A few weeks ago, there was a really cute guy on the metro on my way to work. And, lucky day! He totally checked me out. I gave him one of my patented, tried-and-true, coy, flirty half smiles—feeling pretty good about myself.
Drawn to my undeniable magnetism, he came over and stood right over me (I was sitting, he was holding onto the bar behind my seat). I'm not entirely sure which stop it was at which he got on the train because I was distracted by how much I could see myself dating him, how happy we’d be together, the sparkly diamond he’d give me, the size of the house we’d buy together… As it turns out, that was also just enough to distract me from actually getting him to talk to me too.
I did notice, however, that he was not wearing a ring. I also noticed his work security badge dangling in my face, with his name conveniently emblazoned across the front. I swear it glowed when I looked at it.
Obviously, like any google-savvy young woman with just enough information to be dangerous, I did a little light reconnaissance when I got to the office. Ok, one might be able to use the term “cyber stalked” and may be completely accurate, but should we really get wrapped up in semantics?
Yes, I realize that might have been a little intrusive (and I also know that you’re thinking a better term might be psycho), but try and deny that you’ve done it. Uh huh, I didn’t think so.
I unveiled a wealth of information! Here's the kicker, though, according to his LinkedIn profile, two of my good friends knew people who knew him. I thought that was hysterical, so I emailed those friends to relate the funny story and prove just how easy the internet has made the seven degrees of separation game, even when played with strangers.
I thought we’d have a good laugh and that’d be the end of it. How naïve of me…
Coincidently, the middleman to one of my friends’ connections to my metro boyfriend was sitting in the cube right in front of her as she was reading my email. She told me she casually brought up my metro boyfriend to her cubemate. I’m still not 100% on how that “casual” mention actually went down, but I fear it was something like, “Oh my gosh! My friend totally checked out your friend on the metro, went back to her office and found out all sorts of personal stuff about him! Can you believe it?!”
Regardless of how that initial conversation transpired, my conniving friend and her cube buddy started talking about setting up a happy hour to get us all together. Awesome.
This is how I imagined the invitation to such a happy hour would go:
Cube Friend to Metro Boyfriend: Hey, want to get drinks on Thursday?
Metro Boyfriend: Sure, man, that’d be fun. Let’s find hot chicks.
Cube Friend: Unnecessary, Dude. You’ve already found one, although, you might be able to substitute the word “psycho” for “hot.”
Metro Boyfriend: Huh?
Cube Friend: Smooth move wearing your name badge on the metro. Some crazy chick tracked you to my coworker and then to me. You might want to get a police escort when you head home tonight. Who knows what else she’s found out about you? She could end up making a suit out of your skin. Didn’t that happen in a movie?
Metro Boyfriend: What? Wait, is she hot? Dude, I’m still in.
If I had had the balls to have actually allowed this plan to go to fruition, I’m pretty sure that this is exactly how I would have found true love. Or, the details would have shaped the memo section of a restraining order.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
An Unconventional Interview
I am obsessed with Mexican food. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. If we are what we eat, as they say, then there is definitely a mariachi band playing in my stomach.
A few jobs ago, there was a Chipotle across the street from the office. Many days of the week there would be a bit of an exodus from the office to Chipotle at lunch time, and I’m sure you can guess who the ringleader typically was. The people who worked there loved me—maybe even more than my friends at California Tortilla, if you can believe it!
As you may know, once a year, Chipotle offers free burritos to anyone dressed up like one of their foil-covered masterpieces. Don’t think I was going to let the office miss out on that most sacred day!
On this particular Free Burrito Day, there was a new girl interviewing for a job, but good impressions were not about to keep us from free Mexican lunch.
Here’s the story.
It was a warm fall day when a bright-eyed, young girl, yet untarnished by the ways of the mean city streets, stepped out of the elevator. She hoped that our office would be the Mecca of professional authority where she would learn the skills that would eventually allow her to take over the world.
A ripple went through the office. At first blush one might think that in such a den of epidemic work ethic my coworkers and I were irritated to have had our concentration broken by a stranger being escorted to the conference room.
Oh, that ripple was anxiety, for sure, at this stranger’s presence. There was no way her interview would interfere with the biggest event of the day. My coworkers and I had big plans, damn it!
