Saturday, May 31, 2008
Indian Buffet
Don't have much to blog about, except:
Now I'm going to get all fishnetted out for work tonight. I can't decide whether I'm looking forward to seeing the guys from the circus (because I like them) or not looking forward to seeing the guys from the circus (because I'm jealous).
By the by, Klynn won one of the pie prizes, and NOBODY ELSE HAS BAKED A FUCKING PIE SINCE THEN. You can still win one of the other two prizes. How hard is it to roll out a fucking crust? Come on now.
* Outside of the restaurant, he tried to stop me on the sidewalk for a sudden kiss, but it was somewhat awkward in execution. "I ruined it," he said, defeated, and I had to laugh. That's my LoPro.
"You just saved it," I said. He is so fucking cute sometimes. And by sometimes I mean all the time.
- Last night LoPro and I went to a FUCKING AWESOME Indian buffet and I ate so much I hurt myself.* It was so good that we went back this afternoon for lunch, and I might go there again tomorrow.
- I'm out of Wellbutrin; prepare for the Wellbreakdown. I suppose I can stop at the drug store and ask for a couple to tide me over until the doctor's office reopens on Monday. Seriously: why don't they write prescriptions for more than three months? I'm going to ask them that because realistically, I am never going to stop taking antidepressants. Just prescribe me 36 months' worth and I'll see you in three years, Doc.
- I'm still pretty disappointed about le Cirque. Sigh.
Now I'm going to get all fishnetted out for work tonight. I can't decide whether I'm looking forward to seeing the guys from the circus (because I like them) or not looking forward to seeing the guys from the circus (because I'm jealous).
By the by, Klynn won one of the pie prizes, and NOBODY ELSE HAS BAKED A FUCKING PIE SINCE THEN. You can still win one of the other two prizes. How hard is it to roll out a fucking crust? Come on now.
* Outside of the restaurant, he tried to stop me on the sidewalk for a sudden kiss, but it was somewhat awkward in execution. "I ruined it," he said, defeated, and I had to laugh. That's my LoPro.
"You just saved it," I said. He is so fucking cute sometimes. And by sometimes I mean all the time.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Trolley Breakdown
Here's a question for all the legitimate grownups out there: when do you stop letting your little one go to the bathroom with you? JQ is in something of an in-between period: he's too small to be left alone while I go, but probably big enough to retain memories of Aunt Cupcake's ass. My current strategy is to take him into the bathroom with me, leave the door open, and send him out to grab a stuffed animal at critical moments. I'll finish my business, then suddenly cry, "MR. DUCKY! WE LEFT MR. DUCKY IN THE HALLWAY!" and when JQ dashes out into the hall to grab Mr. Ducky, I pull my pants up before he's back with the stuffed duck. This afternoon, however, it almost didn't work.
"Where's your tiny piglet?" I asked concernedly, while JQ, perched on his toy schoolbus, ran into my foot. "Wasn't he driving the schoolbus?" The piglet, it turns out, was otherwise occupied; JQ did not need help driving the bus into my foot. I spent too much time sitting on the toilet feigning concern about the piglet's whereabouts and well-being before JQ went to fetch him for this system to be working effectively.
Later we went to the deli down the street, where JQ bought his own chocolate milk and gummy bears, then tried to buy my stuff for me.
"Are you a gentleman?" asked the man at the counter.
"Yes!" said JQ. And he didn't even see my bare ass.
As we walked back, he tried throwing himself in front of me to get picked up. It was only a couple blocks, though, and the way I see it, the more I carry him, the tireder I am and the more energy he has. That will eventually culminate in an undesirable condition, one in which I am likely to be found lying on the floor and JQ is likely to be found climbing over my head eating frosting out of a can.
When we got home, we were sitting on the living room floor, me with my sandwich, JQ with his chocolate milk, and he asked why I had ripped my jeans. Ventilation purposes, I explained (but in many more words).
JQ: Sometimes I go to the deli without you.
CUP: By yourself?!
JQ: Yes!
CUP: You do? I don't know, baby. I think you go with Mommy.
JQ: I go by myself!
CUP: You're not big enough yet.
JQ: I'm big enough yet!
CUP: Maybe in a few years you'll be big enough.
JQ: But I'm three.
CUP: Yes, you're a big boy. But to go the store alone you have to be bigger.
JQ: In a few years I'll go to the store by myself. And I'll get you a sandwich. Would you like that?
CUP: I would love that!
JQ: I'll get you a sandwich and a drink for me. And I'll buy you jeans that are not ripped and DON'T RIP THEM.
Afterwards we were looking out the window and saw a couple trolleys that weren't going anywhere. Eventually we decided to take a walk down the street and ask if they were broken.
"You wanted to ask the driver a question?" I prompted when we got there.
"You ask him," JQ said, pushing my mouth with his little hands so I was facing the driver.
"Is your trolley broken?" I asked. Nope, it turns out. A pole had fallen on the trolley line somewhere down the road, and they had stopped until it could get cleared up. Then he asked if JQ had ever been on a trolley.
"No," JQ said. So the driver told us we could go have a look around, if we wanted. We did.
Now it is naptime. Crying commenced at 1:33 when the child was deposited in the crib. Crying abruptly stopped at 1:35.
Aunt Cupcake might take a nap herself.
"Where's your tiny piglet?" I asked concernedly, while JQ, perched on his toy schoolbus, ran into my foot. "Wasn't he driving the schoolbus?" The piglet, it turns out, was otherwise occupied; JQ did not need help driving the bus into my foot. I spent too much time sitting on the toilet feigning concern about the piglet's whereabouts and well-being before JQ went to fetch him for this system to be working effectively.
Later we went to the deli down the street, where JQ bought his own chocolate milk and gummy bears, then tried to buy my stuff for me.
"Are you a gentleman?" asked the man at the counter.
"Yes!" said JQ. And he didn't even see my bare ass.
As we walked back, he tried throwing himself in front of me to get picked up. It was only a couple blocks, though, and the way I see it, the more I carry him, the tireder I am and the more energy he has. That will eventually culminate in an undesirable condition, one in which I am likely to be found lying on the floor and JQ is likely to be found climbing over my head eating frosting out of a can.
When we got home, we were sitting on the living room floor, me with my sandwich, JQ with his chocolate milk, and he asked why I had ripped my jeans. Ventilation purposes, I explained (but in many more words).
JQ: Sometimes I go to the deli without you.
CUP: By yourself?!
JQ: Yes!
CUP: You do? I don't know, baby. I think you go with Mommy.
JQ: I go by myself!
CUP: You're not big enough yet.
JQ: I'm big enough yet!
CUP: Maybe in a few years you'll be big enough.
JQ: But I'm three.
CUP: Yes, you're a big boy. But to go the store alone you have to be bigger.
JQ: In a few years I'll go to the store by myself. And I'll get you a sandwich. Would you like that?
CUP: I would love that!
JQ: I'll get you a sandwich and a drink for me. And I'll buy you jeans that are not ripped and DON'T RIP THEM.
Afterwards we were looking out the window and saw a couple trolleys that weren't going anywhere. Eventually we decided to take a walk down the street and ask if they were broken.
"You wanted to ask the driver a question?" I prompted when we got there.
"You ask him," JQ said, pushing my mouth with his little hands so I was facing the driver.
"Is your trolley broken?" I asked. Nope, it turns out. A pole had fallen on the trolley line somewhere down the road, and they had stopped until it could get cleared up. Then he asked if JQ had ever been on a trolley.
"No," JQ said. So the driver told us we could go have a look around, if we wanted. We did.
Now it is naptime. Crying commenced at 1:33 when the child was deposited in the crib. Crying abruptly stopped at 1:35.
Aunt Cupcake might take a nap herself.
Labels: Dr. Thumbscre.ws
Thursday, May 29, 2008
How To Join The Circus
"In any event, they couldn't have been serious," I wrote on Sunday after a couple guys from le Cirque said I should join.
Then I thought about it.
And thought about it.
And I thought about it until I decided to do it.
I would sell my expensive, unnecessary, still-being-paid-for car. Pack light- five of the same pair of pants, five of the same black shirt, tampons, a sketchbook, and a cell phone. Ask Rutgerts to defer my enrollment. They'd have to say yes. "I was planning to attend in the fall," I pictured myself saying, "but something unusual has come up." Then I'd casually let them know that I'd joined the circus.
The cirque seed had been sown, and I was working everything out in my head.
Logic Professor is leaving next month for six weeks to teach philosophy at Nerd Camp. "I don't want you to go to Nerd Camp," I whined the other day.
"Fuck you! You're trying to join the circus!" he exclaimed, laughing. But while Nerd Camp is a certainty, there was only a 5% chance of me running off with the Canadians.
I'd have to get more details the next time I saw them at the CPRB, I told my family. I knew it wasn't the kind of thing you did for six weeks, like Nerd Camp; it would be six months, minimum, and although I knew the money would be great, I'd have to ascertain whether it would be great enough to justify leaving Logic Professor and JQ for six months. The decision to go would depend on a lot of things, and I reminded them that I probably wasn't going.
I was secretly 100% positive that I'd somehow work things out so that I would be able to go. Being who I am, by Monday night I simply couldn't wait until Wednesday to talk to them. At 10:15 I texted F.: I want to join the circus :)
"The smiley face makes all the difference," I told Logic Professor. "It's the 'hahaha I'm joking but not really' smiley face." I suspected strongly that they'd just been fucking with me when they said I should join.
But just as I can be explosively impatient, the universe can be maddeningly slow-paced. I didn't get a text back until twelve hours later: Sorry 4 the delay,..so u want to join the circus??!...why? :)
The proper response should have been WHY NOT?! or, if I felt like giving my texting thumbs a workout, Because I want to do someting crazily adventurous and awesome, something that few people get a chance to do, that will broaden my horizons and provide experiences that I won't get ever again or anywhere else, that I would regret not pursuing if I didn't, that I'll remember for the rest of my life. Because your life is exponentially cooler and more intersting than my own life will be as I get older and more boring, and although I won't want to do it forever, I want to be able to say that for a few months I did. Because barring interruption by something like a spontaneous enlistment in the circus, in a few years I'll have graduated college and probably married and had a couple kids and I'll be bitching about rush-hour traffic and the cost of groceries while you'll be putting up speakers in a giant striped tent in Europe while acrobats vault around in spangly costumes.
I texted back, Travel for free, work with awesome equipment, hang out with cool people!
,....and all of this came to your mind yesterday evening at 10 pm? Just like that?... :) was the reply. Oh, the cruelty of smiley faces. What I didn't text back was that no, it hadn't just come to my mind at 10 pm; visions of life with the circus had danced in my head for a days and 10 pm Monday night was simply the breaking point.
I was just thinking :-)
That would be great to have have u! ...R u working tomorrow? he wrote back. ("What does he mean by 'have u'?" Jul asked later, which is a relevant question.)
Yes
Cool...i'll stop by! Then all I had to do was wait another sixteen hours to talk to him. That's it. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours of torture.
When he and another guy showed up, it was after one in the morning and creepily quiet at the Cool Punk Rock Bar; I nervously flitted back and forth between sitting in front of them on the counter behind the bar and trying to help the other three customers who didn't really need helping but were going to get my help anyway because after 16 hours of waiting to ask about joining the circus I couldn't, you know, just sit on the counter and talk about joining the circus.
The conversation didn't go as I'd planned, by which I mean to say that I didn't wind up throwing down my bottle opener, leaping over the bar, and immediately boarding a bus painted with "LE CIRQUE DU AWESOME" painted on the side. Instead, it was pretty discouraging, reducing my speculated five percent *cough*onehundredpercent*cough* chance of circus enlistment down to less than one lonely percent.
The conversation wasn't entirely discouraging, I guess. There was some minor, ineffective encouragement. "It's very full... fill... filliful..." F. started to tell me, looked at his friend for assistance, and settled on "Filfulling!" But the details were damning.
What was more discouraging than the details-- they expect you to join in good faith with the intention of staying for at least a year, it's only profitable because you don't have to pay rent (except that I'd still be keeping my apartment), and I'm pretty underskilled-- was the sense I got that everyone in the conversation, including myself, knew that it wasn't really going to happen.
Moving on from talk of my enlistment to general circus talk, F. asked if I had any other relatives who wanted to see the show at short notice. I told him that I still wanted to take Logic Professor to see it. He was supposed to call me at 2 if there were tickets for the 4 o'clock show, but it's almost five now and I didn't get a call. Either there were no tickets, he forgot to call, he gave them to someonebetter else, he wanted to have me join the circus (emphasis on have me) and will not support any intersection of my boyfriend and the Grand Chapiteau, or le Cirque finally bowed to pressure from traditional circuses and F. was torn to pieces trying to attatch state-of-the-art wireless microphones to haughty French Canadian tigers for their inaugural performance.
Then I thought about it.
And thought about it.
And I thought about it until I decided to do it.
I would sell my expensive, unnecessary, still-being-paid-for car. Pack light- five of the same pair of pants, five of the same black shirt, tampons, a sketchbook, and a cell phone. Ask Rutgerts to defer my enrollment. They'd have to say yes. "I was planning to attend in the fall," I pictured myself saying, "but something unusual has come up." Then I'd casually let them know that I'd joined the circus.
The cirque seed had been sown, and I was working everything out in my head.
Logic Professor is leaving next month for six weeks to teach philosophy at Nerd Camp. "I don't want you to go to Nerd Camp," I whined the other day.
"Fuck you! You're trying to join the circus!" he exclaimed, laughing. But while Nerd Camp is a certainty, there was only a 5% chance of me running off with the Canadians.
I'd have to get more details the next time I saw them at the CPRB, I told my family. I knew it wasn't the kind of thing you did for six weeks, like Nerd Camp; it would be six months, minimum, and although I knew the money would be great, I'd have to ascertain whether it would be great enough to justify leaving Logic Professor and JQ for six months. The decision to go would depend on a lot of things, and I reminded them that I probably wasn't going.
I was secretly 100% positive that I'd somehow work things out so that I would be able to go. Being who I am, by Monday night I simply couldn't wait until Wednesday to talk to them. At 10:15 I texted F.: I want to join the circus :)
"The smiley face makes all the difference," I told Logic Professor. "It's the 'hahaha I'm joking but not really' smiley face." I suspected strongly that they'd just been fucking with me when they said I should join.
But just as I can be explosively impatient, the universe can be maddeningly slow-paced. I didn't get a text back until twelve hours later: Sorry 4 the delay,..so u want to join the circus??!...why? :)
The proper response should have been WHY NOT?! or, if I felt like giving my texting thumbs a workout, Because I want to do someting crazily adventurous and awesome, something that few people get a chance to do, that will broaden my horizons and provide experiences that I won't get ever again or anywhere else, that I would regret not pursuing if I didn't, that I'll remember for the rest of my life. Because your life is exponentially cooler and more intersting than my own life will be as I get older and more boring, and although I won't want to do it forever, I want to be able to say that for a few months I did. Because barring interruption by something like a spontaneous enlistment in the circus, in a few years I'll have graduated college and probably married and had a couple kids and I'll be bitching about rush-hour traffic and the cost of groceries while you'll be putting up speakers in a giant striped tent in Europe while acrobats vault around in spangly costumes.
I texted back, Travel for free, work with awesome equipment, hang out with cool people!
,....and all of this came to your mind yesterday evening at 10 pm? Just like that?... :) was the reply. Oh, the cruelty of smiley faces. What I didn't text back was that no, it hadn't just come to my mind at 10 pm; visions of life with the circus had danced in my head for a days and 10 pm Monday night was simply the breaking point.
I was just thinking :-)
That would be great to have have u! ...R u working tomorrow? he wrote back. ("What does he mean by 'have u'?" Jul asked later, which is a relevant question.)
Yes
Cool...i'll stop by! Then all I had to do was wait another sixteen hours to talk to him. That's it. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours of torture.
