Some of the reasons I hate being a woman include these: I bleed monthly. I have to stuff cotton in my vagina to stop the bleeding or wear a miniature diaper around just so people don't think I have sat in chocolate pudding. I am emotional, and at times these emotions can cause irrational behavior. There are certain expectations I am to adhere to by our society; for example, I am not allowed to stick my hands down my pants in public to scratch my labia. However, men are allowed to scratch their balls, and I see it happen a lot. If my cooter starts itching, and I reach down to scratch it, people automatically think I'm disgusting, have crabs, or am a freak. (Just a note: my cooter isn't diseased and is not currently itchy.) Men are allowed to fart in public--they can't hold it in, they say. The only other person I have heard make that claim is my sister who loves to crap in public restrooms it seems. (Don't tell her I told you that, though.)
There are equally as many things I enjoy about being a woman: I have boobs, and men don't. I get to wear lipstick. I can ask for help when repairing things or when I am having a hard time opening a jar of pickles, and I don't get stared at or accused of being a wuss. Men often hold the door open, and for a germaphobe like me, this is a welcome blessing in disguise. I am a crazy cat lady; crazy cat man just doesn't have the same ring to it. I can watch romatic comedies and it's okay.
But the two most irritating things about being a woman are cars and computers.
While I was growing up, my step-dad taught me a lot about cars. I was mostly an unwilling participant, but I happened to always be a fan of old junkers, and old junkers naturally come with problems. While I only asked to physically help fix my 1987 Chevy Sprint once because I wanted to "get my hands dirty," I listened. I listened to every single word my step-dad said, even when I didn't want to know how carburetors or fuel-injected cars work. If it was a lecture about batteries and alternators, though I didn't necessarily want the long explanation--I just wanted the thing fixed already, please, damnit--I was a sponge for information.
This was recently (in the last year) most helpful to me when I looked at a new car at Dennis Dillon. I bought a Saab a few years ago, and I have become a big fan. As my Saab is past 200,000 miles, I thought it might be time to start looking. On a Friday, I saw a red, 1999 Saab on Craigslist at Dennis Dillon. I went to check it out on the sly; I just wanted to see it and drive off--no salesmen, just a quick glance. My roommate was the getaway driver, and as we turned into the lot, I jumped out, checked out the car, and I was about to jump back in when a man was shouting across the lot at me. Damn. I was trapped. To make a long-story short, I took the Saab for a test drive. And when I started it, a red warning light was on. I asked the salesman about it, and he said he didn't know what it was, and he didn't think their service department guys could get it looked at over the weekend because it was a Saab and they needed a "special computer" to look at it since it was "foreign." "Oh, really?" I asked, as I stepped out of the car after the test drive. And as he told his disheartening saga of the foreign car, and made his way to his office--implying I should come along to work out a deal--I said, "Hold on a second." I walked back to the car, opened the door, popped the hood, and lifted it up. On top of the engine or right inside the hood on the frame, there are usually specifications for what kind of instrument your car needs to read warning messages. Once again, I have owned cars with problems; this is something I know and have soaked in from listening to my step-dad. "Yeah. It takes the ODB II. The service department should have that."
My roommate stood nearby, and I could tell it took all her energy to hold back the biggest bout of laughter. The guy looked humiliated: he was caught. And I didn't care. I didn't buy the car. The manager and I had many phone calls about the car and what was wrong with it; he treated me like a girl. What he didn't know is the whole time I was talking not only to my step-dad, but I was also talking to my mechanic, the one person I am thankful for who has never treated me like a girl. When there were certain things that my step-dad couldn't fix on the car, I found a reputable mechanic whom I can call and tell what I think the problem is when the car is having issues. He actually listens, and listens well. He trusts that even though I can't do the work myself, I am capable of diagnosing a problem, even though I am a girl. However, there are many other people in the car industry that don't understand this about the gender with boobs: parts guys, tire guys, tow truck drivers. They just don't get it.
This leads me to today. I got a Time Capsule for my computers to do backups. For those that don't know, boobless or boobs-having, it is essentially a big hard drive that functions as a wireless router, too. I have an old laptop and a newer desktop that I wanted to backup on this Time Capsule. My desktop had no problem backing up, but the laptop was a completely different story.
