January is a wonderful time of year. One of my favorite months for all it represents. Reflection on the past year, the smell of hope and change in the air. And a chance to review my life much like an employee evaluation of myself.
I pretend in my head that I (January Mrs. Newlywed) is interviewing past year Mrs. Newlywed 2010. How are you valuable to the people in your life? Could you be a better friend? Do you feel you called your mother enough? Have you been reading your bible? Have you been a good wife? In what areas can you improve? What would make your life happier? How are your finances?
I won't bore you with all the details, but one year back in 2005 I did fire myself. I felt I wasn't living up to the expectations of my 2006 self, and it was time fill the position with someone more qualified.
After fifteen days of sober contemplation the interview was final, and a decision was made. I would ask for a promotion. Although bar tending has served me well financially, it was time to put more focus on my life. Less late nights spent away from my husband, slinging cocktails with a poor attitude to ungrateful people. I had noticed as many things were slipping through the cracks at my place of employment, and we gravely needed an events director. I made a proposal, went through detail after detail, and mustered up the confidence to go to the owner, and ask him to create a job for me.
Butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms, I got through my monologue and he agreed that he needed it, and he thought I would be good at it. We agreed on the money and one week later, I am the Special Events Director for the downtown hot spot.
The first week was stressful, but really fun. I created party packages, set up catered events and returned about a thousand phone calls. I thought I was super prepared for the first weekend.
Friday I got into work and quickly began moving tables and getting things set up. I had bought some candles and different decor to decorate the tables for the private events. I even made thank you cards for the people who booked the events. Two hours later with everything set to go, I realized that the 70 person party I just set up, was actually Saturday night. I had a good laugh, and thought..eh well growing pains.
Saturday night I arrive and begin resetting all the stuff I had set up the previous night. It was going to be crazy. We had 3 birthday parties, a 70 person small business party, an artist showing in the gallery, a CD release party in the main room, and another 2 large groups for bottles service. Needless to say I was a little overwhelmed. Rushing around to get everything set up, get the deposits applied to checks,and make sure as soon as one reservation got up I could quickly reset the tables for the next catered party.
I run to basement to get one of the 4 cakes that had been delivered. It was in the shape and likeness of a Jose Cuervo bottle, and weighed about 10 lbs. I set the cake on the table and make a B line for the kitchen to get a stack of 25 plates. As I'm carrying them out I hit the first step and my leg slides right out under me. It was as if it was in slow motion. I had a decision to make. Throw the plates, try to grab something and risk broken glass in a servers face, try to save the plates and aim for my ass, or ....too late. Broken tail bone, badly bruised elbow, two very very swollen vertebrates, and 25 broken plates...Did I mention they were the only clean plates left in the house?
I lied there sobbing. People are swirling around, yelling things like "Are you okay?" and "Don't move her!"..."Can you move?" I just kept crying. It hurt. It hurt bad, but it felt good to have an excuse to cry on my first extremely stressful day on a job.
But look on the bright side! At least I have jury duty tomorrow! I want to punch my 2011 self, but she can't move. Confined to a circular ass pillow and thermal back pads, I'll save the ass kicking till next year. Happy New Year everyone!
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Planes Trains and Near Death Experiences
After a very crazy week of shopping,wrapping and packing, my husband and I started on our holiday journey to Orlando. We arrive at the airport and it was mild holiday traffic. I am in wonderful spirits at the excitement of Christmas, and seeing my new baby nephew build. My husband however does not like to fly. It all starts as we get in line for security. We remove shoes, coats, liquids, laptop, and put bags and purses on the tables. Even I admit that it is getting a little ridiculous. Each passenger needs four bus tubs now, and I wonder what it must look like to someone from the 1900's to see how we travel. As my husband goes through the metal detector, he is asked to remove his shirt. He throws them a glare and as he removes his shirt and is down to only a rock T, he turns to me and says, "Yeah, lets not f*$@ing fly anymore."
As I'm redressing I listen to him go on and on about our civil liberties, and how all Americans are wusses, and as long as we all continue to travel this way, nothing will change. I look at him and suddenly I see him wearing a rug for a shirt and smell proverbial nag champa and marijuana. My husband in his now exterior of rock and roll and mod scooter attire, once followed the Grateful Dead. for a year or so. I forget this because it was long over 15 years before I met him, but once in awhile, I remember. And this was definitely one of those once in a awhiles.
We had a lovely week with my family. Shopping and more wrapping and eating! And lots of quality time over wine and what my sister describes as a two day cheese plate. (A plate full of fantastic rare cheeses, of which are suppose to last 2 days. So don't be greedy!) I loved playing with the baby and seeing my husband play with him. We even went to "Seaworld" the night before Christmas and saw the penguins and manarays! But alas, all good things must come to an end. And soon it was time to pack and face the worst thing Orlando has to offer. Their airport.
Orlando international airport is the worst of the worst in my opinion. Mainly because it may as well be called place to bring your unmannerly children. Children from all over the world are brought to this airport, either so excited to see Mickey they are peeing their pants and screaming, or worse, they are at the end of their vacation. Tired, exhausted, coming down from the sugar highs and whining! It is amazing how many languages I have heard children whine in in this airport.
