Here's your recipe for the day:
Laura's Easy Hamburger Cone Things
Ingredients:
Hamburger
6-8 flat bottomed edible ice cream cones
1. Preheat oven to a suitable hamburger-safe tempurature.
2. Mix the hamburger with some bread crumbs and an egg (sorry we forgot to put the bread crumbs and the egg in the ingredients section...oops.)
3. Put a handful of the hamburger mixture in each of the ice cream cones.
4. Bake meated-cones until they're not pink anymore.
5. Use ketchup for icing and add sprinkles! (also not in the ingredients section, these are optional)
6. Enjoy!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Zen 14
Gather 'round, children, and let me tell you a tale. Let us take time on this Thanksgiving eve, let us set aside our butter churns and our sugaring of marigolds, let us loosen our corsets and unbuckle our hats that have big brass buckles on them for no apparent reason and let us hearken back to a simpler time. So hunker down with a mug of mulled cider or fermented honey wine and allow me to regale to you a yarn of a story that has made me the girl I am today, the girl who has gained the reputation as "Vroman's Bookstore's Offical Company Christmas Party Mood Killer."
After nearly three weeks of consecutive employment at Pasadena's favorite (and oldest) independent bookstore, I was enjoying that short lived, but wonderful title of "the new girl." Being the new kid at school/work/your chosen city of residence means so many things. It's a wonderful opportunity to start a new chapter of your life. To do things right. To eat healthier, dress smarter, wear cleaner socks and be more patriotic...Go America! (that was just for you Regan, since you just finished reading AHWOSG :) )
But there is only so much time you have to take advantage of being unknown. Some people manage to maintain an elusive air indefinitely, but even they become, inevitably, known as that person in the break room who only eats cold Tun-ana casseroles, or the guy who never washes his hands but insists on eating from the communal peanut bowl. In my tragic case, I will become known as the girl who killed the company Christmas Party.
As with all tales where the narrator invites you to share in the pain of their lamentable demise, I will tell you that my intentions were always good...noble even. My goal, at my first social event with my new co workers...was not just to fit in, but to make a mark. I guess, in retrospect, my goal was achieved.
There's a high standard of "coolness" that has been set by generations of free-spirited booksellers employed by independent bookstores like Vroman's. There's the quirky bohemian lifestyle that I long to be a part of that seems always just beyond my reach. I don't have horn rimmed glasses, I don't have that starved waif look, I've never dyed my hair, I don't carry a pocket volume written by Kafka/Proust/Kant/Machiavelli/Sartre in my back pocket at all times, I've never lived in my car, I've haven't had anything tatooed (yet) and I usually bathe a few times a week. So I have to fit in… in other ways.
The Christmas party was at a Restaurant in South Pasadena called the Firelfly Bistro (they had some of THE BEST yams I've had in my entire life) and the party was pretty standard company Christmas party fare from there on out. Dinner, drinks...karaoke.... It's the Karaoke that did me in....oh, karaoke. I noticed something strange at the beginning of the evening. As people got up and made goofs of themselves singing poorly to songs that are awful to listen to on the first place, the crowd was eating it up! The singers made mistakes and danced around and sang in different keys and the more they did this, the more the crowd cheered. I hate singing karaoke...mainly because I'm pretty awful at it...but here it seemed like that was a good thing. I picked my karaoke partners carefully. There's Mr. Steve....the children's story hour host at Vromans who is a little bit older than me and delightfully quirky in a Science Fiction fan kind of way. Then there is Kris, the ridiculously adorable manager of the children's book department who offered (OFFERED!) to be a sign language interpreter as Mr. Steve and I sang Paradise by the dashboard light (in my experience, a foolproof crowd pleaser...at least at McGranaghan family weddings) by Meatloaf.
I figured the plan was foolproof. Imagine it if you can: The new girl convinces a Vroman's Icon who is known only as Mr. Steve to sing a rock ballad with her as the the bright/eyed-sweet/spirited children's book manager interprets the classic Meatloaf song for the hearing impared (of which, to be honest, there were none in the audience) and these things add up to: Genius! Right?
So there I was on the precipice of coolness. Years of failures had lead up to this point...bad haircuts, a habit of sticking my foot in my mouth, braces, smelly tennis shoes, an addiction to yellow mustard...and suddenly there I was: In a room full of quirky people who love to read and talk about books and ready to cheer on (!) awful Karaoke with a quirky comic book fan and a sign language interpreter just five songs away from a smash performance of one of the world's most beloved rock ballads.
Four songs away...
Three songs away...
and what's this? Are people filtering out? Are people LEAVING as I'm about to curtsey onto the stage, eschewing my scaley snakeskin lifetime of insecurities and late blooming?
Two songs away...
The night is young people! Stick it out, wait for it...this is going to be WORTH it!
One song away...This is my moment.
DJ: And now we're going to take a little dance break. Who knows how to SALSA!?!
NOOOOOoooooooo........! Okay fine, let's dance.