When he and another guy showed up, it was after one in the morning and creepily quiet at the Cool Punk Rock Bar; I nervously flitted back and forth between sitting in front of them on the counter behind the bar and trying to help the other three customers who didn't really need helping but were going to get my help anyway because after 16 hours of waiting to ask about joining the circus I couldn't, you know, just sit on the counter and talk about joining the circus.
The conversation didn't go as I'd planned, by which I mean to say that I didn't wind up throwing down my bottle opener, leaping over the bar, and immediately boarding a bus painted with "LE CIRQUE DU AWESOME" painted on the side. Instead, it was pretty discouraging, reducing my speculated five percent *cough*onehundredpercent*cough* chance of circus enlistment down to less than one lonely percent.
The conversation wasn't entirely discouraging, I guess. There was some minor, ineffective encouragement. "It's very full... fill... filliful..." F. started to tell me, looked at his friend for assistance, and settled on "Filfulling!" But the details were damning.
What was more discouraging than the details-- they expect you to join in good faith with the intention of staying for at least a year, it's only profitable because you don't have to pay rent (except that I'd still be keeping my apartment), and I'm pretty underskilled-- was the sense I got that everyone in the conversation, including myself, knew that it wasn't really going to happen.
Moving on from talk of my enlistment to general circus talk, F. asked if I had any other relatives who wanted to see the show at short notice. I told him that I still wanted to take Logic Professor to see it. He was supposed to call me at 2 if there were tickets for the 4 o'clock show, but it's almost five now and I didn't get a call. Either there were no tickets, he forgot to call, he gave them to someone
Monday, May 26, 2008
Parsley Cleaning His Ears
He doesn't do this very often, and we had to wait a long time to be lucky enough to catch it on video. LoPro describes this as "head-explodingly cute". Here it is:
Labels: Bunny
Klynn Wins, But There's Still Time!
WAY TO GO KLYNN! This woman whipped up a pie before I had a chance to even make the tiny pie-trophies (I have to get to the craft store and buy the clay). Not only that, but she made a whole slideshow for us. CHECK IT OUT!
Klynn, I am impressed. Email me your address and I'll get the gift certificate and tiny pie-trophy out to you as soon as I can make it! In the meantime, there's still time to win one of the other two tiny pie-trophies (and gift certificates), so GET BAKING, BITCHES!
Klynn, I am impressed. Email me your address and I'll get the gift certificate and tiny pie-trophy out to you as soon as I can make it! In the meantime, there's still time to win one of the other two tiny pie-trophies (and gift certificates), so GET BAKING, BITCHES!
Labels: Cleaning Out The Cupboard
Sunday, May 25, 2008
270th Post- One Year Of Cupcake!
Today, I have officially been blogging at Caustic Cupcake's Creepy Cupboard for over a year! That's a lot of blathering. In honor of this momentous occasion, let's have a contest!
The first person to bake a pie and send me a picture of it will get, oh hell, I don't know, a twenty dollar gift certificate to somewhere cool like Amazon, and possibly a little pie-trophy, if I can figure out a way to make one. The second and third persons to send in a picture of their pie will get something lesser, but still cool (ten dollar gift certificates?), and probably pie-trophies as well. Smaller pie-trophies, because they took so long to bake a freaking pie.
Next to the pie, there has to be a piece of paper that says something like "The Creepy Cupboard Rocks My Socks" or "Caustic Cupcake Got My Girlfriend Pregnant". And if it's a store-boughten pie, I probably won't know the difference (unless it's still in the container, in which case you're a blatant asshole), but you will go to hell, whereas the rest of us will be laughing at you from our pie-strewn cloud.
This contest has multiple benefits; not only can you win a little pie-trophy and a gift certificate, but you will also GET TO EAT A PIE.
This is an open-ended contest. No rush.
The first person to bake a pie and send me a picture of it will get, oh hell, I don't know, a twenty dollar gift certificate to somewhere cool like Amazon, and possibly a little pie-trophy, if I can figure out a way to make one. The second and third persons to send in a picture of their pie will get something lesser, but still cool (ten dollar gift certificates?), and probably pie-trophies as well. Smaller pie-trophies, because they took so long to bake a freaking pie.
Next to the pie, there has to be a piece of paper that says something like "The Creepy Cupboard Rocks My Socks" or "Caustic Cupcake Got My Girlfriend Pregnant". And if it's a store-boughten pie, I probably won't know the difference (unless it's still in the container, in which case you're a blatant asshole), but you will go to hell, whereas the rest of us will be laughing at you from our pie-strewn cloud.
This contest has multiple benefits; not only can you win a little pie-trophy and a gift certificate, but you will also GET TO EAT A PIE.
This is an open-ended contest. No rush.
Labels: Cleaning Out The Cupboard
The Pen! The Pen! Bring Me The Fucking Pen!
Last night, the sweet but slightly incompetent barback worked again. I stocked all my own PBR- he'd left twenty cases of it in a pile and wandered off to do something else, and meanwhile they weren't getting any colder- and cut all my own limes. I also freaked out behind the bar, visibly and audibly, for the first time that I can remember. He took my pen. See, I only had one pen, and I needed it to write down comped drinks and take-out beer sales... with the time. I needed to write down the time the beer left the building, and 97 people wanted drinks, and my hands were full, and I knew I wouldn't remember it later, and... there was no pen.
He had picked it up and walked off to write down a list of things to bring up from the basement.
"Dude, where's the pen?" I started, then got from zero to homicidal in three seconds when he shrugged and said he didn't know. "THE PEN!" I yelled. "THE PEN! WHERE IS THE FUCKING PEN? I ONLY HAD ONE! WHY THE FUCK IS THERE ONLY ONE PEN UP HERE? I NEED IT AND I NEED IT NOW!"
"I gave it to the manager for something and told him to bring it back," he said, backing away.
"I DON'T CARE! I NEED IT NOW! GET MY FUCKING PEN BACK! WHY DO I ONLY HAVE ONE PEN?" As he walked away to, presumably, get me a fucking pen, I turned to the customers who shouldn't have had to have heard me yell at a coworker- there's no excuse for yelling at the people you work with in public- and yelled, "IF HE TOUCHES MY PEN AGAIN I'LL BREAK HIS FUCKING HANDS OFF." Because that totally put them at ease.
Another thing that happened for the first time was that I gave someone a free drink out of fear. I'm still kicking this over in my mind. If I'm afraid of someone, they have to leave. If I'm fighting with someone, I will normally gauge whether or not they have it in them to fight back harder than I will. This was the first time that I looked into a customer's face and saw a willingness and a capacity to harm me, and I was afraid. I wouldn't win this one, but I was afraid to kick him out.
Mind you, I once cut a drunk man off and he yelled that I didn't know who the fuck he was and that he was going to be back with his mob friends.
"They'll just have to come shoot me," I said. "Because you're still not getting anything else to drink." I wasn't afraid and he didn't come back.
Last night the man found someone's cell phone and handed it over to the manager. When the manager had left, the man ordered for a beer. I handed it over and asked for money. According to him, he didn't have to pay for it because he'd turned in a cell phone. I give out a lot of free drinks- we have a liberal policy around the bar that free drinks equal loyal customers- but I won't give out a free drink to someone who asks for or demands one.
"That was just being a decent human being," I said. "The beer is still $3.50."
And we went back and forth like that for a minute before I realized that he was getting abnormally angrier than the situation warranted, by far, and that he was going to hit me. He stuck his hand in his pocket and although I didn't think it was likely he had a gun, I reminded myself that it was possible. "Why didn't she just give him the beer?" I pictured my bereaved friends and family saying at the funeral. "Seriously. It was only $3.50." My tombstone? It would read, "Caustic Cupcake, 1984-2008: You Should Have Given Him The Beer, You Jackass." I didn't want to die for a $3.50 beer, so I gave it to him.
I could have called the bouncer to take him out, but I was also afraid that he'd come back. Later, when he got dragged out of the bar for something else, I hung around in the kitchen at the end of the bar, watching until he was out.
F. and another guy from the Cirque came in at last call, just when I was giving up hope of seeing anyone from the circus. (They all had to work late.) I showed F. some pictures of one of the s0und systems I used to work on, pictures of me at the beat-up mixing board, of me crossing my fingers and laughing in front of an overheated and under-ventilated amp rack, and sleeping in my old s0und company hoodie with my head on the edge of the stage, the packed audience just visible behind me. "That was four years of my life," I said. Then they tried to get me to join the circus.
"How long has it been since you worked on s0und?" he asked.
"... two years?" I ventured. I told them that besides, I made way better money as a bartender than as a tech, and they assured me rather strongly that I would make better money in the circus.
"Logic Professor would be sad, too," I said. "And I can't have that."
In any event, they can't be serious. I'm still slightly flattered.
Now I'm going over my parents' house to help my father spread manure in the garden.
He had picked it up and walked off to write down a list of things to bring up from the basement.
"Dude, where's the pen?" I started, then got from zero to homicidal in three seconds when he shrugged and said he didn't know. "THE PEN!" I yelled. "THE PEN! WHERE IS THE FUCKING PEN? I ONLY HAD ONE! WHY THE FUCK IS THERE ONLY ONE PEN UP HERE? I NEED IT AND I NEED IT NOW!"
"I gave it to the manager for something and told him to bring it back," he said, backing away.
"I DON'T CARE! I NEED IT NOW! GET MY FUCKING PEN BACK! WHY DO I ONLY HAVE ONE PEN?" As he walked away to, presumably, get me a fucking pen, I turned to the customers who shouldn't have had to have heard me yell at a coworker- there's no excuse for yelling at the people you work with in public- and yelled, "IF HE TOUCHES MY PEN AGAIN I'LL BREAK HIS FUCKING HANDS OFF." Because that totally put them at ease.
Another thing that happened for the first time was that I gave someone a free drink out of fear. I'm still kicking this over in my mind. If I'm afraid of someone, they have to leave. If I'm fighting with someone, I will normally gauge whether or not they have it in them to fight back harder than I will. This was the first time that I looked into a customer's face and saw a willingness and a capacity to harm me, and I was afraid. I wouldn't win this one, but I was afraid to kick him out.
Mind you, I once cut a drunk man off and he yelled that I didn't know who the fuck he was and that he was going to be back with his mob friends.
"They'll just have to come shoot me," I said. "Because you're still not getting anything else to drink." I wasn't afraid and he didn't come back.
Last night the man found someone's cell phone and handed it over to the manager. When the manager had left, the man ordered for a beer. I handed it over and asked for money. According to him, he didn't have to pay for it because he'd turned in a cell phone. I give out a lot of free drinks- we have a liberal policy around the bar that free drinks equal loyal customers- but I won't give out a free drink to someone who asks for or demands one.
"That was just being a decent human being," I said. "The beer is still $3.50."
And we went back and forth like that for a minute before I realized that he was getting abnormally angrier than the situation warranted, by far, and that he was going to hit me. He stuck his hand in his pocket and although I didn't think it was likely he had a gun, I reminded myself that it was possible. "Why didn't she just give him the beer?" I pictured my bereaved friends and family saying at the funeral. "Seriously. It was only $3.50." My tombstone? It would read, "Caustic Cupcake, 1984-2008: You Should Have Given Him The Beer, You Jackass." I didn't want to die for a $3.50 beer, so I gave it to him.
I could have called the bouncer to take him out, but I was also afraid that he'd come back. Later, when he got dragged out of the bar for something else, I hung around in the kitchen at the end of the bar, watching until he was out.
F. and another guy from the Cirque came in at last call, just when I was giving up hope of seeing anyone from the circus. (They all had to work late.) I showed F. some pictures of one of the s0und systems I used to work on, pictures of me at the beat-up mixing board, of me crossing my fingers and laughing in front of an overheated and under-ventilated amp rack, and sleeping in my old s0und company hoodie with my head on the edge of the stage, the packed audience just visible behind me. "That was four years of my life," I said. Then they tried to get me to join the circus.
"How long has it been since you worked on s0und?" he asked.
"... two years?" I ventured. I told them that besides, I made way better money as a bartender than as a tech, and they assured me rather strongly that I would make better money in the circus.
"Logic Professor would be sad, too," I said. "And I can't have that."
In any event, they can't be serious. I'm still slightly flattered.
Now I'm going over my parents' house to help my father spread manure in the garden.
Labels: Cool Punk Rock B4r, Intoxicology, Le Cirque
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Moving On
On that slightly depressing (or depressed, anyway) note, here's six seconds of Parsley drinking tea:
Labels: Bunny
Delayed Reaction
Among the many cute things JQ said yesterday, I have written down the following for posterity.
We went to the deli where we used to go when he was tiny. Back then, he would nibble on a strip of bacon, or maybe on a little piece of roll. Now that he's a big boy, however, he eats nothing. I've decided not to worry about it; I used to drive myself crazy trying to find something he would ingest besides clumps of cat fur and pebbles. When he's hungry, he'll let me know (and he did). Then he got a bath, and we read a bunch of books before going to the playground down the street. So much has changed since I used to babysit- now, he automatically holds hands. When he was little, he'd wriggle his tiny fist out of my hand and try to run away (to where?!). Now, his hand finds mine, and it stays there even as he's throwing himself in front of me to make me stop. "Pick me up," he begs every fifteen feet. "I don't want to walk."
"But THERE IS THE PLAYGROUND," I said yesterday, pointing to it. "See it? We're almost there!" Then, as soon as we got to the playground, he threw himself in front of me again.
"But we're AT THE PLAYGROUND," I said. "There's nowhere for me to carry you! You can play now! You can do anything you want!" And he did.
Despite being sick and not getting a nap, he was good all day. After we got back from the playground, he curled up in my lap. "Can you hug me?" he asked, so I did, and we just hung out in the armchair snuggling for a while. Maybe he needed extra snuggles because of his cold.
Logic Professor came to hang out in the afternoon. I feel slightly guilty- but not that guilty- that whenever he's around, the rest of the adults nearby seem to relinquish child-care duties without telling him. It just naturally happens. LoPro is a magnet for little kids. JQ goes to him first for important help with, among other things, touching the ceiling, assembling/disassembling toys, acquiring Goldfish, reaching objects on high shelves (funny, I use him for that same purpose), and being swung around or thrown on the couch. This is why when I walk in alone, JQ will usually say, "Where's Mr. LoPro? What time is he getting here?" So I'm glad they got to hang out.
I am guilty, however, for drawing away from LoPro. I've been going through an internal crisis that can be summed up as "Oh My Graf I Don't Live By Myself Anymore." I figured that after a couple months I was in the clear and that I'd apparently made the transition from living alone for five years to cohabing with a member of the opposite sex with no trouble at all. HOW IDEALISTIC OF ME.
We talked about it as we walked down Jul's street to our cars after she got home, and continued the talk at home. I'm glad there was a twenty-minute break during the drive, because it gave me time to doubt myself. Hey, I thought, this feels exactly like my old paranoia creeping back in. I don't remember skipping my daily Wellbutrin any time recently, but seriously, the first thing that happens when I decide I'm healthy and don't need psych drugs? In comes good old paranoia, convincing me- and convincing me well- that the world is closing in on me. Everybody has hidden motives. Everything is going to break or fall apart. And the apartment is getting smaller.
If you think I'm usually fatalistic, edgy, and judgemental, just wait until the next time I quit taking mypersonality suppressant antidepressant.
So maybe I'm just diving off the deep end and into a depressive streak. (Wheee!) Or maybe I have good reason to be freaking out about not having any Personal Space anymore, and those are all valid reasons, and the fact that I'm doubting that they're valid and suspect that I'm just going crazy when I'm not IS, IN FACT, THE CRAZY. So many layers of crazy to sort through. Thank goodness the man is patient.
The only thing that has changed, Logic Professor pointed out, is that we suddenly have nothing to do. That's correct. After three days of grading, trapped in the apartment, hunched over a stack of final exams, LoPro is free and going through his traditional end-of-semester blahs. After fifteen weeks of chasing my own tail, now I'm home and you know what I've found while I'm there? SO IS MY BOYFRIEND. ALL THE TIME. HE IS ALWAYS THERE.