Second worse thing about this airport is that security is always a total zoo. They have one line for forty gates. And many passengers are traveling with more than one child. We wait in line and finally get to security and I set off the metal detector, due to about 20 bobby pins in my head, and followed by a pat down from sweet chubby Hispanic woman that I rather enjoyed. Not that I'm a sicko or anything, but who doesn't like to be gently touched from head to toe.
We finally board the aircraft, and take off about ten minutes late. Irritating because it is Christmas Day and we have a connecting flight to catch and many family members waiting to eat and unwrap presents. Non the less, I plug my head phones into the armrest to enjoy the free XM satellite radio and listen to Christmas music. (As you all know my favorite.) Nancy Sinatra is talking on the Seriously Sinatra station about her favorite Christmas's with her Dad, and just as Old Lang Syne plays we hear a very loud thud and cracking sound. As though a wrench was thrown into the the left engine. The passengers all look at one another as if to say WTF? Moments later I feel the plane make a hard left turn. Funny I took three years of Geography in college and I'm pretty sure that there are no left turns between Orlando and Minnesota. Sure enough the Captain comes on the speaker and says, "Um folks it appears that we have lost an engine, and we have been instructed to turn around and land you all safely back in Orlando. We have no further information at this time, but we here at Air Tran believe in safety first."
My husband turns to me and says, "Safety first uh? Maybe then you would have checked the engine before we took off." It was an nostalgic feeling, listening to Old Lang Syne as we plummet and level and plummet and level all the way back to Orlando. Suddenly, I didn't care so much about my presents. And if you smelled me, you may have caught just a hint of proverbial patchouli...Maybe my husband was onto something, lets take trains and bring back the road trip.
We of course made it back safely and had another couple hours to spend with my family eating leftovers and a cat nap. We got home in time to have dinner with the family and do presents and all was merry.
As I'm redressing I listen to him go on and on about our civil liberties, and how all Americans are wusses, and as long as we all continue to travel this way, nothing will change. I look at him and suddenly I see him wearing a rug for a shirt and smell proverbial nag champa and marijuana. My husband in his now exterior of rock and roll and mod scooter attire, once followed the Grateful Dead. for a year or so. I forget this because it was long over 15 years before I met him, but once in awhile, I remember. And this was definitely one of those once in a awhiles.
We had a lovely week with my family. Shopping and more wrapping and eating! And lots of quality time over wine and what my sister describes as a two day cheese plate. (A plate full of fantastic rare cheeses, of which are suppose to last 2 days. So don't be greedy!) I loved playing with the baby and seeing my husband play with him. We even went to "Seaworld" the night before Christmas and saw the penguins and manarays! But alas, all good things must come to an end. And soon it was time to pack and face the worst thing Orlando has to offer. Their airport.
Orlando international airport is the worst of the worst in my opinion. Mainly because it may as well be called place to bring your unmannerly children. Children from all over the world are brought to this airport, either so excited to see Mickey they are peeing their pants and screaming, or worse, they are at the end of their vacation. Tired, exhausted, coming down from the sugar highs and whining! It is amazing how many languages I have heard children whine in in this airport.
Second worse thing about this airport is that security is always a total zoo. They have one line for forty gates. And many passengers are traveling with more than one child. We wait in line and finally get to security and I set off the metal detector, due to about 20 bobby pins in my head, and followed by a pat down from sweet chubby Hispanic woman that I rather enjoyed. Not that I'm a sicko or anything, but who doesn't like to be gently touched from head to toe.
We finally board the aircraft, and take off about ten minutes late. Irritating because it is Christmas Day and we have a connecting flight to catch and many family members waiting to eat and unwrap presents. Non the less, I plug my head phones into the armrest to enjoy the free XM satellite radio and listen to Christmas music. (As you all know my favorite.) Nancy Sinatra is talking on the Seriously Sinatra station about her favorite Christmas's with her Dad, and just as Old Lang Syne plays we hear a very loud thud and cracking sound. As though a wrench was thrown into the the left engine. The passengers all look at one another as if to say WTF? Moments later I feel the plane make a hard left turn. Funny I took three years of Geography in college and I'm pretty sure that there are no left turns between Orlando and Minnesota. Sure enough the Captain comes on the speaker and says, "Um folks it appears that we have lost an engine, and we have been instructed to turn around and land you all safely back in Orlando. We have no further information at this time, but we here at Air Tran believe in safety first."
My husband turns to me and says, "Safety first uh? Maybe then you would have checked the engine before we took off." It was an nostalgic feeling, listening to Old Lang Syne as we plummet and level and plummet and level all the way back to Orlando. Suddenly, I didn't care so much about my presents. And if you smelled me, you may have caught just a hint of proverbial patchouli...Maybe my husband was onto something, lets take trains and bring back the road trip.