So I danced. We all danced...me and what was left of the group of the bohemian elite who still...but only for a short while longer...knew me as the new girl. We were fierce, but the crowd continued to dwindle with every salsa we salsa-ed...down to a quarter of the original number. Then I turned around and Kris was picking up her purse and keys. She'd had a long day and gotten up early to sign for two church services that morning. She said she was sorry to go before we got to karaoke, but we'd do it some other time. I hugged her and watched her go. Kris walked out the door (the It factor of our would-be history-making moment) and the song ended and I turned around and the DJ called my name.
gah! Did I have enough time to run outside and grab Kris and convince her to stay for just a few more minutes!? no...probably not.
You don't realize how sketchy the lyrics of that song can be until you're standing in the corner of a restaurant singing it with perfect stranger with twenty drunk and tired coworkers staring at you like you're a pile of day old bread pudding that just put on a pair of sunglasses.
Really. Mr. Steve and I sang about being seventeen year olds in the backseat of a car. I didn't even have any real life experience to pull from here...never having seen the backseat of a guy's car as a seventeen year old...
The DJ didn't even bother calling anyone else up to sing after we walked away in awkward silence. He just put on some more music the crowd could salsa to and forget what just happened. It would have been SO much better (ie, funny) if Kris had stayed just a few more minutes...but as it was...I just became the new girl who sang about making out in the back seat of a car with Mr. Steve...
People danced, but the party was over. Everyone felt dirty and awkward. We’re perfect strangers for goodness’ sake! The new girl’s a hussy. Nobody made eye contact with me on the way out ...I couldn't blame them.
It's like those times when you go weeks, maybe months without looking at your hands, really looking at them, and then one day you look down while they're resting on your lap, and you realize they're a lot smaller and weaker than you remembered and that the nails grow in a little funny, especially the one on your right hand where the writing callus from your pen has gotten really deep and has made that part of the nail flat.
Okay, maybe this experience wasn't anything like the hand thing, but that did happen to me the other day...being surprised by my hands. Thought that was weird.
Anyway...I went home, felt a little awkward and tried to forget about it...I wanted to hope that everyone was too drunk to remember anything from the party. But I was wrong. It's all I've heard about. Even from people who weren't there.
So, here's what I've decided: I'm swearing off karaoke forever. Also, I might go sit in on story time with Mr. Steve on Saturday mornings at ten...I like it when he wears his Spiderman Shirt.
After nearly three weeks of consecutive employment at Pasadena's favorite (and oldest) independent bookstore, I was enjoying that short lived, but wonderful title of "the new girl." Being the new kid at school/work/your chosen city of residence means so many things. It's a wonderful opportunity to start a new chapter of your life. To do things right. To eat healthier, dress smarter, wear cleaner socks and be more patriotic...Go America! (that was just for you Regan, since you just finished reading AHWOSG :) )
But there is only so much time you have to take advantage of being unknown. Some people manage to maintain an elusive air indefinitely, but even they become, inevitably, known as that person in the break room who only eats cold Tun-ana casseroles, or the guy who never washes his hands but insists on eating from the communal peanut bowl. In my tragic case, I will become known as the girl who killed the company Christmas Party.
As with all tales where the narrator invites you to share in the pain of their lamentable demise, I will tell you that my intentions were always good...noble even. My goal, at my first social event with my new co workers...was not just to fit in, but to make a mark. I guess, in retrospect, my goal was achieved.
There's a high standard of "coolness" that has been set by generations of free-spirited booksellers employed by independent bookstores like Vroman's. There's the quirky bohemian lifestyle that I long to be a part of that seems always just beyond my reach. I don't have horn rimmed glasses, I don't have that starved waif look, I've never dyed my hair, I don't carry a pocket volume written by Kafka/Proust/Kant/Machiavelli/Sartre in my back pocket at all times, I've never lived in my car, I've haven't had anything tatooed (yet) and I usually bathe a few times a week. So I have to fit in… in other ways.
The Christmas party was at a Restaurant in South Pasadena called the Firelfly Bistro (they had some of THE BEST yams I've had in my entire life) and the party was pretty standard company Christmas party fare from there on out. Dinner, drinks...karaoke.... It's the Karaoke that did me in....oh, karaoke. I noticed something strange at the beginning of the evening. As people got up and made goofs of themselves singing poorly to songs that are awful to listen to on the first place, the crowd was eating it up! The singers made mistakes and danced around and sang in different keys and the more they did this, the more the crowd cheered. I hate singing karaoke...mainly because I'm pretty awful at it...but here it seemed like that was a good thing. I picked my karaoke partners carefully. There's Mr. Steve....the children's story hour host at Vromans who is a little bit older than me and delightfully quirky in a Science Fiction fan kind of way. Then there is Kris, the ridiculously adorable manager of the children's book department who offered (OFFERED!) to be a sign language interpreter as Mr. Steve and I sang Paradise by the dashboard light (in my experience, a foolproof crowd pleaser...at least at McGranaghan family weddings) by Meatloaf.
I figured the plan was foolproof. Imagine it if you can: The new girl convinces a Vroman's Icon who is known only as Mr. Steve to sing a rock ballad with her as the the bright/eyed-sweet/spirited children's book manager interprets the classic Meatloaf song for the hearing impared (of which, to be honest, there were none in the audience) and these things add up to: Genius! Right?