I kept getting the same two error messages, and after searching forum after forum online for an answer, I reached out to friends for help on Facebook. I got the best advice they knew how to give, but unfortunately, the problems weren't solved.
I took a trip to the Mac store here in Boise. And instead of trying to listen to my theories, the guy kept talking over me. I told him I had set up a network and that my internet was working. He said, "Well, you could be on anyone's internet connection if there is an unsecured network in your neighborhood." It took me forever to explain that, no, I was positive I was on my OWN network. It took me forever because the guy wouldn't shut up for a second and listen to me. I explained that I understood how to set up the network and how to set up the Time Capsule, and he couldn't accept that as truth. As I tried to ask my questions to diagnose my problem and give my theory that it might be an operating system error--to possibly get his input--he cut me off and said he needed to see the computer and the Time Capsule.
"How much will that cost?"
"$100.00 bucks an hour," he said. "It should take about a half hour to figure out."
"And then it will be fixed?" I asked.
"Not necessarily."
After I got home, I researched more forums and found a temporary work-around the situation, which I will not explain here--boobs or no boobs, it's boring. I researched the upgraded operating system online and discovered it 30 bucks. I decided I would try it to get a more permanent solution, so I went to Best Buy to get the operating system and to ask someone and try and pick their brain; it seemed as though a number of people had the same issue with their Time Capsules. Some computer person had to have an answer.
When I started to ask the guy at Best Buy--the supposed expert--he didn't even want to listen to my question. He immediately started writing down a phone number. It was the number of the "in-home" tech who could come and set-up the Time Capsule for me.
"But I don't need that," I said. "I understand how to set it up, and it is working on one computer, just not the other."
And this is why it is frustrating to be a girl: most everytime I have had to ask for help in cars or computers, men write me off. And that's an interesting point: men are always the ones in the positions to be asked; there are rarely women in the fields of cars and computers.
Men tune me out. Instead of listening to my questions, as if I were another man asking the question, they assume I am incompetent and not worth their time. I swear the next time a man treats me like this, I am going to stomp on his toe--serious, look for me on the news.
Oh, and by the way, Mac store and Geek Squad guy? The fucking operating system upgrade worked. Eat it, fuckers.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
My First Teaching Dream
In August, I begin teaching a class of 25 Introduction to College Writing Students. While I'm nervous, mainly because I'm a sweater when I'm nervous (as in a person who sweats, not someone made out of wool), the idea of me sweating in front of everyone makes me even more nervous--maybe even more nervous than the thought of teaching. Yes, I'm nervous about sweating in front of 25 people; I'm not nervous about what I am going to say to them.
But my anxiety isn't inhabiting my every thought, so I was surprised I had my first teaching dream last night.
I was in front of a huge lecture hall. In real life, I won't be; I'll be in a small computer lab. The room was dark, made of wood, had three groupings of seats, with two aisles. On one side of the room was a chalkboard, on the other side, a whiteboard. On the whiteboard side, there was a ladder. I was supposed to climb the ladder to write on the whiteboard. I am terrified of ladders; I am no good on them, so I chose the chalkboard side. My theory has always been, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and I am a fat girl.
The students all sat on the side of the room with the whiteboard, opposite of where I was standing. I had my bag of stuff on a chair in the back of the room, and I kept going back to my bag for stuff. I opened my iPad, where I have been keeping notes for class--a tentative plan for each day--and I realized it was Wednesday, and I had yet to take attendance. In real life, I will be teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was then that I noticed one of my professors observing my class. Since I had yet to take attendance, and I couldn't really figure out what the fuck I had planned for the day--my nerves made me forget everything, it seems--and I was worried about being observed and be caught not taking attendance, I made an attendance speech. "I have not taken attendance for the past couple of days because I wanted to wait around until next week until things have settled down. Ya know...people are moving from class to class, and there is just a lot of tumult."
It's then that I decided we should do some sort of activity--since we were being observed and all. I can remember seeing some kind of clustermap--a way of generating ideas for writing--and somehow I was turning it into a group activity. I started to write the instructions on the board and then I turned back to the class. There were only about 11 students left. Where the hell did everybody go, I wondered. This isn't enough people for a group activity!