We of course made it back safely and had another couple hours to spend with my family eating leftovers and a cat nap. We got home in time to have dinner with the family and do presents and all was merry.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Oh God I married my Dad
Everyone has heard the Freudian jokes about how all women really want to marry their fathers. As American women we all cringe and laugh at the idea of ever finding farmers tans, white socks with deck shoes, or T shirts tucked in ever attractive. Surely men go through the same thing at some point picturing mom jeans bent over an oven and giggling at the thought that someday, mom ass will be hot to them.
My father is a wonderful man and Dad. He was always supportive, made living as a physics teacher, and pastored home missions churches on the side. In most aspects the perfect father. My Dad is a shorter man of German decent. He was always the kinda do it right or don't bother kind of guy, with a hint of if you can pinch another penny outta that nickel, there may be another reward in heaven for you.
My mother used to laugh and tell us the story of my parents first house. My Dad purchased about 20 acres of land in the late 70s and began to build a house. When they moved in there wasn't much dry wall, you could see in and outta the rooms easily. But the windows in the winter without curtains were quite drafty. In order to save a few bucks on the utility bill, my Dad rolled and taped brown paper grocery bags to the sills. All the while assuring my mother that it was just temporary. Until 10 years later when they sold the house and the paper bags finally came down.
My husband and I live in a very beautiful loft in the city. It was once a synagogue in the early 1900s, and later renovated into apartments in the 1980s. I am sure that our thermostat was as old as the synagogue because it could never seem to keep an even temperature in the space. Fed up with freezing or burning up, and astronomical gas bills, I told my husband I wanted to buy a new one. One of those digital ones with programmable features. He is so sweet, and any excuse to make a purchase at home depot and he's off the races.
One day as I clean the apartment, I discover the new digital thermostat still in the bag. Tucked away in his little mans rats nest, in the corner of the living room. A place designated to keep the drills and bits and other tools, you know until we get settled in. Or in other words "just temporary". We have lived here now over three years. Now the next part of the story is told completely from my point of view. My husband swears that he told me he had bought it, and that he was waiting to install it because he was unhappy with the configuration of the switches on the wall. I remember part of that. So when he comes home I encourage him to start the project in an effort to get my thermostat put in.
It appears that on the wall there are a series of 4 necessary switches. One light switch for the living room, one for the upstairs, one for the fan, and of course the thermostat. His idea was to make all these separate switches go on one 3 way switch and move the thermostat so they are all in a nice row. Panic set in as I am cooking and hear a hand saw going back and forth into the drywall. The dust is going everywhere and there is little light. I'm laughing several hours later when I walk to the bathroom, and am warned not to go near the wall because the wires all hanging out are live. And he's packing his stuff up as though he's done for the night.
A small argument takes place surrounding the details of this project when I ask for a date of completion. He says most likely not this week. He won't have a day off from work, and there's too much going on. He tells me he will at least install the switches by Sunday, so when my girls come over for hair day, there will be heat and lights. I am happy with this compromise.
I am told that while I was at work the following week, his Dad and brother came over and helped install all three switches and the new thermostat. I am happy with this, but still looking at a big hole in my wall. Every time I walk past it it laughs at me and says, "temporary". Also I am only able to locate directions for the thermostat in the 3 languages that I don't understand. So this year my letter to Santa will read the following.
Dear Santa,
If you have time to fill my stocking I would like a piece of charcoal painted drywall, the cabinet doors to my credenza finished, a recycling bin, and the ability to read Spanish instructions. Also, if you have the time to bring me patience, I would really appreciate it. And most of all, a blindness to any other Dad related behavior.
Thanks Santa.
My father is a wonderful man and Dad. He was always supportive, made living as a physics teacher, and pastored home missions churches on the side. In most aspects the perfect father. My Dad is a shorter man of German decent. He was always the kinda do it right or don't bother kind of guy, with a hint of if you can pinch another penny outta that nickel, there may be another reward in heaven for you.
My mother used to laugh and tell us the story of my parents first house. My Dad purchased about 20 acres of land in the late 70s and began to build a house. When they moved in there wasn't much dry wall, you could see in and outta the rooms easily. But the windows in the winter without curtains were quite drafty. In order to save a few bucks on the utility bill, my Dad rolled and taped brown paper grocery bags to the sills. All the while assuring my mother that it was just temporary. Until 10 years later when they sold the house and the paper bags finally came down.
My husband and I live in a very beautiful loft in the city. It was once a synagogue in the early 1900s, and later renovated into apartments in the 1980s. I am sure that our thermostat was as old as the synagogue because it could never seem to keep an even temperature in the space. Fed up with freezing or burning up, and astronomical gas bills, I told my husband I wanted to buy a new one. One of those digital ones with programmable features. He is so sweet, and any excuse to make a purchase at home depot and he's off the races.
One day as I clean the apartment, I discover the new digital thermostat still in the bag. Tucked away in his little mans rats nest, in the corner of the living room. A place designated to keep the drills and bits and other tools, you know until we get settled in. Or in other words "just temporary". We have lived here now over three years. Now the next part of the story is told completely from my point of view. My husband swears that he told me he had bought it, and that he was waiting to install it because he was unhappy with the configuration of the switches on the wall. I remember part of that. So when he comes home I encourage him to start the project in an effort to get my thermostat put in.