So there I was on the precipice of coolness. Years of failures had lead up to this point...bad haircuts, a habit of sticking my foot in my mouth, braces, smelly tennis shoes, an addiction to yellow mustard...and suddenly there I was: In a room full of quirky people who love to read and talk about books and ready to cheer on (!) awful Karaoke with a quirky comic book fan and a sign language interpreter just five songs away from a smash performance of one of the world's most beloved rock ballads.
Four songs away...
Three songs away...
and what's this? Are people filtering out? Are people LEAVING as I'm about to curtsey onto the stage, eschewing my scaley snakeskin lifetime of insecurities and late blooming?
Two songs away...
The night is young people! Stick it out, wait for it...this is going to be WORTH it!
One song away...This is my moment.
DJ: And now we're going to take a little dance break. Who knows how to SALSA!?!
NOOOOOoooooooo........! Okay fine, let's dance.
So I danced. We all danced...me and what was left of the group of the bohemian elite who still...but only for a short while longer...knew me as the new girl. We were fierce, but the crowd continued to dwindle with every salsa we salsa-ed...down to a quarter of the original number. Then I turned around and Kris was picking up her purse and keys. She'd had a long day and gotten up early to sign for two church services that morning. She said she was sorry to go before we got to karaoke, but we'd do it some other time. I hugged her and watched her go. Kris walked out the door (the It factor of our would-be history-making moment) and the song ended and I turned around and the DJ called my name.
gah! Did I have enough time to run outside and grab Kris and convince her to stay for just a few more minutes!? no...probably not.
You don't realize how sketchy the lyrics of that song can be until you're standing in the corner of a restaurant singing it with perfect stranger with twenty drunk and tired coworkers staring at you like you're a pile of day old bread pudding that just put on a pair of sunglasses.
Really. Mr. Steve and I sang about being seventeen year olds in the backseat of a car. I didn't even have any real life experience to pull from here...never having seen the backseat of a guy's car as a seventeen year old...
The DJ didn't even bother calling anyone else up to sing after we walked away in awkward silence. He just put on some more music the crowd could salsa to and forget what just happened. It would have been SO much better (ie, funny) if Kris had stayed just a few more minutes...but as it was...I just became the new girl who sang about making out in the back seat of a car with Mr. Steve...
People danced, but the party was over. Everyone felt dirty and awkward. We’re perfect strangers for goodness’ sake! The new girl’s a hussy. Nobody made eye contact with me on the way out ...I couldn't blame them.
It's like those times when you go weeks, maybe months without looking at your hands, really looking at them, and then one day you look down while they're resting on your lap, and you realize they're a lot smaller and weaker than you remembered and that the nails grow in a little funny, especially the one on your right hand where the writing callus from your pen has gotten really deep and has made that part of the nail flat.
Okay, maybe this experience wasn't anything like the hand thing, but that did happen to me the other day...being surprised by my hands. Thought that was weird.
Anyway...I went home, felt a little awkward and tried to forget about it...I wanted to hope that everyone was too drunk to remember anything from the party. But I was wrong. It's all I've heard about. Even from people who weren't there.
So, here's what I've decided: I'm swearing off karaoke forever. Also, I might go sit in on story time with Mr. Steve on Saturday mornings at ten...I like it when he wears his Spiderman Shirt.
Zen 13
And now: a few unrelated thoughts...that may, in the end, seem to have been related to each other.
Part 1
Sometimes I think of my brain as this big room...or maybe kind of like a dirty basement filled with cardboard boxes that aren't properly labeled and stacks of books that have lost their dust jackets and sometimes there are small creatures that gnaw away at various and sundry items that were once in the process of being sorted, but now they are in a state of organized chaos and collecting dust. Also, there's a troll named Huey.
I envy other people's brains that must seem like well kept offices with organized file cabinets and dust-less bookshelves and possibly a window with flowy/gauzy curtains gently swaying in the wind. They are functional rooms that are pleasant to work in and, though they may temporarily become messy due to stressful circumstances, they almost always end up being sorted out, cleaned and returned to a state of moderate organization. I feel like this is what Jessie's brain must look like on the inside. Ashley's, too. They probably don't have stupid trolls living in those offices, either.
But me, I'm stuck with this dusty, windowless, troll-inhabited brain. I keep lots of stuff in here. I tuck away stupid things like the fact that one of my favorite customers, Michelle, at Vroman's is redecorating her house in a mexican cantina theme. OR, that nearly fifteen years ago, I went over to my friend Nikki's house just after her dad had repainted her room and noticed that he'd accidentally touched her ceiling with two of his fingers covered in dusty-rose colored paint leaving two oval-shaped prints just above the head of her bed. WHY do I remember this crap? It doesn't do anybody one bit of good...least of all me. It just clutters up the basement where I keep the stuff that is actually useful in the same unkempt state as the clutter.
AND, no matter how often I sit down and try to sort things out, it just ends up messier than when I began. That's because Huey tries to help, but he's just a manifestation of my Id, and therefore represents my chaotic, illogical desire to remain in an emotional state of disarray.
