Food.

I like everything about food. I started out saying I love food, but that sounds like a food junkie's desperate cry for intervention, so I changed it to "like", even though the other "l" word is probably more accurate. Some people see food as mere sustinence -- like gassing up a car to make it go. I see great food (as you'll recall from this post) as a close, less dangerous, cousin of sex.

If I had more money, I would be a foodie--I would have eaten by now at every amazing restaraunt in Seattle and the surrounding area. But alas, this gets really hard on the checkbook, especially when "drinking" and "traveling" closely follow "food" on your list of top things in life. As it is, I've been to a pretty impressive handful of places, but there are some, including Le Gourmand and Canlis that still elude me, because of incredibly long waiting lists (um, make a reservation a MONTH in advance? I am a bona fide committment-phobe. I can't commit to a cell phone plan, much less a date a month in advance) and a crippling cost per plate that makes it difficult for me to convince someone to be my date -- even if I assure them of a big payout. (No, not that. I was thinking more along the lines of the pleasure of my company, and perhaps a drink on me, you perverts.)

If I had more than just "more" money -- if I were an actual wealthy person -- I would go to culinary school, possibly abroad. I would then return and do one of two things:

1. Start my own restaraunt. I have two ideas, and can't decide which I prefer. One would be tiny and unmarked with a rotating and seasonal prix fix menu, incredible wine list (no hard alcohol or beer) and deserts that look like works of art and are mandatory with every dinner. I know it sounds snobby, and it would be expensive, but it wouldn't be. Service would be warm and personal, like you're a very important person dining in your own very cool, modern livingroom. Restaraunt number two would be large, eclectic verging on nonsensical or even silly, with a menu composed almost exclusively of all things dippable and/or on sticks, to be dipped in fondue and special me-created sauces. Limited, cheap beer menu, some fun cocktail specials and no wine. Okay, maybe two house bottles. And red and white checked oilcloth tablecloths. I love those.

2. Freelance for top-100 daily newspapers across the country and a few food magazines as I embark on a 500-day American tour of food, hitting every state in the country, eating and writing articles alongside an American food travelogue which will chronicle my trip, the food, and all the bizarre strangers and happenings along the way.

But, alas, as I am neither rich nor filthy rich, and neither of these things will ever happen, I have instead this day decided to give to you, dear reader, a list of my current list of favorite foods for somewhat poor to very poor people. Bon Appetit!

1. Bruschetta. This delightful mix of garlic, basil, onion and tomato on a crusty piece of bread with a bit of balsalmic is pure heaven. Except if your dining partner eats it and you don't. Then, it ruins your sense of smell for two or three days. So I advise you just to eat it. Note: I make the best bruschetta this side of the MIssissippi. I dare you to make better bruschetta than I do. Cost to prepare: $14.00. Time to prepare: 25 minutes (lots of dicing, slicing and spreading).

2. Chocolate oatmeal no-bake cookies. They're just awesome, and replaced rice krispy treats on my list of the best things to eat before they're technically ready to be eaten. Get some oatmeal, chocolate, a little peanut butter, a double-boiler, and a spoon. Then, go into glycemic shock. Cost to prepare: $7.50 plus doctor's bills. Time: Under ten minutes. To make. Under 3 minutes to eat.

3. My signature loaded baked brie. This is a round of brie, sliced in half, filled with dried fruit and nuts or jam, put back together and wrapped in crescent roll dough, then baked until melted indide the golden-brown crescent roll. Cost to prepare: $12.50. Time: 20 minutes.

4. Mangoes. These are black sheep on this list, as they cost about ten dollars apiece and are nearly impossible to eat without a bib and a shower afterwards, but a good mango is, I think, the best fruit ever invented by God. (Nice work, God.) Warning: after eating one, you will need to spend 25 minutes with a roll of dental floss. If anyone can figure out how to make it easier, please, please share.

5. Waffle-cut fries with the magic thing that is fry sauce. First, the fries: Whoever came up with these is a genius. It's the soggy-fry solution. These puppies are evenly cooked throughout, thanks to the clever holes, and are crispy everywhere without being little daggers of burnt crispness like you find at some joints that serve the traditional fry. And they beat steak-cut fries in pure condiment-delivery ability. Like Chex cereal holds milk, waffle-cut fries hold ketchup. Or, even better, fry sauce. Now, Fry sauce: I have no proof, but I am pretty sure this culinary delight came from the midwest, mostly because that is the only place in the country I can imagine coming up with a way to actually make fries worse for you. Take the two condiments with the lowest possible nutritional value and highest cravability around (ketchup and mayo, obviously), and mix them, 50-50. Now your ketchup is fatty, your mayo is sweet, and it's a horrible pink color reminiscent of PeptoBismol. But you know what? It tastes fucking brilliant. I had to move away from Idaho (almost the midwest, anyway) solely because of the amounts of fry sauce I'd otherwise consume. In Seattle, nobody believes in it. Something about cholesterol and obesity. Eh, I just run a lot and make my own. Cost: $1.50.

Armoires and Wendy's: good ideas gone bad

Once you’ve moved (as in switching condos, apartments or houses) once or twice, it’s difficult to imagine what (outside of perhaps a flesh-eating bacteria on your face, being locked in a tanning bed or drinking bleach) on this earth is worse.

I helped move a friend yesterday, which is why I mention it. Well, actually, I mention it because I feel like an eighty year old man. Everything is stiff, from my shoulders to my knees. I can barely turn my head due to a tussle with a 400-lb armoire and there are apparently muscles in my forearms that are necessary for pretty much every finger movement, including lifting, gripping, and typing. I know this because these exact muscles are, at this moment, as i type these words, on fucking fire.

Ow.