It appears that on the wall there are a series of 4 necessary switches. One light switch for the living room, one for the upstairs, one for the fan, and of course the thermostat. His idea was to make all these separate switches go on one 3 way switch and move the thermostat so they are all in a nice row. Panic set in as I am cooking and hear a hand saw going back and forth into the drywall. The dust is going everywhere and there is little light. I'm laughing several hours later when I walk to the bathroom, and am warned not to go near the wall because the wires all hanging out are live. And he's packing his stuff up as though he's done for the night.
A small argument takes place surrounding the details of this project when I ask for a date of completion. He says most likely not this week. He won't have a day off from work, and there's too much going on. He tells me he will at least install the switches by Sunday, so when my girls come over for hair day, there will be heat and lights. I am happy with this compromise.
I am told that while I was at work the following week, his Dad and brother came over and helped install all three switches and the new thermostat. I am happy with this, but still looking at a big hole in my wall. Every time I walk past it it laughs at me and says, "temporary". Also I am only able to locate directions for the thermostat in the 3 languages that I don't understand. So this year my letter to Santa will read the following.
Dear Santa,
If you have time to fill my stocking I would like a piece of charcoal painted drywall, the cabinet doors to my credenza finished, a recycling bin, and the ability to read Spanish instructions. Also, if you have the time to bring me patience, I would really appreciate it. And most of all, a blindness to any other Dad related behavior.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Top 33 Reasons Your Bartender Hates You
Many of you already know that I make my living as a bartender. I have mentioned it in the blog many times that although it is not my dream situation I have lived many years by the motto that their are better careers than bar-tending, but there are no better jobs. How many jobs can you work part time nights and pull in more than most entry level college grads do. All the while getting to meet tons of interesting people, dressing cute, making friends with co workers who are many times artists and musicians, and every week is a 3 day weekend. That being said, like everyone who works one on one with customers, we all know people are annoying. Here are the top 30 things to avoid ever doing in a night club when its really busy.
1 You hand me your Bobby Brady Allowance money all waded up to pay for your drink
2 You've ever said the words, "Scuse me"
3 Ice water
4 You've shown me your phone linked to the web with a recipe you want me to make you
5 Mojitos
6 You tip on 10 percent of your bill....you don't tip....you think 5 bucks is good for tabs between 20 and 100 bucks
7 Your an "Anna"...(I bring your drink and you keep adding to your order, "anna rum and coke, anna Bud Lite)
8 You stare at my breasts. ( At least try and be discreet)
9 No I don't remember you
10 If you tell me your a good tipper, it's just a tip that your a pain in the ass and probably tip for sh*t.
11You can't be bothered to do a lap and find the bathroom, you must stop me from what I'm doing and ask for directions
12 Waving
13 Please may I, and thank you, have been replaced with "eh ah... let me git a ah.."
14 You get my attention for someone else...bigshot
15 Ice water
16 You accuse me of short pouring you. (And while we're at it, telling me you can't taste the liquor, and your drinking vodka and juice..If you want to taste the liquor, drink something not designed to taste like nothing. See whiskey.)
17 You only drink top shelf vodka cause the rail gives you hangover, but you have no problem drinking red bull
18 You want me to guess what you'll like
19 "Make me anything as long as its not......."
20 Tapping an empty glass
21 Telling me your order even though I'm clearing ignoring you, and with another customer.
22 Drinking anything endorsed by a rapper and calling it "my drink".
23 Ice water
24 Asking for a drink on ice, in a snifter
25 Closing your tab after every drink
26 Eating out of my fruit tray
27 Ripping up coasters, receipts, and or napkins to confetti
28 Tipping in coin form of any kind
29 Asking my name so you can shout at me all night
30 Ordering drinks named after genitalia
31 You waited 10 minutes in line for a drink and don't know what you want.
32 Your wallet is still in your ass when I tell you the total..surprise you have to pay for it
33 Gum...Anywhere but your mouth or a trash can
Happy Holidays everyone! Please drink responsibly.
1 You hand me your Bobby Brady Allowance money all waded up to pay for your drink
2 You've ever said the words, "Scuse me"
3 Ice water
4 You've shown me your phone linked to the web with a recipe you want me to make you
5 Mojitos
6 You tip on 10 percent of your bill....you don't tip....you think 5 bucks is good for tabs between 20 and 100 bucks
7 Your an "Anna"...(I bring your drink and you keep adding to your order, "anna rum and coke, anna Bud Lite)
8 You stare at my breasts. ( At least try and be discreet)
9 No I don't remember you
10 If you tell me your a good tipper, it's just a tip that your a pain in the ass and probably tip for sh*t.
11You can't be bothered to do a lap and find the bathroom, you must stop me from what I'm doing and ask for directions
12 Waving
13 Please may I, and thank you, have been replaced with "eh ah... let me git a ah.."
14 You get my attention for someone else...bigshot
15 Ice water
16 You accuse me of short pouring you. (And while we're at it, telling me you can't taste the liquor, and your drinking vodka and juice..If you want to taste the liquor, drink something not designed to taste like nothing. See whiskey.)