And, Huey's right, I guess. I'm kind of attached to the way things go in here. In high school, my teacher Mrs. Jones told my that my brain was an abyss of useless knowledge. I took that as a compliment since she was my scholar bowl coach telling me to memorize the pulitzer prize winners in fiction by year and title...they're all still in there somewhere, I guess...but I still get Norman Mailer and Saul Bellow confused for some reason.
Part 2
The Venerable Bede was this 8th century English monk who wrote The Ecclesiastical History of England. It turns out that he didn't actually get the title "Venerable" until after he died when there was a latin typo on his gravestone that, instead of saying "here lie the venerable bones of Bede" said "here lie the bones of Venerable Bede." But still, the name stuck and somehow, he must have been worthy of the title or it WOULDN'T have stuck (kind of like the fact that cliches are cliches for a reason.)
I'm kind of sad that we don't necessarily endow noteworthy people with specialized monikers or designations like "The Venerable" or "The Lionhearted" or "The Terrible" anymore. We give well known people nicknames, sometimes, I guess. I mean, you know who I'm talking about if I just say the letter "W," or if I refer to "The Material Girl" you know that I mean Madonna...right?
I guess what I'm saying is that the time honored tradition of adding an adjective to someone's name should be reinstated. I would like to nominate myself for one or more of the following name designations, and I suggest you come up with some for yourselves as well.
Laura The Perpetually Flustered
Laura The Flatfooted
Laura The Relentlessly Loquacious
Laura The Terrible
I know "The Terrible" has already been taken by Ivan. But I kind of like the idea that, if my name were to preceed my presence in any situation (ie, Hey! Laura the Terrible might stop by later.) and there are people who don't know me yet, they will be intimidated and fearful, but then, when they meet me and realize that I'm really kind of not so terrible (I hope...or maybe I'm deluding myself) they will be pleasantly surprised!
Part 1
Sometimes I think of my brain as this big room...or maybe kind of like a dirty basement filled with cardboard boxes that aren't properly labeled and stacks of books that have lost their dust jackets and sometimes there are small creatures that gnaw away at various and sundry items that were once in the process of being sorted, but now they are in a state of organized chaos and collecting dust. Also, there's a troll named Huey.
I envy other people's brains that must seem like well kept offices with organized file cabinets and dust-less bookshelves and possibly a window with flowy/gauzy curtains gently swaying in the wind. They are functional rooms that are pleasant to work in and, though they may temporarily become messy due to stressful circumstances, they almost always end up being sorted out, cleaned and returned to a state of moderate organization. I feel like this is what Jessie's brain must look like on the inside. Ashley's, too. They probably don't have stupid trolls living in those offices, either.
But me, I'm stuck with this dusty, windowless, troll-inhabited brain. I keep lots of stuff in here. I tuck away stupid things like the fact that one of my favorite customers, Michelle, at Vroman's is redecorating her house in a mexican cantina theme. OR, that nearly fifteen years ago, I went over to my friend Nikki's house just after her dad had repainted her room and noticed that he'd accidentally touched her ceiling with two of his fingers covered in dusty-rose colored paint leaving two oval-shaped prints just above the head of her bed. WHY do I remember this crap? It doesn't do anybody one bit of good...least of all me. It just clutters up the basement where I keep the stuff that is actually useful in the same unkempt state as the clutter.
AND, no matter how often I sit down and try to sort things out, it just ends up messier than when I began. That's because Huey tries to help, but he's just a manifestation of my Id, and therefore represents my chaotic, illogical desire to remain in an emotional state of disarray.
And, Huey's right, I guess. I'm kind of attached to the way things go in here. In high school, my teacher Mrs. Jones told my that my brain was an abyss of useless knowledge. I took that as a compliment since she was my scholar bowl coach telling me to memorize the pulitzer prize winners in fiction by year and title...they're all still in there somewhere, I guess...but I still get Norman Mailer and Saul Bellow confused for some reason.
Part 2
The Venerable Bede was this 8th century English monk who wrote The Ecclesiastical History of England. It turns out that he didn't actually get the title "Venerable" until after he died when there was a latin typo on his gravestone that, instead of saying "here lie the venerable bones of Bede" said "here lie the bones of Venerable Bede." But still, the name stuck and somehow, he must have been worthy of the title or it WOULDN'T have stuck (kind of like the fact that cliches are cliches for a reason.)
I'm kind of sad that we don't necessarily endow noteworthy people with specialized monikers or designations like "The Venerable" or "The Lionhearted" or "The Terrible" anymore. We give well known people nicknames, sometimes, I guess. I mean, you know who I'm talking about if I just say the letter "W," or if I refer to "The Material Girl" you know that I mean Madonna...right?
I guess what I'm saying is that the time honored tradition of adding an adjective to someone's name should be reinstated. I would like to nominate myself for one or more of the following name designations, and I suggest you come up with some for yourselves as well.
Laura The Perpetually Flustered
Laura The Flatfooted
Laura The Relentlessly Loquacious
Laura The Terrible
I know "The Terrible" has already been taken by Ivan. But I kind of like the idea that, if my name were to preceed my presence in any situation (ie, Hey! Laura the Terrible might stop by later.) and there are people who don't know me yet, they will be intimidated and fearful, but then, when they meet me and realize that I'm really kind of not so terrible (I hope...or maybe I'm deluding myself) they will be pleasantly surprised!