At this point, since everyone randomly disappeared since I wasn't taking attendance, I decided it was time for the mandatory attendance speech. "I will take attendance everyday. You need to be here on time and ready to work. If you miss more than four classes, you will fail the course. I am not afraid to fail anyone, and I will do it if I have to." There were grumblings from the students and shouts of protest, and all of a sudden, the room was full again. A student stepped up to a microphone in one of the aisles I hadn't noticed before and started to shout at me--I was unfair, I was incompetent.
All of the students were talking. They were talking really, really loud in fact. Everyone that has been to college knows that this is generally not the case for the first week. People sit and are quiet, nervous. And I was trying to talk over them, and it just didn't work. Then, a group of head honchos--presumably the university president and some others came to my class. They walked to the front of the room, and someone I knew was saying to one of the other men while gesturing to me, "Oh, she's great. She's just going to be a great instructor." Then the same man who complimented me looked down at my shoes, "What kind of shoes are you wearing? Those aren't professional shoes. You're wearing Crocs while teaching at a university?"
"No," I said. "These are dress flats, but my feet are so big and wide and I have flat feet, so my feet make my shoes look like crocs."
And magically, it was the end of class. Everyone was gone. It was then I discovered there was a microphone on the podium, since the room was so large. Oh, I thought to myself, they just couldn't hear me. And as I approached the microphone, and messed with the volume, all I could get was feedback.
The next instructor, a new instructor, too, showed up for her class. She was a beautiful black woman with an afro. She was stylishly dressed, and as the clock hit 10:40, she began her class by grabbing a big microphone (one straight out of The Price is Right) from the middle of the stage, one that I had somehow missed while I was teaching. She started her lesson plan, and her students were quiet, and then suddenly she began to sing the lesson and her students started cheering. I thought to myself why didn't I find that microphone?
But my anxiety isn't inhabiting my every thought, so I was surprised I had my first teaching dream last night.
I was in front of a huge lecture hall. In real life, I won't be; I'll be in a small computer lab. The room was dark, made of wood, had three groupings of seats, with two aisles. On one side of the room was a chalkboard, on the other side, a whiteboard. On the whiteboard side, there was a ladder. I was supposed to climb the ladder to write on the whiteboard. I am terrified of ladders; I am no good on them, so I chose the chalkboard side. My theory has always been, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, and I am a fat girl.
The students all sat on the side of the room with the whiteboard, opposite of where I was standing. I had my bag of stuff on a chair in the back of the room, and I kept going back to my bag for stuff. I opened my iPad, where I have been keeping notes for class--a tentative plan for each day--and I realized it was Wednesday, and I had yet to take attendance. In real life, I will be teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was then that I noticed one of my professors observing my class. Since I had yet to take attendance, and I couldn't really figure out what the fuck I had planned for the day--my nerves made me forget everything, it seems--and I was worried about being observed and be caught not taking attendance, I made an attendance speech. "I have not taken attendance for the past couple of days because I wanted to wait around until next week until things have settled down. Ya know...people are moving from class to class, and there is just a lot of tumult."
It's then that I decided we should do some sort of activity--since we were being observed and all. I can remember seeing some kind of clustermap--a way of generating ideas for writing--and somehow I was turning it into a group activity. I started to write the instructions on the board and then I turned back to the class. There were only about 11 students left. Where the hell did everybody go, I wondered. This isn't enough people for a group activity!
At this point, since everyone randomly disappeared since I wasn't taking attendance, I decided it was time for the mandatory attendance speech. "I will take attendance everyday. You need to be here on time and ready to work. If you miss more than four classes, you will fail the course. I am not afraid to fail anyone, and I will do it if I have to." There were grumblings from the students and shouts of protest, and all of a sudden, the room was full again. A student stepped up to a microphone in one of the aisles I hadn't noticed before and started to shout at me--I was unfair, I was incompetent.