17 You only drink top shelf vodka cause the rail gives you hangover, but you have no problem drinking red bull
18 You want me to guess what you'll like
19 "Make me anything as long as its not......."
20 Tapping an empty glass
21 Telling me your order even though I'm clearing ignoring you, and with another customer.
22 Drinking anything endorsed by a rapper and calling it "my drink".
23 Ice water
24 Asking for a drink on ice, in a snifter
25 Closing your tab after every drink
26 Eating out of my fruit tray
27 Ripping up coasters, receipts, and or napkins to confetti
28 Tipping in coin form of any kind
29 Asking my name so you can shout at me all night
30 Ordering drinks named after genitalia
31 You waited 10 minutes in line for a drink and don't know what you want.
32 Your wallet is still in your ass when I tell you the total..surprise you have to pay for it
33 Gum...Anywhere but your mouth or a trash can
Happy Holidays everyone! Please drink responsibly.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Freezer Cake
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| Those are regular size cocktail table candles. |
I spent some time looking at cake designs and decided on a pretty simple but elegant cake design. It was a white 3 tier square cake with some simple black icing design. Top with some flowers, and badda bing, badda bang, a cake! My very dear friend Janine had offered to make my cake as my wedding gift. I was over the moon! She is the best baker I know, her food always tastes fantastic, and a simple wedding cake costs around $1500 these days. She asked me what kind of cake I wanted, and I said I don't really like cake all that much, but I do love her carrot cake. And being that it was a fall wedding I thought carrot cake would be acceptable.
My husband thought that was a silly idea. Carrot cake? I stood my ground and convinced him that once he tasted this carrot cake he would understand. So I set a time up with Janine for us to come do a tasting and talk about the design of the cake. She asked me to pick a few flavors to chose from. So I ask my husband and he says peanut butter.
To fully understand the peanut butter thing, I have to first explain his fascination with Reeses peanut butter cups. It is somewhat a day off tradition to run our errand together and at some point stop for gas and a coke. And every time he comes out to the car with the latest Reeses product. There are cups, dark chocolate, white chocolate, king size, dipped in peanuts, rolled in dye no. 9 and xanax. There are pieces with more peanut butter, dark chocolate, milk chocolate centers, all orange, it doesn't matter that none of them taste as good as the original, if it says Reeses on the label, he buys it.
So I laugh and tell Janine that he want to try a peanut butter and chocolate cake along with the others we talked about. She sounds as confused as I expected but reluctantly agrees.
We arrive at her house and she does the best little presentation you've ever seen. She's a little like Martha Stewart, if Martha Stewart liked jagermeister, loud rock and roll, and had the cops called on her annual July 4th party for blowing up giant fireworks off the roof of her garage. We taste several cakes, yes including a peanut butter cake that was really good, but we all know I wanted carrot. After a long tug of war, trying to convince him that peanut butter is not a flavor you serve at the rooftop of a major hotel, he agreed that the carrot cake was incredible. Then the discussion about the cake design began.
She asked all the right questions about how many people the cake needed to feed and so on. She obviously knew what she was doing. But somehow the wedding pressures had weighed to far on my husband, and he decides that the cake needs to be more of a statement. He gets out a ruler and begins showing Janine how big he wants it. The look on my friends face was priceless. She explains that this cake is going to be really big, and will likely feed an army. But she agrees to do it the way he wants it, sparing a vital bridezilla breakdown.
When we arrive at the reception site and they show me the room all set up I was so blown away! It looked so wonderful! The flowers, the table clothes, and the GIANT wedding cake! She did such a great job, but this cake was easily 2 feet wide and almost 3 feet tall. I have about 85 guests. When they asked if I like to keep the top of my cake for my freezer I said Id love to. When they brought it to our room later I thought I'll need to rent a deep freeze.
As we are cutting the cake Janine leans to me and says, "Don't eat the black icing. It will stain your mouth." A piece of advice given to all the guests, all except my mother who's tongue looked like she licked Texas gold. The carrot cake lived up to it's rumors and everyone thought it was delicious. Several people mentioned how yummy it was over the next several months. And so did the bar full of drunk people that got the leftovers the next day when my family that went to have pizza.
So on the one year anniversary we pulled the cake from the freezer and as it thawed had a celebration of one year of married bliss, and the return of serious freezer space. My husband says that cake was way too big, with a smile on his face. Thank you so much Janine for getting a Cosco card to make the cake, and for making such a wonderful, decadent, beautiful, Mark McQuired wedding cake. It was fabulous then, and surprisingly stupendous a year later!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Stolen Pumpkin
Every fall, my husband and I do our grocery shopping and look at the big beautiful pumpkins and he tells me of this infamous pumpkin stew he makes. I have never had said stew, but I am told it is amazing. It is a beef stew you make in a pumpkin, and bake it in the oven. Then when you serve it, you scrape the inside of the pumpkin with the serving spoon..I salivate every time he tells me about it. He says, "Honey, I will make it for you this year."