Let’s listen in to the conversation that was happening in that conference room*:
My coworker (an Appalachian State University graduate): It’s awesome that you went to Appalachian State! It fits very well into my master plan to convince everyone that the mountains are completely awesome and fussy, city sophistication is overrated. Eventually you and I will teach these fools from their “northern” schools, where they didn’t have to bundle up in four layers of clothes to march across the street to the outhouse in the middle of the night**, what a REAL education was! We’ll have the dress code here in the office changed to hiking boots and flannel shirts in no time!!
Interviewee: Umm… that sounds great, but by the time I got to ASU, we had gotten running water in the dorms and there were very few bear attacks on campus anymore. I’d really like to talk about the work you all do here, though. I’m looking for a serious place where I can build my career on a foundation of appropriateness and utmost professionalism.
Coworker: Right. Did you bring your hiking boots to DC??
Interviewee: Would you like to see my portfolio?
Then, a ravishing young brunette*** burst through the conference room door: Nicole, it’s time.
Interviewee: …And this one here is my award for just being an all-around awesome contribution to humanity… Uh… Excuse me?
Coworker: Oh my gosh! We need to wrap this up! Are people getting ready?
My coworker, Nicole, escorted the interviewee out into the hallway where there was a tinfoil frenzy going on and people were in various stages of head-to-toe tinfoil coverage.
Ravishing Brunette, handing out rolls of foil: Here, Nicole. Oh, we have extra. Here, New girl. Wrap yourself up.
Interviewee: WTF??
Another Coworker: Oh yeah, we’re definitely going outside dressed like this. Come on! Get to dressing like a burrito!
And that’s the story of how our dear friend Amy abandoned her ideas of working for a tight-laced, nose-to-the-grindstone, conservative work force and ingratiated herself with her future coworkers while covered head-to-toe in tinfoil. She thought, “This may be the absolute, bat-shit, craziest place ever, but it sure feels like home.”
Oh, and Nicole’s still working on the total domination by the mountaineering set, but gave up hope of converting anyone in our office. Once she discovered Ann Taylor, though, she too became pretty comfortable in the “big-city” ways.
* = A slight dramatization
**= Appalachian State is in the mountains, and the common joke among those of us who had never actually been there was to imagine it as especially primitive. Yes, we thought we were hysterical.
*** = Obviously, me.
A few jobs ago, there was a Chipotle across the street from the office. Many days of the week there would be a bit of an exodus from the office to Chipotle at lunch time, and I’m sure you can guess who the ringleader typically was. The people who worked there loved me—maybe even more than my friends at California Tortilla, if you can believe it!
As you may know, once a year, Chipotle offers free burritos to anyone dressed up like one of their foil-covered masterpieces. Don’t think I was going to let the office miss out on that most sacred day!
On this particular Free Burrito Day, there was a new girl interviewing for a job, but good impressions were not about to keep us from free Mexican lunch.
Here’s the story.
It was a warm fall day when a bright-eyed, young girl, yet untarnished by the ways of the mean city streets, stepped out of the elevator. She hoped that our office would be the Mecca of professional authority where she would learn the skills that would eventually allow her to take over the world.
A ripple went through the office. At first blush one might think that in such a den of epidemic work ethic my coworkers and I were irritated to have had our concentration broken by a stranger being escorted to the conference room.
Oh, that ripple was anxiety, for sure, at this stranger’s presence. There was no way her interview would interfere with the biggest event of the day. My coworkers and I had big plans, damn it!
Let’s listen in to the conversation that was happening in that conference room*:
My coworker (an Appalachian State University graduate): It’s awesome that you went to Appalachian State! It fits very well into my master plan to convince everyone that the mountains are completely awesome and fussy, city sophistication is overrated. Eventually you and I will teach these fools from their “northern” schools, where they didn’t have to bundle up in four layers of clothes to march across the street to the outhouse in the middle of the night**, what a REAL education was! We’ll have the dress code here in the office changed to hiking boots and flannel shirts in no time!!
Interviewee: Umm… that sounds great, but by the time I got to ASU, we had gotten running water in the dorms and there were very few bear attacks on campus anymore. I’d really like to talk about the work you all do here, though. I’m looking for a serious place where I can build my career on a foundation of appropriateness and utmost professionalism.
