Suuuunday. Fuuuuunday. It's finally nice enough on a Sunday for me to actually put on CLOTHES and go out in PUBLIC. It's a busy day. I'm having brunch (brunch is the new happy hour) with my friends Ally and Nick, which I'm assuming will turn into a day of wandering around Uptown popping in and out of bars to taste-test margaritas and bloody Marys. It's more a public service than anything else. We do all the tasting so you don't have to! You're welcome, everyone.
I miss brunch. In the winter, I hibernate and stay inside with cold pizza and coffee while watching America's Next Top Model marathons. Not exactly classy. But a real brunch, the kind with an omelet bar, is straight up class. Ally and I used to make brunch a weekly habit. We'd go out and not get home until dark, full of bacon, eggs, and mimosas. It was like adding a whole new day to the weekend. There's Friday night, Saturday, Sunday Funday, and then Sunday night a.k.a. Recovery Night.
When I was a kid, we'd always go out to brunch with my Grandma after church. We'd be all dressed up, and walk into Perkins - all 16 of us - and sit down for some chocolate chip pancakes and orange juice (sans champagne). I remember shoveling the food in my mouth, trying to get the whole thing over with so I could go home and hang with my friends. Oh, how times change. Now I'm rushing through my daily chores (you know, having coffee, avoiding laundry, making a list of things I should do today but won't get to until tomorrow) to get to brunch.
Anyway, six hours later I'm totally full of bacon and mimosas. And I've made a dent in the Uptown breakfast scene with Ally and Nick. Does this make me better at writing a blog, or worse? Answer: worse. My grandma would be totally disappointed right now. Although chocolate chip pancakes sound positively delicious right now, I have a feeling that she wouldn't be so happy with the mid-day shots.
Let's have a great week, everyone!
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sick in Stepford
Well, hello there, Martha Stewart. When did you jump into my body? Look at me - I’m all in an apron and makin’ dinner for mah man when he gets home from work. What’s gotten into me, you ask? I don’t know, guys. I think the medical term is “nesting” but I’m waiting on a second opinion. Geo’s been travelling a bunch lately, and just last night got home from a week-long “guys trip” which typically wouldn’t leave me feeling all sorry for him. A week-long funfest with your friends? Poor thing! (/sarcasm). But sadly, Geo was sick the whole time and is still sick today. Pretty much the only time I snap to Good Girlfriend Attention is when he’s sick. So, I’m making him one of his favorite dinners and I’m going to try and not make fun of him for repeatedly commenting on his “chills.”
Meanwhile, I’ve also come down with a cold. Is there anything more annoying than only having the capacity to breathe in and out of ONE nostril? Guh. It’s turned me into a mouth-breather, and that’s not a good thing. Although, I usually like to take advantage of a cold. Meaning: because my voice gets all deep and gravelly and raspy, I like to re-record all my voicemail greetings. I sound like a late-night DJ who encourages listeners to “have a sensual night while you listen to jazz…after dark.” I sound wiser or something. And instead of my shrill cackle at any old poop joke, my laugh becomes a stifled, wispy thing that says to people “I understand the humor in that amusing anecdote, but I also love Jack Kerouac.”
Plus, what with all the mouth-breathing I’m doing, my lips get chapped and I’m forced to remember to put on some lip balm. Then they’re all shiny and I look like I’ve done it to look nice, and not because I’m freaked that my lips will split open at the mere sight of a chilly wind.
But back to my nesting. Maybe it’s the light-headedness, or the fact that I’m all gravelly-voiced and lip-balmed, or maybe because Iran out of clean pants wore a nice, black Banana Republic dress to work, but I feel like it’s my duty to be all perky and Rachael Ray about everything. Birds chirping? Lovesies! Get to use my new umbrella today? Yummers! Making Geo something nummy for din-din? Zippy!
The problem, though, is that he wants chicken. And anyone who’s anyone knows that that’s pretty muchone of the many the only meat I cannot cook. I like my steaks and burgers bloody, but the slightest hint of pink in a chicken breast sends me into a Salmonella Frenzy and I inevitably overcook the hell out of the little bugger. Determined (and slightly medicated), though, I’ve decided to tackle the elusive Well-Cooked Chicken Breast in the form of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Since I’m playing the role of a domestically-capable human tonight – and wearing an APRON, might I remind you! - it was destined for success.
And here's the proof!
Geo even casually mentioned, as I brought him his plate of food at the dining room table wearing an apron, "Hey, have you ever seen the show Mad Men? 'Cause back then, women did this whole dinner thing all the time..." I spit in his food.