All of the students were talking. They were talking really, really loud in fact. Everyone that has been to college knows that this is generally not the case for the first week. People sit and are quiet, nervous. And I was trying to talk over them, and it just didn't work. Then, a group of head honchos--presumably the university president and some others came to my class. They walked to the front of the room, and someone I knew was saying to one of the other men while gesturing to me, "Oh, she's great. She's just going to be a great instructor." Then the same man who complimented me looked down at my shoes, "What kind of shoes are you wearing? Those aren't professional shoes. You're wearing Crocs while teaching at a university?"
"No," I said. "These are dress flats, but my feet are so big and wide and I have flat feet, so my feet make my shoes look like crocs."
And magically, it was the end of class. Everyone was gone. It was then I discovered there was a microphone on the podium, since the room was so large. Oh, I thought to myself, they just couldn't hear me. And as I approached the microphone, and messed with the volume, all I could get was feedback.
The next instructor, a new instructor, too, showed up for her class. She was a beautiful black woman with an afro. She was stylishly dressed, and as the clock hit 10:40, she began her class by grabbing a big microphone (one straight out of The Price is Right) from the middle of the stage, one that I had somehow missed while I was teaching. She started her lesson plan, and her students were quiet, and then suddenly she began to sing the lesson and her students started cheering. I thought to myself why didn't I find that microphone?
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Cat Lady Writes a Letter to the Cat Food Company: What Idle Cat Lady Hands Do With Their Idle Time
While I am waiting for school to start and am spending most days when I am not at work preparing for the class I am teaching this upcoming semester, I periodically go to the store to buy groceries. Today, I bought some beets to bake, some La Croix, a bottle of beer, some Krab Salad, Wheat Thins, wet cat food, a gay pride-themed poof for my body wash (it was the cheapest one they had) and a donut. I stuffed everything into my canvas Kiss bag, as I realized I was wearing my Kiss Destroyer shirt, something I vowed I would never let happen in public--be seen with the bag and the shirt together. One by themselves is kind of ironic and amusing, two together verges on weird.
I got home, unpacked the big box of canned cat food I opted for finally--the variety pack! Usually I like to pick out my own cans of cat food, envisioning what it must be like to be my cats, savoring each Salmon and Cheese Savory Shred bite, or Flaked Tuna in Sauce. But today, I was practical. At .4 cents cheaper a can, I opted for the box--those cats can get used to the 3 flavors in here and like it!
I opened the box, and as you'll read in the following letter to Purina, this is what I discovered:
Dear Purina,
Usually I buy the single 5.5 oz cans of Friskies for my cat so they can have variety, but today I bought a 24-can pack with Mixed Grill, Ocean Whitefish and Tuna, and Turkey and Giblets. There are 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets and 8 cans of Mixed Grill; there are no Ocean Whitefish and Tuna in the pack at all. I won't ever be buying the packs again, because I hate being lied to. I am sure my cats are going to appreciate the 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets; it's not even Thanksgiving! BORING! It's called a variety pack for a reason!
I'm waiting for a response. I particularly hope they pay attention to the Thanksgiving part: the only thing giblets are good for is stuffing a raw turkey's ass and pulling them out of a nasty sack for making gravy.
I got home, unpacked the big box of canned cat food I opted for finally--the variety pack! Usually I like to pick out my own cans of cat food, envisioning what it must be like to be my cats, savoring each Salmon and Cheese Savory Shred bite, or Flaked Tuna in Sauce. But today, I was practical. At .4 cents cheaper a can, I opted for the box--those cats can get used to the 3 flavors in here and like it!
I opened the box, and as you'll read in the following letter to Purina, this is what I discovered:
Dear Purina,
Usually I buy the single 5.5 oz cans of Friskies for my cat so they can have variety, but today I bought a 24-can pack with Mixed Grill, Ocean Whitefish and Tuna, and Turkey and Giblets. There are 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets and 8 cans of Mixed Grill; there are no Ocean Whitefish and Tuna in the pack at all. I won't ever be buying the packs again, because I hate being lied to. I am sure my cats are going to appreciate the 16 cans of Turkey and Giblets; it's not even Thanksgiving! BORING! It's called a variety pack for a reason!