Coworker: Right. Did you bring your hiking boots to DC??
Interviewee: Would you like to see my portfolio?
Then, a ravishing young brunette*** burst through the conference room door: Nicole, it’s time.
Interviewee: …And this one here is my award for just being an all-around awesome contribution to humanity… Uh… Excuse me?
Coworker: Oh my gosh! We need to wrap this up! Are people getting ready?
My coworker, Nicole, escorted the interviewee out into the hallway where there was a tinfoil frenzy going on and people were in various stages of head-to-toe tinfoil coverage.
Ravishing Brunette, handing out rolls of foil: Here, Nicole. Oh, we have extra. Here, New girl. Wrap yourself up.
Interviewee: WTF??
Another Coworker: Oh yeah, we’re definitely going outside dressed like this. Come on! Get to dressing like a burrito!
And that’s the story of how our dear friend Amy abandoned her ideas of working for a tight-laced, nose-to-the-grindstone, conservative work force and ingratiated herself with her future coworkers while covered head-to-toe in tinfoil. She thought, “This may be the absolute, bat-shit, craziest place ever, but it sure feels like home.”
Oh, and Nicole’s still working on the total domination by the mountaineering set, but gave up hope of converting anyone in our office. Once she discovered Ann Taylor, though, she too became pretty comfortable in the “big-city” ways.
* = A slight dramatization
**= Appalachian State is in the mountains, and the common joke among those of us who had never actually been there was to imagine it as especially primitive. Yes, we thought we were hysterical.
*** = Obviously, me.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Insane in the name of “naturally” gorgeous
We do a lot of really crazy things in the name of beauty. I mean, if you really think about it, just bikini waxes and Spanx alone might seem truly bizarre to another culture or, say, men. But, this week, I topped the charts of beauty craziness.
I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.
At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.
Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?
As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.
It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.
My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:
Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”
Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”
Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”
Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”
(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)
Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”
Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…
Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.
So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.
I had an event this weekend for which I wanted to look super hot. Maybe less than coincidently, I had also just finished reading (and extensively indexing with those little post-it tab things) the Black Book of Hollywood Beauty Secrets. It’s an incredible book, my new bible and the inspiration for a week-long, pre-event beauty regimen.
At the beginning of the week, that just meant things like manicure, pedicure, wax… As the week progressed, it got a little more involved (and really awesome for my skin!). Olive oil facial steams, maple syrup hair treatments, baking soda exfoliation, potato and chamomile tea eye treatments and the really foul-smelling but miraculously nourishing green tea, sour cream, olive oil, honey and egg yolk facial mask. All in all, a whole lot of things you close your blinds and lock your door before actually doing.
Day of the event was a WHOLE other level of insanity that not even I had ever previously reached in all my years of striving for the just-out-of-reach, red-carpet-worthy level of gorgeous. The day started with the same crazy facial masks, etc. and a few doses of diuretics. You know, to get rid of any extra water that wasn’t absolutely vital for survival. Hey! If it’s good enough for pageant queens, it’s good enough for my slinky, black dress, right?
As I’m coating both my legs in the strongest ground coffee I could find at the grocery store, mixed with just a touch of water, and then wrapping them in plastic wrap to sit for fifteen minutes, I can’t help but laugh and admit that yes, I have just crossed several lines in the name of cellulite invisibility.
It was only as I lay shaking on the couch unable to stand for fear of accessorizing my hot dress with a huge black-and-blue mark from passing out and smashing my head that I realized mixing the highly caffeinated water pills with the infusion straight into my system (via my legs, naturally) of really dark coffee spelled disaster. Combined with an empty stomach and going cold turkey on caffeine all week, plus the dehydration from the pills, and I was facing a major caffeine overdose.
My crisis in the name of beauty, in stages:
Stage One:
“Tonight is going to be awesome! I suddenly feel so energized! I’m sure it’s just excitement. Can’t wait for the party!!”
Stage Two:
“Whoa. I feel a little like it’s Sunday morning, and I spent all last night drinking Red Bull Vodkas.”
Stage Three:
“Huh. My hand’s kind of tingling. Weird.”