Okay...not really, but my hacking cough probably made its way into his food at some point, so I guess we're even now.
Meanwhile, I’ve also come down with a cold. Is there anything more annoying than only having the capacity to breathe in and out of ONE nostril? Guh. It’s turned me into a mouth-breather, and that’s not a good thing. Although, I usually like to take advantage of a cold. Meaning: because my voice gets all deep and gravelly and raspy, I like to re-record all my voicemail greetings. I sound like a late-night DJ who encourages listeners to “have a sensual night while you listen to jazz…after dark.” I sound wiser or something. And instead of my shrill cackle at any old poop joke, my laugh becomes a stifled, wispy thing that says to people “I understand the humor in that amusing anecdote, but I also love Jack Kerouac.”
Plus, what with all the mouth-breathing I’m doing, my lips get chapped and I’m forced to remember to put on some lip balm. Then they’re all shiny and I look like I’ve done it to look nice, and not because I’m freaked that my lips will split open at the mere sight of a chilly wind.
But back to my nesting. Maybe it’s the light-headedness, or the fact that I’m all gravelly-voiced and lip-balmed, or maybe because I
The problem, though, is that he wants chicken. And anyone who’s anyone knows that that’s pretty much
And here's the proof!
Geo even casually mentioned, as I brought him his plate of food at the dining room table wearing an apron, "Hey, have you ever seen the show Mad Men? 'Cause back then, women did this whole dinner thing all the time..." I spit in his food.
Okay...not really, but my hacking cough probably made its way into his food at some point, so I guess we're even now.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Chef Boyarduhhhhs
Ooof, I've failed again. I brought my laundry over to my parents house AGAIN to get a little caught up in the "clean clothes" arena. I've straight up decided that I can't NOT do it though. It's so easy. It's so mouse-less. Plus, I like the way my parent's laundry room smells. So fresh, so clean, so lacking of moldy onions (our neighbors keep a bucket o' onions in the basement. It's like they're TRYING to to raise stinky-breathed mice).
I went over there tonight to pick up a form I'll need to file my taxes, but they haven't sent it yet. [Blogger Edit: I'm NOT waiting for the actual tax form, as many of you assumed, because it's 2011 and I do my taxes online.] Allow me to quote the infamous Stephanie Tanner here: HOW RUDE! It's FEBRUARY, people! Some of us who use the whole taxy thingy as our own little savings account need to FILE taxes so we can GET OUR MONEY BACK. I pride myself on filing my taxes every January. But noooooo, not this year. Now I have to wait until God-knows-when for one stupid form. Foiled again, American Tax System.
Anyway, so I hung out and had dinner with my sister Prinna and one of her daughters, Eve (in case you were wondering, yes, Eve is the best child in the world. Better than any child you ever were, or have, or could imagine. Sorry to break the news to you.) We decided to try and make dinner. Prinna and I have the same level of cooking skills (read: none) so making dinner together was, uh, interesting. Me: "Uh oh. The recipe calls for 1 1/2 pounds of broccoli. The bag says 12 oz. Is that the same?" Prinna: "I dunno. Probably. Also, are onions the same as garlic?" Me: "What do I look like? Betty Crocker?" When Prinna suggested going "off-recipe" and adding red pepper flakes to our broccoli, I was really scared. But we both shrieked when we read the notes on the recipe and it said you could, in fact, ADD RED PEPPER FLAKES for more spice! Prinna had gone all rogue, and it turns out, she was right. Touche, Julia Child.
I like making dinner with Prinna. She's funny, she's smart, and she appreciates a good ol' fashioned swear word every now and then. But more importantly, we both suck at cooking, and neither one of us cares. I'm frequently with people who either LIKE cooking or KNOW HOW TO DO IT. People who stare into a food cupboard and make up a meal in their head. People who know when something is missing, or something's too salty. People who know what "broil" means. It's frustrating. I hate being so willfully ignorant about cooking. I'm psycho about timers, I measure every single ingredient, and I will follow a recipe down to the letter even if it means ruining the meal. That chicken looks done? Well, the recipe says it shouldn't be done for 15 more minutes, so I'm going to leave it on. Wait, what's that burning smell? Crap, what's the number for Pizza Luce?
On nights like tonight, when I'm making food with someone who is my equal, I have way more fun. No pressure. No expectations. No superior knowledge that garlic and onions are not interchangeable. It's refreshing. When we were finally done making the food, we sat down and ate. Technically, it could have been a subpar meal, but we'd never know it. It was delicious. I guess two heads ARE better than one. Especially when the combined culinary knowledge of the two heads equals about one teenager taking Home Ec.