I'm waiting for a response. I particularly hope they pay attention to the Thanksgiving part: the only thing giblets are good for is stuffing a raw turkey's ass and pulling them out of a nasty sack for making gravy.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Nerdy Birdy, Look Who's Turning Thirty
There is nothing more depressing than reading the New York Times Weddings/Celebrations section close to a month before your thirtieth birthday. The Weddings/Celebrations section is full of presumably the elite in and around the New York area that are getting married--the ones who can either afford to announce their marriages or whose elite parents advertise for the engaged.
Here's an example of one: "Dr. Ezekiel Shields and his wife Myrna are proud to announce the marriage of their daughter Sarah Shields to Brad Goldberg. Brad and Sarah met while attending law school at Cornell. Brad was birthed from the womb playing classical piano, and Sarah the same. After they met, both found they shared an interested in Russian literature at the age of 3."
Okay, so I made that up, but that's how I feel when I read the announcements. And the pictures always kill me. The engagement photos of these people make them look so old. I don't mean wrinkly, but like distinguished. Though the couples average in age from 25-30, they looks so well put together--like they take their clothes to the cleaner and have facials and professional expensive dye jobs or makeup artists--all while I rinsed my hair this morning, halfway blowdryed it, and sprayed some TreSemme in it because I was in too much of a hurry to do anything else.
I haven't thought much about turning thirty until today. I used to think about it. After I re-enrolled in college and found out I would graduate in 2010, I laughed. I never thought 2010 would come, and I never thought 30 would, either. I think I had more of a problem with turning 25 because at 25, you're expected to quit fucking off and decide what it is you want to do with your life. And it is looking at these people in the New York Times and comparing myself to others in my age group that makes me nervous.
Lady Gaga--born in 1986, she just turned 25. She still gets to fuck off and drink a lot and wear meat suits, but she is easily now a millionaire (billionaire) and shits gold records. I will never shit gold records, though I will eat plenty of meat and never wear it.
Jessica McClure--better known as"Baby Jessica" born two days before Lady Gaga, just turned 25. While her claim to fame was falling in a well, and the media attention and multiple surgeries she had to endure were horrendous, she just cashed in on a trust fund set up by "well-wishers" in the eighties which contains $800,000. She is also married and has two kids.
Tiffany Brissette--better known as V.I.C.I. the robot in A Small Wonder is 36 years old. She's a nurse. And she was once a child-actor and a robot. How can I compare with a robot?
Erin Smith--totally not her real name, but a girl I was in G.A.T.E. (gifted and talented education) with in elementary school. She got a big set of fake boobs--what's that cost? $5,000 dollars? Seems like an accomplishment to me.
Alisa Baxter--her maiden name. Another girl I went to school with. She is now a neurosurgeon. In the tenth grade, do you know what her dream was? To be a neurosurgeon. How the hell do people know that at 16? Did Alisa know her boob would fall out of her dress at the high school prom? Probably not. Did she want it to? Probably not. Did she assume I would remember it for the rest of my life? No, but I did.
So, I guess what I am trying to say is, I don't know what I want to be, yet. I know I am going to graduate school, and I know that is an accomplishment, but it took me a long time to get here. I did a lot of screwing around in my 20's, and it was a time of tumult (some self-inflicted, most not.) I just don't feel like I'm an adult yet. I don't take my clothes to the cleaner; in fact, I don't even buy clothes that have to be taken to a cleaner, especially since my gay friend that did my ironing moved away--no lie. Most of my friends have kids and spouses and dogs and houses and things to take care of. I'm lucky that I remember to feed my cat (I remember when he meows at me) and water my plant (I remember when it is sagging down the sides of the planter).
I wonder this: will thirty make me feel and look like more of an adult? I doubt it. Will I keep fooling people? I hope so. Will I come to love vacuuming? Never.
Here's an example of one: "Dr. Ezekiel Shields and his wife Myrna are proud to announce the marriage of their daughter Sarah Shields to Brad Goldberg. Brad and Sarah met while attending law school at Cornell. Brad was birthed from the womb playing classical piano, and Sarah the same. After they met, both found they shared an interested in Russian literature at the age of 3."