Imagine my surprise when he picks me up with a list of things to buy for the stew. On our way to Schnucks, I get so excited. We begin combing the store for all the necessary ingredients. As our cart fills, my stomach growls. Just one item left. The pumpkin. A look of panic comes over our faces as we think back to the produce section and neither of us can remember seeing a pumpkin. They must have pumpkins, Thanksgiving is next week!
We scurry around the store and no pumpkins! My husband finds a store manager and asks where the pumpkins are. He says they shipped all of their pumpkins out after Halloween. We ask if he knows of any where to get a pumpkin, and he chuckles and says, "This time of year? Maybe a farmers market."
We get on the phone and look up the numbers to some farmers markets and all we found in the neighborhood closed at five. As we are checking out all the items for the stew minus the pumpkin we have a short judgmental conversation about how no Americans make real pumpkin pie any more. I mean I don't, but all those other people out there should be ashamed of themselves! True pumpkin outta of can is easier, lighter weight, and makes a really tasty pumpkin pie, but come on! We mourn the loss of our fictional grandmothers whose hair was all white at the age of 50, up in a perfect bun everyday, whom wore ruffled aprons and served food on good china while constantly asking us if we've had enough to eat, with a European accent. Now she would have scraped her own pumpkin for pumpkin pie!
And speaking of European grandmothers.....I had a thought. It was wrong and I shouldn't have even spoken the words, but out they came.
"I bet if we drove through the neighborhood we'd find a pumpkin. I mean we are on the Hill. (The Hill is a very old Italian neighborhood, filled with restaurants, markets, sandwich shops and bungalow houses.) My husband laughs and says that he was thinking it but he didn't think I'd go along with it.
I have very few theft stories in my life. I once stole a paint brush in college because I needed it for a painting, and the store wanted $20 for the stupid thing.( Rational stealing is still stealing, but less guilt.) Also my sister stole some sunglasses once and got caught, and subsequently lost a job over it. The last instance was my favorite. It involves my brother in law stealing a phone book from a hotel running up the street screaming GO! GO! GO! as he hopped into a moving mini van. Some stories dont need explaining.
So we began our sneaky Operation Pumpkin. We drive slowly up and down the streets eyeballing up all the pumpkins. "There's one!...There's another!"
"Honey I would like to not actually go onto someones porch to steal their pumpkin."
We finally see one. Reachable from the street, no lights on. We park the car, and my husband who can't walk through living room without stomping and usually knocking things over or bumping into furniture turns into a feline and steals the pumpkin with no sound. He hands it to me through the window and I almost break my arm.
He gets back in the car and as we pull away he says. "Yeah that ones way too big!" I die laughing! It must have weighed 28 pounds! Hes laughing, I'm laughing! This wont even fit in the oven! Well maybe now we can trade the big one for someone else's smaller one.
We spot a house with a haystack and a pumpkin display. They have 2 that are the perfect size. We park and my husband approaches the door. I watch in the rear view mirror and imagine the conversation as he knocks on the door.
"Excuse me mam. Can I please trade you this lovely 28 pound pumpkin for one of a more manageable size. You see I'm making this stew." She would say sure my dear, then tomorrow when the neighborhood news letter comes out realizes that we traded her a stolen pumpkin. Antonio wages a war with her.. "Hey! Dat iz a my pompkin!" All will tell the story for years of the people in the Honda that steal pumpkins. All Honda driving white couples will be banned from sandwich shops. And eventually riot ends up on channel 2 news.
Luckily no one comes to the door. We trade for the medium size pumpkin. The stew was awesome! And the moral to the story is its bad to steal! You should never do it, but if u must, steal something that will likely never make a pie.
Imagine my surprise when he picks me up with a list of things to buy for the stew. On our way to Schnucks, I get so excited. We begin combing the store for all the necessary ingredients. As our cart fills, my stomach growls. Just one item left. The pumpkin. A look of panic comes over our faces as we think back to the produce section and neither of us can remember seeing a pumpkin. They must have pumpkins, Thanksgiving is next week!
We scurry around the store and no pumpkins! My husband finds a store manager and asks where the pumpkins are. He says they shipped all of their pumpkins out after Halloween. We ask if he knows of any where to get a pumpkin, and he chuckles and says, "This time of year? Maybe a farmers market."
We get on the phone and look up the numbers to some farmers markets and all we found in the neighborhood closed at five. As we are checking out all the items for the stew minus the pumpkin we have a short judgmental conversation about how no Americans make real pumpkin pie any more. I mean I don't, but all those other people out there should be ashamed of themselves! True pumpkin outta of can is easier, lighter weight, and makes a really tasty pumpkin pie, but come on! We mourn the loss of our fictional grandmothers whose hair was all white at the age of 50, up in a perfect bun everyday, whom wore ruffled aprons and served food on good china while constantly asking us if we've had enough to eat, with a European accent. Now she would have scraped her own pumpkin for pumpkin pie!
And speaking of European grandmothers.....I had a thought. It was wrong and I shouldn't have even spoken the words, but out they came.