I'm pretty sure I'll never be good at cooking. I don't really care. I know how to make pasta and bagels and roasted broccoli, and that's like 90% of my diet, so I'm set. Plus, as soon as I can find person who can write a decent recipe for idiots like me, I'll be just fine. I'm also kind of assuming that food will start to be made available in pill form sometime in the near future, so what good will cooking be then? Answer: No Good.
I went over there tonight to pick up a form I'll need to file my taxes, but they haven't sent it yet. [Blogger Edit: I'm NOT waiting for the actual tax form, as many of you assumed, because it's 2011 and I do my taxes online.] Allow me to quote the infamous Stephanie Tanner here: HOW RUDE! It's FEBRUARY, people! Some of us who use the whole taxy thingy as our own little savings account need to FILE taxes so we can GET OUR MONEY BACK. I pride myself on filing my taxes every January. But noooooo, not this year. Now I have to wait until God-knows-when for one stupid form. Foiled again, American Tax System.
Anyway, so I hung out and had dinner with my sister Prinna and one of her daughters, Eve (in case you were wondering, yes, Eve is the best child in the world. Better than any child you ever were, or have, or could imagine. Sorry to break the news to you.) We decided to try and make dinner. Prinna and I have the same level of cooking skills (read: none) so making dinner together was, uh, interesting. Me: "Uh oh. The recipe calls for 1 1/2 pounds of broccoli. The bag says 12 oz. Is that the same?" Prinna: "I dunno. Probably. Also, are onions the same as garlic?" Me: "What do I look like? Betty Crocker?" When Prinna suggested going "off-recipe" and adding red pepper flakes to our broccoli, I was really scared. But we both shrieked when we read the notes on the recipe and it said you could, in fact, ADD RED PEPPER FLAKES for more spice! Prinna had gone all rogue, and it turns out, she was right. Touche, Julia Child.
I like making dinner with Prinna. She's funny, she's smart, and she appreciates a good ol' fashioned swear word every now and then. But more importantly, we both suck at cooking, and neither one of us cares. I'm frequently with people who either LIKE cooking or KNOW HOW TO DO IT. People who stare into a food cupboard and make up a meal in their head. People who know when something is missing, or something's too salty. People who know what "broil" means. It's frustrating. I hate being so willfully ignorant about cooking. I'm psycho about timers, I measure every single ingredient, and I will follow a recipe down to the letter even if it means ruining the meal. That chicken looks done? Well, the recipe says it shouldn't be done for 15 more minutes, so I'm going to leave it on. Wait, what's that burning smell? Crap, what's the number for Pizza Luce?
On nights like tonight, when I'm making food with someone who is my equal, I have way more fun. No pressure. No expectations. No superior knowledge that garlic and onions are not interchangeable. It's refreshing. When we were finally done making the food, we sat down and ate. Technically, it could have been a subpar meal, but we'd never know it. It was delicious. I guess two heads ARE better than one. Especially when the combined culinary knowledge of the two heads equals about one teenager taking Home Ec.
I'm pretty sure I'll never be good at cooking. I don't really care. I know how to make pasta and bagels and roasted broccoli, and that's like 90% of my diet, so I'm set. Plus, as soon as I can find person who can write a decent recipe for idiots like me, I'll be just fine. I'm also kind of assuming that food will start to be made available in pill form sometime in the near future, so what good will cooking be then? Answer: No Good.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
FaFa La La La
I don’t know about you guys, but I might never eat again. I was literally in pain for 3 nights this weekend as a result of shoving food down my throat until I couldn’t breathe. Then, tonight, I capped it all off with eating dessert for dinner. Prinna had a little Christmas party at her house, the first time she’s been able to decorate a house for Christmas in like 3 years, and served chocolate fondue, pumpkin pie cheesecake, pretzels topped with melty Rolos, brownies, and cupcakes. My thighs jiggled just by looking at the table of food. But that’s all over now. Now it’s back to veggies instead of chocolate and water instead of apple cider with rum.
Okay, so my family is VERY tradition-heavy. We do the same things every year for holidays. It’s quite regimented, but I dig it. I love the comfort of knowing what to expect at the holidays, and being sufficiently prepared. One of the Thanksgiving traditions we have in my family is to have all the women participate in a Celebrity Draft. Each of us picks 10 celebrities from a predetermined list in a draft. There’s number-crunching, strategies, and some of us get super in to it. Then, this website www.fafarazzi.com tracks the celebrity blogs and online mags. For every mention a celebrity gets on them, you get a point for him/her. At the end, the winner gets the highly coveted Fafa trophy. So from Thanksgiving night through Christmas, the 12 of us root for people like Paris Hilton to marry Kanye West in a weekend drunken stupor, and then have a baby.