Zen 12
My cat hates me. She won't let me sleep. She's needy, lazy and selfish.
And this next part is going to surprise some of you: sometimes when I think about my cat, I think about love.
I think about love, not because I am in love my cat, don't get me wrong here. My feelings for my cat are far from what I would initially define as love. No, no. We have a disturbing coexistence based around Fatty's rather unique communication techniques...and these used mostly to let me know that she's unhappy with me....but there is extreme honesty between me and the cat:
Examples of ways that, in the past week, Fatty has let me know how she feels about me:
Sitting on my face
slapping me with her tail
batting at my door at 4:00 in the morning to let me know it's time to clean her litter box
meowing and batting at my door at 12:30 in the morning to let me know it's time for her to eat
pooping on the bathroom rug...three feet away from her litter box...just because she hates me
coughing up hairballs at the top of the stairs
caughing up hairballs at the bottom of the stairs
walking accross the keyboard of the computer in the living room while I'm typing
getting my attention, then turning away from me with her tail up in the air (a position known as "the Shun")
Fatty and I have a mutual dislike for one another and our need to bear each other's presence comes out of necessity. She bears with me because I feed her (sometimes) and I bear her because Deniece is going to come back from Africa someday and is going to wonder where Fatty went if I take her to the pound. However, there is a nugget of joy that I get from this relationship and it is this: there is no guessing involved with where I stand with Fatty. It's blissfully simple knowing for certain that I am loathed by her.
I feel like much of my misunderstanding about love comes from an evil corporation called Disney. I grew up thinking that even if I were a mute with a fish tail, there's still a possiblility a handsome prince might want to marry me. Disney is a magical place where strangers with nothing in common get all hot and bothered at first sight and then climb mountains (or, waste perfectly good genie wishes) to be with each other. That's not love, those are hormones and infatuation. You never see what the real relationship would be like. What happens when Prince Charming finds out Sleeping Beauty is just narcoleptic, or when Cinderella's husband finds her talking to the mice in the bedroom?
Maybe it's just as unrealistic to expect that everyone could represent themeselves truthfully without any fear of rejection. For example, a royal date could go like this:
Haughty Heroine/Princess: Well, Doofy Prince, I'm very beautiful with a great career ahead of me as princess of my parents' vast empire. However, I have chronic halitosis...and I also like to spend hours feeding insects to my pet venus fly trap...Herbert. Oh! And I hate to vacuum.
Doofy Prince: That's cool. I'm captain of the swim team and I've got a pretty nice vast empire of my own, but I think it's unlucky to trim my toenails, I've seen the movie Snakes on a Plane 687 times and I still believe in Santa.
H H/P: Yeah. I'm pretty sure we're not very compatible. But since we're at this nice restaurant, we should go ahead and order.
DP: Cool. Have you decided what you want yet from the menu?
H H/P: No, that's another thing, I'm pretty indecisive too.
DP: Ah. Thats alright, I can't read, so I'll just get whatever you get.
Ah, so refreshing. Let's all be as honest with one another as Fatty is with the world....
you know...I'm going to take that back. I don't want Jessie to start batting at my door in the middle of the night letting me know when she's hungry. Yeah, brutal honesty might not be the BEST idea. Let's just carry on as usual and we'll figure it out from there.
And this next part is going to surprise some of you: sometimes when I think about my cat, I think about love.
I think about love, not because I am in love my cat, don't get me wrong here. My feelings for my cat are far from what I would initially define as love. No, no. We have a disturbing coexistence based around Fatty's rather unique communication techniques...and these used mostly to let me know that she's unhappy with me....but there is extreme honesty between me and the cat:
Examples of ways that, in the past week, Fatty has let me know how she feels about me:
Sitting on my face
slapping me with her tail
batting at my door at 4:00 in the morning to let me know it's time to clean her litter box
meowing and batting at my door at 12:30 in the morning to let me know it's time for her to eat
pooping on the bathroom rug...three feet away from her litter box...just because she hates me
coughing up hairballs at the top of the stairs
caughing up hairballs at the bottom of the stairs
walking accross the keyboard of the computer in the living room while I'm typing
getting my attention, then turning away from me with her tail up in the air (a position known as "the Shun")
Fatty and I have a mutual dislike for one another and our need to bear each other's presence comes out of necessity. She bears with me because I feed her (sometimes) and I bear her because Deniece is going to come back from Africa someday and is going to wonder where Fatty went if I take her to the pound. However, there is a nugget of joy that I get from this relationship and it is this: there is no guessing involved with where I stand with Fatty. It's blissfully simple knowing for certain that I am loathed by her.
I feel like much of my misunderstanding about love comes from an evil corporation called Disney. I grew up thinking that even if I were a mute with a fish tail, there's still a possiblility a handsome prince might want to marry me. Disney is a magical place where strangers with nothing in common get all hot and bothered at first sight and then climb mountains (or, waste perfectly good genie wishes) to be with each other. That's not love, those are hormones and infatuation. You never see what the real relationship would be like. What happens when Prince Charming finds out Sleeping Beauty is just narcoleptic, or when Cinderella's husband finds her talking to the mice in the bedroom?