It hurts me that I hurt him by telling him all that. He had little to say; I kept prodding him for an opinion, but it was clear how he felt. "I hope it's not something more permanent," he said, and thankfully that struck me as an impossibility. I don't want to live away from LoPro. It's not LoPro himself, because really now, could he be any easier to get along with, kind, charming, and fun? Not really. It's not him. It's that someone else- anyone else- is always in the apartment, and my brain doesn't have any quiet time to sort itself out because it's always working on small-scale social interaction. I vant to be alone.
"I'm going to the fabric store," I told him the other day, intending to make curtains. The curtains, incidentally, are for the inside of the house- we have no bedroom door, just a wide archway into the living room, and obviously, putting up as many partitions in the house as possible seemed like a fabulous idea.
"Can I come?" he asked.
"Why the fuck would you want to go to the fabric store?" I replied, because I'm an awful human being. His sad reply was something along the lines of "to be with you" and I felt horrible. But not horrible enough to let him come.
Then I got there and, faced with literally thousands of skeins of fabric, I wound up leaving with nothing an hour or so later. This reminds me very much of my pre-antidepressant days when I had to go grocery shopping at one or two in the morning or not at all, because if I went when other people were there, I would eventually leave a cartload of groceries in the middle of the store, kick over a marshmallow display, and go home with no food because I got frustrated when I couldn't find the peanut butter and someone was in my way.
Holy fuck, I'm losing my mind.
But now that I'm outlining this, I'm feeling hopeful. Conditions contributing to my current mindfuck are:
Ironically, I spent last night curled up with my boyfriend because I didn't want to be away from him.
At the moment I'm happy because I have the apartment to myself and the sun is out.
Today I'm going to give the university a deposit to secure my spot, bake a few pies (apple for today, though Klynn's cherry pie recipe is on the docket), and go to work. Pies and working at my fun, awesome job usually cheer me up. Even though I'm suddenly convinced that I'm going to be fired at any moment.
My mind. It hurts.
- JQ: Do cows go on a farm?
CUP: Yes, they live there!
JQ: Can I hug a cow? A real cow?
CUP: I suppose so, maybe some day. ... Do you know how big a cow is, JQ?
JQ: No.
CUP: A cow is THIS TALL, and about THIS LONG, and it weighs hundreds of pounds, and its feet are THIS BIG AROUND!
JQ: I want them to stop.
CUP: Stop what?
JQ: Walking. - CUP: (suddenly detects that certain scent in the air) Do you need a diap, honey?
JQ: I pooed.
CUP: Why didn't you tell me? I'll change you.
JQ: Because I'm still pooing. (grimaces, then straightens up) I just pooed a big crap! So change me. - JQ: Can I have some of your sooooda?
CUP: You have chocolate milk!
JQ: But I need some of your soda.
CUP: I'll think about it.
JQ: (accusatorily) Don't drink it all.
We went to the deli where we used to go when he was tiny. Back then, he would nibble on a strip of bacon, or maybe on a little piece of roll. Now that he's a big boy, however, he eats nothing. I've decided not to worry about it; I used to drive myself crazy trying to find something he would ingest besides clumps of cat fur and pebbles. When he's hungry, he'll let me know (and he did). Then he got a bath, and we read a bunch of books before going to the playground down the street. So much has changed since I used to babysit- now, he automatically holds hands. When he was little, he'd wriggle his tiny fist out of my hand and try to run away (to where?!). Now, his hand finds mine, and it stays there even as he's throwing himself in front of me to make me stop. "Pick me up," he begs every fifteen feet. "I don't want to walk."
"But THERE IS THE PLAYGROUND," I said yesterday, pointing to it. "See it? We're almost there!" Then, as soon as we got to the playground, he threw himself in front of me again.
"But we're AT THE PLAYGROUND," I said. "There's nowhere for me to carry you! You can play now! You can do anything you want!" And he did.
Despite being sick and not getting a nap, he was good all day. After we got back from the playground, he curled up in my lap. "Can you hug me?" he asked, so I did, and we just hung out in the armchair snuggling for a while. Maybe he needed extra snuggles because of his cold.
Logic Professor came to hang out in the afternoon. I feel slightly guilty- but not that guilty- that whenever he's around, the rest of the adults nearby seem to relinquish child-care duties without telling him. It just naturally happens. LoPro is a magnet for little kids. JQ goes to him first for important help with, among other things, touching the ceiling, assembling/disassembling toys, acquiring Goldfish, reaching objects on high shelves (funny, I use him for that same purpose), and being swung around or thrown on the couch. This is why when I walk in alone, JQ will usually say, "Where's Mr. LoPro? What time is he getting here?" So I'm glad they got to hang out.
I am guilty, however, for drawing away from LoPro. I've been going through an internal crisis that can be summed up as "Oh My Graf I Don't Live By Myself Anymore." I figured that after a couple months I was in the clear and that I'd apparently made the transition from living alone for five years to cohabing with a member of the opposite sex with no trouble at all. HOW IDEALISTIC OF ME.
We talked about it as we walked down Jul's street to our cars after she got home, and continued the talk at home. I'm glad there was a twenty-minute break during the drive, because it gave me time to doubt myself. Hey, I thought, this feels exactly like my old paranoia creeping back in. I don't remember skipping my daily Wellbutrin any time recently, but seriously, the first thing that happens when I decide I'm healthy and don't need psych drugs? In comes good old paranoia, convincing me- and convincing me well- that the world is closing in on me. Everybody has hidden motives. Everything is going to break or fall apart. And the apartment is getting smaller.
If you think I'm usually fatalistic, edgy, and judgemental, just wait until the next time I quit taking my
So maybe I'm just diving off the deep end and into a depressive streak. (Wheee!) Or maybe I have good reason to be freaking out about not having any Personal Space anymore, and those are all valid reasons, and the fact that I'm doubting that they're valid and suspect that I'm just going crazy when I'm not IS, IN FACT, THE CRAZY. So many layers of crazy to sort through. Thank goodness the man is patient.
The only thing that has changed, Logic Professor pointed out, is that we suddenly have nothing to do. That's correct. After three days of grading, trapped in the apartment, hunched over a stack of final exams, LoPro is free and going through his traditional end-of-semester blahs. After fifteen weeks of chasing my own tail, now I'm home and you know what I've found while I'm there? SO IS MY BOYFRIEND. ALL THE TIME. HE IS ALWAYS THERE.
It hurts me that I hurt him by telling him all that. He had little to say; I kept prodding him for an opinion, but it was clear how he felt. "I hope it's not something more permanent," he said, and thankfully that struck me as an impossibility. I don't want to live away from LoPro. It's not LoPro himself, because really now, could he be any easier to get along with, kind, charming, and fun? Not really. It's not him. It's that someone else- anyone else- is always in the apartment, and my brain doesn't have any quiet time to sort itself out because it's always working on small-scale social interaction. I vant to be alone.
"I'm going to the fabric store," I told him the other day, intending to make curtains. The curtains, incidentally, are for the inside of the house- we have no bedroom door, just a wide archway into the living room, and obviously, putting up as many partitions in the house as possible seemed like a fabulous idea.
"Can I come?" he asked.
"Why the fuck would you want to go to the fabric store?" I replied, because I'm an awful human being. His sad reply was something along the lines of "to be with you" and I felt horrible. But not horrible enough to let him come.
Then I got there and, faced with literally thousands of skeins of fabric, I wound up leaving with nothing an hour or so later. This reminds me very much of my pre-antidepressant days when I had to go grocery shopping at one or two in the morning or not at all, because if I went when other people were there, I would eventually leave a cartload of groceries in the middle of the store, kick over a marshmallow display, and go home with no food because I got frustrated when I couldn't find the peanut butter and someone was in my way.
Holy fuck, I'm losing my mind.
But now that I'm outlining this, I'm feeling hopeful. Conditions contributing to my current mindfuck are:
- I suddenly have nothing to do after weeks of chaos. But I'll adjust.
- Oh my graf, I don't live alone anymore. But we can carve out some boundaries and make some personal space for each of us.
- I got accepted to all three colleges I applied to, and now that I'm safe the packed-down worry and tension are manifesting themselves. Give it a couple weeks and I'll settle down.
- I have never worked so little in my adult life. Two days a week- seriously? And I'm making a living this way? I freak out when I'm not working. Maybe babysitting will fill this gap. Or maybe I'll develop the most pristinely weed-free little garden on the East Coast.
- Nighttime: it exists. Wow, how I hate the dark all of a sudden. My nocturnal work schedule lends a vague feeling to my life that I am one of the last few people on earth (besides LoPro, and HE IS ALWAYS THERE). The good news? The days are getting longer.
- My mom just turned 60, and my parents are going to die. So am I. So is everyone, including Parsley. WHY? Yeah, there's not much of a fix for that one.
Ironically, I spent last night curled up with my boyfriend because I didn't want to be away from him.
At the moment I'm happy because I have the apartment to myself and the sun is out.
Today I'm going to give the university a deposit to secure my spot, bake a few pies (apple for today, though Klynn's cherry pie recipe is on the docket), and go to work. Pies and working at my fun, awesome job usually cheer me up. Even though I'm suddenly convinced that I'm going to be fired at any moment.
My mind. It hurts.
Labels: Dr. Thumbscre.ws, Insanity, Logic Professor, Lovelife, The Application Process
Friday, May 23, 2008
Babysitting
Right now I'm watching JQ. We just got egg sandwiches for breakfast. I ate two sandwiches. JQ ate no sandwiches.
"I don't like that," he said.
"What do you like?" I asked.
"Pound cakes," he replied. However, he did inhale a cereal bar and some milk.
I asked JQ what I should tell everyone on the internet, and he said "You should tell them 'mirror'."
"Okay! Should I tell them hi?"
"Yes," he said.
Now he's going to get a bath and then we might go to the park.
In a surprising turn of events, I got my biology grade. And it was an A. I'm still processing that. I added up my scores on tests and projects and was hoping for, at most, a B; my explanation is that she must have graded on a curve.
Now my GPA is a 3.705. It doesn't matter that I couldn't get into the honor society. As of 3.7, my GPA made me eligible for honors college.
"I don't like that," he said.
"What do you like?" I asked.
"Pound cakes," he replied. However, he did inhale a cereal bar and some milk.
I asked JQ what I should tell everyone on the internet, and he said "You should tell them 'mirror'."
"Okay! Should I tell them hi?"
"Yes," he said.
Now he's going to get a bath and then we might go to the park.
In a surprising turn of events, I got my biology grade. And it was an A. I'm still processing that. I added up my scores on tests and projects and was hoping for, at most, a B; my explanation is that she must have graded on a curve.
Now my GPA is a 3.705. It doesn't matter that I couldn't get into the honor society. As of 3.7, my GPA made me eligible for honors college.
Labels: Biological Hell, Dr. Thumbscre.ws
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Quizzo
Yesterday I texted and/or called the Dred-Locked Researcher n' Friend and my new French Canadian Pal; I invited everyone to come to Quizzo. Only the Canadians could come (American Idol finale, DLR? seriously? you just lost ten points), but by the time they showed up Logic Professor and Twin 2 and I had already lost to the patronizing team of PhD's at the bar (Pierre is in South Dakota, LoPro, South), gotten a couple falafel sandwiches, and migrated from the Quizzo Capital down the street to the Cool Punk Rock B4r.
There they kicked our asses at pool (the Canadians, not the PhD's), and I spent more money on alcohol than anyone who doesn't drink should, because I got a round of shots. That was not the expensive part; as a bartender visiting my place of work, I had to tip the other gals well.
The fact that Logic Professor and I weren't doing a shot with everyone sparked the conversation that I dread: no alcohol? Never? Not even a nice glass of wine with dinner? Not even a toast of champagne? Not even just a beer with friends?
No. Not even a nice glass of wine with dinner. Not even a toast of chamapange. Not even just a beer with friends. Not with a fox. Not in a box.
It's usually easy enough to say "Nah, I don't really drink," unless they persist in that line of wine-champagne-fox-box type questioning... but even then, I won't do as another non-drinking friend of mine suggests and imply that I'm a recovering alcoholic. ("That shuts them right up," he said.)
If I had pretended to be drunk I would have had an excuse for my awful pool-playing skills.
We hung out until close, and F. offered a couple tickets to see the Cirque this evening. I have to work, so LoPro was going to go, except none of his friends want to go and he has a thing against going to shows alone which I can accept but will never fully understand. So now I'm waiting to hear back from my parents, and hope I won't be too much of a pain-in-the-ass if I ask the Canadians to change the last name on the tickets at the will-call booth.
Should I stop calling them "the Canadians"? Because I don't think I can.
I suppose I should get ready for work. I've been waiting a long time to say this: this is the first Wednesday since January that I'm not coming straight from school and I don't have anywhere to be in the morning. Yes.
There they kicked our asses at pool (the Canadians, not the PhD's), and I spent more money on alcohol than anyone who doesn't drink should, because I got a round of shots. That was not the expensive part; as a bartender visiting my place of work, I had to tip the other gals well.
The fact that Logic Professor and I weren't doing a shot with everyone sparked the conversation that I dread: no alcohol? Never? Not even a nice glass of wine with dinner? Not even a toast of champagne? Not even just a beer with friends?
No. Not even a nice glass of wine with dinner. Not even a toast of chamapange. Not even just a beer with friends. Not with a fox. Not in a box.
It's usually easy enough to say "Nah, I don't really drink," unless they persist in that line of wine-champagne-fox-box type questioning... but even then, I won't do as another non-drinking friend of mine suggests and imply that I'm a recovering alcoholic. ("That shuts them right up," he said.)
If I had pretended to be drunk I would have had an excuse for my awful pool-playing skills.
We hung out until close, and F. offered a couple tickets to see the Cirque this evening. I have to work, so LoPro was going to go, except none of his friends want to go and he has a thing against going to shows alone which I can accept but will never fully understand. So now I'm waiting to hear back from my parents, and hope I won't be too much of a pain-in-the-ass if I ask the Canadians to change the last name on the tickets at the will-call booth.
Should I stop calling them "the Canadians"? Because I don't think I can.
I suppose I should get ready for work. I've been waiting a long time to say this: this is the first Wednesday since January that I'm not coming straight from school and I don't have anywhere to be in the morning. Yes.
Labels: Cool Punk Rock B4r, Wednesday
Pie Log, Pie 6: Crust Succest... Almost
Last night I baked Pie 6. I'd had this can of apple pie filling sitting around on the counter for a while, taunting me, and last night I succumbed. While the apple slice I picked off of the bottom of the can lid was over-sweet and tasted vaguely of applesauce, I wasn't about to dedicate an afternoon to peeling fresh apples only to have to throw them- as part of the entire pie that contained them- into the trash after rendering another crust inedible.
"What did you do with those four pies?" I asked my mother over the phone the other day.
"We threw them out," she said.
After I'd eaten a couple slimy, delicious slices of pre-fab pie filling, I decided I'd better make a freakin' pie. I mean, the can was already open. Besides, I was about to go see my baking buddy, Twin 2 (I met his twin brother first), at Quizzo, and I wanted to bring him a slice. Although he admits to being the reason why so many of his family members have been diagnosed with Type II Diabetes, he still insists that he's not a great baker; he's just a grease monkey with a sweet tooth.
I didn't know about his baking proclivities until one day when I was complaining about how awful all of my pies are.
"So I baked this pie last night," I was telling Twin 2, "and I decided to try something different. I hate the taste of flour in the filling, so I switched to cornstarch as a thickener, but I used the same amount as I would have if it had been flour, and-"
"And it turned into a fruit roll-up," he finished.
"You could lift off the top crust, stick a fork in the filling, and just lift it out of the pie and it would keep its shape," I bitched. "I should have used less, or stuck with flour. But I fucking hate flour."
"Cook the flour first," he said quietly. That was my first clue that the short, surly mechanic across the bar from me was a closet pie-baker.