Needless to say, I won last year. By a mile. I mean, I had TIGER WOODS on my team. So, I’ve got a majorly big target on my back. But this year, my team blows. My best “player” is Lindsay Lohan, and unfortunately for me, I really think she’s legitimately trying to not do drugs anymore. Big time bummer for me. I’m going to go ahead and need Jon Hamm and Blake Lively to come out with a sex tape…both are on my team and STRUGGLING. Zero points a piece. It’s like they don’t even care that I drafted them…geez. I've GOT to win that trophy, you guys. I really just have to. My pride is on the line.
Another tradition is for my insane mother and sisters to wake up at 3 a.m. on Friday morning and hit up the Black Friday sales. I’ve never gone with them. It’s like MY tradition to NOT participate. They wake up, shop for 12 hours wearing matching shirts, and then come home with bags and bags ofcrap stuff they found for 80% off with Doorbuster Sales. Instead of shopping with them, I babysit their kids. I LOVE babysitting the four kids. It’s so much more fun than plowing through a group of 40 year-old women who are over caffeinated and under-rested to get to the half-priced snow globes. Well, to each her own, I guess.
Well, now it’s on to Christmas traditions. I’ve pulled out my tiny shoe box of Christmas decorations and will now start the traditional Nagging of the Geo to put up the Christmas lights. And then he and I will go and pick out an obnoxiously enormous Christmas tree, bring it home, and decorate it while listening to some Mariah Carey Christmas music. And drinking apple cider with rum. And probably eating chocolate. (Yeah, turns out I can’t NOT eat/drink that stuff you guys…you just don’t mess with tradition.)
Bring it on, Christmas. I’m totally ready for the next round of traditions (I've already done the annual Changing of the Ringtone to Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas Is You). Now if only Robert Pattinson has a Christmas tradition of, say, getting major plastic surgery or a sex change, I’ll be set to win the Fafa trophy again. T’is the season!
Okay, so my family is VERY tradition-heavy. We do the same things every year for holidays. It’s quite regimented, but I dig it. I love the comfort of knowing what to expect at the holidays, and being sufficiently prepared. One of the Thanksgiving traditions we have in my family is to have all the women participate in a Celebrity Draft. Each of us picks 10 celebrities from a predetermined list in a draft. There’s number-crunching, strategies, and some of us get super in to it. Then, this website www.fafarazzi.com tracks the celebrity blogs and online mags. For every mention a celebrity gets on them, you get a point for him/her. At the end, the winner gets the highly coveted Fafa trophy. So from Thanksgiving night through Christmas, the 12 of us root for people like Paris Hilton to marry Kanye West in a weekend drunken stupor, and then have a baby.
Needless to say, I won last year. By a mile. I mean, I had TIGER WOODS on my team. So, I’ve got a majorly big target on my back. But this year, my team blows. My best “player” is Lindsay Lohan, and unfortunately for me, I really think she’s legitimately trying to not do drugs anymore. Big time bummer for me. I’m going to go ahead and need Jon Hamm and Blake Lively to come out with a sex tape…both are on my team and STRUGGLING. Zero points a piece. It’s like they don’t even care that I drafted them…geez. I've GOT to win that trophy, you guys. I really just have to. My pride is on the line.
Another tradition is for my insane mother and sisters to wake up at 3 a.m. on Friday morning and hit up the Black Friday sales. I’ve never gone with them. It’s like MY tradition to NOT participate. They wake up, shop for 12 hours wearing matching shirts, and then come home with bags and bags of
Well, now it’s on to Christmas traditions. I’ve pulled out my tiny shoe box of Christmas decorations and will now start the traditional Nagging of the Geo to put up the Christmas lights. And then he and I will go and pick out an obnoxiously enormous Christmas tree, bring it home, and decorate it while listening to some Mariah Carey Christmas music. And drinking apple cider with rum. And probably eating chocolate. (Yeah, turns out I can’t NOT eat/drink that stuff you guys…you just don’t mess with tradition.)
Bring it on, Christmas. I’m totally ready for the next round of traditions (I've already done the annual Changing of the Ringtone to Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas Is You). Now if only Robert Pattinson has a Christmas tradition of, say, getting major plastic surgery or a sex change, I’ll be set to win the Fafa trophy again. T’is the season!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Repent!
I’m going to do my best at blogging coherently tonight. I’m writing this during the Vikings game, and it’s a tight game so far. But I’ll try my best to stay focused, because I have a lot to get off my chest.