Maybe it's just as unrealistic to expect that everyone could represent themeselves truthfully without any fear of rejection. For example, a royal date could go like this:
Haughty Heroine/Princess: Well, Doofy Prince, I'm very beautiful with a great career ahead of me as princess of my parents' vast empire. However, I have chronic halitosis...and I also like to spend hours feeding insects to my pet venus fly trap...Herbert. Oh! And I hate to vacuum.
Doofy Prince: That's cool. I'm captain of the swim team and I've got a pretty nice vast empire of my own, but I think it's unlucky to trim my toenails, I've seen the movie Snakes on a Plane 687 times and I still believe in Santa.
H H/P: Yeah. I'm pretty sure we're not very compatible. But since we're at this nice restaurant, we should go ahead and order.
DP: Cool. Have you decided what you want yet from the menu?
H H/P: No, that's another thing, I'm pretty indecisive too.
DP: Ah. Thats alright, I can't read, so I'll just get whatever you get.
Ah, so refreshing. Let's all be as honest with one another as Fatty is with the world....
you know...I'm going to take that back. I don't want Jessie to start batting at my door in the middle of the night letting me know when she's hungry. Yeah, brutal honesty might not be the BEST idea. Let's just carry on as usual and we'll figure it out from there.
Zen 11
I realized this morning that I have lived in the Los Angeles Area now for almost two and a half years.
In that time I have:
Had three wonderful roommates
been adopted by an amazing church
made friends
lost some friends
made new friends
lived on one couch for three weeks
moved into two different apartments
completely altered my tastes in music
started doing yoga
had three different jobs
been unemployed
been a raw vegan
craved meat again
learned to roast coffee
had my picture taken in front of the Taj Mahal
pretended to jump off a cliff in Ireland
been to a Chinese wedding banquet
learned how to do voice overs
read 33 books
and learned that I've always spelled the word "weird" wrong (whatever happened to I before E?)
There are very few things that have remained constant since I moved here. I still go to the same church on Sundays, I still have the same car (though it's considerably dented now), I have the same email address and I've lived with the same cat the whole time. That's about it.
Tomorrow: The Cat.
In that time I have:
Had three wonderful roommates
been adopted by an amazing church
made friends
lost some friends
made new friends
lived on one couch for three weeks
moved into two different apartments
completely altered my tastes in music
started doing yoga
had three different jobs
been unemployed
been a raw vegan
craved meat again
learned to roast coffee
had my picture taken in front of the Taj Mahal
pretended to jump off a cliff in Ireland
been to a Chinese wedding banquet
learned how to do voice overs
read 33 books
and learned that I've always spelled the word "weird" wrong (whatever happened to I before E?)
There are very few things that have remained constant since I moved here. I still go to the same church on Sundays, I still have the same car (though it's considerably dented now), I have the same email address and I've lived with the same cat the whole time. That's about it.
Tomorrow: The Cat.
Zen 10
So, I might be a spy. The problem we face now is twofold:
1) You know I am a possible candidate for spyhood and you must forget this so that when I'm recruited (if I haven't been already) I don't have to kill you.
2) Even though you've already forgotten that I'm a possible candidate for spyhood, you should still be alert to the signs that when you are talking to me, it may very well be that you're talking to a genetically designed or altered "other" person who is impostoring the Laura you know because the real me is being detained in some warehouse in Botswana.
I think that point number two is something to keep in mind with everyone you know, whether they are a potential spy or not. With the world the way it is, and cloning on the rise, we should probably start a non-profit organization with the goal to raise "evil impostor" awareness. Sit down with your close friends, your spouse, your children, parents or even distant cousins you are fond of and make sure you are mutually aware of five traits unique to that person. Our organization will make it easy for you to remember these five traits because we have invented (after years of research and case studies) the simple mnemonic device: P.I.N.C.H. These letters stand for:
Physical
Ism
Nostalgia
Code word
Hurt
When you have the conversation with your loved one (assuming they are still your loved one and not an evil stand-in already) make sure to memorize the five points.
I will use myself as an example so that at sometime inthe future, if you are suspicious that I am not actually me, you can ask me a variety of questions to "test" "me" and make sure "I" am who "I" say "I" am... if you follow my drift.
P: First, you want to be aware of a physical trait. Preferably a scar or tattoo or soemthing permanent that can't be duplicated by maniacal genetic scientists. Birthmarks are too easy. I have a birthmark about the size of a pinky thumbnail that is about four inches north east of my belly button, but this will be no good for you to remember since it's probably encrypted in my DNA and will, therefore, appear on my evil impostor. You can remember this: I have a ten inch scar up and down my spine and an 15 inch scar around my left side ribcage from my back surgery AND a barely noticable pock mark on the right side of my nose from when I had chicken pox in 4th grade.
I: Pick an ism that is unique to your loved one. For instance: I will never paint my toenails again since I'm slightly superstitious that every time I paint them, something bad happens. Also, if you see "me" munching away happily on something that is mint-chocolate (ie. ice cream, andes mints...etc) you will KNOW it's not the real Laura since the real Laura thinks that Chocolate is wonderful, and mints are wonderful, but they are two wonderful things that are NEVER to be enjoyed together. Also, the ism you choose to remember can be anything from a facial tic, to the way that person wears makeup, or their hair or how they pick their nose (ie, right nostril first, etc. You get the idea).