"I bet if we drove through the neighborhood we'd find a pumpkin. I mean we are on the Hill. (The Hill is a very old Italian neighborhood, filled with restaurants, markets, sandwich shops and bungalow houses.) My husband laughs and says that he was thinking it but he didn't think I'd go along with it.
I have very few theft stories in my life. I once stole a paint brush in college because I needed it for a painting, and the store wanted $20 for the stupid thing.( Rational stealing is still stealing, but less guilt.) Also my sister stole some sunglasses once and got caught, and subsequently lost a job over it. The last instance was my favorite. It involves my brother in law stealing a phone book from a hotel running up the street screaming GO! GO! GO! as he hopped into a moving mini van. Some stories dont need explaining.
So we began our sneaky Operation Pumpkin. We drive slowly up and down the streets eyeballing up all the pumpkins. "There's one!...There's another!"
"Honey I would like to not actually go onto someones porch to steal their pumpkin."
We finally see one. Reachable from the street, no lights on. We park the car, and my husband who can't walk through living room without stomping and usually knocking things over or bumping into furniture turns into a feline and steals the pumpkin with no sound. He hands it to me through the window and I almost break my arm.
He gets back in the car and as we pull away he says. "Yeah that ones way too big!" I die laughing! It must have weighed 28 pounds! Hes laughing, I'm laughing! This wont even fit in the oven! Well maybe now we can trade the big one for someone else's smaller one.
We spot a house with a haystack and a pumpkin display. They have 2 that are the perfect size. We park and my husband approaches the door. I watch in the rear view mirror and imagine the conversation as he knocks on the door.
"Excuse me mam. Can I please trade you this lovely 28 pound pumpkin for one of a more manageable size. You see I'm making this stew." She would say sure my dear, then tomorrow when the neighborhood news letter comes out realizes that we traded her a stolen pumpkin. Antonio wages a war with her.. "Hey! Dat iz a my pompkin!" All will tell the story for years of the people in the Honda that steal pumpkins. All Honda driving white couples will be banned from sandwich shops. And eventually riot ends up on channel 2 news.
Luckily no one comes to the door. We trade for the medium size pumpkin. The stew was awesome! And the moral to the story is its bad to steal! You should never do it, but if u must, steal something that will likely never make a pie.
Friday, November 12, 2010
6 to 8 Black Men
Autumn is my favorite time of year! The leaves, the smell in the air of dried leaves and the brewery! But best of all, I am reminded that as soon as that dreadful holiday Halloween is over it will be time to start thinking about my favorite holiday! CHRISTMAS!
If my husband would let me, I would begin putting the tree up on November 1st. I abstain knowing that not only does my husband think I am nuts for wanting to do this, but so does everyone else other than my own part elf mother. So I have my secret early rituals.. You know just a little fix until the big time of cookies and eggnog.
While I am home alone, I burn my Christmas candles. Listen to not so obvious jazz versions of Christmas carols, and instead of taking a magazine to the bathroom, I bring with me a copy of David Sedaris Holidays on Ice. My favorite story is one entitled 6 to 8 black men where Sedaris fills us in on how the great people of Holland celebrate and view Santa Claus.
Apparently, in the Netherlands the children exchange gifts on December 5th. St. Nicks day. There, he dresses like a red velvet pope, said to be left over from his former career as bishop of Turkey. And also, Santa resides in Spain...not the north pole. Every year he docks in late November and is escorted by not elves, (said to be thought of as grotesque and unrealistic. Ironic from the dutch people whom embrace legalized drugs and prostitution.) but by what is described as 6 to 8 black men. I laugh as Sedaris mocks the Dutch people in the idea that with everyone he asks the number is always the same. 6 to 8. Odd for having over a century to nail down an exact number. I suppose at one point the black men were slaves, but since Saint Nicks pope attire and the fact that the Catholic church is trying to shake its former image of oppressive behavior and racism, the 6 to 8 black men are now known as St. Nicks "good friends".
So Halloween came. I am told by my bosses at my job that everyone has to dress up, and that my response to "What are u going as for Halloween?"....."um...an adult." was no longer funny.
I borrowed a costume from a friend, a very cute lederhosen Saint Pauli girl kinda thing. As I am getting ready for work my husband calls and says that the car has been stolen. My first response is laughter followed by absolute rage.
I own a 1998 Dodge Caravan! I just had about $700.00 work done on it in the last 15 days! Who wants to steal a mini van! In broad daylight! On a major street! The police are called. Evening approaches and I find my Heidi costume to be even more annoying now that I am sitting on the curb waiting for a taxi cab. Some trick or treaters walk by and tell me I look like Lady Gaga. This is a comparison I am getting really used to. Anyone over the age of 40 says I look like Marilyn Monroe, and anyone younger or homosexual says Lady Freakin Gaga! I smile at them.
I arrive at work to find that I am the only person dressed up! No joke! And everyone I tell that my car is stolen and missing says.."Yeah I hear those are easy to steal." After the 3rd time I wanted to ask my community that if this is such common knowledge, why did no one buy me a Club for Christmas the last 3 years I owned the car? I look like the most uncomfortable sad little beir girl you've ever seen. Finally the phone rings at 5:30 pm.