Every time I help a friend move, I decide that’s the last time. Also, every time I move, I decide it’s the last time. Last, that is, until I buy a house, after which THAT move will be the truly final move.

But, of course, I continue these friend-helping and every-9-months-moving things. I lived, for a while, down the street from three Chinese restaurants and two Jiffy Lubes. Have you ever seen a four foot tall and three hundred year old Chinese woman swing a purse at two Mexicans wearing greasy shop clothes and using the word “punta” a lot? I have. Twice. Also, I used to live less than half a mile from a strip club run by the local mafia family that was painted bright pink and had a huge flashing sign with the words “LIVE GIRLS” perpetually on the front, like “DEAD GIRLS” were an option.

Not long ago, I moved from Fremont/Ballard to Kirkland. FreLard is a pretty rad little place, I think. Very close to the water, the city, and two progressive, large universities. A pretty happening place, without being dirty enough that you step on discarded needles on the sidewalk… frequently.

Kirkland, while also on the water, is sorta Yuppie-ville. Pricey, with some fun bars, incredible food, yachts, and a great strip right by the water, but full of these Microsoft geeks with drop-tops, Terminator-in-shiny-clubshirts types with overly-large egos (and biceps to match) and very very rich, spoiled 19 year old boys driving their daddies’ Hummers.

That said, I moved to be 8 (as opposed to 58) minutes from work, and my place has TWO bedrooms, a huge deck, and is walking distance from all the awesome things in Kirkland – the water, the bars, the retaraunts, Hector’s (the hands-down best damn breakfast this side of the country and a bloody Mary that will make you take your clothes off, in a good way), and a Wendy’s (open late!).

I have been smart, in the past, not to live directly behind a Wendy’s.

In my previous residences, I have always lived closer to a market (and, once, an actual vegetable farm) than a fast food restaurant. While this wasn’t by design, it was fortuitous. My new place is directly behind a Wendy’s (which is the best fucking fast food ever, in my opinion, second only to Dicks or White Castle – which is a whole ‘nother story). I am literally two blocks, maybe, from the front door of that shiny mecca of greasy, cheap goodness – (open late!). Also, the walk to the joint is downhill the whole way – a nasty turn of fate that makes it soooo easy to walk there and a red-headed step-bitch to get back home, much less with a value meal tucked in your gut.

My early prediction about this predicament was that a long, bloody battle would ensue between my vegetarianism and Mr. Wendy. There would be casualties, I was sure, and my net time spent at the gym would increase, necessarily, in increments directly related to dollars spent at this hellhole of deliciousness.

So far, I was right on the money. Though I’ve yet to buckle and eat a burger, I have become friendly with the drive through people, who see me coming and start making a baked potato and a side salad, then always ask me if I’d like a sandwich to go with. No, I say, but I’ll take a mini Frosty, please.


I did briefly appear to have won this war, I am proud to say, when the joint came out with that Vanilla Frosty, which tastes like powdered non-dairy milk alternative and gives me drymouth, and is basically an incredibly great fast-food idea gone terribly, awfully wrong. Which sucked for me, because I ordered it once, twice, three times just to be sure it did, in fact, suck as badly as I thought it did the time before. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. The execution of this new frosty flavor was completely botched.

Unfortunately, after two pissed off weeks on Wendy’s strike, I’m over it, so the war’s back on.

Anyway, back to lessons in moving. Another lesson (in addition to carefully avoiding fast food joints when selecting your new neighborhood) I learned when moving to Kirkland was this:

Unless you plan to die in the home you currently live in, do not, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, purchase an armoire. I was reminded of this lesson this weekend, when I got to move another one – and this time it wasn’t mine, which made it even worse.

On armoires: They’re pretty, yes. They hold stuff, which is how you can justify the purchase at first. But about 4 minutes in to bearing 300 lbs of carefully weathered and whitewashed solid wood armoire directly on your lower back, you start to realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with a regular old closet. Also, that’s about when the other people you’re carrying this ghastly object with start yelling things like “Careful of the goddamn polished brass knobs!!” and “Holy fuck! Did you hear that pop?! I can’t feel my arm!” and “If I die under this over-priced, hand-crafted piece of shit you just HAD to buy, I swear to God I’ll come back as a pissed-off ghost and haunt the balls off of you in this equally over-priced two-bedroom apartment in the center of Yuppie America!!!”

I am close to certain that my hands are now going to fall off my body, so if this is the last post ever, you know where to find the handless girl.

By the way, if I’m handless, that probably also means I’m thirsty and can’t fasten the buckles on my strappy heels, so please bring over a six pack of Miller light, some bendy straws and a pair of slip-on shoes. And maybe a body pillow or the torso of a mannequin. Because handless girls need love too. And please, DON’T buy an armoire. And if you do, and you ask your pushover friends to help you move it, know that they will, but then their hands will fall off and you’ll eternally be tasked with helping them wipe as karmic payback.

Lois and the Catholics: Danke Schon.

On the plains of the Palouse -- a great, flat stretch of grassland that covers Eastern Washington and Western North Idaho, over which the wind whips like it's Siberia in the winter and where the lentil grows plentifully, but tastes like hippie dog food -- I had many of the formative experiences of the 17th-23rd years of my life.

Yes, in Idaho I learned to drink, to (sorta) write, to "ice block", and to roll a joint. I also learned about the sound a VCR makes when you drop it from the window of an 11th floor dorm room, and about home-perms and friend-administered hilights (neither a good idea). I learned what happens to boys who shave their legs and pierce their tongues (homosexuality and a beagle) and what happens when they build 9-foot beer bongs (my friend pees her pants at a party and I punch a boy in the face).

And last weekend, I learned that delicious food and funny stories come from diners inside which hicks wrangle pancakes and scrambled eggs while staring down girls in heels with lattes in hand and boys with well-pressed shirts.