N: Nostalgia. Remember a story or a memory you shared with the person OR a memory they told you about that they will never forget. It helps if this story is particularly happy OR embarassing. NOw, since you and I are friends, I'm sure you are familiar with any number of embarassing stories that have popped up in conversations from my past. A for instance would be the time i was locked out on a hotel balcony in Edinburgh and couldn't get inside to use the restroom. The downside to picking an embarassing story is that even the REAL person may not admit to remembering the nostalgic event. That's why there are five points, checks and balances...it's not a foolproof system yet, that's why part of our Grant funding will go towards fixing the five points ..and so they can spell something cooler like "h.o.t.r.o.d." or "e.l.e.p.h.a.n.t."
C: Code phrase. I feel as though this is the most obvious point in the "evil impostor identification system." It is up to you and your loved one to settle on a suitable code phrase to pass between you when you are in doubt about their identity. You will always be able to identify me by initiating the following dialogue in ordinary conversation. All you have to do is say the first line, when in doubt. Ideally, the real me will respond with the "response and confirmation" line and you may respond with the "I'm so glad it's really you" line. Like this
1) The "I'm questioning your identity" line: Hey Laura, when is the best time to eat a bowl of rice?
2) The "Response and confirmation that it's me" line: When you're hungry for one thousand of something!
3) The "I'm so glad it's really you" line: I love Mitch Hedberg too!
H. Hurt. It is always best to know how your loved one reacts when they are surprised by being physically hurt in some way. Most people have a subconscious automatic response phrase that they utter when they stub their toe, or when they get their thumb caught in the xerox machine at work or even when they run into an inanimate object. Here's why our acronym is so handy. All you have to do is pinch your loved one and find out what their automatic response is. For most people, the phrase will be "ow!" which is why it is helpful to have a guitar tuner nearby so you can check and see which pitch their ow registers at. (Tuners will be available at all of our "Non-profit Organization to Increase awareness about Evil Impostors" locations.) But there will be some people who have more nongeneric response like "Holy Elvis tapdancing on a triscuit!" or "Hey, why did you just pinch me, you idiot!?" Write it down. Remember what your loved one says when they are hurt.
Remembering these unique traits may help you identify an evil impostor and ultimately retrieve the whereabouts of your real loved one by torturing the evil imposter. Unless you end up liking the impostor better...which sometimes happens. Then, just pick your battles.
1) You know I am a possible candidate for spyhood and you must forget this so that when I'm recruited (if I haven't been already) I don't have to kill you.
2) Even though you've already forgotten that I'm a possible candidate for spyhood, you should still be alert to the signs that when you are talking to me, it may very well be that you're talking to a genetically designed or altered "other" person who is impostoring the Laura you know because the real me is being detained in some warehouse in Botswana.
I think that point number two is something to keep in mind with everyone you know, whether they are a potential spy or not. With the world the way it is, and cloning on the rise, we should probably start a non-profit organization with the goal to raise "evil impostor" awareness. Sit down with your close friends, your spouse, your children, parents or even distant cousins you are fond of and make sure you are mutually aware of five traits unique to that person. Our organization will make it easy for you to remember these five traits because we have invented (after years of research and case studies) the simple mnemonic device: P.I.N.C.H. These letters stand for:
Physical
Ism
Nostalgia
Code word
Hurt
When you have the conversation with your loved one (assuming they are still your loved one and not an evil stand-in already) make sure to memorize the five points.
I will use myself as an example so that at sometime inthe future, if you are suspicious that I am not actually me, you can ask me a variety of questions to "test" "me" and make sure "I" am who "I" say "I" am... if you follow my drift.
P: First, you want to be aware of a physical trait. Preferably a scar or tattoo or soemthing permanent that can't be duplicated by maniacal genetic scientists. Birthmarks are too easy. I have a birthmark about the size of a pinky thumbnail that is about four inches north east of my belly button, but this will be no good for you to remember since it's probably encrypted in my DNA and will, therefore, appear on my evil impostor. You can remember this: I have a ten inch scar up and down my spine and an 15 inch scar around my left side ribcage from my back surgery AND a barely noticable pock mark on the right side of my nose from when I had chicken pox in 4th grade.
I: Pick an ism that is unique to your loved one. For instance: I will never paint my toenails again since I'm slightly superstitious that every time I paint them, something bad happens. Also, if you see "me" munching away happily on something that is mint-chocolate (ie. ice cream, andes mints...etc) you will KNOW it's not the real Laura since the real Laura thinks that Chocolate is wonderful, and mints are wonderful, but they are two wonderful things that are NEVER to be enjoyed together. Also, the ism you choose to remember can be anything from a facial tic, to the way that person wears makeup, or their hair or how they pick their nose (ie, right nostril first, etc. You get the idea).