Last week he brought me in a couple slices of homemade pecan pie and cheesecake with a dark cinnamon crust. So last night I wanted to bring him a slice of my new pie. Screw Better Homes and Gardens; my father hadgiven lent me his December 2006 issue of Cook's Illustrated on account of the apple pie recipe therein.
I did not realize until I was pouring the apple filling into the crust that actually, I needed two cans. So I dropped the crust, ran to the Cupboardsburg Acme, and picked up the emergency backup can that should have already been in the cupboard. This set me back about half an hour, and the pie was just coming out of the oven as Logic Professor and I were walking out to go to Quizzo.
We cut out a few bites with a fork. The filling? Well, it was canned filling. But the crust? WAS AWESOME! Triumph! (Or, as LoPro said last night, "Piumph!")
I didn't get to bring a slice to Twin 2, but I told him all about it in excruciating detail.
"The recipe called for a lot more salt than I'm used to," I said, then noticed the sideways look he was giving me, and added, "... like you told me to do." He nodded. "And it called for sugar... like you told me... and instead of all shortening, it used 1/2 a cup of shortening and a stick and a half of butter."
I did forget to put the foil around the edge of the crust, and it turned a healthy shade of burnt; also, I took the pie out too soon in order to get to Quizzo on time. Nevertheless, I feel I've hit upon a winning recipe, and tomorrow I'm going to attempt Pie 7, if I can. Tonight I'm taking half of Pie 6 to work with me in case Twin 2 can make it up there.
"What did you do with those four pies?" I asked my mother over the phone the other day.
"We threw them out," she said.
After I'd eaten a couple slimy, delicious slices of pre-fab pie filling, I decided I'd better make a freakin' pie. I mean, the can was already open. Besides, I was about to go see my baking buddy, Twin 2 (I met his twin brother first), at Quizzo, and I wanted to bring him a slice. Although he admits to being the reason why so many of his family members have been diagnosed with Type II Diabetes, he still insists that he's not a great baker; he's just a grease monkey with a sweet tooth.
I didn't know about his baking proclivities until one day when I was complaining about how awful all of my pies are.
"So I baked this pie last night," I was telling Twin 2, "and I decided to try something different. I hate the taste of flour in the filling, so I switched to cornstarch as a thickener, but I used the same amount as I would have if it had been flour, and-"
"And it turned into a fruit roll-up," he finished.
"You could lift off the top crust, stick a fork in the filling, and just lift it out of the pie and it would keep its shape," I bitched. "I should have used less, or stuck with flour. But I fucking hate flour."
"Cook the flour first," he said quietly. That was my first clue that the short, surly mechanic across the bar from me was a closet pie-baker.
Last week he brought me in a couple slices of homemade pecan pie and cheesecake with a dark cinnamon crust. So last night I wanted to bring him a slice of my new pie. Screw Better Homes and Gardens; my father had
I did not realize until I was pouring the apple filling into the crust that actually, I needed two cans. So I dropped the crust, ran to the Cupboardsburg Acme, and picked up the emergency backup can that should have already been in the cupboard. This set me back about half an hour, and the pie was just coming out of the oven as Logic Professor and I were walking out to go to Quizzo.
We cut out a few bites with a fork. The filling? Well, it was canned filling. But the crust? WAS AWESOME! Triumph! (Or, as LoPro said last night, "Piumph!")
I didn't get to bring a slice to Twin 2, but I told him all about it in excruciating detail.
"The recipe called for a lot more salt than I'm used to," I said, then noticed the sideways look he was giving me, and added, "... like you told me to do." He nodded. "And it called for sugar... like you told me... and instead of all shortening, it used 1/2 a cup of shortening and a stick and a half of butter."
I did forget to put the foil around the edge of the crust, and it turned a healthy shade of burnt; also, I took the pie out too soon in order to get to Quizzo on time. Nevertheless, I feel I've hit upon a winning recipe, and tomorrow I'm going to attempt Pie 7, if I can. Tonight I'm taking half of Pie 6 to work with me in case Twin 2 can make it up there.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Parsley Gets A Carrot, Mom Gets A Party!
Let's see if I can finally make this happen. Here's a video of Par coming into the kitchen to get a carrot out of the fridge.
And here's my Mom's reaction when we surprised her at her 60th birthday party. That's JQ running up to her at the end.
And here's my Mom's reaction when we surprised her at her 60th birthday party. That's JQ running up to her at the end.
Labels: Bunny
Monday, May 19, 2008
Backstage at the Cirque du Soleil
I can't help but feel that it was one of the cooler things I've been able to do in my 20-some years: I spent a few hours backstage and in the sound booth of Cirque du Soleil- or one of them, anyway, as they have multiple touring companies that are slowly making their way around the globe.
When "F." called- and I know damn well his name is really something more French, but I appreciate the consideration unless he's just sick of hearing it mangled- and the Quebecois area code showed up on my cell phone, I was cresting the Walt Whitman Bridge.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
"I'm on my way," I said. Like I would miss it. "We're meeting at Gate X, right?"
Ten minutes later I paid $20 for the priviledge of parking under an ominous sign that said something to the effect of "YOU MUST GET YOUR CAR THE FUCK OUT OF OUR LOT WITHIN AN HOUR AFTER THE END OF THE SHOW OR WE'LL SET IT ON FIRE AND CHARGE YOU $200 FOR EVERY DAY YOU DON'T COLLECT THE ASHES." While it was the most I've ever paid to park, barring that time I left a box truck in front of someone's driveway in Sea Isle City and it cost me more than I made that night to pay the fine, I wasn't bitching. Cost to get in through the main gate: $85. Cost to get in throught the F. gate: $0, unless he was expecting head.
The sound, light, and rafter-climbing guys were standing around under a tent lit by, to my delight, a tiny par can. I waved, they waved, and F. came over to let me in Gate X and get me a visitor pass which, despite the instructions from the guard, he insisted that I did not have to actually wear.
We stood around under the little tent, surrounded by puddles in what I thought of as Cirque's backyard. They set up in the biggest parking lot in town, with their Grand Chapiteau- that's the Big Top, to you and me- anchored by spikes as big around as my wrists and almost as tall as I am driven through the asphalt. The tent guys, who put up and maintain the Grand Chapiteau, were nervous about that afternoon's storm. "How much wind can the tent take?" I asked.
"120 miles per hour," one of them said soberly, drawing on a cigarette, then added, "but in reality it can take more."
Around us were trailers and tents and people in black bathrobes, their hair done up in elaborate headdresses, red and gold makeup on their faces, speaking French and smoking. I didn't feel too awkward about having nothing to contribute to the conversation because I didn't know what it was about and that surely can't be my fault.
I handed our free drink cards to the guys I knew, and asked how the early show had gone. "We have an act called the Wheel of Death, and the two guys who do it stayed out late last night drinking, so it wasn't the best performance." It's not ideal to have the Wheel of Death performers hung over, but they're professionals. Crazy, crazy professionals.
I was getting a little nervous the closer it got to showtime, because everyone was just standing around. It's amazing to me that a few minutes before the show everyone can be hanging out talking and smoking, and within moments of getting the call over the radio that it's go time, they can all walk inside, take their places, and make the Cirque du Soleil happen.
The sound crew's trailer and attached tent are enviably well-stocked with parts, supplies, places to work, and beer. At 5:00 we walked to the end of the long, bright tent and stepped through a thick canvas flap... into blackness. F. turned on his little flashlight and led me through the dark space. "We call this the void," he said, gesturing up into the canopy. I saw nothing. After the show I realized what he had been pointing at: we were standing just behind the white X, and he was pointing up at that big flappy thing, which, at the moment, was in the dark. I was a little afraid of tripping over a contortionist or something back there.
I had no sense of where we were going. He led me across a walkway where people were still filing in to take their seats, through a metal gate and under the audience. The seats were arranged stadium-style almost all the way around the stage. It was dark down there, too; above my head, people walked up the steps to their seats. Popcorn fell. As we made our way down the curved path, we ducked under one, two, three giant air ducts until he stopped and showed me where I could climb up through a hole in the girders to the sound booth.
Suddenly we were in the light again, and we were surrounded by people in seats, looking straight ahead to the stage.
I shimmied up onto my seat, a cushion on a road case in the corner, trying to stay out of F.'s way; there was nowhere else to go. He showed me around, or pointed, anyway, while I looked. The system is automated, and has every backup plan in place. "If this side goes down," he said, gesturing to one of the mixing boards, "I can switch everything to this side in an instant-" Here he gestured to another one on his left. "-and I can also run everything by touching the screens." As he moved his fingers up and down the faders on the computer screen, the faders on the board in front of me moved up and down. "If both sides go down, the show can be run off of this," and he showed me an unassuming, six-channel mixer a little bigger than a slice of bread. Mind you, there are 96 channels. "And if I lose the entire system," he continued, "everything can be controlled from the monitor booth in the back," where another sound engineer was preparing to mix the performer's wireless, in-ear monitors. I inquired about the power situation, and he was happy to tell me that if a meteor were to take out the entire power grid of the eastern seaboard, the show would be able to go on for another half hour thanks to Cirque's generators. Cirque du Soleil might be the only terrorism-proof entity in the world. They don't fuck around.
The show is unlike any live production I've worked on in that there seems to be no guessing, no doubt, no insecurity. The performance and production are solid. Their equipment and talent are top-of-the-line and trustworthy. Watching F. work for the first fifteen minutes, I was empathetically nervous. I know how many things can go spectacularly wrong when you're doing live s0und, and he had more to do than I ever did, and with more people watching. But F. was calm and unfazed, bored, even.
"Do you ever miss a cue?" I asked.
"Rarely," he said in a tone that suggested never. And then I relaxed.
I honestly can't say that if you're eating macaroni and cheese for dinner and have to wash your clothes in a bathtub that you should shell out $85 to see the Cirque du Soleil the next time they're in your area. It's an expensive way to spend two and a half hours. But having seen what I've seen, if I have the money and it won't fuck with my ability to put food on the table for a week, I will go see it again the next time it's in town.
My favorite part was the contortionists. A platform was rolled out onto stage with a lump on it; I thought that surely there was a person in there somewhere. Then the lump unfolded into three people. You can see some of thir performance here and here. "The little one is eleven," F. whispered during their performance.
Later, it began to rain, the drumming of the water on the tent deep and booming. "Do you hear that?" he asked. At the intermission, when the lights came up, we could hear thunder. "That's not my sound effect," he said.
We stopped in the monitor booth for a minute then went to grab a cup of coffee in the restaurant. ("That was the trapeze girl," F. mentioned after a heavily made-up woman passed us on the steps going in.) The Cirque comes into town with 60 trailers, including the fully-functioning free restaurant with a cyber-cafe for the 50 performers and 150 crew members. There is also gymnasium-type tent for the performers to rehearse and warm up in, complete with physical therapists for injuries. "What if the injury is too bad for them to perform?" I asked when we stuck our heads in there. "Then they go to the hospital," F. laughed, which didn't answer what I was really getting at. Only later did I get an answer, when he told me the second act would be shorter than normal due to injury. I mean, really. If you fall off a fucking high wire and break a foot, there can't be that many people who are ready and prepared to step in and do the same routine, although Cirque certainly has no shortage of applicants.
We ran into the singer, Tara Baswani, all glittery and beautiful with her makeup on and gemstones all over her face. Orginally I thought I was hearing a recording until I saw her on the tower on stage. "You're wonderful," I stammered.
"You're too kind," she replied modestly. No, I'm not, and she must know it.
The three of us were standing there talking when a dour-looking woman in black went by and snapped something about not being allowed to have visitors backstage. F. shrugged and we chatted with Tara for a little while more about what everyone wanted to do that night and whether the rain would be a problem. At least this area has nightlife, he told me. They'd just come from Hartford, which was the most boring place he'd visited in his nine years with the circus.
"So you're always on tour? You never go home?"
"Well, we get vacations," he said.
"When was the last time you went home?" I asked.
"Two... three years?"
"So you don't have a home," I countered.
"I have an address," he smiled. "But I have no bills. The only bill I have is my cell phone. When I leave I'll be able to buy a house, or do whatever I want." According to him, the average person stays in the circus for about three years. Three teachers travel with them to tutor the children, like the eleven-year-old contortionist, who can bring along a parent until they turn 16.
Twenty or thirty minutes later, it was time to get on with the second act.
"Good job on that thunder effect," one of the other guys said to F. right before we went back in.
"Did you like that?" he grinned. Ever vigilant, the tent guys reported that the storm had passed to one side of the city, like things ever get that windy around our neck of the woods.
The second half of the show was awesome, too, but I was relieved at the finale because frankly, I HAD TO PEE SO FREAKING BAD.
After the show, we talked a little shop about wireless microphones and amplifiers- they use all powered speakers- and hung out in the monitor booth for a little. A little nervous about sticking around too long, and still having to pee like a mohterfucker, I declined his offer to go see the Stone Temple Pilots with some of the crew. Instead I said goodbye, got my car out from under the ominous sign (it was the last car left and the attendant addressed me as "the person who was holding up [his] life"), and went home to pee.
I want to hang out with them other than at the bar and at the Cirque so they don't get to thinking that I'm only using them for tips and tickets, but I also didn't want to give F. the wrong impression, even though he knows I have a boyfriend.
Back at home, I told Logic Professor all about the show. "Any hanky-panky?" he asked offhandedly, and I was initially a little disappointed. I used to have a boyfriend who would have physically restrained me from leaving the house, and possibly confiscated my cell phone for the rest of the day, if I'd told him I was going to go hang out backstage at Cirque. Logic Professor is the polar opposite, being the least jealous person I've dated, and that's why I was disappointed. Then I realized he was being funny.
"No, he was gentleman," I replied. Still, the grain of truth behind his question is why I have neglected to tell him that most of the crew members appear to be lesbians, are greying, or usually look a little dusty. Instead, I will letmy boring American boyfriend Logic Professor think of them as dashing, strong, and girlfriend-stealing. I am not cruel enough, however, to casually mention that they all have sexy French accents. Oh wait, yes I am.
In all, it was unbearably cool. I couldn't thank F. enough for taking me along (short of giving head, of course), and I'm sad that I probably won't see them ever again; when the Cirque comes back, it will be unlikely to have the same crew. Watch out, because here comes the cliche: I'll remember it for the rest of my life.
When "F." called- and I know damn well his name is really something more French, but I appreciate the consideration unless he's just sick of hearing it mangled- and the Quebecois area code showed up on my cell phone, I was cresting the Walt Whitman Bridge.
"Are you coming?" he asked.
"I'm on my way," I said. Like I would miss it. "We're meeting at Gate X, right?"
Ten minutes later I paid $20 for the priviledge of parking under an ominous sign that said something to the effect of "YOU MUST GET YOUR CAR THE FUCK OUT OF OUR LOT WITHIN AN HOUR AFTER THE END OF THE SHOW OR WE'LL SET IT ON FIRE AND CHARGE YOU $200 FOR EVERY DAY YOU DON'T COLLECT THE ASHES." While it was the most I've ever paid to park, barring that time I left a box truck in front of someone's driveway in Sea Isle City and it cost me more than I made that night to pay the fine, I wasn't bitching. Cost to get in through the main gate: $85. Cost to get in throught the F. gate: $0, unless he was expecting head.
The sound, light, and rafter-climbing guys were standing around under a tent lit by, to my delight, a tiny par can. I waved, they waved, and F. came over to let me in Gate X and get me a visitor pass which, despite the instructions from the guard, he insisted that I did not have to actually wear.
We stood around under the little tent, surrounded by puddles in what I thought of as Cirque's backyard. They set up in the biggest parking lot in town, with their Grand Chapiteau- that's the Big Top, to you and me- anchored by spikes as big around as my wrists and almost as tall as I am driven through the asphalt. The tent guys, who put up and maintain the Grand Chapiteau, were nervous about that afternoon's storm. "How much wind can the tent take?" I asked.