It was on our way home -- we decided to take the long way, detouring through Coeur d'Alene so we could see some family on the way back to Seattle. As we got a God-awful early start, we were on the road and nearly to our first family-members' home before roosters even started crowing. So we did (surprise!) what I wanted to do: stopped for coffee and food.

The coffee appeared in a semi-populated stretch of highway in the form of a roadside stand. Caffeine? Check. We pulled back out onto the road, happy with our nonfat sugar-free vanilla lattes warming our hands, and started looking for someplace to get breakfast.

We squinted, and drove, and drove and squinted some more before we realized we were in the middle of the country. Not the "country", like the "Cunt-ry". There weren't so much a bunch of sprawling farms as there were the occasional 1972 Chevy rusting alongside the road with a man swathed in plaid leaning against a holey silo.

"Hey -- what's that?"

"What?"

"That building..."

"Hmm..."

I squinted harder. I must get Lasix.

"Oh! Yeah! That looks like a diner!"

"I thought so."

"Can we go? Please? Pleeeaaasssee??"

"Yeah, sure."

I am persuasive, clearly.

My companion cranked the wheel, bouncing us into the gravely parking lot of "Lois". I think it was supposed to be "Lois' " (like, posessive), but it seemed the intricacies of the posessive form of the name were either unimportant to Lois or worn away by time. Either way, the building's name now appeared to be "Lois".

I clutched my latte, flug open the car door, and stepped under my friend's arm, and through the door into...

1952.

Once our eyes adjusted, we saw a row of farmers at the bar, drinking coffee and spitting tobacco into bronzed spittoons. There were a few women who didn't work there sitting in a booth next to the dingy yellow-curtained windows, discussing a 4-H steer show, and the politics around the events in the local chapter.

"gorrr innn..." I urged to my awestruck friend without moving my lips, nudging him in the side and smiling at our dining companions.

The other patrons lost interest in us a few minutes later, as we slid into our back corner booth. I pulled out the crossword and we started working on it, after deciding we'd both have one of the four things on the menu -- a scrambled egg and homemade toast.

"Okay. One across is five letters for 'a chapter in nove-"

"What can I get for you two? No coffee, I imagine?"

The waitress.

"Oh, no thanks," I said, "But we'll both have the 'little farmer' breakfast."

"You're going to have to slow down, honey," the waitress said, rolling her eyes and sitting down in the booth next to me. "That was two... what?"

"Little Farmers," I offered. "One scrambled, one over easy."

She proceeded to take our orders, and then tell us about her morning, particularly about the overflowing toilet (apparently this was a weekly thing, and caused her great inconvenience) and the 'ol gal' who was supposed to relieve her of the afternoon shift who just called in sick.

After she sidled away, the two of us resumed work on the crossword. Shortly, we were stumped by a clue for which the answer was clearly Danke Schon, but we didn't know how to spell the "schon" part.

As we were discussing, our waitress reappeared with our food (by the way, the best damn scrambled egg I've ever eaten -- and toast made of homemade bread like you wouldn't believe).

"What's the clue?" she asked.

We told her, and explained that we didn't know how to spell Danke Schon.

"Is it an 'e', or an 'a', or an 'o'?" I asked. "Neither of us knows."

"Ooh," she said. "I can't help you with that one." She leaned in conspiratorially, and whispered "There aren't any Jews here today."

As we looked at each other across the table incredulously, she straightened up and continued:

"In fact, you're presently surrounded by Irish Catholics." She paused, then finished with "Y'all enjoy your breakfast now."

Satisfied, she nodded as if for punctuation, and retreated to the kitchen, leaving us with the best damn breakfast west of the Missisippi, "5 across" unsolved, and a pretty funny story.

Oh, Idaho.

Potatoes and Planes: Don't kill the messenger.

Apparently it's both Vegetarian Awareness Month and Breast Cancer Awareness month, two causes I can (and do, regularly) get behind. To celebrate, I plan to feel myself up in a bathtub full of mashed potatoes.

That was the most nonsensical thing I've ever written. A total lie, just for the sake of lying. But actually, that sounds nice. The bathtub full of mashed potatoes part, I mean. Not the feeling up.

Probably good for the skin, too, as MP's contain milk, if they're made right, and milk is very moisturizing, I hear.

But in truth, a potato is really a root, isn't it? Or a tuber? Definitely a starch. So a potato may not, in fact, be a vegetable at all, rendering this whole bit even more pointless than I ever imagined. Fuck it, then. I'll just do a regular self-feel, sans veggies. A tub full of peas just isn't that appealing.

Don't say I never touch on critical news and health issues. Because I do. Sometimes.

Sorta.

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Breaking news: NY Pitcher Flies Plane Into Building.
While all of NY city is busy flipping the fuck out over how in the world, post 9/11, a plane of any size could possibly fly into a building almost entirely un-noticed until after the plumes of black smoke and screaming people began pouring out of buildings, let me just make one other note:

In the New York Times, the late Lidle was quoted saying "The whole plane has a parachute on it,'' Lidle said. ``Ninety-nine percent of pilots that go up never have engine failure, and the 1 percent that do usually land it. But if you're up in the air and something goes wrong, you pull that parachute, and the whole plane goes down slowly."

In the Philadelphia Inquirer this summer, he boasted "The flying? I'm not worried about it. I'm safe up there. I feel very comfortable with my abilities flying an airplane."

Yikes. If there's one thing that's always made me a little nervous, it's needles. If there are four things that have always made me nervous, they're needles, the giant squid, somebody cutting my achilles tendon from under my bed when I get up for water in the middle of the night, and flying.