Okay, so first of all, I want to say “Sorrrrrry, Mom….” to, duh, my mom. She has planned a birthday dinner for me this coming Thursday night (have I mentioned it’s my birthday on Thursday? Probably not…I like to be really low-key about my birthdays. /sarcasm) and I crapped all over her plans. Which makes me sound like a total jerk. I’m lucky to have almost my whole ginormous family come out for my birthday, so restaurant options become limited. And when it was decided that we’d go to the private room at Olive Garden (When we’re there, we’re family!) I couldn’t get past the thought of the unlimited breadsticks that I could eat for days. The problem is, I’m about to squeeze myself into a tiny black dress for my Halloween costume next weekend, and my will power is lacking. But instead of just deciding not to eat 20 breadsticks, I complained and sounded like an ungrateful brat. So, Mom, in front of the fives and tens of people who read this, I’m sorry.
Now that we’ve gotten that ugliness out of the way, I’d now like to apologize to the fine people at Forever 21 who may have had the unhappy sight of my Minnesota-white body squeezed into a black sequined mini-dress. I don’t typically find myself in the glaringly bright store with floor-to-ceiling mirrors anymore. But, in the interest of finding an appropriate Snooki dress (yup, I’ll be dressing up as the lovable Guidette for Halloween), Kim and I made our way to Forever 21. I was reminded immediately, that I am NOT forever 21. We filled my arms with gold, black, bejeweled and ruched mini dresses and, well, it went questionably. At one point, Kim, who was waiting for me outside the dressing room as I tried on dress after dress, had to ask “Pharon, what are you laughing at!?” I mean, people, seriously. It was hilarious. There were cut-outs and elastic in places that should not have cutouts or elastic. Plus, I’m only 5’2” and these dresses were S.H.O.R.T.! Who wears that stuff?! But finally, I found one that didn't make me want to throw up. I peeked my head through the curtain and beckoned Kim in to the room with me. I stood uncomfortably in front of my dear friend, tugging at the dress, and hoped she wouldn’t start crying at the sight. Instead, she said, helpfully, “You’ll have stilettos on, and so much jewelry! Plus, the bars don’t have florescent lights in them. I think you look great!” God bless you, Kim.
Finally, I want to say “My Bad” to my liver. On Friday night, Liz, Ally and Kim came over and we did some work on some Prosecco and other various wines. Clean up on Saturday morning was really easy because all I did was collect like 8 empty bottles of wine and throw them in the garbage. But I really pushed my body to process all that, and it did a great job. So, I’m sorry and thank you, Body.
Whew! I feel better already! Now I can start the week fresh, and determined not to commit these same atrocities again. I mean, except the last one. That one just, well, my heart wasn’t really in that one.
But for realsies, I had a great weekend, and hopefully I have no more apologies like this next Sunday!
Okay, so first of all, I want to say “Sorrrrrry, Mom….” to, duh, my mom. She has planned a birthday dinner for me this coming Thursday night (have I mentioned it’s my birthday on Thursday? Probably not…I like to be really low-key about my birthdays. /sarcasm) and I crapped all over her plans. Which makes me sound like a total jerk. I’m lucky to have almost my whole ginormous family come out for my birthday, so restaurant options become limited. And when it was decided that we’d go to the private room at Olive Garden (When we’re there, we’re family!) I couldn’t get past the thought of the unlimited breadsticks that I could eat for days. The problem is, I’m about to squeeze myself into a tiny black dress for my Halloween costume next weekend, and my will power is lacking. But instead of just deciding not to eat 20 breadsticks, I complained and sounded like an ungrateful brat. So, Mom, in front of the fives and tens of people who read this, I’m sorry.
Now that we’ve gotten that ugliness out of the way, I’d now like to apologize to the fine people at Forever 21 who may have had the unhappy sight of my Minnesota-white body squeezed into a black sequined mini-dress. I don’t typically find myself in the glaringly bright store with floor-to-ceiling mirrors anymore. But, in the interest of finding an appropriate Snooki dress (yup, I’ll be dressing up as the lovable Guidette for Halloween), Kim and I made our way to Forever 21. I was reminded immediately, that I am NOT forever 21. We filled my arms with gold, black, bejeweled and ruched mini dresses and, well, it went questionably. At one point, Kim, who was waiting for me outside the dressing room as I tried on dress after dress, had to ask “Pharon, what are you laughing at!?” I mean, people, seriously. It was hilarious. There were cut-outs and elastic in places that should not have cutouts or elastic. Plus, I’m only 5’2” and these dresses were S.H.O.R.T.! Who wears that stuff?! But finally, I found one that didn't make me want to throw up. I peeked my head through the curtain and beckoned Kim in to the room with me. I stood uncomfortably in front of my dear friend, tugging at the dress, and hoped she wouldn’t start crying at the sight. Instead, she said, helpfully, “You’ll have stilettos on, and so much jewelry! Plus, the bars don’t have florescent lights in them. I think you look great!” God bless you, Kim.