Okay, so I made that up, but that's how I feel when I read the announcements. And the pictures always kill me. The engagement photos of these people make them look so old. I don't mean wrinkly, but like distinguished. Though the couples average in age from 25-30, they looks so well put together--like they take their clothes to the cleaner and have facials and professional expensive dye jobs or makeup artists--all while I rinsed my hair this morning, halfway blowdryed it, and sprayed some TreSemme in it because I was in too much of a hurry to do anything else.
I haven't thought much about turning thirty until today. I used to think about it. After I re-enrolled in college and found out I would graduate in 2010, I laughed. I never thought 2010 would come, and I never thought 30 would, either. I think I had more of a problem with turning 25 because at 25, you're expected to quit fucking off and decide what it is you want to do with your life. And it is looking at these people in the New York Times and comparing myself to others in my age group that makes me nervous.
Lady Gaga--born in 1986, she just turned 25. She still gets to fuck off and drink a lot and wear meat suits, but she is easily now a millionaire (billionaire) and shits gold records. I will never shit gold records, though I will eat plenty of meat and never wear it.
Jessica McClure--better known as"Baby Jessica" born two days before Lady Gaga, just turned 25. While her claim to fame was falling in a well, and the media attention and multiple surgeries she had to endure were horrendous, she just cashed in on a trust fund set up by "well-wishers" in the eighties which contains $800,000. She is also married and has two kids.
Tiffany Brissette--better known as V.I.C.I. the robot in A Small Wonder is 36 years old. She's a nurse. And she was once a child-actor and a robot. How can I compare with a robot?
Erin Smith--totally not her real name, but a girl I was in G.A.T.E. (gifted and talented education) with in elementary school. She got a big set of fake boobs--what's that cost? $5,000 dollars? Seems like an accomplishment to me.
Alisa Baxter--her maiden name. Another girl I went to school with. She is now a neurosurgeon. In the tenth grade, do you know what her dream was? To be a neurosurgeon. How the hell do people know that at 16? Did Alisa know her boob would fall out of her dress at the high school prom? Probably not. Did she want it to? Probably not. Did she assume I would remember it for the rest of my life? No, but I did.
So, I guess what I am trying to say is, I don't know what I want to be, yet. I know I am going to graduate school, and I know that is an accomplishment, but it took me a long time to get here. I did a lot of screwing around in my 20's, and it was a time of tumult (some self-inflicted, most not.) I just don't feel like I'm an adult yet. I don't take my clothes to the cleaner; in fact, I don't even buy clothes that have to be taken to a cleaner, especially since my gay friend that did my ironing moved away--no lie. Most of my friends have kids and spouses and dogs and houses and things to take care of. I'm lucky that I remember to feed my cat (I remember when he meows at me) and water my plant (I remember when it is sagging down the sides of the planter).
I wonder this: will thirty make me feel and look like more of an adult? I doubt it. Will I keep fooling people? I hope so. Will I come to love vacuuming? Never.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Buying Cheap Cock
There is restaurant on a corner near my house. For the longest time while I was in high school, it was a Denny's. It was the crack den of the century. I remember going there after concerts downtown and drinking coffee. I don't actually remember eating there, but it was a place to go and smoke cigarettes and hang out.
After Denny's closed, the building remained empty for a long time. Finally, I noticed through some paper on the windows that someone was building stalactites and stalagmites from the walls on the inside. Then, the restaurant was dubbed The Bedrock Cafe. I went there once, and I ate an omelet that tasted as though it came from Denny's but was served in caveman style.
After The Bedrock Cafe closed, the stalactites and stalagmites just stayed there forever. It must have cost a fortune for such garish decorating, but an evening bigger fortune to tear them down.
The next restaurant to go in the spot was a chinese buffet. I don't remember the name for certain, but I think it was called Chopsticks. I went there twice: once with my mom, and we were both grossed out that the crab rangoon had old crab claws stuffed into the ends of the puffy pastries--though I loved the chocolate fountain that they had very briefly. The second time, I went with my roommate. At the end of our meal--which wasn't very good--we left our money on the table with our bill, and we left. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, a small, Asian woman started beating on the driver's side window of the car--and beating hard for a small, Asian woman--while yelling "YOU NO PAY!" I politely (right) rolled down the window and told her our money was on the table and to get her hands off of my car. I never went back.