"120 miles per hour," one of them said soberly, drawing on a cigarette, then added, "but in reality it can take more."
Around us were trailers and tents and people in black bathrobes, their hair done up in elaborate headdresses, red and gold makeup on their faces, speaking French and smoking. I didn't feel too awkward about having nothing to contribute to the conversation because I didn't know what it was about and that surely can't be my fault.
I handed our free drink cards to the guys I knew, and asked how the early show had gone. "We have an act called the Wheel of Death, and the two guys who do it stayed out late last night drinking, so it wasn't the best performance." It's not ideal to have the Wheel of Death performers hung over, but they're professionals. Crazy, crazy professionals.
I was getting a little nervous the closer it got to showtime, because everyone was just standing around. It's amazing to me that a few minutes before the show everyone can be hanging out talking and smoking, and within moments of getting the call over the radio that it's go time, they can all walk inside, take their places, and make the Cirque du Soleil happen.
The sound crew's trailer and attached tent are enviably well-stocked with parts, supplies, places to work, and beer. At 5:00 we walked to the end of the long, bright tent and stepped through a thick canvas flap... into blackness. F. turned on his little flashlight and led me through the dark space. "We call this the void," he said, gesturing up into the canopy. I saw nothing. After the show I realized what he had been pointing at: we were standing just behind the white X, and he was pointing up at that big flappy thing, which, at the moment, was in the dark. I was a little afraid of tripping over a contortionist or something back there.
I had no sense of where we were going. He led me across a walkway where people were still filing in to take their seats, through a metal gate and under the audience. The seats were arranged stadium-style almost all the way around the stage. It was dark down there, too; above my head, people walked up the steps to their seats. Popcorn fell. As we made our way down the curved path, we ducked under one, two, three giant air ducts until he stopped and showed me where I could climb up through a hole in the girders to the sound booth.
Suddenly we were in the light again, and we were surrounded by people in seats, looking straight ahead to the stage.
I shimmied up onto my seat, a cushion on a road case in the corner, trying to stay out of F.'s way; there was nowhere else to go. He showed me around, or pointed, anyway, while I looked. The system is automated, and has every backup plan in place. "If this side goes down," he said, gesturing to one of the mixing boards, "I can switch everything to this side in an instant-" Here he gestured to another one on his left. "-and I can also run everything by touching the screens." As he moved his fingers up and down the faders on the computer screen, the faders on the board in front of me moved up and down. "If both sides go down, the show can be run off of this," and he showed me an unassuming, six-channel mixer a little bigger than a slice of bread. Mind you, there are 96 channels. "And if I lose the entire system," he continued, "everything can be controlled from the monitor booth in the back," where another sound engineer was preparing to mix the performer's wireless, in-ear monitors. I inquired about the power situation, and he was happy to tell me that if a meteor were to take out the entire power grid of the eastern seaboard, the show would be able to go on for another half hour thanks to Cirque's generators. Cirque du Soleil might be the only terrorism-proof entity in the world. They don't fuck around.
The show is unlike any live production I've worked on in that there seems to be no guessing, no doubt, no insecurity. The performance and production are solid. Their equipment and talent are top-of-the-line and trustworthy. Watching F. work for the first fifteen minutes, I was empathetically nervous. I know how many things can go spectacularly wrong when you're doing live s0und, and he had more to do than I ever did, and with more people watching. But F. was calm and unfazed, bored, even.
"Do you ever miss a cue?" I asked.
"Rarely," he said in a tone that suggested never. And then I relaxed.
I honestly can't say that if you're eating macaroni and cheese for dinner and have to wash your clothes in a bathtub that you should shell out $85 to see the Cirque du Soleil the next time they're in your area. It's an expensive way to spend two and a half hours. But having seen what I've seen, if I have the money and it won't fuck with my ability to put food on the table for a week, I will go see it again the next time it's in town.
My favorite part was the contortionists. A platform was rolled out onto stage with a lump on it; I thought that surely there was a person in there somewhere. Then the lump unfolded into three people. You can see some of thir performance here and here. "The little one is eleven," F. whispered during their performance.
Later, it began to rain, the drumming of the water on the tent deep and booming. "Do you hear that?" he asked. At the intermission, when the lights came up, we could hear thunder. "That's not my sound effect," he said.
We stopped in the monitor booth for a minute then went to grab a cup of coffee in the restaurant. ("That was the trapeze girl," F. mentioned after a heavily made-up woman passed us on the steps going in.) The Cirque comes into town with 60 trailers, including the fully-functioning free restaurant with a cyber-cafe for the 50 performers and 150 crew members. There is also gymnasium-type tent for the performers to rehearse and warm up in, complete with physical therapists for injuries. "What if the injury is too bad for them to perform?" I asked when we stuck our heads in there. "Then they go to the hospital," F. laughed, which didn't answer what I was really getting at. Only later did I get an answer, when he told me the second act would be shorter than normal due to injury. I mean, really. If you fall off a fucking high wire and break a foot, there can't be that many people who are ready and prepared to step in and do the same routine, although Cirque certainly has no shortage of applicants.
We ran into the singer, Tara Baswani, all glittery and beautiful with her makeup on and gemstones all over her face. Orginally I thought I was hearing a recording until I saw her on the tower on stage. "You're wonderful," I stammered.
"You're too kind," she replied modestly. No, I'm not, and she must know it.
The three of us were standing there talking when a dour-looking woman in black went by and snapped something about not being allowed to have visitors backstage. F. shrugged and we chatted with Tara for a little while more about what everyone wanted to do that night and whether the rain would be a problem. At least this area has nightlife, he told me. They'd just come from Hartford, which was the most boring place he'd visited in his nine years with the circus.
"So you're always on tour? You never go home?"
"Well, we get vacations," he said.
"When was the last time you went home?" I asked.
"Two... three years?"
"So you don't have a home," I countered.
"I have an address," he smiled. "But I have no bills. The only bill I have is my cell phone. When I leave I'll be able to buy a house, or do whatever I want." According to him, the average person stays in the circus for about three years. Three teachers travel with them to tutor the children, like the eleven-year-old contortionist, who can bring along a parent until they turn 16.
Twenty or thirty minutes later, it was time to get on with the second act.
"Good job on that thunder effect," one of the other guys said to F. right before we went back in.
"Did you like that?" he grinned. Ever vigilant, the tent guys reported that the storm had passed to one side of the city, like things ever get that windy around our neck of the woods.
The second half of the show was awesome, too, but I was relieved at the finale because frankly, I HAD TO PEE SO FREAKING BAD.
After the show, we talked a little shop about wireless microphones and amplifiers- they use all powered speakers- and hung out in the monitor booth for a little. A little nervous about sticking around too long, and still having to pee like a mohterfucker, I declined his offer to go see the Stone Temple Pilots with some of the crew. Instead I said goodbye, got my car out from under the ominous sign (it was the last car left and the attendant addressed me as "the person who was holding up [his] life"), and went home to pee.
I want to hang out with them other than at the bar and at the Cirque so they don't get to thinking that I'm only using them for tips and tickets, but I also didn't want to give F. the wrong impression, even though he knows I have a boyfriend.
Back at home, I told Logic Professor all about the show. "Any hanky-panky?" he asked offhandedly, and I was initially a little disappointed. I used to have a boyfriend who would have physically restrained me from leaving the house, and possibly confiscated my cell phone for the rest of the day, if I'd told him I was going to go hang out backstage at Cirque. Logic Professor is the polar opposite, being the least jealous person I've dated, and that's why I was disappointed. Then I realized he was being funny.
"No, he was gentleman," I replied. Still, the grain of truth behind his question is why I have neglected to tell him that most of the crew members appear to be lesbians, are greying, or usually look a little dusty. Instead, I will let
In all, it was unbearably cool. I couldn't thank F. enough for taking me along (short of giving head, of course), and I'm sad that I probably won't see them ever again; when the Cirque comes back, it will be unlikely to have the same crew. Watch out, because here comes the cliche: I'll remember it for the rest of my life.
Labels: Product Endorsements
Interruption
I'm writing a detailed post about what happened at Cirque (IT WAS AWESOME.), but in the meantime, there are some academic developments which should be recognized:
Back to the Story du Cirque. Expect it in an hour or so.
P.S. LoPro made it 3/4 of the way through a bowl of Raisin Bran this morning before looking over at the milk, seeing that it had expired on May 5th, and realizing why it tasted so bad. Poor man.
- All of my grades are in except Biology, and my GPA is the highest it will ever be again- 3.684.
- A- Health and Wellness
- A- Statistics II
- A- World Literature
- B- Intermediate Spanish II
- I got a letter from Drexel; not only am I accepted, but they've offered me a Dean's Scholarship of ELEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS, independent of poverty-based-- I mean, need-based-- financial aid. I'm pleased and intend to save the letter. This doesn't help my decision, though, because Drexel costs over $40,000 a year to attend. This merely complicates my decision. My mother is happy, though.
Back to the Story du Cirque. Expect it in an hour or so.
P.S. LoPro made it 3/4 of the way through a bowl of Raisin Bran this morning before looking over at the milk, seeing that it had expired on May 5th, and realizing why it tasted so bad. Poor man.
Labels: Higher Education, The Application Process
Sunday, May 18, 2008
On My Way To The Cirque
This afternoon I'm off to the Cirque du Soliel; the crew has been coming in to the CPRB, and today I'm going to go watch the show from the s0und booth, assuming everything goes as planned. I have to meet the s0und guy at a certain place and time. I sure hope he's not on Canadian time or anything.
260th Post- Damn Barback
It's 4:20am, and I just walked in.
The new barback sucks.
I like him as a person- he's smart, willing to work hard, easy to get along with, and honest. But he has a unique type of colorblindness that renders him unable to see glasses that need to be washed.
One of the other bartenders tipped him fifteen bucks. We are supposed to tip out twenty percent of what we make. Either she had an unbelievably, unexpectedly, improbably slow night, or she hates him. My first instinct was to chuck a nickel at his head too, but that's counterproductive. Besides, he was working hard. It's not like we saw the man standing around. He was just working on all the wrong things, like stocking up on unlikely brands of beer while I was running out of essential things like limes, vodka, and patience.
I took the other route and overtipped him, then talked about why the other bartender might want to use his scalp as a bar rag. Was I buying myself his full attention? I SURE HOPE SO. But I'm not going to keep that up forever if I'm also going to have to keep tipping out the bouncers and managers for helping collect glasses and clean up the bar while the barback is, I don't know, counting beer bottles or something. I only want to tip one person for doing the job of one person, not three people for doing the job of one person... but if one person does the job of three people, as some of the better barbacks have done, believe you me, I will tip as if he were three people.
"I miss (Junket's friend who was the barback for a while)," I said to the manager, and it's true. God damn, that man was everywhere. I'd say, "Hey Awesome Barback, I need Stoli," and he'd pull a bottle of Stoli out of his pants. Or I'd say, "Awesome Barback, the next time you run down to the basement, can you grab me some napkins?" and he'd be all, "I brought them up yesterday and hid them under this floor tile." Or I'd just start to scrape the bottom of the ice bin with the ice scoop, and he'd fall through the ceiling with a fresh bucket of ice and land in the ice bin.
Wow. What a barback.
Okay, I guess the rest of blogosphere doesn't need to come along on my trip down barback memory lane.
In other bar news, tonight I tried to put a little heart into my last call. Traditionally I bellow "LAST CALL, BITCHES, LAST CALL," but tonight I spiced it up by bellowing "LAST CALL, YOU PAIN-IN-THE-ASS SONS-OF-BITCHES, LAST CALL."
"You should have added 'ungrateful'," a friend told me. I'll have to try that one out next week.
The new barback sucks.
I like him as a person- he's smart, willing to work hard, easy to get along with, and honest. But he has a unique type of colorblindness that renders him unable to see glasses that need to be washed.
One of the other bartenders tipped him fifteen bucks. We are supposed to tip out twenty percent of what we make. Either she had an unbelievably, unexpectedly, improbably slow night, or she hates him. My first instinct was to chuck a nickel at his head too, but that's counterproductive. Besides, he was working hard. It's not like we saw the man standing around. He was just working on all the wrong things, like stocking up on unlikely brands of beer while I was running out of essential things like limes, vodka, and patience.
I took the other route and overtipped him, then talked about why the other bartender might want to use his scalp as a bar rag. Was I buying myself his full attention? I SURE HOPE SO. But I'm not going to keep that up forever if I'm also going to have to keep tipping out the bouncers and managers for helping collect glasses and clean up the bar while the barback is, I don't know, counting beer bottles or something. I only want to tip one person for doing the job of one person, not three people for doing the job of one person... but if one person does the job of three people, as some of the better barbacks have done, believe you me, I will tip as if he were three people.
"I miss (Junket's friend who was the barback for a while)," I said to the manager, and it's true. God damn, that man was everywhere. I'd say, "Hey Awesome Barback, I need Stoli," and he'd pull a bottle of Stoli out of his pants. Or I'd say, "Awesome Barback, the next time you run down to the basement, can you grab me some napkins?" and he'd be all, "I brought them up yesterday and hid them under this floor tile." Or I'd just start to scrape the bottom of the ice bin with the ice scoop, and he'd fall through the ceiling with a fresh bucket of ice and land in the ice bin.
Wow. What a barback.
Okay, I guess the rest of blogosphere doesn't need to come along on my trip down barback memory lane.
In other bar news, tonight I tried to put a little heart into my last call. Traditionally I bellow "LAST CALL, BITCHES, LAST CALL," but tonight I spiced it up by bellowing "LAST CALL, YOU PAIN-IN-THE-ASS SONS-OF-BITCHES, LAST CALL."
"You should have added 'ungrateful'," a friend told me. I'll have to try that one out next week.
Labels: Intoxicology
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Busy!
First of all, thank you all for your kind words and encouragement. I'm pretty happy about [the university]; I don't even want to wait to hear from Drexel now. Temple offered me a gigantic financial aid package, but not gigantic enough; that settles it, and I'm ready to embrace my inner [school mascot].
So it's been pretty busy around the Creepy Cupboard.
Wednesday night I worked until 3, then woke up at 8 to go to a funeral on Thursday. I left the funeral early to go take my Bio exam- finally- then met back up with everyone at the community center where the repast was held. During the Bio exam, I was sitting by myself in an office of the Biology Department and my professor came in, put her coffee mug on one of those single-cup coffee makers, put in a coffee pod, turned on the machine, and left the room. I could have strangled her.
Friday I went to school to try to sell back some books and get into the honor society at the last minute so that I would consequently be eligible for Honors College, but the power was out, I didn't sell back my books, and the dude in charge of the society told me (in the dark) that I'd missed the deadline by a couple days. Oh well; it happens.
Then I drove to my new university, parked in the rain, and walked around campus being all misty-eyed about having gotten in and whatnot. While I was there I bought mugs with the school logo for my parents and I. Afterwards, I went over their house and we drank educational coffee in our new mugs. It's educational if it's in a college mug.
Today was my Mom's 60th birthday, and my sisters and father and I threw her a surprise party. We had it in the restaurant where my parents had their wedding reception over thirty years ago. I have been dying to blog about this for months; incredibly, none of us gave it away and she didn't find out until the second she walked into the room and we all shouted "SURPRISE!"
The most emotional moment, for me, was when she looked around and said, "Oh my god... everyone I love is here." I held it together pretty well when my sisters and I each gave a little speech before we lit the candles on the cake, and when a few of my mom's friends spoke too. But there were a few people who were probably wishing they'd brought tissues.
I'll post pictures of the party when I get them. Now I'm off to get ready for work.
So it's been pretty busy around the Creepy Cupboard.
Wednesday night I worked until 3, then woke up at 8 to go to a funeral on Thursday. I left the funeral early to go take my Bio exam- finally- then met back up with everyone at the community center where the repast was held. During the Bio exam, I was sitting by myself in an office of the Biology Department and my professor came in, put her coffee mug on one of those single-cup coffee makers, put in a coffee pod, turned on the machine, and left the room. I could have strangled her.