Finally, I want to say “My Bad” to my liver. On Friday night, Liz, Ally and Kim came over and we did some work on some Prosecco and other various wines. Clean up on Saturday morning was really easy because all I did was collect like 8 empty bottles of wine and throw them in the garbage. But I really pushed my body to process all that, and it did a great job. So, I’m sorry and thank you, Body.
Whew! I feel better already! Now I can start the week fresh, and determined not to commit these same atrocities again. I mean, except the last one. That one just, well, my heart wasn’t really in that one.
But for realsies, I had a great weekend, and hopefully I have no more apologies like this next Sunday!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
I Can't Believe It's Not Popcorn
Today at work, I was sitting at my desk, mindlessly snacking on a bag of SmartPop popcorn. Just minutes before that, I was plopping little blobs of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter into the bag. I shook the bag of hot popcorn around and headed back to my desk. Cut to 30 seconds later, when I’m sitting at my desk, mindlessly snacking on a bag of SmartPop popcorn. I picked up a healthy handful of popcorn and shoved it in my mouth. Seconds later, I thought, “Wow, this popcorn is nasty. And cold. And soggy. And, this isn’t popcorn. This is a giant blob of butter. And I just swallowed it.”
My mind is just playing tricks on me, I guess. Today, I woke up, pretty determined to conquer all obstacles that fell in my way. My brain was all, “Yeah! Pharon! You can DO this!” And I left the house. Forgetting to button my pants. That's just not okay. Whether I’m eating butter, or having difficulty figuring out how many hours are between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. (BRIEFLY!), I’m just, I’m off today. My iPod ear buds are only working in one ear. Maybe that’s the reason for my imbalance.
Also? I definitely didn't win those Twins Tickets I wanted. In FACT, I’m not even sure where I got the idea that I COULD win them. I’m extremely unlucky when it comes to all that, how do I just keep forgetting that? What’s going on here, people?
Maybe it’s the time of year. This is my last week of Summer Hours at work, and maybe the long days and half-day Fridays have just burned my brain out. Or maybe it’s the fact that I brought my Kate Spade bag in to be dry cleaned on Friday, and I still haven’t heard back as to whether or not it’s even POSSIBLE to dry clean. My new, substitute bag is just a mess of crap. There are no convenient pockets, and I’m constantly digging around for a pen or my wallet or a taser.
I hate feeling off. Tonight all I made for dinner was vegetables. Say whaaaaaat? I’ve really got to pull myself together. I can’t go on constantly worried that I have put on two different shoes, or that I may eat a stick of butter. It’s inhumane. For now, I’ll blame the changing season and my M.I.A. Kate Spade. Once order is restored, and it better be restored soon Pilgrim Cleaners, I’ll have my life back. I hope.
My mind is just playing tricks on me, I guess. Today, I woke up, pretty determined to conquer all obstacles that fell in my way. My brain was all, “Yeah! Pharon! You can DO this!” And I left the house. Forgetting to button my pants. That's just not okay. Whether I’m eating butter, or having difficulty figuring out how many hours are between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. (BRIEFLY!), I’m just, I’m off today. My iPod ear buds are only working in one ear. Maybe that’s the reason for my imbalance.
Also? I definitely didn't win those Twins Tickets I wanted. In FACT, I’m not even sure where I got the idea that I COULD win them. I’m extremely unlucky when it comes to all that, how do I just keep forgetting that? What’s going on here, people?
Maybe it’s the time of year. This is my last week of Summer Hours at work, and maybe the long days and half-day Fridays have just burned my brain out. Or maybe it’s the fact that I brought my Kate Spade bag in to be dry cleaned on Friday, and I still haven’t heard back as to whether or not it’s even POSSIBLE to dry clean. My new, substitute bag is just a mess of crap. There are no convenient pockets, and I’m constantly digging around for a pen or my wallet or a taser.
