy birthday, me!

Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
I look like a monkey
So I'm glad you can't see!

The Dude pointed out that the milk in the fridge expires tomorrow.  "Yeah," I said.  "Everything goes bad then."

I went to a concert this weekend at a college bar.  There was a group of guys flexing for photos, and I saw a woman who appeared to be wearing an unironic, metal-studded G-string on her head.

I am officially to old to go to concerts at college bars.

(True:  I learned this week what c-string is.  They look... uncomfortable.)

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Office Supplies. They Matter.

My office recently switched to a new toilet paper, and it's pretty innovative.  The manufacturer has, it seems, discovered a way to make toilet paper that is just one molecule thick. 

This really makes peeing a thought-provoking experience.  Your tentative, gentle grasp punches your fingers through the tissue, simultaneously make one feel like the Hulk with a china teacup and driving home the fragility of human life.

And then there's the adventure of it:

There's only half a roll left--will this be enough to cover my needs?

And coping with menstruation under these circumstances becomes fraught with all the anxiety of the apocalypse.

It does make for great calisthenics, though.  I stretch my arm all the way out, as far as I can without tipping over, and then foldfoldfoldfold (haha, fourfold) to achieve something akin to the bare (lol) minimum of adequacy.

But don't blow your nose in it.  If there are no Kleenex to be had, I'd recommend using sandpaper before our new toilet paper.  It's softer, and you're infinitely less likely to shoot your snot right through it and onto your hands, desk, and any passers-by.

A sneeze would be catastrophic.

Friday, September 20, 2013

Take That, Pinterest! I Am, Too, Capable of Feeding Myself!

If you've ever been on Pinterest--or even Facebook--you know that some people can like, do stuff around the house.  Like cooking, or decorating.  And the photographs these people take make their homes look like magazine shoots.

And here I am, all, "Look!  I made mac and cheese from a box and finally washed two weeks' worth of dirty dishes!"

Unless people are coming over, in which case I clean like a mad person to convince them I'm not the derelict slob I really am.

But this week, I totally could have photographed the dinner that I made.  From real ingredients!  Except that instead of photographing it, I ate it.  Because that's how I usually treat my dinner.

I made Cornish pasties.  And it was super easy.  And not what I'd call a real recipe, since I didn't really follow a recipe.  Here's how I did it:

I called the Dude on my way home from work, and made him take 2 chicken breasts out of the freezer to thaw.

I stopped at the store at bought two refrigerated pie crusts, a bag of mixed frozen veggies, and a can of condensed cream of potato soup.

Upon getting home, I cut the chicken into smallish pieces.  (This is the hard part.)

Then I dumped the chicken and the veggies and some chicken bouillon and whatever other seasoning I felt like and a couple handfuls of frozen diced onion in a pot of water.  And I boiled it.

I unrolled the pie crusts and cut each in half.  (This made eight pasties.) 

And once the stuff was done boiling (I stopped just before the chicken was fully cooked), I strained it, dumped in the can of soup and a bit of the water I'd reserved, mixed that shit together, added some more seasoning, and scooped a little onto each piece of dough.  Folded the dough over, pinched the edges, and baked at 425 for half an hour.

Then I watched some TV.

Ten minutes in, I ran back to the oven and poked a hole in each so as to avoid a pasty-splosion.

And then I finished my show, and then I stuffed my face and burned my tongue.

It was fucking awesome.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Kids These Days

I really hate the phrase "kids these days."  Whether it's referring to millennials or minors, it's a phrase that always precedes condescension, disgust, or harsh judgment.

My response is always the same:

Who raised these kids?

Generally, the person committing a "kids these days" is a member of the generation who raised them, or of an age to be "these kids" grandparents.

I.e., they're the people who've raised "these kids", or the people who raised the kids that raised "these kids."

If you have Internet access (and I'm guessing you do if you're here...), you've probably seen this condescending Huffington Post garbage about why my generation is unhappy--basically, because we're whiny and delusional.  Which manages to completely ignore the fact that we can't get decent jobs that will sustain both us and--god forbid--any family we're fiscally irresponsible enough to start.

In case those kids-these-days-ers forgot, my generation didn't cause the economic crisis we all find ourselves in today.  No, that was the work of those powerhouses on Wall Street and in Washington who were, well, old enough to say "kids these days."

Do millennials really not work hard?  In an era when job hunting can be in itself a full-time endeavor, where productivity is up and benefits and compensation are down...  In an era when most "entry level" positions require several years of experience and the only way to gain experience is to work for free...

Are we really lazy?  Or is that dim hope?

Are we delusional, with expectations too high?  Is the problem really that we all think we're just so gosh-darn special?

Or are we just angry that while we're performing our drudgery in a sluggish economy, with lower starting wages it'll take us decades to overcome, with debt we were promised would be a good investment but instead is often crippling, and with take-home pay that--if we're lucky--lets us put a little away for an even rainier day, we keep hearing condemnation:  kids these days.

Adam Weinstein says it much better.

Look, it's not my intention to pin the troubles of one generation on any other age group.  Rather, I just want to emphasize that here is a generation that, whatever situation it finds itself in, is trying to do its best with what is available.  Just like the generation before us, and the generation before them, and generations to come. 

And despite the urge to compartmentalize society into generations, we are--like it or not--in this together.  Flinging insults at each other doesn't seem to be accomplishing much.

Monday, September 16, 2013

I... I Don't Even Know What This Is. But It Scares Me.

I went to a charity event this weekend.

At this charity event, there was a raffle.

I bought a raffle ticket.

I won a prize.

It was a stuffed animal.

Sort of.

Except it was more like an alien, not an animal.

And it has testicles on its head.

Yep.  They really are connected by a long shaft.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Oh Yeah, I Know How To Party

Last night I had a beer with the Kirby salesmen who were trying to sell the Dude a vacuum.  I have the suspicion that an evening spent hearing a sales pitch isn't supposed to be entertaining, but it totally was.  Mostly because the Dude and I can have fun doing anything.

  • Grocery shopping?  A grand hunting/gathering adventure.
  • Long car ride?  Hours and hours and hours of pure conversational brilliance.
  • Washing dishes?  Still not completely terrible.

Then again, it might have been the fact that it was other people cleaning the house that made last night so darn awesome.

And that we had beer.  That always helps.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Highlights of a Weekend Survived

A quick recap:

  • Two weddings
  • Two funerals
  • One weekend

The Dude described me to a friend as "born and pasteurized in Wisconsin."

Bringing back-up ballet flats for after everyone has had a few drinks and no one cares anymore has saved my feet.

It was still too many hours in heels.

The hotel suite we shared with some friends had a fireplace.  It was a glass fireplace.  Through which you could see one bed from the other.

It's possible for a drinking straw to taste terrible.

Some guy asked a friend from South Africa if she spoke "that clicky language."  (Because, you know, she came from that general continent area.)  I feel this was more than enough grounds to punch him in the teeth.

My friend from South Africa is a much nicer person than I am.

She can also wear high heels for like seven consecutive hours without showing any visible signs of wanting to kill herself.

I have now been introduced to everyone the Dude has met.  Ever.

Of course, I'll still need to be re-introduced next time, because I can hardly remember a name when I meet people one at a time, much less by the dozen.

Having heard more stories from the Dude's family about what he was like as a child, I now understand why some species eat their young.  (Though I guess he turned out mostly okay in the end...)

I managed to get through three sit-down meals in nice clothing without spilling anything or dribbling food down my chin.

I'm counting this one a success.