Call me supersitious, but you'll never catch me saying I feel perfectly comfortable with sitting surrounded by thousands and thousands of pounds of metal while it whizzes through the sky on thin air like magic. No sirree. I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for why flying's a piece of cake (likely involving physics, aerodynamics and something called "drag", but not in context with the word "queen", rendering it totally uninteresting to me). Yes, there's a scientific reason flying is safe, but I don't care. It's strange, and unnerving, and amazing. I have a healthy respect for flying, and I'm just crazy enough to believe it's that twinge of anxiety that will keep me alive.

Just as the twinge of guilt when I eat a pound of chocolate covered gummi bears will (hopefully) keep me from obesity, and a hideous hangover will keep me from, in the future, drinking entire bottles of wine back to back at sushi and sake bars while repeatedly yelling "THIS ISN'T SAKE, THIS IS SUCKY!!!".

Okay, that one's a stretch. But you get what I'm saying.

The Bare Ass Booze Pitch Post Plug

Kevin of the "Bad Pitch Blog" (link under "linkage" at right) put up a post today discussing a bad pitch I sent him a few weeks ago.

For you non-PR types out there, a "pitch" is typically an email (sometimes snail-mail or phone call) directed to a journalist (or group of journalists) from a PR person who intends for the journalist to read/hear the pitch (about the PR person's client or product) and then subsequently write about it, put it on TV or otherwise propel it into the world by virtue of the large captive audience they have at their attention.

This particular pitch was sent to me from a journalist friend who recieved it some time ago. He forwarded it to me for a laugh, and in an effort to emphasize why he almost categorically hates PR people.

While I couldn't defend the pitch, I did have a laugh -- and passed it on to Kevin, who publicly, hilariously, and scathingly disembowels ill-advised pitches like these every day.

Thank goodness I didn't touch it here - I couldn't compete with his post. Check it out, and laugh: The Bad Pitch Blog: The Bare Ass Booze Pitch.

Honestly.

HEATwaaaayve! Naked! Bagels! Laywers!

Over the past week, Seattle has experienced a major heatwave. (No, not like the band, like the weather.) And it almost killed me.

It has been so fucking hot here that at night, even after popping a Xanax AND a Tylenol PM (which I'm sure will probably kill me if the heat doesn't), I STILL can't sleep. Instead, I lie there on top of my bed very close to naked, "glistening", as each one of my limbs goes entirely numb (because of the drugs), and fantasize about either dying of heatstroke or driving to my air conditioned office in my underwear, breaking in, and sleeping under my desk until morning, where I'm awoken by our small and very shy hispanic office cleaning man, who is hitting me with his vaccum cleaner, trying not to look at the strange half-clad white girl under her desk.

Meanwhile, what I should really be concerned about is the fact that I'm so heavily medicated that I couldn't get out of bed to save myself if there were a fire or defend myself if there were a prowler (and even if I did, I'd be in my underwear, and with all the drugs there's no way I could get further dressed, so that would be pretty embarrassing, too).

(And other totally logical and likely examples of dangerous things like that.)

By the time I got to sleep last night, it was 4:15 a.m., and I was sprawled out in the middle of my livingroom floor in front of the sliding door and open screen door and window, with three fans pointed right at me and set on full-speed, pushing around air so hot it feels like I'm being blowdried all night. Awesome.

When I finally started to wake up, late, I was groggy and disoriented from the long night, and it was bright as all shit in my apartment. So, I kept my eyes closed to ease into this whole "waking up after 3 hours of tortured sleep" thing. The noise was incredible. It was like I was lying in the middle of a helicopter pad. And then I realized, as I really began to wake up, that it was super bright in the place because all the windows were open. All the windows were open. OPEN. And I was LYING, BARELY CLOTHED, ON MY FLOOR with my hair blowing everywhichway, for all the neighbors and commuters on the street directly outside my sliding door, to see.

After the momentary frozen shock of it all (and a few "WhoOOOOoooo!"'s from outside), I rolled over onto my stomach and army-crawled to the hallway, in my undies, where I found refuge in the form of a pillowcase, which I wrapped around me like a too-short towel/too large tube top and dashed into my dark, hot bedroom, where I sat on the floor and half-giggled, half-burned in humiliation until I was approximately 10 minutes late for work, exhausted and still not dressed.

Awesome.


But, on the upside, my office is today full of 1)food 2) coffee and 3)reasonably attractive young lawyers.

Fridays are bagel days at my office. And that makes me VERY happy, as I spend the rest of the week calorically scrimping (no breakfast, Zone Bar for lunch, a couple Americanos, and salad for dinner) so that I can drink whatever I want (alcohol is very high-calorie!) and, most of all, indulge on bagel day.

Today was 1/2 a jalepeno bagel with jalepeno cream cheese and 1/4 a cinnamon twist bagel with strawberry. Delicious and incredibly overindulgent.

To top it all off, we've also got a bunch of lawyers and consultants in our office this week, (apparently we only hire the 25-35 year old, attractive lawyers and consultants - Yay!!!) which means we ALSO had fresh coffee in every office (I guess to impress/motivate them. I dunno). I am on my third cup. Buzzzz.

So not only am I focused (thank you, caffeine) on work, but I've also been incredibly productive otherwise today: I've made eyes at at least three delicious little lawyer-types, who keep walking by my office.

Probably because they think I'm cute. (Which would be a minor miracle, as on three hours of sleep I look like Rob Schneider.) So far, at least one made eyes back. (I think. Or maybe he was checking himSELF out in my window.)

(I've got to stop with these excessive, sarcastic, parentheticals.)

(It's really getting ridiculous.)

________________________________

Have a good weekend, all!

(And if you have a little time to click around, check out Ron Silliman, who is smart and on point with poetics. Because after you leave here, you probably need a little intelligent stimulation. Just looking out for you.)