Stage Four:
“MMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!! I think I may need to go to the hospital. Do you think I need to go to the hospital? Do you think my kidneys might fail? I think I’m going to throw up. Wait? Chugging a gallon of water was a bad idea? Oh, sip it! Wait, so hospital… Or no hospital… Hospital? No?”
(The hospital/no hospital conversation is one I often have with my mother, so it is not ever really an actual indication of level of imminent danger. It’s only when I call our friend at work in the ER that one should really worry. Wait for it…)
Stage Five:
“Falon, are you at work? Feel free to track down a doctor. I think I may be dying!”
Don’t worry! I made it to my event and looked gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but six other people (strangers even!) also volunteered similar reviews! So, I’m not saying the fear of death was worth it, but…
Now, I’m definitely not recommending it, but if you ever find yourself hit by a beauty-induced tidal wave of over-caffeination and mild dehydration, know that the only remedy is LOTS of water (sipped!), Gatorade, a balanced meal (which, considering what I had in my house, constituted of two bananas and a handful of almonds. Hey, it’s even amazing I had that!) and just waiting it out.
So, the lesson learned: That coke habit I had once imagined adopting as a diet plan? Not really looking like a viable option anymore.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Show Tunes Boy
I once went out with a guy who spent the entire evening talking about how much he loved show tunes.
Wait. Time out. The way this is starting, this blog post could be about either of two guys I’ve been out with. Hmm… There is a slight chance I need a better screening system for dates.
Well, on this particular date there were drinks, there was dinner, there were more drinks but most of all, there were show tunes. Lots of show tunes.
We talked about songs he particularly likes, songs he particularly doesn’t like, songs he has performed, songs he’s dreamed about performing, songs that made a real impression when he saw them performed… And, when I say “we” talked, I mean he talked.
I’d throw things into the conversation just to see if he was paying attention: “Did you know I have a make-believe dog? No? Her name is Lolly.” All that got was, “Huh? No. I also like Show Boat. It’s an old show, revived a lot, but it’s got pretty good songs…”
We talked about college. I said, “I went to Americ—” before he launched in with, “My friends and I weren’t in a fraternity, but we’d go to fraternity parties because their kitchens had great acoustics. We’d gather in the kitchen and sing while the parties were going on! It was great.”
Right. I don’t know. He was cute?
I’m not really sure how this date lasted so long, but after dinner we were going to get more drinks. I suggested a bar at which we could watch the NCAA basketball championship game. I had a bracket going (which was obviously a ploy to drop into conversations with guys, you know, along the lines of the Sports Illustrated subscription) and I needed to see where I was going to come out in the bracket pool. I am not really 100% sure he knew what that meant.
Somehow we ended up at a piano bar with one tiny, tiny TV. I sat so I could see the TV. He sat so he could not. You know what he could see? The piano man. The rest of the evening went a little something like this:
“I can’t believe he picked this song to sing!”
“Oh. He is awful at that song!”
“I can definitely sing this a LOT better than he is!”
“If I were the piano man, I’d definitely sing much different songs.”
And then I tuned him out. Again.
So, the lesson here is maybe one should not pick up guys at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Or at least, don’t do it again.
Wait. Time out. The way this is starting, this blog post could be about either of two guys I’ve been out with. Hmm… There is a slight chance I need a better screening system for dates.
Well, on this particular date there were drinks, there was dinner, there were more drinks but most of all, there were show tunes. Lots of show tunes.
We talked about songs he particularly likes, songs he particularly doesn’t like, songs he has performed, songs he’s dreamed about performing, songs that made a real impression when he saw them performed… And, when I say “we” talked, I mean he talked.
I’d throw things into the conversation just to see if he was paying attention: “Did you know I have a make-believe dog? No? Her name is Lolly.” All that got was, “Huh? No. I also like Show Boat. It’s an old show, revived a lot, but it’s got pretty good songs…”
We talked about college. I said, “I went to Americ—” before he launched in with, “My friends and I weren’t in a fraternity, but we’d go to fraternity parties because their kitchens had great acoustics. We’d gather in the kitchen and sing while the parties were going on! It was great.”
Right. I don’t know. He was cute?