It is my husband calling to say that they found the car. It was totaled. Witnesses on the scene describe it as going 55 mph in a 30mph zone outta control, and hit a traffic sign. At which point "6 to 8 black kids" were seen running and scattering from the vehicle. They had stolen it, and drove somewhere to throw away anything that wasn't bolted down, including the head rests. They then picked up their friends and threw a 3 gallon gas can in the back just in case they needed gas I suppose.
When the tow truck brought the van back to my house my thoughts were on one thing! Did they know about the secret CD box under the passenger seat? I furiously run down and climb in the mangled broken carcass of the van and open the drawer! Eureka! There they all were! My Harry Connick Jr When Your Heart Finds Christmas, Christmas Cocktails, Have Yourself a Jazzy Little Christmas, and Mary Mary CDs! All there.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but cant help but wonder..did St Nicks "friends" steal my car? The evidence...
Inability to get an accurate number of people fleeing from the scene...6 to 8
Everything thrown away.....except Christmas and gospel music?
Perhaps this year, the Netherlands hot Christmas items are insurance papers, recyclable grocery bags and head rests from American cars! Ahh yes! Santa stole my mini van!
If my husband would let me, I would begin putting the tree up on November 1st. I abstain knowing that not only does my husband think I am nuts for wanting to do this, but so does everyone else other than my own part elf mother. So I have my secret early rituals.. You know just a little fix until the big time of cookies and eggnog.
While I am home alone, I burn my Christmas candles. Listen to not so obvious jazz versions of Christmas carols, and instead of taking a magazine to the bathroom, I bring with me a copy of David Sedaris Holidays on Ice. My favorite story is one entitled 6 to 8 black men where Sedaris fills us in on how the great people of Holland celebrate and view Santa Claus.
Apparently, in the Netherlands the children exchange gifts on December 5th. St. Nicks day. There, he dresses like a red velvet pope, said to be left over from his former career as bishop of Turkey. And also, Santa resides in Spain...not the north pole. Every year he docks in late November and is escorted by not elves, (said to be thought of as grotesque and unrealistic. Ironic from the dutch people whom embrace legalized drugs and prostitution.) but by what is described as 6 to 8 black men. I laugh as Sedaris mocks the Dutch people in the idea that with everyone he asks the number is always the same. 6 to 8. Odd for having over a century to nail down an exact number. I suppose at one point the black men were slaves, but since Saint Nicks pope attire and the fact that the Catholic church is trying to shake its former image of oppressive behavior and racism, the 6 to 8 black men are now known as St. Nicks "good friends".
So Halloween came. I am told by my bosses at my job that everyone has to dress up, and that my response to "What are u going as for Halloween?"....."um...an adult." was no longer funny.
I borrowed a costume from a friend, a very cute lederhosen Saint Pauli girl kinda thing. As I am getting ready for work my husband calls and says that the car has been stolen. My first response is laughter followed by absolute rage.
I own a 1998 Dodge Caravan! I just had about $700.00 work done on it in the last 15 days! Who wants to steal a mini van! In broad daylight! On a major street! The police are called. Evening approaches and I find my Heidi costume to be even more annoying now that I am sitting on the curb waiting for a taxi cab. Some trick or treaters walk by and tell me I look like Lady Gaga. This is a comparison I am getting really used to. Anyone over the age of 40 says I look like Marilyn Monroe, and anyone younger or homosexual says Lady Freakin Gaga! I smile at them.
I arrive at work to find that I am the only person dressed up! No joke! And everyone I tell that my car is stolen and missing says.."Yeah I hear those are easy to steal." After the 3rd time I wanted to ask my community that if this is such common knowledge, why did no one buy me a Club for Christmas the last 3 years I owned the car? I look like the most uncomfortable sad little beir girl you've ever seen. Finally the phone rings at 5:30 pm.
It is my husband calling to say that they found the car. It was totaled. Witnesses on the scene describe it as going 55 mph in a 30mph zone outta control, and hit a traffic sign. At which point "6 to 8 black kids" were seen running and scattering from the vehicle. They had stolen it, and drove somewhere to throw away anything that wasn't bolted down, including the head rests. They then picked up their friends and threw a 3 gallon gas can in the back just in case they needed gas I suppose.
When the tow truck brought the van back to my house my thoughts were on one thing! Did they know about the secret CD box under the passenger seat? I furiously run down and climb in the mangled broken carcass of the van and open the drawer! Eureka! There they all were! My Harry Connick Jr When Your Heart Finds Christmas, Christmas Cocktails, Have Yourself a Jazzy Little Christmas, and Mary Mary CDs! All there.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but cant help but wonder..did St Nicks "friends" steal my car? The evidence...
Inability to get an accurate number of people fleeing from the scene...6 to 8
Everything thrown away.....except Christmas and gospel music?
Perhaps this year, the Netherlands hot Christmas items are insurance papers, recyclable grocery bags and head rests from American cars! Ahh yes! Santa stole my mini van!
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