Martinis in the desert on a school night

I am writing this, a few martinis in, from a hotel room in Phoenix. Like, Arizona. But I guess that is obvious.

I am supposed to, at this minute, be in Seattle. In bed.

(There are cactuses here! Or cacti, rather. The desert is a very scary place. Not to be confused with dessert, which is my favorite.)

Don't know if you saw it in the news, but D.C. basically turned into a giant underwater city this weekend. Which was perfectly timed, as I was there for work. Did you ever see Waterworld? Yeah, me either. But I feel like it must have been like D.C. There was so much rain it actually caused buses to float, cars to die, trains to cancel and planes to be grounded.

Mine was one of these planes.

But I didn't realize it until after schlepping my shit back and forth in the Dulles airport, nearly screaming at a couple America West employees, being frisked in security after standing in a half-mile long line, and then standing in a Subway line, where a woman who spoke no english made sandwiches as slow as humanly possible. And not only did she put each bit of shredded lettuce on the sandwiches one at an excruciating time, the sandwiches ended up all messy and sloppy and falling all over the place. I almost jumped over the counter at her.

Only after all this, (while in 88 degree weather in torrential downpoar and wearing heels, which I'd spent the weekend in, standing on the cement floor of a trade show), did I recieve the details of my delayed flight, which caused me to miss my connection in Phoenix, which caused me to sweat even more in my suit, possibly cripple myself in my heels, stand in yet another line, and then be told I'd be staying over in Phoenix until the next available flight, which is tomorrow.

So now I'm at the Hilton, and I've cancelled tomorrow's meetings, and I've changed out of the goddamn suit, and am now in a jean skirt and a tank top and flip flops like a local. And it's just fine. Fine fine fine. Sheryl Crow fine. Soon to be Jimmy Buffet fine. And then, maybe later, if someone gives me a stick and a smoke, John Daly fine.

Oh yes, I've been to the bar.

And I'm going back.

Cheers!

Healed! (Also, hunger and hypochondria)

I'm much better, thank you for asking, though I'll have you know I was quite complain-y and entirely intolerable when I was sick (which was for a sum total of 24 hours). The crankiness is directly related to two things: I am a huge bitch when I'm hungry, and every time I get sick I'm sure I'm going to die.

First, the hunger. When throwing up, I'm usually not eating much. This is not good for innocent bystanders, and here's why: I take on the personality of a creature from "Where The Wild Things Are" if I have to go more than 5 hours between meals. It's actually quite scary, and very noticeable. In fact, one past boyfriend had it so figured out that when I'd start to get snarky he just get up/pull over/get out of bed, locate food (preferably something high in protein and coated in chocolate), and get it in front of me as quickly as possible. Funny story: One time I got particularly hungry during a week-long camping trip and we were at least an hour from the nearest restaurant, so he actually killed a possum and cooked it for me. Did the trick.

[You didn't seriously believe that, did you? Gross.]

[I actually just told that story to clumsily segue onto a tangent (if that's even possible): is it opossum or possum? Anyone? Also, is cheesecake actually pie, or cake? It has a crust, which is very confusing, and no icing, indicating pie. But it has no filling and it has "cake" in the name, indicating cake.]

ANYway, hungry me = nasty me.

And sick me = deathbed fantasies.

I realize that hypochondria isn't unique or particularly funny. We all have our moments, of course. But when those moments come when you are actually, legitimately sick, they can be a bit more dramatic than your typical hypochondriacal fixations. For example, I went through an encyclopedia-reading stint for a couple years when I was younger (Okay, two years ago). I didn't read them cover to cover, but rather made my way through each letter, flipping through, watching for interesting keywords, pictures or names. Like "transgender" and "homeostasis" (which, by the way, is not as funny as it seems like it would be), and, when I made it to the M-N encyclopedia, "mandrake", "maraschino cherry", "Meditteranean Sea" and "Meningitis".

Meningitis: (from the Center for Disease control Website because I don't have a damn encyclopedia in front of me):

"Meningitis is an illness in which there is inflammation of the tissues that cover the brain and spinal cord. Viral or "aseptic" meningitis, which is the most common type, is caused by an infection with one of several types of viruses. Meningitis can also be caused by infections with several types of bacteria or fungi. In the United States, there are between 25,000 and 50,000 hospitalizations due to viral meningitis each year. Viral ("aseptic") meningitis is serious but rarely fatal in persons with normal immune systems. Usually, the symptoms last from 7 to 10 days and the patient recovers completely. Bacterial meningitis, on the other hand, can be very serious and result in disability or death if not treated promptly. Often, the symptoms of viral meningitis and bacterial meningitis are the same. For this reason, if you think you or your child has meningitis, see your doctor as soon as possible."

Gross. And now, the scary part, courtesy of Wikepedia:

"…Bacterial Meningitis has a high mortality rate if it goes untreated and is thus a severe medical emergency. All suspected cases, however mild, need emergency medical attention… The classical symptoms of meningitis are headache, neck stiffness and photophobia (intolerance of bright light); the trio is called meningism. Fever and chills are often present, as is nausea and vomiting."

Oh, so, basically, flu-like symptoms. You know, the kind of symptoms I've had a number of times before in my life. Those ones. Could potentially signal a DEADLY DISEASE that kills THOUSANDS (probably) of people like me EVERY DAY (I'm just guessing). Cue freak-out.

Shortly after reading this, I fell ill. You guessed it: flu-like symptoms. Fever, headache, stiffness, pukage. This terrified me. I spent three days horizontal on my parents' couch, moaning, fantasizing about my brain swelling and killing me, and doing my best to convince my parents that they should take me to the hospital, as I was likely (or at least very possibly) suffering from a deadly disease which also happened to coincidentally have the same symptoms as the common flu or stomach bug. I was very convincing, I thought, as I was very convinced, myself, that I was in real danger. And so my parents did what any good, responsible adults in the care of a sick (possibly dying) child (okay, twenty-something) would do:

Laughed hysterically.