I’m not really sure how this date lasted so long, but after dinner we were going to get more drinks. I suggested a bar at which we could watch the NCAA basketball championship game. I had a bracket going (which was obviously a ploy to drop into conversations with guys, you know, along the lines of the Sports Illustrated subscription) and I needed to see where I was going to come out in the bracket pool. I am not really 100% sure he knew what that meant.
Somehow we ended up at a piano bar with one tiny, tiny TV. I sat so I could see the TV. He sat so he could not. You know what he could see? The piano man. The rest of the evening went a little something like this:
“I can’t believe he picked this song to sing!”
“Oh. He is awful at that song!”
“I can definitely sing this a LOT better than he is!”
“If I were the piano man, I’d definitely sing much different songs.”
And then I tuned him out. Again.
So, the lesson here is maybe one should not pick up guys at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Or at least, don’t do it again.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Dinner and a math lesson?
I cannot cook. Really, I have absolutely zero culinary intuition. I know you think I’m being modest, but I’ve screwed up even instant oatmeal beyond edibility. At least twice.
As dinnertime menus are often limited to a bag of popcorn at my house, it’s always a nice treat when a guy offers to make me dinner. Ok, it’s usually a nice treat when a guy offers to make me dinner.
On one particular occasion of potentially romantic catering, I am pretty sure the recipe did not call for my stifled laughter. Let’s just say, I don’t think Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen or Mensa will be calling this young suitor any time soon. And, I can add, I probably won’t be either.
This young Emeril aspirant told me that the two dishes he made really, really well—his specialties, as a matter of fact—were mashed potatoes and homemade, from scratch, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, extravagant, fancy macaroni and cheese. And, we were going to have both. In the same meal. Considering that if I make either of those things, it typically comes out of a box, who was I to point out that no proper food-pyramid-constructed meal contains two starches?
As he’s cooking, I’m doing what I do best: providing colorful, delightful chatter and plenty of booze. He tells me that his mac and cheese recipe is so involved that he’s never figured out how to cut it down to feed two people. Be prepared for plenty of leftovers. I couldn’t wait to taste the delicacy!
At one point, I was in the middle of an especially enchanting story when The Chef picked macaroni out of the water and squeezed it between his fingers. At its complete disintegration, it was decided the pasta was ready (I could feel my Italian ex-boyfriend’s family cringing wherever they were—you know the same family who taught me the never-able-to-be-repeated-by-me importance of homemade pasta and al dente firmness).
After he drained the macaroni and returned it to the pot and I returned to my engaging repartee (and wine), he cut me off mid-sentence: “This is the really crucial part, and I need to focus so I’m sure everything melts properly.” Intrigued by the culinary genius that was about to take place in my hardly-broken-in kitchen, I poured some more wine and silently settled in to watch.
The dedication, intensity and mild stress—the likes of which while cooking I had only ever before witnessed on those reality cooking shows—was almost awe-inspiring. That was, until I realized that the entire homemade, from scratch, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, extravagant, fancy tour de force consisted entirely of 1 box of elbow macaroni and 1 box of Velveeta cheese. And, that was it.
Laughter and so many questions came bubbling to the tip of my tongue: That’s the extravagant, secret family recipe? Wait, you can’t figure out how to cut that recipe down to half or quarter? Maybe ½ a box of macaroni and ½ a box of cheese-like substance? You know they sell exactly this dish in the grocery store, and all you have to do is put it in the microwave for a few minutes?
A little giggle did escape, and maybe even a, “That’s it?” But, the rest was suppressed by the sincere and beaming, “Yep! Sorry I had to shush you. It was just right at the really critical and intense part of the whole thing. I really had to concentrate. So, I hope you like it because you’ll have a lot left over. It’s just such a tough recipe to cut down to be appropriate for two people!”
I was eating Velveeta and macaroni for a week. But, the mashed potatoes were, admittedly, pretty tasty!
As dinnertime menus are often limited to a bag of popcorn at my house, it’s always a nice treat when a guy offers to make me dinner. Ok, it’s usually a nice treat when a guy offers to make me dinner.
On one particular occasion of potentially romantic catering, I am pretty sure the recipe did not call for my stifled laughter. Let’s just say, I don’t think Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen or Mensa will be calling this young suitor any time soon. And, I can add, I probably won’t be either.