Friday I went to school to try to sell back some books and get into the honor society at the last minute so that I would consequently be eligible for Honors College, but the power was out, I didn't sell back my books, and the dude in charge of the society told me (in the dark) that I'd missed the deadline by a couple days. Oh well; it happens.
Then I drove to my new university, parked in the rain, and walked around campus being all misty-eyed about having gotten in and whatnot. While I was there I bought mugs with the school logo for my parents and I. Afterwards, I went over their house and we drank educational coffee in our new mugs. It's educational if it's in a college mug.
Today was my Mom's 60th birthday, and my sisters and father and I threw her a surprise party. We had it in the restaurant where my parents had their wedding reception over thirty years ago. I have been dying to blog about this for months; incredibly, none of us gave it away and she didn't find out until the second she walked into the room and we all shouted "SURPRISE!"
The most emotional moment, for me, was when she looked around and said, "Oh my god... everyone I love is here." I held it together pretty well when my sisters and I each gave a little speech before we lit the candles on the cake, and when a few of my mom's friends spoke too. But there were a few people who were probably wishing they'd brought tissues.
I'll post pictures of the party when I get them. Now I'm off to get ready for work.
Labels: The Application Process
Friday, May 16, 2008
Finally!
ADMITTED TO [school in question]!
Labels: Higher Education, The Application Process
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Scared Bunny, Bio Final
Last night, Parlsey got his head stuck in the handle of a piece of our paper carryout bag from Outback, and he tore around the kitchen, terrified, wearing a tiny brown paper cape. He looked like a fuzzy little superhero, and it was unbearably cute, but he was also clearly distressed and we tried to corner him as fast as possible to get the Paper Of Horror off his head. Finally he wedged himself behind the washing machine and was able to break free, but he stayed back there for a while, panting and periodically thumping one of his feet. He wouldn't even eat a carrot at first.
But as always, the carrot won him over.
Perhaps because of last night's scare, this morning he WON'T GET OFF MY FUCKING FOOT. Seriously; I've accidentally kicked Parsley four times as he's attempted to sit on one of my feet while I was walking from one room to another. I don't see how being punted all morning is going to help reassure him, but he keeps doing it anyway.
Now he's at my feet beneath the kitchen table, tearing up his phone book. That's right, he has his own phone book to rip up. I'm glad it's under the table so he can play while being comforted by my gigantic human presence.
In a couple hours I'm going to take my last final, Biology. Holy fuck, I can't believe I made it through Biology.
I'd better go study or I won't make it through Biology.
*UPDATE*
I am taking the final a few hours early because I have to go to work.
Or, I was going to take the final a few hours early, except that Bio Prof wasn't there.
So now I'm going to show up to the regular final at 1:00 and ask if the test can be completed within an hour and, if not, when I can take it.
Oy.
But as always, the carrot won him over.
Perhaps because of last night's scare, this morning he WON'T GET OFF MY FUCKING FOOT. Seriously; I've accidentally kicked Parsley four times as he's attempted to sit on one of my feet while I was walking from one room to another. I don't see how being punted all morning is going to help reassure him, but he keeps doing it anyway.
Now he's at my feet beneath the kitchen table, tearing up his phone book. That's right, he has his own phone book to rip up. I'm glad it's under the table so he can play while being comforted by my gigantic human presence.
In a couple hours I'm going to take my last final, Biology. Holy fuck, I can't believe I made it through Biology.
I'd better go study or I won't make it through Biology.
*UPDATE*
I am taking the final a few hours early because I have to go to work.
Or, I was going to take the final a few hours early, except that Bio Prof wasn't there.
So now I'm going to show up to the regular final at 1:00 and ask if the test can be completed within an hour and, if not, when I can take it.
Oy.
Labels: Biological Hell, Bunny
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Breakfast Onion
Last night Logic Professor and I went out to Outback Steakhouse (OMFG I just remembered that I have leftovers for breakfaaaasssst!!!) for appetizers and whatnot; I ate so much that I hurt myself, which wasn't very ladylike. We were pretending it was a date, even though I beleive that once your relationship has reached the level that you're stumbling across one another's crap*, nothing is really a date. Nevertheless, it was a good time. Our waiter was so coked up we expected his nose to start dripping blood at any moment (Hi, Jon P.! Thanks for the service!), and I got all dressed up because I felt like it. There's nothing about Outback that requires you to show up in a cocktail dress, fancy hat, silver earrings, knee-high ass-kickin' boots and fencenets, but we were celebrating the end of the semester. By not drinking alcohol. And not eating meat. Given our lack of vices, maybe we should have, I don't know, spray painted something.
Today is the first weekday in a long f-ing time that I've been able to sleep in, content that I have nothing to do for the rest of the day. I have a bio final tomorrow, and then I'm done for the summer, and maybe forever if [the university] doesn't get back to me.
PLANS FOR TODAY:
- eat Bloomin' Onion
- brush teeth
- buy flowers
- plant flowers
- vacuum up accumulated bunny hair (ugh. it's disgusting how long it's been since I've vacuumed)
- clean out bunny's litter box
- study for bio final
* By the way, IT HAPPENED AGAIN.
Today is the first weekday in a long f-ing time that I've been able to sleep in, content that I have nothing to do for the rest of the day. I have a bio final tomorrow, and then I'm done for the summer, and maybe forever if [the university] doesn't get back to me.
PLANS FOR TODAY:
- eat Bloomin' Onion
- brush teeth
- buy flowers
- plant flowers
- vacuum up accumulated bunny hair (ugh. it's disgusting how long it's been since I've vacuumed)
- clean out bunny's litter box
- study for bio final
* By the way, IT HAPPENED AGAIN.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Stat Final, Pants Shopping, Tea
LoPro just left to administer his last final, and Parsley and I are hanging out in the kitchen. I am at the table with a cup of tea, and he is sitting on a heavy-duty
brown envelope tearing off strips from one end. I'll give him some tea when it cools down.
Walking out to the Rollmobile after Stat Final (Part Deux) this afternoon, I felt a little sad. It was the last day of statistics. Also, I had calculated what grade I had to get on the final to maintain my A, and decided that I didn't need to study; while this was technically true, during the final I regretted it because I could have totally pwned and I chose not to. Logic Professor speculated that perhaps Stat Prof would realize what I had done and be proud of me for applying my statistical reasoning, and I had to admit that I was hoping the exact same thing.
Maybe I shouldn't feel like I'm letting down my teachers when I get lazy. After all, I'm the only person I'm letting down *cough* CLICHE *cough*, and in this case, I still got my A (I assume). But Stat Prof wrote recommendations for me to all the colleges I applied to, and they were better than I would have imagined, culminating with "I recommend Caustic Cupcake without any reservations." And then I immediately stopped studying.
But at the bottom of my final I wrote him a short note: Thanks for being a great teacher. I valued your precision and clarity. I know I will continue to use statistics, and now that I have taken two of your classes I am better able to interpret the information I receive from media and literature, be it misleading or scrupulous. Which is about the nicest thing you can say to a Statistics Professor, I think.
"Thanks for everything," I said on my way out. Then when I got into the Rollmobile I looked in the mirror and saw that something was hanging out of my nose. It must have been there the whole time.
I removed the offending clump and decided to go pants shopping.
I seem to run out of pants all at once. I hypothesize that this is because after one or two pants develop holes and have to be thrown out, the rest of my pants enter a heavier rotation, and therefore begin to degrade at a faster rate than before. This sets into motion a tragic domino effect, and after the first few pairs fall, it's only a few weeks before the whole wardrobe goes down.
Here are my current pants:
Jeans, 2: One with holes ripped all over the place and one giant, unsexy, yardwork pair.
Black jeans, 2: One old pair that cuts off the circulation to the lower half of my body and will soon become just worn down enough that its threads can no longer keep the Cupcake in, and will rip free from my legs leaving me pantsless and humiliated in public. Also one newer pair that makes my hips look like I could easily birth triplets simulaneously. Easily.
Black work Dickies, 2: They never actually degrade, thankfully. Wish I had nine pairs of these but they cost FORTY BUCKS.
Baggy man-pants, 2: One slate grey (fairly degraded) and one slate blue (fairly new).
That's it.
So I went to the mall after Stat Final (Part Deux) and looked at pants for a while. I hate clothes shopping. When I was younger, I developed strict criteria for my pants. They had to have back pockets (where I kept my money), they had to have belt loops, and they had to be stiff enough to form cuffs. Now, any article of clothing that I will purchase must meet so many criteria that at times I wonder if such an article of clothing exists.
I stumbled around Boscov's for an hour or so, trying to find a pair of jeans that would meet my stringent specifications; failing that, I moved on to shirts. I can alwaysdestroy use more shirts. I didn't actually find any shirts that weren't patterened, bespackled with words or phrases, sleeveless or too-short-sleeved, low-cut, tight, or otherwise immodest. Also, my shirt would have to be black, yet cool enough to wear during summer, and it would have to be sewn by that woman in Scarborough who makes shirts without seams. Boscovs had nothing of the sort. I wonder why.
The next time I go shopping, I'm going back to Goodwill, my old standby. The clothes are cheap, pre-owned, and unique. I have found many a modest, only mildly stained shirt at Goodwill.
But I did get a stack of cheap black-and-silver bangle bracelets while I was at the mall, lugging around my heavy handbag and regretting that I hadn't had the foresight to leave my bottle of Coke Zero and TI-83 in the car. (BUT WHAT IF I HAD TO CALCULATE VARIANCES IN EARRING PRICES?!) I seem to shed bangles one at a time, inconspicuously, until I'm down to one or two and could have sworn that a month before I had an armload. I also got a pair of cupcake earrings from Claire's. Am I the only grown woman who loves Claire's? I can't be.
I'm going to finish my tea and look for cheap Dickies online. And brood. Because that's what I do.
No word from [the university] or Drexel.
brown envelope tearing off strips from one end. I'll give him some tea when it cools down.
Walking out to the Rollmobile after Stat Final (Part Deux) this afternoon, I felt a little sad. It was the last day of statistics. Also, I had calculated what grade I had to get on the final to maintain my A, and decided that I didn't need to study; while this was technically true, during the final I regretted it because I could have totally pwned and I chose not to. Logic Professor speculated that perhaps Stat Prof would realize what I had done and be proud of me for applying my statistical reasoning, and I had to admit that I was hoping the exact same thing.
Maybe I shouldn't feel like I'm letting down my teachers when I get lazy. After all, I'm the only person I'm letting down *cough* CLICHE *cough*, and in this case, I still got my A (I assume). But Stat Prof wrote recommendations for me to all the colleges I applied to, and they were better than I would have imagined, culminating with "I recommend Caustic Cupcake without any reservations." And then I immediately stopped studying.
But at the bottom of my final I wrote him a short note: Thanks for being a great teacher. I valued your precision and clarity. I know I will continue to use statistics, and now that I have taken two of your classes I am better able to interpret the information I receive from media and literature, be it misleading or scrupulous. Which is about the nicest thing you can say to a Statistics Professor, I think.
"Thanks for everything," I said on my way out. Then when I got into the Rollmobile I looked in the mirror and saw that something was hanging out of my nose. It must have been there the whole time.
I removed the offending clump and decided to go pants shopping.
I seem to run out of pants all at once. I hypothesize that this is because after one or two pants develop holes and have to be thrown out, the rest of my pants enter a heavier rotation, and therefore begin to degrade at a faster rate than before. This sets into motion a tragic domino effect, and after the first few pairs fall, it's only a few weeks before the whole wardrobe goes down.
Here are my current pants:
Jeans, 2: One with holes ripped all over the place and one giant, unsexy, yardwork pair.
Black jeans, 2: One old pair that cuts off the circulation to the lower half of my body and will soon become just worn down enough that its threads can no longer keep the Cupcake in, and will rip free from my legs leaving me pantsless and humiliated in public. Also one newer pair that makes my hips look like I could easily birth triplets simulaneously. Easily.
Black work Dickies, 2: They never actually degrade, thankfully. Wish I had nine pairs of these but they cost FORTY BUCKS.
Baggy man-pants, 2: One slate grey (fairly degraded) and one slate blue (fairly new).
That's it.
So I went to the mall after Stat Final (Part Deux) and looked at pants for a while. I hate clothes shopping. When I was younger, I developed strict criteria for my pants. They had to have back pockets (where I kept my money), they had to have belt loops, and they had to be stiff enough to form cuffs. Now, any article of clothing that I will purchase must meet so many criteria that at times I wonder if such an article of clothing exists.
I stumbled around Boscov's for an hour or so, trying to find a pair of jeans that would meet my stringent specifications; failing that, I moved on to shirts. I can always
The next time I go shopping, I'm going back to Goodwill, my old standby. The clothes are cheap, pre-owned, and unique. I have found many a modest, only mildly stained shirt at Goodwill.
But I did get a stack of cheap black-and-silver bangle bracelets while I was at the mall, lugging around my heavy handbag and regretting that I hadn't had the foresight to leave my bottle of Coke Zero and TI-83 in the car. (BUT WHAT IF I HAD TO CALCULATE VARIANCES IN EARRING PRICES?!) I seem to shed bangles one at a time, inconspicuously, until I'm down to one or two and could have sworn that a month before I had an armload. I also got a pair of cupcake earrings from Claire's. Am I the only grown woman who loves Claire's? I can't be.
I'm going to finish my tea and look for cheap Dickies online. And brood. Because that's what I do.
No word from [the university] or Drexel.
Labels: Statistics
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Pie Log, Pies 2 Through Five: Piepocalypse Now
Yesterday afternoon I baked a blueberry pie for a friend of LoPro's who recently lost his father. I hope that either the blueberry pie came out better than the four pies I made today at my parents' house or it was so horrible that the humor of it was able to brighten his day. Not one of the four pies I baked today couldn't be accurately described as a baking travesty.
Why four? With a Jeffrey Steingarten book in hand, the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook on my table, and the advice of a friend who frequently bakes still ringing in my ears from last night, I was ready to experiment. To experiment, I needed piespace. So I baked four, all with minor variations that frankly didn't matter because they all sucked, albeit it in varying degrees.
Pie 1: The Condolence Pie I will say this about The Condolence Pie: it looked damn good. If done right, it's hard to make a lattice-top pie look unappetizing. Also, it had store-boughten filling, which means that even if my crust was akin to cardboard in taste and consistency, they'd still have something to salvage from the pie plate. (By the way, I left one of my glass pie plates at their house, and it's a good thing I don't strictly need it because I'd feel guilty asking the bereaved for my plate back.) There's not much else I can report about Pie 1 because I didn't taste it.
Pie 2:Key Lime Crushed Pineapple Omelet Pie I'd been kicking the idea around for a long time. Instead of using lime juice in a key lime pie, couldn't I use any other kind of tart juice? Lemon? Unsweetened cranberry? Pineapple? I mean, the pie only has three ingredients: sweetened condensed milk, egg yolks, and lime juice. The lime juice seems fairly replaceable to me. Today, however, I discovered that it is not replaceable with crushed pineapple. Next time I'm going to try the cranberry juice. Or maybe grapefruit juice. Grapefruit pie would be awesome! Awesome like I thought this pie was going to be! The good news: I used a store-boughted graham-cracker crust, so at least that went well.
Pie 3: Undercooked/Overcooked Lattice-Top Apple Disaster First of all, are you allowed to make a lattice-top apple pie? I don't think so. I think they need the top crust so the apples can steam, right? Logic Professor and my parents assure me that you can bake a lattice-top apple pie, but I'm not sure, because I've never personally seen one, and besides, both of mine were disasters (see Pie 4 below). I used Better Homes and Gardens' crust recipe and Steingarten's filling; they cited two different temperatures, and I started baking at the lower one. An hour later, the pie that was supposed to be out in half an hour still wasn't done yet. But hey, at least it was dry and rubbery! "Shoe leather," my father said when I made him try a postage-stamp-sized bit of crust. It had slowly dried out without really getting cooked. I immediately slapped a protective layer of tin foil on Pie 4, which had just started baking on the rack below.