I hate feeling off. Tonight all I made for dinner was vegetables. Say whaaaaaat? I’ve really got to pull myself together. I can’t go on constantly worried that I have put on two different shoes, or that I may eat a stick of butter. It’s inhumane. For now, I’ll blame the changing season and my M.I.A. Kate Spade. Once order is restored, and it better be restored soon Pilgrim Cleaners, I’ll have my life back. I hope.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
As Natural As Seafood in Minnesota
Is there anything better than ordering seafood at a restaurant in a completely landlocked state? The answer, of course, is Yes. There are lots of places where the mussels and oysters and calamari are better. However, I challenge you to have a better happy hour than the one I had tonight.
Prinna and her husband Chris were sans children tonight. A rare occurrence indeed. So I met up with them and Perek and his wife Leah at the rooftop of a seafood bar in Uptown. You guys? I ate an oyster. Like, a really slimy oyster. It was an experience that I shall not soon forget, and I had to follow it immediately with eating 100 French fries. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I hung out with my brother and sister, with their significant others, and had a blast.
In case you don’t know, I grew up in a big family. It was my parents, my two sisters, my two brothers and me. It was a constant struggle to stick out, to show off, to be noticed. But ever since I was in college, it’s come to my attention that this may not have been a bad thing.
As children, we were all annoying little attention-seekers. As adults, well, we are all just taller attention-seekers. But we’ve focused that energy, and now we share it with each other instead of shoving it each other’s faces. Enjoying some gnarly oysters and delicious beers together turns us into an unstoppable Idea Machine. Instead of fighting for the spotlight, we help each other get into it. We tell each other what’s a good idea and what’s, well, basically garbage.
I don’t know how my parents did it, but we’ve got like a 100% success rate of being pretty cool people in my family. All my brothers and sisters are fun. They’re all smart. They’re all well-balanced. I just feel lucky that they let riff-raff like me tag along.
But the point is, tonight I decided that I want to have a million kids. I want them all to be miserable together and hate each other as children, but then they’ll harness all that and grow into mature adults who somehow prefer to hang out with each other. They’ll be all angry and resentful as confused teenagers, but then BOOM. They’ll fit together like the puzzle pieces that fall on the floor and then you find them a week later and think “Ah! There it is!”
So, yeah. Big family, good friends, fun happy hour times, oysters are disgusting.
Prinna and her husband Chris were sans children tonight. A rare occurrence indeed. So I met up with them and Perek and his wife Leah at the rooftop of a seafood bar in Uptown. You guys? I ate an oyster. Like, a really slimy oyster. It was an experience that I shall not soon forget, and I had to follow it immediately with eating 100 French fries. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I hung out with my brother and sister, with their significant others, and had a blast.
In case you don’t know, I grew up in a big family. It was my parents, my two sisters, my two brothers and me. It was a constant struggle to stick out, to show off, to be noticed. But ever since I was in college, it’s come to my attention that this may not have been a bad thing.
As children, we were all annoying little attention-seekers. As adults, well, we are all just taller attention-seekers. But we’ve focused that energy, and now we share it with each other instead of shoving it each other’s faces. Enjoying some gnarly oysters and delicious beers together turns us into an unstoppable Idea Machine. Instead of fighting for the spotlight, we help each other get into it. We tell each other what’s a good idea and what’s, well, basically garbage.
I don’t know how my parents did it, but we’ve got like a 100% success rate of being pretty cool people in my family. All my brothers and sisters are fun. They’re all smart. They’re all well-balanced. I just feel lucky that they let riff-raff like me tag along.
But the point is, tonight I decided that I want to have a million kids. I want them all to be miserable together and hate each other as children, but then they’ll harness all that and grow into mature adults who somehow prefer to hang out with each other. They’ll be all angry and resentful as confused teenagers, but then BOOM. They’ll fit together like the puzzle pieces that fall on the floor and then you find them a week later and think “Ah! There it is!”
So, yeah. Big family, good friends, fun happy hour times, oysters are disgusting.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Fantastic Mr. Fox...and other bedtime stories
I do not know what my problem is. I have, once again, stayed up too late on a school night. I know I will pay dearly for the tonight’s debauchery. And this all suddenly seems very odd to me, considering the fact that I used to thrive on late nights, then cram a quick sleep session in before getting up and going to class, as if the shut-eye was merely an afterthought. Sheesh, what has happened to me? Oh, and the picture of that animal up there? I'll explain in a second...