This young Emeril aspirant told me that the two dishes he made really, really well—his specialties, as a matter of fact—were mashed potatoes and homemade, from scratch, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, extravagant, fancy macaroni and cheese. And, we were going to have both. In the same meal. Considering that if I make either of those things, it typically comes out of a box, who was I to point out that no proper food-pyramid-constructed meal contains two starches?
As he’s cooking, I’m doing what I do best: providing colorful, delightful chatter and plenty of booze. He tells me that his mac and cheese recipe is so involved that he’s never figured out how to cut it down to feed two people. Be prepared for plenty of leftovers. I couldn’t wait to taste the delicacy!
At one point, I was in the middle of an especially enchanting story when The Chef picked macaroni out of the water and squeezed it between his fingers. At its complete disintegration, it was decided the pasta was ready (I could feel my Italian ex-boyfriend’s family cringing wherever they were—you know the same family who taught me the never-able-to-be-repeated-by-me importance of homemade pasta and al dente firmness).
After he drained the macaroni and returned it to the pot and I returned to my engaging repartee (and wine), he cut me off mid-sentence: “This is the really crucial part, and I need to focus so I’m sure everything melts properly.” Intrigued by the culinary genius that was about to take place in my hardly-broken-in kitchen, I poured some more wine and silently settled in to watch.
The dedication, intensity and mild stress—the likes of which while cooking I had only ever before witnessed on those reality cooking shows—was almost awe-inspiring. That was, until I realized that the entire homemade, from scratch, passed-down-from-generation-to-generation, extravagant, fancy tour de force consisted entirely of 1 box of elbow macaroni and 1 box of Velveeta cheese. And, that was it.
Laughter and so many questions came bubbling to the tip of my tongue: That’s the extravagant, secret family recipe? Wait, you can’t figure out how to cut that recipe down to half or quarter? Maybe ½ a box of macaroni and ½ a box of cheese-like substance? You know they sell exactly this dish in the grocery store, and all you have to do is put it in the microwave for a few minutes?
A little giggle did escape, and maybe even a, “That’s it?” But, the rest was suppressed by the sincere and beaming, “Yep! Sorry I had to shush you. It was just right at the really critical and intense part of the whole thing. I really had to concentrate. So, I hope you like it because you’ll have a lot left over. It’s just such a tough recipe to cut down to be appropriate for two people!”
I was eating Velveeta and macaroni for a week. But, the mashed potatoes were, admittedly, pretty tasty!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The name game
Sometimes (ok, most of the time) I like to play a fun, silly game of “Who Should Kristin Marry?”
The game really has nothing to do with finding a good match for me or even someone I’m remotely attracted to. It’s all in the name.
What’s the point of having a color name unless you can have a little fun with it? I love to find people with last names that if hyphenated with Brown would be a hilarious new last name for me.
For instance, I once worked with a lawyer whose last name is Cherry. Brown-Cherry would be funny.
So would Brown-Mann.
Kristin Brown-Stone.
Kristin Brown-Starr.
And forget a white Christmas; there could be a Brown-Winter!
Of course, other colors are also funny:
Kristin Brown-Green
Kristin Brown-Teal
Brown-White
Brown-Gray
It’s also funny to take the game one step further and pick out wedding favors for these fantasy unions!
If I were to marry Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (or his much younger nephew or son—although I’m not sure he actually has either), our wedding favors could be little milk chocolate White Houses (not to say anything about the Senator’s political aspirations)! If I were to marry someone with another color last name, the favors could be boxes of crayons with the two colors tied together with a little ribbon! Ha!
I think this game is just too funny. Every time I meet a new person whose last name fits with the game, I can’t help but giggle.
The lesson here to potential suitors: it may not ultimately work between us unless your name is really funny hyphenated with my last name—or unless you come at me with a really big diamond.
The game really has nothing to do with finding a good match for me or even someone I’m remotely attracted to. It’s all in the name.
What’s the point of having a color name unless you can have a little fun with it? I love to find people with last names that if hyphenated with Brown would be a hilarious new last name for me.
For instance, I once worked with a lawyer whose last name is Cherry. Brown-Cherry would be funny.
So would Brown-Mann.
Kristin Brown-Stone.
Kristin Brown-Starr.
And forget a white Christmas; there could be a Brown-Winter!