Of course, I recovered, and now anytime I'm over for dinner and there's new company who hasn't heard this story yet, they take every opportunity to tell it. And they laugh so hard milk squirts out of their noses or they snort or they cry or all of the above.

My family is not very nice.

[Although they were right about the meningitis thing that one time.]

_____________________________________

I was fascinated by reports of a recent study conducted by UCLA's Department of Psychiatry. The study has revealed that the kind of face a woman finds attractive on a man tends to differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle.

For example, if she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged, masculine features.

However, if she is menstruating, she tends to be more attracted to a man with a spear lodged in his chest and tape over his mouth while he is on fire.

No further studies are expected.


[Obviously, this is an email forward I received. I don't know how it managed to slip through the cracks, as I usually banish anything starting with FW: immediately to the trash, but when I read it, I actually laughed pretty hard, though that may be more closely related to my sadistic nature (particularly when involving men) than the actual funny quotient of the joke…]

Fantasty #18: My grocery store romance

I am convinced that sometime soon I will have a produce-aisle romantic encounter. As you know, I have predicted that 2006 will be my best year so far, and so would not be surprised if aforementioned encounter took place this very year, and was extremely hot. Remember, I'm a little clairvoyant. I certainly wouldn't bet against me, anyway. Unless it's on baseball, which I can't stand. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Produce-aisle romance. This is a long-running, little-understood fantasy of mine, and I promise it's not as deviant as it sounds. Hear me out:

There is something very, very sexy about the grocery store. Actually, that's not precisely accurate. I should say that I feel very, very sexy when I'm shopping, alone, AT the grocery store. This inner sense of sex-appeal is something akin to the way I presume everyone feels when driving alone on a sunny day very fast on a nearly empty road, sunglasses on, great music up loud, windows down, with a bit of a tan. It's that "I could totally be in a movie right now" feeling. This feeling also strikes most people when driving slowly in the pounding rain with anything classical or melancholy/edgy (think Fiona Apple or Bjork) playing, while occasionally glancing dramatically out the window.

In short: Very dramatic, extremely cool, and, well, hot.

In the grocery store, for whatever reason, I am able to channel this inner sense of hotness. But there are a few things you have to understand:

1. It's important to note that I am not a "prancing around in heels and a mini-skirt" grocery shopper, and that wardrobe/physical attractiveness isn't the source of the sex appeal. I'm typically dressed down. Casual, presentable, but distinctly fresh and a little mussed. Hair not perfect, definitely. But teeth always, always brushed and lip gloss applied.
2. No PJ's. Jeans. Exclusively. Unless traveling on business or coming from work, in which case the occasional business apparel is acceptable, but it is preferred to have hair secured with a pen or pencil and to only be buying beverages (bottled water, juice, or wine.)
3. This is the most important parameter of all: No one feels hot pushing around a cart. I ALWAYS carry one of those little red baskets.

There is something very empowering about being a single woman in a grocery store. While I have female friends who loathe to grocery shop, citing "old-maid" shopping carts of three cans of soup, cat food and two bananas, I revel in this red flag that I am shopping for only my sustinence. I carefully select my four too-expensive Wolfgang-Puck soups and my 1/2 gallon of milk (preferably chocolate soy). I love the five different flavors of yogurt and the small boxes of handmade pasta. I make careful choices, and I'm never ashamed... in fact, I'm a little proud of the fact that everything in my basket represents me.

As I breeze up and down the aisles, I know exactly what I'm looking for and where to find it. And I smile at people and feel mysterious that they don't know what's on my list. After the boring basics are covered I head to the wine aisle. I select a couple bottles (one red, one white, usually) while thinking about what meal I'll make to correspond. (Or, more often than not, which night I will consume the entire bottle with no help from my beer-drinking friends).

Then, on to the critical last leg of the trip, where the fantasy culminates: the produce aisle.

In my fantasy, up to this point, I've been going aisle to aisle, occasionally passing the male counterpart -- a single guy braving the grocery store for his monthly stockpile, including but not limited to large amounts of cheese, beer, eggs and cereal. Dog food is a bonus. The encounters to this point might go as follows:

When we first pass each other, we notice, but secretly. Politely. The next time, we might meet on opposite sides of an old couple's shopping cart, which sits perpendicular to the aisle and has nearly blocked it off except for a space large enough for one person and a basket to pass through, we do the awkward "you go..." "no, you--" dance and exchange knowing eye-rolls. A few minutes later, we find ourselves in the same aisle again. There might be a "you again?!" exchange this time. (This is where I usually get particularly witty and irresistable.)

**note: this is the best thing about fantasies -- as they're products of your own deranged ego/imagination, you can be as cool and desireable as you... uh... desire. So please excuse the nauseating lens through which you are viewing this fantasy. You are my guest, this day, in MY psyche. Don't push it.**

Anyway, as I was saying, we pass each other a few times, there's a flirtatious exchange, and we go on our separate ways.

On my way to the register, I stop at the produce section. I carefully select some fresh food. Maybe three apples, a few oranges, a mango, greens, maybe an onion, a bag of tomatoes, celery. I dally a bit on my way out, but finally turn to go when I stop for one last thing. Perhaps portabellos... And grocery store crush is suddenly next to me, or just over my shoulder - very close, anyway - and without so much as a greeting suddenly launches into a gratuitous but hushed question about the portabello. How do you choose them, or cook them? We are conspiratorial appropriately surface, though the conversation is full of innuendo. My basket is heavy, now, and I have to prop it on a hip. My arms are tired, but he never suggests it's too much for me.