So once Chopsticks closed, I wasn't surprised. It's like crack den Denny's is haunting the space, never to let another restaurant survive. So, when I saw Sushi Joy, a new Chinese and Japanese restaurant go in, I was a little shocked because no one has really learned their lesson yet, it seems.
I stopped on my way home from work and ordered some spring rolls, a couple of sushi rolls, and a coke. When I paid, I found that that is not actually what I ordered:
Yes, that's right. I have been caught. I am guilty of buying cock--well, it's cheap! Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same. I pondered telling the girls working there about maybe reprogramming the register, but I couldn't figure out how to say "Hey, this receipt here says I am buying cock, not coke. Cock is a penis. Coke is not a penis. A cock is a dick, a wiener, a prick, a tube steak, a skin flute. A coke is a soft drink, a soda, a pop, a carbonated beverage." I just thought the conversation would turn out awkwardly, so I avoided it all together. But if they keep selling cock for $1.75, this restaurant may just make it.
After Denny's closed, the building remained empty for a long time. Finally, I noticed through some paper on the windows that someone was building stalactites and stalagmites from the walls on the inside. Then, the restaurant was dubbed The Bedrock Cafe. I went there once, and I ate an omelet that tasted as though it came from Denny's but was served in caveman style.
After The Bedrock Cafe closed, the stalactites and stalagmites just stayed there forever. It must have cost a fortune for such garish decorating, but an evening bigger fortune to tear them down.
The next restaurant to go in the spot was a chinese buffet. I don't remember the name for certain, but I think it was called Chopsticks. I went there twice: once with my mom, and we were both grossed out that the crab rangoon had old crab claws stuffed into the ends of the puffy pastries--though I loved the chocolate fountain that they had very briefly. The second time, I went with my roommate. At the end of our meal--which wasn't very good--we left our money on the table with our bill, and we left. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, a small, Asian woman started beating on the driver's side window of the car--and beating hard for a small, Asian woman--while yelling "YOU NO PAY!" I politely (right) rolled down the window and told her our money was on the table and to get her hands off of my car. I never went back.
So once Chopsticks closed, I wasn't surprised. It's like crack den Denny's is haunting the space, never to let another restaurant survive. So, when I saw Sushi Joy, a new Chinese and Japanese restaurant go in, I was a little shocked because no one has really learned their lesson yet, it seems.
I stopped on my way home from work and ordered some spring rolls, a couple of sushi rolls, and a coke. When I paid, I found that that is not actually what I ordered:
Yes, that's right. I have been caught. I am guilty of buying cock--well, it's cheap! Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same. I pondered telling the girls working there about maybe reprogramming the register, but I couldn't figure out how to say "Hey, this receipt here says I am buying cock, not coke. Cock is a penis. Coke is not a penis. A cock is a dick, a wiener, a prick, a tube steak, a skin flute. A coke is a soft drink, a soda, a pop, a carbonated beverage." I just thought the conversation would turn out awkwardly, so I avoided it all together. But if they keep selling cock for $1.75, this restaurant may just make it.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Jesse Better Shut His Pie Hole
Today is my nephew Jake's eighth birthday. For people that have read my blog before, he is the boy who wore an Uncle Sam costume on superhero day at school, and subsequently, while visiting our fireworks stand, decided to go and advertise on the street. Then the sheriff showed up and accused us of child endangerment. Poor us. Poor kid. Nobody told him that though he loved that red, white, and blue top hat, Uncle Sam, although fictional, is not technically a super hero, nor is he probably anyone's favorite about now.
So, for Jake's birthday, he asked me to get him Nancy Drew books. I happily and a little grudgingly agreed. See, I am more than happy to be buying him books for his birthday--books and music is what I always remember wanting for birthdays--but I thought he might want something a little more gender-specific like The Hardy Boys. I have no problem with him wanting to read a book about a girl detective, but I thought his eight-year-old party guests may think differently, and I didn't want to embarrass him--in case Nancy Drew was his little eight-year-old secret passion.