Of course, other colors are also funny:
Kristin Brown-Green
Kristin Brown-Teal
Brown-White
Brown-Gray
It’s also funny to take the game one step further and pick out wedding favors for these fantasy unions!
If I were to marry Senator Sheldon Whitehouse (or his much younger nephew or son—although I’m not sure he actually has either), our wedding favors could be little milk chocolate White Houses (not to say anything about the Senator’s political aspirations)! If I were to marry someone with another color last name, the favors could be boxes of crayons with the two colors tied together with a little ribbon! Ha!
I think this game is just too funny. Every time I meet a new person whose last name fits with the game, I can’t help but giggle.
The lesson here to potential suitors: it may not ultimately work between us unless your name is really funny hyphenated with my last name—or unless you come at me with a really big diamond.
Friday, July 10, 2009
At least I think I’ll strike back if ever actually attacked
A couple years ago a man known in the media and on the mean streets of Arlington, VA, as The Bagger held women on the orange line of the Arlington-area metro to a state of constant alertness and mild fear.
The Bagger’s MO was to run up behind women, put a plastic grocery bag over their heads and assault them. He was rarely ever able to go all the way through with his attack, though, as the women were usually able to fight him off—no doubt a lesson to would-be attackers: don’t come after the super-motivated, ultra-savvy women of this area because we will bite back (ask some of the unfortunate guys who have unsuccessfully tried to use a stupid line in hitting on us at bars!).
One day, I was walking home from the metro and noticed a shady-looking guy lurking and holding an empty CVS bag. Convinced he was the bagger and I was his next target, I kept him in my periphery, very aware of where he was, as we walked towards my apartment.
I should probably point out, in the interest of full disclosure, that most of my walk from the metro to my apartment is directly in front of the police station. There is no shortage of lawmen wandering around, keeping an eye on things. It’d have to be a really stupid criminal to try and attack someone here, but nonetheless, I was ready for it to happen.
As I was approaching the final few feet before I was home, The Bagger started running for me! I heard his footsteps nearing me, so I braced myself for my counterattack: I started taking my purse (which, like any good stiletto-clad working girl knows, contained a pair of shoes and various other nonsense that would make a serious dent in someone’s head) off my shoulder, poised for action.
Closer…
Closer…
Right behind me!!
I screamed and swung! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
A regular-guy jogger with empty hands stared back, incredulous, like I was totally insane for trying for attack him.
A little afraid for his life instead of mine now, he ran a little faster as I tried to explain I thought he was The Bagger and realized he was actually kind of cute.
In case you were wondering, swinging your giant purse at a stranger is not a way to create a love connection.
The Bagger’s MO was to run up behind women, put a plastic grocery bag over their heads and assault them. He was rarely ever able to go all the way through with his attack, though, as the women were usually able to fight him off—no doubt a lesson to would-be attackers: don’t come after the super-motivated, ultra-savvy women of this area because we will bite back (ask some of the unfortunate guys who have unsuccessfully tried to use a stupid line in hitting on us at bars!).
One day, I was walking home from the metro and noticed a shady-looking guy lurking and holding an empty CVS bag. Convinced he was the bagger and I was his next target, I kept him in my periphery, very aware of where he was, as we walked towards my apartment.
I should probably point out, in the interest of full disclosure, that most of my walk from the metro to my apartment is directly in front of the police station. There is no shortage of lawmen wandering around, keeping an eye on things. It’d have to be a really stupid criminal to try and attack someone here, but nonetheless, I was ready for it to happen.
As I was approaching the final few feet before I was home, The Bagger started running for me! I heard his footsteps nearing me, so I braced myself for my counterattack: I started taking my purse (which, like any good stiletto-clad working girl knows, contained a pair of shoes and various other nonsense that would make a serious dent in someone’s head) off my shoulder, poised for action.
Closer…
Closer…
Right behind me!!
I screamed and swung! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
A regular-guy jogger with empty hands stared back, incredulous, like I was totally insane for trying for attack him.
A little afraid for his life instead of mine now, he ran a little faster as I tried to explain I thought he was The Bagger and realized he was actually kind of cute.
In case you were wondering, swinging your giant purse at a stranger is not a way to create a love connection.
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