There are any number of ways the fantasy goes from here. Sometimes I cut our conversation short, making my way to the checkout line and even the parking lot before he approaches me. Sometimes we, uh, never leave the produce department. Sometimes we don't even really speak there, but look at each other furtively and then leave, never meeting again. In this case the ending doesn't matter, because it's the waiting for the ending part that's so good. Something like the cooking of a meal...

I don't know why this one has stuck with me for so long. There's just something about being around all the food -- ingredients with so much potential, possibility. And there is the mysteriousness and anonymity of obviously being a single girl in a grocery store in the city. And the fact that my basket is always full of good, exotic, interesting food that I get pleasure from selecting by scent, texture, color. It's all very, very sexy.

Please tell me someone else out there finds this hot. Anyone? It might be a little unusual, but at least it's not the standard "So I'm a teacher..." or "So I get a flat tire on a hot day and..." fantasy. It's got flair! Imagination! Subtlety!

Okay, I'm clearly just making myself feel better because I realize no one is going to understand my little produce-aisle daydream. Eh, well. I tried.

Look, it's not my only fantasy. But it is one of the many reasons I rarely have an empty fridge. (Another high-ranking one: I get very, very cranky when hungry. Ask anyone who knows me. It's terrible.)

Geek-Squad recreation of Notre Dame

Title: Ginger Dame
Medium: Gingerbread
Artists: Geek-Squad



Abstract:
Motivated by more than a decade of friendship beginning in honor's English and Art classes in junior high, the Geek Squad (composed of AnnMarie, Kim, Liz, Josh, Joe and Anand, who are now, respectively, a grad student in Philly, a mom and wife in Utah, a tech PR exec in Seattle, a teacher/coach in Bellingham, an actor/filmmaker in LA, and a fundraiser/speechwriter for the UN in D.C.) comes together once a year to bond over excellent food, followed by the annual building of gingerbread structures. As Ginger Dame was created by only a fraction of the Geek Squad due to GS reunion scheduling difficulties, pregnancy and the mysterious dissapearance of Josh, the piece is a more somber study - pensive, spiritual, grounded. This is in sharp contrast to past works in the medium, which include the Husky Stadium, a bomb shelter, and Martha Stewart's home -which stand as testaments to the byouant influence of the three missing members of the GS, and the unique aesthetic dynamic that results from the blending of this geeky but very beautiful team.


Also,
I love my friends.

Food for thought... literally.

Let's spend Friday evening talking about the universe, as explained by food. OK? Super. Here goes:

"Fractal forms--complex shapes which look more or less the same at a wide variety of scale factors, are everywhere in nature. From the fluctuations in the cosmic microwave background radiation to the coastlines of continents, courses of rivers, clouds in the sky, branches of plants and veins in their leaves, blood vessels in the lung, and the shape of seashells and snowflakes, these fractal or self-similar patterns abound... some of the most pleasing patterns in geometric art exhibit exact or almost exact self-similarity. These are patterns which are composed of smaller copies of themselves ad infinitum, or at least until some limit where the similarity breaks down due to the granularity of the underlying material."

What does all this mean? Well, here's a visual, edible example. The Romanesco Broccolli/Cauliflower: This little bugger looks the same in super-zoom mode as it does to the naked eye. This is an example of a fractal form -- though they abound. What makes this really cool is that it is, in essence, a physical representation of a mathmatical equation -- a computation. What's crazy is that there are theories out there explaining the universe based on this computation; modern thinkers seem to like applying this computation to describe forms on our planet.

"It seems like the universe just wants to compute. Of course, there's a tendency for thinkers in every age to model the universe in terms of the predominant technology of the day. To the Pythagoreans, all was number and geometry. In Newton's time, the universe seemed an intricate clockwork mechanism. Later, in the age of steam, thermodynamics and heat death dominated models of the universe. Today, surrounded by computers evolving more rapidly than anything in natural history, what could be more natural than regarding the universe as a great automaton performing some kind of cosmic computation?

And yet, there may be some truth in that viewpoint, and insights to be had by pursuing it, just as earlier worldviews provided frameworks for further discoveries. Stephen Wolfram's A New Kind of Science and Rudy Rucker's forthcoming The Lifebox, the Seashell, and the Soul (excerpt) argue that many of the processes we see in nature are indeed computations."

Very cool. And from a social perspective, isn't it true that we're routinely both both enlightened and blinded by our own experiences, which are the parameters with which we define our own existance and response to our unique world? This is proof that even the most intelligent people on the planet have a difficult time seeing the view for the window.

Have a good weekend!

Hydration: NASA cares

As if Superglue and Memory Foam mattresses weren't enough (wait - what about Silly Putty? Who effed up and invented that?) NASA can now be credited for yet another brilliant, relevant, necessary invention: a Pee Purifyer.

OK, it sounds pretty ridiculous, but this one makes some sense. Think:

1. By enabling astronauts to recycle some of their own waste, NASA will save millions on the transportation of potable water to space alone.
2. Then you've got the whole universal pollution issue. Yep, they used to just dump astronauts' number 1's and number 2's into the great black yonder, where it will orbit forever, probably contributing to global warming and toxic rain and male pattern baldness.
3. Think about all the other applications here on Earth. Tsunami ravaged your corner of the planet, rendering all water a muddy, polluted mess? Drink your own pee! Draught giving you dry mouth? Drink your own pee! Live in rural Utah with negative 5 gazillion degree winters and outdoor plumbing? Drink your own pee and stay inside with your 10 kids and 2 wives, warming yourselves by the fire and singing in 13-part harmony!