Pie 4: Lattice-Top Apple Pie of Undetermined Quality So twenty minutes later I peeled back the foil and found that the latticework was soggy and pallid. I immediately ripped off the protective foil and put the pie back in the oven, turning up the heat to the higher of the two temperatures I had been given. I'm going to have to take a crack at tasting that one in the morning after it's cooled and set up, but it certainly didn't smell very good. The small corner of crust I broke off tasted vaguely like burnt wood.
Pie 5: At Least the Black Cherry Filling Was Good If you like cherries, and you like pies, I recommend Lucky Leaf's dark cherry filling. It's a little more expensive that the regular red cherry filling, but it's delicious. Unlike the crust.
"This isn't a failure," I told Logic Professor as I was wiping congealed flour off of my parents' kitchen table. "It's a step. A step in a process. The process of failure."
Here are the factors that have been successful:
* Baking in glass plates. Crispier bottom crusts, easier to track progress.
* Brushing the top crust with milk and sprinkling it with sugar. I always do this. It's always tasty and impressive-looking.
* Lattice-top. See above. Also, it's easier than it looks.
* Using a real rolling pin. For a couple years there I used a canister of Coffee Mate. Much easier with rolling pin.
* Adding a strip of dough around the edge of the pie over the finished lattice-top ends. It covers up the rough edges and makes the pie look more "finished".
* Covering the outer edge of the pie with tin foil while baking. That saves it from getting burnt.
* Putting my mother to work coring, slicing, and dunking apples in lemon water. It saved me half of the labor and she did a better job than I would have. Maybe she should have made the whole fucking pie. Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
Here are the factors that have been disastrous:
* Crusts, period. Don't know what I'm doing wrong, but Jeffrey isn't helping yet.
* Omitting cinnamon from the apples. Steingarten says that cinnamon has no business being so entwined with our idea of what apples are supposed to taste like. The problem is that cinnamon IS entwined with our idea of what apples are supposed to taste like, and if I'd added it, the filling wouldn't have been as much of a disaster.
Here are the factors that are still up in the air:
* Dumping in all the water at once vs. adding it tablespood by tablespoon. Can't tell if there's a difference.
* Greasing the pie plate with shortening. I mean, it's not like they were sticking before. I don't think it's helping brown the crust, either.
I'm going to bake another pie tomorrow. If anyone has a good apple pie recipe, please help me.
I'm going to go read the Cook's Illustrated issue that my father lent me.
Why four? With a Jeffrey Steingarten book in hand, the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook on my table, and the advice of a friend who frequently bakes still ringing in my ears from last night, I was ready to experiment. To experiment, I needed piespace. So I baked four, all with minor variations that frankly didn't matter because they all sucked, albeit it in varying degrees.
Pie 1: The Condolence Pie I will say this about The Condolence Pie: it looked damn good. If done right, it's hard to make a lattice-top pie look unappetizing. Also, it had store-boughten filling, which means that even if my crust was akin to cardboard in taste and consistency, they'd still have something to salvage from the pie plate. (By the way, I left one of my glass pie plates at their house, and it's a good thing I don't strictly need it because I'd feel guilty asking the bereaved for my plate back.) There's not much else I can report about Pie 1 because I didn't taste it.
Pie 2:
Pie 3: Undercooked/Overcooked Lattice-Top Apple Disaster First of all, are you allowed to make a lattice-top apple pie? I don't think so. I think they need the top crust so the apples can steam, right? Logic Professor and my parents assure me that you can bake a lattice-top apple pie, but I'm not sure, because I've never personally seen one, and besides, both of mine were disasters (see Pie 4 below). I used Better Homes and Gardens' crust recipe and Steingarten's filling; they cited two different temperatures, and I started baking at the lower one. An hour later, the pie that was supposed to be out in half an hour still wasn't done yet. But hey, at least it was dry and rubbery! "Shoe leather," my father said when I made him try a postage-stamp-sized bit of crust. It had slowly dried out without really getting cooked. I immediately slapped a protective layer of tin foil on Pie 4, which had just started baking on the rack below.
Pie 4: Lattice-Top Apple Pie of Undetermined Quality So twenty minutes later I peeled back the foil and found that the latticework was soggy and pallid. I immediately ripped off the protective foil and put the pie back in the oven, turning up the heat to the higher of the two temperatures I had been given. I'm going to have to take a crack at tasting that one in the morning after it's cooled and set up, but it certainly didn't smell very good. The small corner of crust I broke off tasted vaguely like burnt wood.
Pie 5: At Least the Black Cherry Filling Was Good If you like cherries, and you like pies, I recommend Lucky Leaf's dark cherry filling. It's a little more expensive that the regular red cherry filling, but it's delicious. Unlike the crust.
"This isn't a failure," I told Logic Professor as I was wiping congealed flour off of my parents' kitchen table. "It's a step. A step in a process. The process of failure."
Here are the factors that have been successful:
* Baking in glass plates. Crispier bottom crusts, easier to track progress.
* Brushing the top crust with milk and sprinkling it with sugar. I always do this. It's always tasty and impressive-looking.
* Lattice-top. See above. Also, it's easier than it looks.
* Using a real rolling pin. For a couple years there I used a canister of Coffee Mate. Much easier with rolling pin.
* Adding a strip of dough around the edge of the pie over the finished lattice-top ends. It covers up the rough edges and makes the pie look more "finished".
* Covering the outer edge of the pie with tin foil while baking. That saves it from getting burnt.
* Putting my mother to work coring, slicing, and dunking apples in lemon water. It saved me half of the labor and she did a better job than I would have. Maybe she should have made the whole fucking pie. Happy Mother's Day, Mom!
Here are the factors that have been disastrous:
* Crusts, period. Don't know what I'm doing wrong, but Jeffrey isn't helping yet.
* Omitting cinnamon from the apples. Steingarten says that cinnamon has no business being so entwined with our idea of what apples are supposed to taste like. The problem is that cinnamon IS entwined with our idea of what apples are supposed to taste like, and if I'd added it, the filling wouldn't have been as much of a disaster.
Here are the factors that are still up in the air:
* Dumping in all the water at once vs. adding it tablespood by tablespoon. Can't tell if there's a difference.
* Greasing the pie plate with shortening. I mean, it's not like they were sticking before. I don't think it's helping brown the crust, either.
I'm going to bake another pie tomorrow. If anyone has a good apple pie recipe, please help me.
I'm going to go read the Cook's Illustrated issue that my father lent me.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Almost There
Yesterday was my last lab. I looked at fungi and bacteria under a microscope. I'm a fan of penicillium, myself. They looked like little skeleton hands, or stylishly thin spears of broccoli.
The Spanish final either went well enough to earn a B, or went horribly but I don't know it because I can't speak Spanish. By that I mean I think I did fine, but hey, what do I know?
Today I'm taking finals in Statistics and Health + Wellness. Monday I'm taking Stat Final, Part Deux. Stat Prof has designed the exam to have twelve questions, six for each day, and each worth ten points, so one can earn a total of twenty extra credit points. That smells fishy to me. I'm wondering if the rest of the test isn't extra tricky.
I have to get a 47 on the final to maintain my A. I'll see what I can do.
Yesterday when I got home all tired and bedraggled, having worked until 3:30 because the fucking Circque du Soleil showed up*, I mowed the lawn. No, I didn't want to, but it was a nice day and otherwise I wouldn't have been able to get through the lawn to my staircase. So I got the rusty old beast of a mower started, and I was roaring along, about to turn around to do another row, when suddenly there was a baby bird in front of me.
I stopped and looked around for its mom. The bird hopped a little. So I picked it up and carried it upstairs to Logic Professor, then went back and finished mowing.
Birds live on our roof, and every year at springtime you'd be hard pressed to walk down our sidewalk without stepping over the shriveled carcass of at least a handful of baby birds. The few living ones I've found haven't fared well AT ALL.
But that's what Logic Professors are for, and while I napped, he took TeenyTiny to the wildlife rescue place, or, as I like to call it, the Teenytinytorium. When he got back and woke me up, he showed me a little newsletter about their wildlife and whatnot, and out fell a receipt. It was a receipt that they'd accepted TeenyTiny into their care, and that LoPro had donated $65 towards TeenyTiny's food and shelter, because as the receipt said, the average cost of care for an animal there is $65.
But that average is undoubtedly weighed down by wolved and shit. It will probably cost $3 to feed TeenyTiny for the next seven weeks. "SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS," Ishouted said. "You paid sixty-five dollars for TeenyTiny?!" And then I uttered this regretable sentiment: "He's going to die in two days anyway! It would have been cheaper to hit him with the lawnmower!"
Although I suspect that they only take in baby birds for the donations that will help take care of foxes and raccoons after the teenytinies inevitably die in 48 hours, I'm glad that Logic Professor drove all the fuck the way out to the Teenytinytorium and paid for TeenyTiny's medical care. He's an angel.
Time for Stat Final, Part Un.
* When I told this to LoPro, he thought it was some kind of metaphor for the weird customers I must have had. No: the crew from the actual Cirque du Soliel (or some of them, anyway) invaded my fucking bar and I served well past the time it became illegal to serve.
The Spanish final either went well enough to earn a B, or went horribly but I don't know it because I can't speak Spanish. By that I mean I think I did fine, but hey, what do I know?
Today I'm taking finals in Statistics and Health + Wellness. Monday I'm taking Stat Final, Part Deux. Stat Prof has designed the exam to have twelve questions, six for each day, and each worth ten points, so one can earn a total of twenty extra credit points. That smells fishy to me. I'm wondering if the rest of the test isn't extra tricky.
I have to get a 47 on the final to maintain my A. I'll see what I can do.
Yesterday when I got home all tired and bedraggled, having worked until 3:30 because the fucking Circque du Soleil showed up*, I mowed the lawn. No, I didn't want to, but it was a nice day and otherwise I wouldn't have been able to get through the lawn to my staircase. So I got the rusty old beast of a mower started, and I was roaring along, about to turn around to do another row, when suddenly there was a baby bird in front of me.
I stopped and looked around for its mom. The bird hopped a little. So I picked it up and carried it upstairs to Logic Professor, then went back and finished mowing.
Birds live on our roof, and every year at springtime you'd be hard pressed to walk down our sidewalk without stepping over the shriveled carcass of at least a handful of baby birds. The few living ones I've found haven't fared well AT ALL.
But that's what Logic Professors are for, and while I napped, he took TeenyTiny to the wildlife rescue place, or, as I like to call it, the Teenytinytorium. When he got back and woke me up, he showed me a little newsletter about their wildlife and whatnot, and out fell a receipt. It was a receipt that they'd accepted TeenyTiny into their care, and that LoPro had donated $65 towards TeenyTiny's food and shelter, because as the receipt said, the average cost of care for an animal there is $65.
But that average is undoubtedly weighed down by wolved and shit. It will probably cost $3 to feed TeenyTiny for the next seven weeks. "SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS," I
Although I suspect that they only take in baby birds for the donations that will help take care of foxes and raccoons after the teenytinies inevitably die in 48 hours, I'm glad that Logic Professor drove all the fuck the way out to the Teenytinytorium and paid for TeenyTiny's medical care. He's an angel.
Time for Stat Final, Part Un.
* When I told this to LoPro, he thought it was some kind of metaphor for the weird customers I must have had. No: the crew from the actual Cirque du Soliel (or some of them, anyway) invaded my fucking bar and I served well past the time it became illegal to serve.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Blargh
1. Too tired to blog.
2. Have to go take an Intermediate Spanish II final; do not actually speak Intermediate Spanish.
3. What's with the dearth of comments* around here?!
* Except for Jo.
P.S. But hey, at least I didn't work until 3:30 in the morning last night.
Oh wait. Yes I did.
P.P.S. At least my coffeemaker is working.
Oh wait. No it isn't.
P.P.P.S. The good news is that when I discovered that the water wasn't doing anything in the coffeemaker, I boiled it with my eyes.
2. Have to go take an Intermediate Spanish II final; do not actually speak Intermediate Spanish.
3. What's with the dearth of comments* around here?!
* Except for Jo.
P.S. But hey, at least I didn't work until 3:30 in the morning last night.
Oh wait. Yes I did.
P.P.S. At least my coffeemaker is working.
Oh wait. No it isn't.
P.P.P.S. The good news is that when I discovered that the water wasn't doing anything in the coffeemaker, I boiled it with my eyes.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Wednesday 15
15 weeks.
This would have been a day for celebration, being the last Wednesday I'll have to do the school/work/school thing, were it not for an unfortunately-timed biology exam scheduled for next Wednesday. Actually, the exam will be taking place during my shift, but my generous and flexible Bio Prof is letting me come in a couple hours early. "It shouldn't take the whole three hours," she said with certainty. The prevailing opinion among my classmates seems to be THE FUCK IT WON'T, but, you know, it could be different this time.
So next Wednesday will be Celebration Day.
Today, thankfully, I don't have to go to my last class, so I'll have an hour to shimmy into some fishnets, cram down a peanut-butter-and-jelly, and re-apply my eyeliner.
This morning when I got up to make LoPro a cup of tea and sandwich to take to school, as is my wont to do, I took down and folded some of the clothes that were hanging from clothesline that zigzags across the kitchen. (I couldn't get much sandwich-making done with a fucking pair of capris hanging in my face.) And now I have TEN pairs of clean underwear. I'll be good for more that a week! Still, I've been meaning to go pick up more. I mean, I own more than ten pairs and all, but in reality I can only ever find about half the underwear I own. Where they all sneak off to when I'm not looking, I have no idea.
Looking out the kitchen window, I can see a row of pants hung over the railing on the long wooden walkway. That always makes me happy. Last night I stepped outside with the damp clothes slung over one arm, and as I was stretching them out on the rusty metal railing I looked up and saw the stars. I felt the cracked wooden slats of the deck under my bare feet and looked back at the glowing doorway of the aparment with all my clean clothes hanging from the ceiling, the yellow and lavender pansies planted in little pots by the door, their leaves lit up on one side in the light from the tiny doorway. I looked around at the weathered old buildings flanking both sides of our walkway, and down at the dark houses with their twinkling windows on the next block that I could see from my second-storey vantage point. Suddenly I felt very happy about existing right then, not looking forward as I always am to some point in the future- when I'm married, when I'm out of school, when I'm older, when the car is paid off, when I have a house- but as a 23-year-old kid without a dryer, in possession of an ancient railing covered in damp jeans on a dark deck with a quiet view of her town under the stars. And I swear it felt like a fucking religious experience.
I'm going to put on another cup of tea, then go fold those pants and get ready for Statistics.
This would have been a day for celebration, being the last Wednesday I'll have to do the school/work/school thing, were it not for an unfortunately-timed biology exam scheduled for next Wednesday. Actually, the exam will be taking place during my shift, but my generous and flexible Bio Prof is letting me come in a couple hours early. "It shouldn't take the whole three hours," she said with certainty. The prevailing opinion among my classmates seems to be THE FUCK IT WON'T, but, you know, it could be different this time.
So next Wednesday will be Celebration Day.
Today, thankfully, I don't have to go to my last class, so I'll have an hour to shimmy into some fishnets, cram down a peanut-butter-and-jelly, and re-apply my eyeliner.
This morning when I got up to make LoPro a cup of tea and sandwich to take to school, as is my wont to do, I took down and folded some of the clothes that were hanging from clothesline that zigzags across the kitchen. (I couldn't get much sandwich-making done with a fucking pair of capris hanging in my face.) And now I have TEN pairs of clean underwear. I'll be good for more that a week! Still, I've been meaning to go pick up more. I mean, I own more than ten pairs and all, but in reality I can only ever find about half the underwear I own. Where they all sneak off to when I'm not looking, I have no idea.