After the party had wound down, and most of the kids had left, I was inspecting some other books he got for his birthday from The Diary of the Wimpy Kid series. I had never seen the books but know they are wildly popular. As I was flipping the pages, I noticed something written in the front cover of the book:
The photo is lacking, for sure, but here is what the inscription reads: "Jesse better shut his pie hole."
I asked my sister "Did Jake write that!?" And my sister replied "Yes." When Jake was walking through the kitchen, he agreed that he knew Jesse, but when we brought up that "Jesse better shut his pie hole" he magically knew nothing and walked off nonchalantly. Later, as he sat at the table alone, I went up and whispered in Jake's ear "Jesse better shut his pie hole," and Jake giggled--he knew, and he had done it.
Now, I'm confident that no kid will make fun of Jake for reading Nancy Drew or any other kind of book, and for that, I'm grateful.
Seriously, Jesse, you better shut your pie hole. Happy birthday, Jake.
So, for Jake's birthday, he asked me to get him Nancy Drew books. I happily and a little grudgingly agreed. See, I am more than happy to be buying him books for his birthday--books and music is what I always remember wanting for birthdays--but I thought he might want something a little more gender-specific like The Hardy Boys. I have no problem with him wanting to read a book about a girl detective, but I thought his eight-year-old party guests may think differently, and I didn't want to embarrass him--in case Nancy Drew was his little eight-year-old secret passion.
After the party had wound down, and most of the kids had left, I was inspecting some other books he got for his birthday from The Diary of the Wimpy Kid series. I had never seen the books but know they are wildly popular. As I was flipping the pages, I noticed something written in the front cover of the book:
I asked my sister "Did Jake write that!?" And my sister replied "Yes." When Jake was walking through the kitchen, he agreed that he knew Jesse, but when we brought up that "Jesse better shut his pie hole" he magically knew nothing and walked off nonchalantly. Later, as he sat at the table alone, I went up and whispered in Jake's ear "Jesse better shut his pie hole," and Jake giggled--he knew, and he had done it.
Now, I'm confident that no kid will make fun of Jake for reading Nancy Drew or any other kind of book, and for that, I'm grateful.
Seriously, Jesse, you better shut your pie hole. Happy birthday, Jake.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Library Day
I visited the library today. And I have been visiting the library about twice a week for the past few weeks--hence no blogs as I have been reading as much as I can. I have toyed with writing reviews, but I don't know how much interest people would have in reading them here, so I haven't. Also, for some reason I just can't make myself write a review, which brings me to the idea of my perfect job (other than teaching, of course): reading books. Yes. That would be my job: reading. But I don't think I can get paid for it because after I have read a book, I have no motivation to write a review or talk in depth about the book. I can do a few things after completing a novel: 1.) Smile and nod. 2.) Frown and shake my head. 3.) Cringe in repugnance (see Bret Easton Ellis' Imperial Bedrooms last two pages) 4.) Send a text to a friend recommending the book because I think he/she will like it.
So today, I picked up nine books--hopefully none are cringeworthy with surprise, grotesque endings. On a day like today, when the weather is rainy and snowy, it's amazing how many people pack into the main library in Boise. The tables were mostly all occupied by homeless people trying to get out of the cold. I spent less time than I would have liked there today because the library stunk like wet, dirty, science-fiction people, and because none of the homeless people were reading--not even the newspaper--which made me uncomfortable. They were just sitting there looking depressed. And as I passed by the shelves, every once in a while, a homeless man would glance over and give me a look of judgment--at least that's what it felt like--and it made me start sweating a lot, so I got out of there as quickly as I could.
So today, I picked up nine books--hopefully none are cringeworthy with surprise, grotesque endings. On a day like today, when the weather is rainy and snowy, it's amazing how many people pack into the main library in Boise. The tables were mostly all occupied by homeless people trying to get out of the cold. I spent less time than I would have liked there today because the library stunk like wet, dirty, science-fiction people, and because none of the homeless people were reading--not even the newspaper--which made me uncomfortable. They were just sitting there looking depressed. And as I passed by the shelves, every once in a while, a homeless man would glance over and give me a look of judgment--at least that's what it felt like--and it made me start sweating a lot, so I got out of there as quickly as I could.
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