Tonight, after a long day at work, my boyfriend Geo took me out for an awesome dinner (if you ever find yourself in the Twin Cities, go check out Tavern on France…nom nom nom) and then we managed to work 18 holes of mini golf in before heading out to meet a couple friends for a quick drink. Somewhere between the jeans-stretching dinner and the fox we saw in the parking lot of the mini golf course (See? It's relevant), I managed to convince myself that “hey, it’s Monday. I’ll have the whole rest of the week to catch up on sleep.” But I know I won’t. I know I shall suffer the consequences of inadequate sleep until Saturday morning. But turn down a date night and sitting outside enjoying a Stella Artois with some long-lost friends? No, I cannot do those kinds of things. Not yet, anyway.
But I noticed that when I stopped my car to take pictures of said fox, I wanted to just lay my head down on my steering wheel and call it a night. And I briefly had that thought that lots of people sleep in their cars, right? Probably because, like me, they have just enjoyed a huge dinner and a relaxing stroll through the lush links of a mini golf course on a perfect summer night. I feel their pain.
I can tell you right now, that the outfit I’ll wear tomorrow may not match. My make up routine will suffer. Greatly. My hair, if washed, will be thrown up in a ponytail, and not even one of those ponytails that’s all sleek and shiny. It’ll be wavy and frizzy. My head will be racing all day from the inevitability of too much coffee, and it’s just not gonna be pretty. But, I guarantee you, I have not learned my lesson. I have already reasoned with myself that 11:30 p.m. is just not that late, and I only think it’s late because I go to bed too early on all the other nights. Will I have a different story to tell myself tomorrow at 10 a.m. when I’m begging my eyes to stay open? Yes. Will I re-rationalize everything all over again the next time 10 p.m. comes and goes and I’m nowhere near my bed? Life wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t.
Alright, I’m going to bed, but not before I really explain the picture of this really tiny, scrawny fox. We saw him scarfing down a double cheeseburger someone tossed in the parking lot of an office building. Geo said he probably had rabies. I think he was just enjoying a bedtime snack before hunkering down in his fox hole for a little snooze. But it was totally the weirdest thing I’ve seen in suburbia in a long, long time. Enjoy!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Can I Get That Recipe?
Something was rotten in the state of Minnesota. A couple days ago, my roommate Sanna and I noticed a gnarly smell coming from the kitchen. As we were poking around the bags of bread and chips trying to locate the cause the cause of the funk, I said “Ew. The last time I smelled something this bad, Perek had a bag of potatoes that had rotted and liquefied in back of the cupboard.” Lo and behold, we discovered a bag of rotten potatoes. Liquefied.
How can this happen not once but twice, you ask? It’s not like our kitchen is dirty. We wash the counters, throw away garbage, wash the dishes. But we have very limited counter space, and only three shelves available for food storage. So food gets lost sometimes.
So the first time I found funky potatoes, we had all been smelling something gross for a few days. Upon a deeper search, I found them way in the back of Perek’s shelf, behind boxes of pasta, cans of beans, and a jar of peanut butter. The bag of what had previously been potatoes was now a thick, gooey, sludge that ran down the back of the cupboard. I tied a tshirt around my face, covered my hands in Ziploc bags, and spent 20 minutes scrubbing the “potatoes” off the shelf. Gagging the whole time. This was back when I lived with the three boys, and they all sat in the living room playing Halo while I cleaned. Turns out, they decided they could stand the smell. Since I couldn't, I was the one who had to tie on the t-shirt.
But now it’s officially happened twice. The fact that the same problems happen whether I live with 3 boys or 1, leads me to believe the problem is not just Testosterone’s clever habit of neglecting cleaning. Clearly, the problem is that food just expires too quickly and in entirely too disgusting of a way. We need to do something about this, people!
How can this happen not once but twice, you ask? It’s not like our kitchen is dirty. We wash the counters, throw away garbage, wash the dishes. But we have very limited counter space, and only three shelves available for food storage. So food gets lost sometimes.
So the first time I found funky potatoes, we had all been smelling something gross for a few days. Upon a deeper search, I found them way in the back of Perek’s shelf, behind boxes of pasta, cans of beans, and a jar of peanut butter. The bag of what had previously been potatoes was now a thick, gooey, sludge that ran down the back of the cupboard. I tied a tshirt around my face, covered my hands in Ziploc bags, and spent 20 minutes scrubbing the “potatoes” off the shelf. Gagging the whole time. This was back when I lived with the three boys, and they all sat in the living room playing Halo while I cleaned. Turns out, they decided they could stand the smell. Since I couldn't, I was the one who had to tie on the t-shirt.
But now it’s officially happened twice. The fact that the same problems happen whether I live with 3 boys or 1, leads me to believe the problem is not just Testosterone’s clever habit of neglecting cleaning. Clearly, the problem is that food just expires too quickly and in entirely too disgusting of a way. We need to do something about this, people!
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