Looking out the kitchen window, I can see a row of pants hung over the railing on the long wooden walkway. That always makes me happy. Last night I stepped outside with the damp clothes slung over one arm, and as I was stretching them out on the rusty metal railing I looked up and saw the stars. I felt the cracked wooden slats of the deck under my bare feet and looked back at the glowing doorway of the aparment with all my clean clothes hanging from the ceiling, the yellow and lavender pansies planted in little pots by the door, their leaves lit up on one side in the light from the tiny doorway. I looked around at the weathered old buildings flanking both sides of our walkway, and down at the dark houses with their twinkling windows on the next block that I could see from my second-storey vantage point. Suddenly I felt very happy about existing right then, not looking forward as I always am to some point in the future- when I'm married, when I'm out of school, when I'm older, when the car is paid off, when I have a house- but as a 23-year-old kid without a dryer, in possession of an ancient railing covered in damp jeans on a dark deck with a quiet view of her town under the stars. And I swear it felt like a fucking religious experience.
I'm going to put on another cup of tea, then go fold those pants and get ready for Statistics.
Labels: Higher Education, Wednesday
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
250th Post! *Updated Twice!*
This is me doing biology homework at 8:30 in the morning.
Should have done it days ago.
Didn't.
*UPDATE*
250th Post, Part B:
It is 8:45 in the morning and I AM TOTALLY GOING TO START MY HOMEWORK NOW I HAVE TO LEAVE IN UNDER TWO HOURS WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF I SURE HOPE NO PROSPECTIVE SCHOLARSHIP-OFFERERS ARE READING THIS BTW I NEVER DO THIS NOPE NEVER KTHXBYE.
250th Post, Part C:
This is me studying for Thursday's Spanish final at ten of 9 o'clock at night and the laundry hasn't been done and I'm out of clean underwear and tomorrow I'm working a 12-hour shift so I won't be able to study. *wheeze* But actually it's not as bad as I imply; I have a cup of coffee, I'm in my pajamas, and it's a beautiful night to have the windows open. The bad news is that in biology class today, right before I turned in my answers to the nine questions we were assigned for homework, I turned over the sheet of questions and discovered that there were three more on the back. Whoospie. So instead of turning in my homework, I told Bio Prof about Giant Microbes and she got so excited that she flapped her hands. This is the woman who once clucked "Poor hydrogen," when discussing hydrogen's lonely fate to constantly lose its one electron to bigger, handsomer elements. Clearly, giant slightly-anthropomorphized stuffed bacteria are right up her alley.
Today we got our grades for the big Spanish project. My oral presentation earned a 91. My essay earned a 60. (That would be an F.) It wasn't long enough and I missed some objective-or-other of the assignment. WHOOPSIE. It reminds me of my blistering English Comp I professor who told us, "If you're going to blather, at least keep it short."
Speaking of blistering, let me say this about myself, and say it in public: I did a piss-poor fucking job on that project. Why? Because I procrastinated and wound up slapping together the bare minimum at 3:00 in the fucking morning the night before, and printed out what I needed as I was running out the door. Good job on that, Cupcake. Way to treat the biggest project of the semester with appropriate gravity. The day of the project, I found myself thinking sadly about other ways I could have done it. Rather than present the required virtual vacation to a Spanish-speaking country's fine examples of cultural heritage, why didn't I present about arriving in a pirate ship and looting that country's finest examples of cultural heritage? Why didn't I present about being a detective solving a murder in one of that country's finest examples of cultural heritage? Why didn't I even give a damn until I was stammering in front of the class, hating myself for not even trying?
Because sometimes I'm not an above-average student. Sometimes I don't go above and beyond to learn or even understand the subject. Sometimes I just let myself down.
Sometimes I use way too much parallelism in my writing.
Should have done it days ago.
Didn't.
*UPDATE*
250th Post, Part B:
It is 8:45 in the morning and I AM TOTALLY GOING TO START MY HOMEWORK NOW I HAVE TO LEAVE IN UNDER TWO HOURS WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF I SURE HOPE NO PROSPECTIVE SCHOLARSHIP-OFFERERS ARE READING THIS BTW I NEVER DO THIS NOPE NEVER KTHXBYE.
250th Post, Part C:
This is me studying for Thursday's Spanish final at ten of 9 o'clock at night and the laundry hasn't been done and I'm out of clean underwear and tomorrow I'm working a 12-hour shift so I won't be able to study. *wheeze* But actually it's not as bad as I imply; I have a cup of coffee, I'm in my pajamas, and it's a beautiful night to have the windows open. The bad news is that in biology class today, right before I turned in my answers to the nine questions we were assigned for homework, I turned over the sheet of questions and discovered that there were three more on the back. Whoospie. So instead of turning in my homework, I told Bio Prof about Giant Microbes and she got so excited that she flapped her hands. This is the woman who once clucked "Poor hydrogen," when discussing hydrogen's lonely fate to constantly lose its one electron to bigger, handsomer elements. Clearly, giant slightly-anthropomorphized stuffed bacteria are right up her alley.
Today we got our grades for the big Spanish project. My oral presentation earned a 91. My essay earned a 60. (That would be an F.) It wasn't long enough and I missed some objective-or-other of the assignment. WHOOPSIE. It reminds me of my blistering English Comp I professor who told us, "If you're going to blather, at least keep it short."
Speaking of blistering, let me say this about myself, and say it in public: I did a piss-poor fucking job on that project. Why? Because I procrastinated and wound up slapping together the bare minimum at 3:00 in the fucking morning the night before, and printed out what I needed as I was running out the door. Good job on that, Cupcake. Way to treat the biggest project of the semester with appropriate gravity. The day of the project, I found myself thinking sadly about other ways I could have done it. Rather than present the required virtual vacation to a Spanish-speaking country's fine examples of cultural heritage, why didn't I present about arriving in a pirate ship and looting that country's finest examples of cultural heritage? Why didn't I present about being a detective solving a murder in one of that country's finest examples of cultural heritage? Why didn't I even give a damn until I was stammering in front of the class, hating myself for not even trying?
Because sometimes I'm not an above-average student. Sometimes I don't go above and beyond to learn or even understand the subject. Sometimes I just let myself down.
Sometimes I use way too much parallelism in my writing.
Labels: Biological Hell
Monday, May 5, 2008
Should Have Eaten It At The Diner, Obviously
Logic Professor and I just wandered around the deserted Cupboardsburg Acme for over half an hour looking for some kind of dessert that would appeal to us after discovering that the dessert we'd spotted at the diner on our way out- a tiramasu cup- came in glass cups and therefore could not be sold to go.
Years ago, when I was working at a restaurant that sold creme brulee, I had a customer ask for one to go so he could take it home to his wife. Shortly after I entered the order into our computer system, with the notation that it was leaving the building, I was summoned to the station of the cook who was in charge of brick-oven-charring and culinary-torching things. As a general rule, I tried to stay on the good side of all the chefs, and was rewarded with fast turnaround of my orders even when the restaurant was swamped. In particular, it seemed like a good idea not to fuck with the one with the blowtorch.
He yelled at me. That's how I discovered that creme brulees come in ceramic ramekins. So I went back to the table and told the man what the chef had yelled and he, undaunted, informed me that it wasn't a problem; he would buy the dish, too.
I thought I was going to get fired.
So the manager charged him an extra five bucks for the dish, the chef jammed the entire dish into a styrofoam to-go box and threw it at me, and I got a good tip.
I would never do that to another waitress. But I hadn't been planning to close out the night at the local Acme on account of that hesitancy. It's a good thing LoPro is so charming and fun to be around, even though he did try to put me into a refrigerated cake case.
Years ago, when I was working at a restaurant that sold creme brulee, I had a customer ask for one to go so he could take it home to his wife. Shortly after I entered the order into our computer system, with the notation that it was leaving the building, I was summoned to the station of the cook who was in charge of brick-oven-charring and culinary-torching things. As a general rule, I tried to stay on the good side of all the chefs, and was rewarded with fast turnaround of my orders even when the restaurant was swamped. In particular, it seemed like a good idea not to fuck with the one with the blowtorch.
He yelled at me. That's how I discovered that creme brulees come in ceramic ramekins. So I went back to the table and told the man what the chef had yelled and he, undaunted, informed me that it wasn't a problem; he would buy the dish, too.
I thought I was going to get fired.
So the manager charged him an extra five bucks for the dish, the chef jammed the entire dish into a styrofoam to-go box and threw it at me, and I got a good tip.
I would never do that to another waitress. But I hadn't been planning to close out the night at the local Acme on account of that hesitancy. It's a good thing LoPro is so charming and fun to be around, even though he did try to put me into a refrigerated cake case.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Moving Up (Or Down)
Wednesday was the first time someone recognized me from the blogosphere. That was pretty cool. Hi, Liz! Hope the CPRB's PBR was up to your standards!
I also found out some good news. I used to work upstairs on Saturday nights, but the girl who works downstairs quit to go to a better job, so after much campaigning on my part, invoking seniority and whatnot, I've been moved downstairs to a shorter shift that should generate more income. My quality of life? It just went up. I'll find out tonight, when I go in to work, oh, two and a half hours later than normal. GO CPRB WOOOOT!
Later that night, after I gave my Mom's card to the main guy in the crew, I heard some details of the fire that I wish I hadn't heard. I wish I hadn't heard them so much, in fact, that I'm not going to blog about what I heard. What's that saying about a sorrow shared being a sorrow halved or something? Not in this case. I told Logic Professor and I think I shouldn't have; it wasn't worth it to get it off my chest. We were pulling into the driveway at the end of the story, and I said something flip like "Oh well, we're home," and jumped out of the car. But he stayed in his seat, not looking at me, and said "I'm sorry, I haven't had time to recover from that story." "Really? Because I'm pretending I hadn't heard it at all," I chirped cheerfully. Or maybe I didn't so much chirp as choke down tears.
Takes a lot of the celebration out of something as superficial and fleeting as landing a better shift.
I also found out some good news. I used to work upstairs on Saturday nights, but the girl who works downstairs quit to go to a better job, so after much campaigning on my part, invoking seniority and whatnot, I've been moved downstairs to a shorter shift that should generate more income. My quality of life? It just went up. I'll find out tonight, when I go in to work, oh, two and a half hours later than normal. GO CPRB WOOOOT!
Later that night, after I gave my Mom's card to the main guy in the crew, I heard some details of the fire that I wish I hadn't heard. I wish I hadn't heard them so much, in fact, that I'm not going to blog about what I heard. What's that saying about a sorrow shared being a sorrow halved or something? Not in this case. I told Logic Professor and I think I shouldn't have; it wasn't worth it to get it off my chest. We were pulling into the driveway at the end of the story, and I said something flip like "Oh well, we're home," and jumped out of the car. But he stayed in his seat, not looking at me, and said "I'm sorry, I haven't had time to recover from that story." "Really? Because I'm pretending I hadn't heard it at all," I chirped cheerfully. Or maybe I didn't so much chirp as choke down tears.
Takes a lot of the celebration out of something as superficial and fleeting as landing a better shift.
Labels: Cool Punk Rock B4r
SATurday
Today I took the SATs at Logic Professor's old high school, my own high school being over half an hour away as well as tainted with years of regret and the possibility of being recognized by one of the teachers I'd encouraged, in my charming high school papers, to go fuck themselves.
It seemed like a good idea when I signed up for the SATs last month, less so after I got admitted to Temple and realized that after 60-some credits nobody gave a damn about my SAT score anymore, and not at all a good idea during the essay section. Seriously: 25 minutes? What in the hell kind of essay can be written in under 25 minutes? A barely adequate birthday card can't be written in under 25 minutes! I couldn't tell my high school English teachers to go fuck themselves in under 25 minutes!
It was cool, albeit jealousy-inspiring, to see Logic Professor's old high school. It's from the twenties, wedged into a picturesque old neighborhood with porches, cracked sidewalks, and big leafy shade trees. The front doors, surrounded by concrete filigree and topped with the school crest (OMG THEY HAVE A CREST), open onto a wide flight of steps down to the street. And it looks like a castle. Seriously. My high school, by comparison, was a starkly geometrical edifice from the late sixties situated in a drab, open field. The front doors opened not onto a quaint, historic-looking sidewalk but instead onto a vast, crowded parking lot. A depressing parking lot that was only big enough to serve half the students who applied for parking spots at our critically overcrowded regional high school. After I graduated things got rearranged and new schools were built, but at the time I went there, almost 2,000 of us were packed into a building that now serves under 1,000, as it should. His graduating class was under 200. In my mind, starting this morning, a unique new shade of regret was cast over my high school years. As if there weren't enough shades of regret as of yesterday. I WANT TO HAVE GONE TO HIGH SCHOOL IN THE TINY CASTLE UNDER THE HISTORIC OAK TREES. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK? "I'll get the time machine," Logic Professor said kindly as we walked up the front steps.
Here you might expect to find a paragraph about feeling old and regretful, since regret seems to be a theme here, in a classroom full of kids who are going through the best years of their lives and have the future to look forward to. But I'm a grownup, bitches, and I have a car. My own apartment with a bunny and a logic professor and several purloined stop signs, as well as an expansive CD collection that took years to accumulate and would have made my face explode if I had seen it in high school. A tattoo. Over 60 college credits. A super-cool job. I can go on a road trip tomorrow morning. I have no curfew. I can do anything I want! I could tell the SAT proctor to go fuck herself on a fire hydrant and nobody could suspend me or ban me from the prom!
Of course, it should be noted that now that I'm not sixteen anymore, I don't want to tell the SAT proctor to go fuck herself.
I think my score should be available on May 22nd.
It seemed like a good idea when I signed up for the SATs last month, less so after I got admitted to Temple and realized that after 60-some credits nobody gave a damn about my SAT score anymore, and not at all a good idea during the essay section. Seriously: 25 minutes? What in the hell kind of essay can be written in under 25 minutes? A barely adequate birthday card can't be written in under 25 minutes! I couldn't tell my high school English teachers to go fuck themselves in under 25 minutes!
It was cool, albeit jealousy-inspiring, to see Logic Professor's old high school. It's from the twenties, wedged into a picturesque old neighborhood with porches, cracked sidewalks, and big leafy shade trees. The front doors, surrounded by concrete filigree and topped with the school crest (OMG THEY HAVE A CREST), open onto a wide flight of steps down to the street. And it looks like a castle. Seriously. My high school, by comparison, was a starkly geometrical edifice from the late sixties situated in a drab, open field. The front doors opened not onto a quaint, historic-looking sidewalk but instead onto a vast, crowded parking lot. A depressing parking lot that was only big enough to serve half the students who applied for parking spots at our critically overcrowded regional high school. After I graduated things got rearranged and new schools were built, but at the time I went there, almost 2,000 of us were packed into a building that now serves under 1,000, as it should. His graduating class was under 200. In my mind, starting this morning, a unique new shade of regret was cast over my high school years. As if there weren't enough shades of regret as of yesterday. I WANT TO HAVE GONE TO HIGH SCHOOL IN THE TINY CASTLE UNDER THE HISTORIC OAK TREES. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK? "I'll get the time machine," Logic Professor said kindly as we walked up the front steps.
Here you might expect to find a paragraph about feeling old and regretful, since regret seems to be a theme here, in a classroom full of kids who are going through the best years of their lives and have the future to look forward to. But I'm a grownup, bitches, and I have a car. My own apartment with a bunny and a logic professor and several purloined stop signs, as well as an expansive CD collection that took years to accumulate and would have made my face explode if I had seen it in high school. A tattoo. Over 60 college credits. A super-cool job. I can go on a road trip tomorrow morning. I have no curfew. I can do anything I want! I could tell the SAT proctor to go fuck herself on a fire hydrant and nobody could suspend me or ban me from the prom!
Of course, it should be noted that now that I'm not sixteen anymore, I don't want to tell the SAT proctor to go fuck herself.
I think my score should be available on May 22nd.
Labels: Every Day Is Judgement Day, Higher Education, Logic Professor, The Application Process