Now, the PP hasn't yet been released to the general public, but by all trial accounts I could locate (OK, one) the tinkle-water doesn't taste too bad.

Laugh all you want, but next time you're stranded in the woods eating grubs and wiping with Poison Oak with only your love of Pokemon's trading card game to keep you alive, (no, seriously. Click that link. I'm not kidding. That could be you.) you'll wish you bought NASA stock. Because you COULD be drinking your own pee.

* click on the title for the full story from WIRED.com

Anything you want for $2.18

So the other day was $2.18 day at Dairy Queen. Actually, I don't think it really was, but the experience I had there was enough to convince me, at least momentarily, that we were all getting a real deal.

Let me start by saying this would be perhaps the second time in a year I've been to DQ... I don't generally do the fast food thing. But I was in a hurry, and in a moment of weakness, gave in to the cheap thrill of dessert before dinner.

The lines were horrendous- the man in front of me was clutching his son by the collar so as to refrain him from clobbering his older sister, who was leaning against the counter, smirking at him. Their mother marveled at the cost efficience of their meal, oblivious to conflict. The elderly, blueharied woman behind me was confounded by the fact that the photo of the Banana split blizzard looked more like chocolate than banana. It was as if her entire world was slowly being corrupted because of some sort of chocolate conspiracy, and now faithful Dairy Queen was among those on the dark side.

The woman behind her, overwieght and exasperated, harumphed a touch too loudly to her surprisingly thin daughter about the wait. In my irritated state, I wondered what she was in such a rush to do, (and with her proportions, how quickly she'd do it, anyway). I then silently reprimanded myself and decided, with a furtive glance at her, against the fries.

As the line slowly disintigrated in front of me, I watched the people busily dashing about behind the counter with their hats and chocolate stains on. I marveled at their fixations upon their individual tasks, as if their universe would end if the drive-through customer didn't get his extra slice of tomato on that deluxe burger- and in a hurry.

"Could I help the next person in line?"

They reminded me of brave, hurried ants scurrying, digging, hurrying with their oversized loads only to find all their work demolished in the morning after a six year old with a stick discovered their haven.

"Miss?"

I shook my head and stepped up, apologizing to the acne-spotted teenager behind the counter for my daze. Ordering a small mint oreo blizzard and a fish sandwich (no mayo), I waited for my total.

As he worked at my order, he spoke over his shoulder at me.

"That's $2.18", please."

I, still working my way out of lala land, assumed I had misheard him. I leaned forward and craned my neck to see the total on the register. $2.18.

I, now realizing that some mistake had been made, I felt a small heavy pit in my stomach. This is one of those moments where your moral judgement is tested, I thought, with some frustration. Now I had a decision to make. I checked the menu and added up my order. It came to much more than $2.18, without tax. I rolled my eyes at the irony of the fact that I had only that much in my wallet, give or take .50, and on my income (nonexistant), that was a fortune to save.

Before I had much more of an opportunity to dwell, however, the ants had scurried up to the counter with my order, which had metamorphisized as they were out of mint, leaving me stuck with plain Oreo. I felt myself smile sheepishly at the continued irony of it all, and handed over my two bills and quarter. As I stepped out of the way so that the orders could go on, I watched the old woman (so worried about the chocolate in her frozen treat) inquire about the ingredients of the bannana split blizzard. I fingered the .07 in my hands and turned towards the door. Just before I reached it, however, I heard the boy at the register addresses the bluehair.

"that's $2.18, please. Thank you."

I smiled, and pushed out into the rain.

Cheese and sex and GapingVoid cartoons

One of my all-time favorite bloggers is Hugh MacLeod of www.gapingvoid.com -- not just because he is an intelligent former NY-based ad copywriter, or because of the sharp things he has to say about the ad business, the life business, and just business in general, but because of these devilishly witty cartoons drawn on the backs of business cards. These cartoons often, and eerily, parallel my life (and the things I might think to say if my brain were to grow about 300% and I were suddenly able to say something funny in 4 words or less).

This one, for example.

I have left my former job.

Formerly inspiring, formerly stimulating, formerly creative and strategic and MINE, but mostly just former. I left this job due to irreconcilable differences (actually I suspect my new idiot-boss resented the fact that some of his employees -- by which I mean me -- weren't impressed by his obsessive need to validate his masculinity by buying stuff and womanizing, and therefore didn't have any interest in sleeping or hanging out with him. That -- coupled with a few good ideas that challenged said boss' vague, unoriginal brand concept but might have propelled the company into actual success -- was my downfall.)

Do I sound bitter? I know I do. But honestly, it's just really funny now. Why?

Because it turns out that no matter how long you put up with the shit you swear you'll never put up with, you eventually come to your senses one way or another and realize that there's only so long you can hold your tongue and politely nod before you just about poison yourself with your own insincerity. And thank God for that awakening.

Next time, I just hope I spend less time settling and more time looking ahead to the next thing. Ever read that "Who Stole My Cheese?" book? Like that.

Next time, I want to have my eye on the new cheese prize far in advance of sitting around being terrified to go out and find the cheese because my crumbs of moldy, abusive cheese are somehow my safety blanket.

And I'm pretty sure I will. Because it turns out that, like there are many people with whom you can have good sex, there are many companies/products with whom you can have a collaborative and fruitful professional experience -- the cheese. And that is almost as good as sex -- because it happens every day and you simply can't fake it or stroke its ego. And in business, you get paid for your hard work. And when you seek out new cheese/sex/career moves before you actually have to, you can usually find some mouse/person/company willing to give you MORE cheese than the one before.


So now I have a new, better job. Downtown (which is obviously better than the head-in-hole suburbia of former job).

More responsibility, happiness, collaboration, vision, creativity, money. More cheese, more sincerity, more work, better results. Why didn't I think of that?