N: Nostalgia. Remember a story or a memory you shared with the person OR a memory they told you about that they will never forget. It helps if this story is particularly happy OR embarassing. NOw, since you and I are friends, I'm sure you are familiar with any number of embarassing stories that have popped up in conversations from my past. A for instance would be the time i was locked out on a hotel balcony in Edinburgh and couldn't get inside to use the restroom. The downside to picking an embarassing story is that even the REAL person may not admit to remembering the nostalgic event. That's why there are five points, checks and balances...it's not a foolproof system yet, that's why part of our Grant funding will go towards fixing the five points ..and so they can spell something cooler like "h.o.t.r.o.d." or "e.l.e.p.h.a.n.t."
C: Code phrase. I feel as though this is the most obvious point in the "evil impostor identification system." It is up to you and your loved one to settle on a suitable code phrase to pass between you when you are in doubt about their identity. You will always be able to identify me by initiating the following dialogue in ordinary conversation. All you have to do is say the first line, when in doubt. Ideally, the real me will respond with the "response and confirmation" line and you may respond with the "I'm so glad it's really you" line. Like this
1) The "I'm questioning your identity" line: Hey Laura, when is the best time to eat a bowl of rice?
2) The "Response and confirmation that it's me" line: When you're hungry for one thousand of something!
3) The "I'm so glad it's really you" line: I love Mitch Hedberg too!
H. Hurt. It is always best to know how your loved one reacts when they are surprised by being physically hurt in some way. Most people have a subconscious automatic response phrase that they utter when they stub their toe, or when they get their thumb caught in the xerox machine at work or even when they run into an inanimate object. Here's why our acronym is so handy. All you have to do is pinch your loved one and find out what their automatic response is. For most people, the phrase will be "ow!" which is why it is helpful to have a guitar tuner nearby so you can check and see which pitch their ow registers at. (Tuners will be available at all of our "Non-profit Organization to Increase awareness about Evil Impostors" locations.) But there will be some people who have more nongeneric response like "Holy Elvis tapdancing on a triscuit!" or "Hey, why did you just pinch me, you idiot!?" Write it down. Remember what your loved one says when they are hurt.
Remembering these unique traits may help you identify an evil impostor and ultimately retrieve the whereabouts of your real loved one by torturing the evil imposter. Unless you end up liking the impostor better...which sometimes happens. Then, just pick your battles.
Zen 9
Three nights ago Lexi and I made another genius casserole concoction. This time: Huevos Rancheros Casserole, with Beans and rice for a base spiced with cumin and six divots on top, each containing an egg that went into the oven raw and came out kind of crispy, all topped with crumbled tortilla strips. I was waiting anxiously for the timer to go off...I don't know why I set the timer, I just chose an arbitrary amount of time (35 minutes at 350 degrees) that I figured a casserole should be in an oven. Regardless, I was waiting for the timer to go off, and when it did, I realized I hadn't been prepared with an oven mit to pull the dish out. With the timer beeping at me, my heart started to pound and in a moment of need, I used a dish towel in place of a real oven mit. In the heat of the moment (no pun intended) my thumb wiggled its way out of the towel and onto the metal rack in the oven for a split second...and singed off part of my thumbprint forever (I think) ...a minor sacrifice for a meal well done (also, no pun intended). Okay, not THAT well done, Lexi was gone for part of the concocting time, and I think that since part of the genius was absent, the casserole didn't turn out as well as it could have...plus, it would have been better if we'd had cheese or sour cream. But the point is this: I burned my thumb and I didn't even cry. I pulled my hand back sharply (making sure to balance the casserole with the other hand) as one does when surprised, and I didn't make a noise or a tear and my eyes didn't even mist up at all. I didn't even tell anyone about it to get sympathy...until now...it still hurts and the blister hasn't even popped yet *insert big Bambi eyes here*.
I think this characteristic of having a high pain threshold will serve me well when I'm an international spy and my enemies are trying to get top secret information out of me. I mean, I've been through some pretty painful things in my life: I stub a toe at least once a month; I ran into the counter at work the other day and it stabbed me in the elbow making me lose feeling in my hand for several minutes (again, no tears); the following body parts of mine have been broken: two fingers, a toe, my tailbone, my T12 vertebra. Not all at the same time, this is a lifetime count. After two surgeries on my back, I have more titanium in my body than a golf club, which makes me bionic...I'm thinking about having hydraulics put in.
So, even though I may not be able to run away from my enemies or climb a rope to escape from them...if they catch me (which they inevitably will) and they torture me...I might hold out a while before I tell them all of my secrets.
I think this characteristic of having a high pain threshold will serve me well when I'm an international spy and my enemies are trying to get top secret information out of me. I mean, I've been through some pretty painful things in my life: I stub a toe at least once a month; I ran into the counter at work the other day and it stabbed me in the elbow making me lose feeling in my hand for several minutes (again, no tears); the following body parts of mine have been broken: two fingers, a toe, my tailbone, my T12 vertebra. Not all at the same time, this is a lifetime count. After two surgeries on my back, I have more titanium in my body than a golf club, which makes me bionic...I'm thinking about having hydraulics put in.
So, even though I may not be able to run away from my enemies or climb a rope to escape from them...if they catch me (which they inevitably will) and they torture me...I might hold out a while before I tell them all of my secrets.
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