Sunday, April 24, 2011

If you spent three days trapped in a cave you'd probably be a little annoyed, too

Happy Zombirthday, Homie J. 



It's Easter, and I have successfully navigated the month of April without a single piece of candy passing through my lips.  I did, however, dye an egg.  In keeping with a four year old tradition (I think it's been four years now?), my friends and I once again gathered for beer and Ukrainian egg dying.  One Flying Fish Exit 4 beer decimated me for the night (but it's 9.5% alcohol!), and my hand-eye coordination apparently rivals that of a five year old with ADHD when I am a wee bit inebriated:

Friends shouldn't let friends dye drunk. 

Right now it's surprisingly nice out for an Easter Sunday.  Growing up, I don't ever remember having an Easter Egg hunt with my cousins that didn't involve scrabbling through mud and wet grass in a cold drizzle.  Now that we're too old for our parents to justify hiding plastic eggs full of loose change for us to fight over, Easter decides to be warm and gorgeous.  It's just as well, though.  Finding money isn't nearly as exciting when you know you'll just use it to buy groceries or pay your electric bill.

Time to go mix up the dressing for the kale slaw I'm taking to dinner at my aunt's house!  I hope everyone at least tries it, but I'm not going to hold my breath for that one.  Usually my attempts to introduce healthy things are not well-received, so we'll see.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Excellent Adventure or Bogus Journey?

Today began with great promise.  Our spring break began at 2:30 yesterday.  We toyed with going to Cancun for some boobies and daiquiris, but in the interest of finances (right?), we decided to keep it local-ish and go hiking.  The original itinerary involved a trip to the Delaware Water Gap.  We made it as far as the gas station before we decided spending a total of four hours in the car and throwing down a bunch of dollars on tolls to hike for for hours or less would be stupid and pointless. 

We shifted gears and headed to the Pine Barrens instead.  Unfortunately, the GPS took us on a back-asswards path through some strip-mall wastelands and then past Clementon Park (an amusement/water park, for non-South Jerseyians).  I'm not sure if that place has really gone downhill in the last decade and a half or if it has always looked like something from an R. L. Stine book.  Either way, it was a lot smaller and rapey looking than I remember it.

We finally made it to Batsto Village in Wharton State Forest.  After a pleasant but rather flat (I mean, it is New Jersey) four mile loop (where there were, sadly, no sightings of the 13th Leeds child), we ate some peanut butter and jelly sammiches and walked around in Batsto Village.  It's really just a dirt road with about 10 buildings, if you've never been there.  Not exactly a high-stakes adventure, but better than being at work or in our hobbit-hole cave of an apartment. 


Wednesday, April 20, 2011

RIF On This...

Or, Something Is Rotten in the State of New Jersey.

Here's a limerick for you, and for once, it isn't about Nantucket and it's not filthy.  Although, can we be honest here?  When I finally learned what follows, "there once was a man from Nantucket," I was pretty disappointed.  The buildup promised something exceptionally filthy, and I found it to be only moderately vulgar.  But anyway:

There once was a girl who loved books
Who went to work for some crooks
Til they robbed her of work
And acted like jerks
Now she's thinking of switching to Nook.

Let's get one thing straight, though.  When I talk about 'work' I am not referring to my specific employer but rather to the state of New Jersey in general.  It's bad, guys.  And to think that it has come to this - that things are so desperate that anyone can suggest students will still get a good education without a proper and fully-staffed library.  That's just bad news bears.

But, you know, everything worth knowing is available in digital form now, right?  We can just use the Internet for everything.  All we need is Google and Wikipedia, because I'm sure all the people who found my blog by searching for the following phrases found EXACTLY what they needed:

  • counter argument of breakfast
  • hipster coiffure
  • fecal study florecient paint  <-- (what does that even mean?)
  • tube2 mom undress son looking from window
  • purple nurple muffin
  • advertisements based on feelings   <--(well, actually, that one might be semi-relevant to one post)
  • breakfast linking with emotion
  • asking mom in scheming way to use nair
  • is my underwear are comfortable grammatically correct

And finally, the one search phrase that may have resulted in a genuinely helpful hit for someone:


  • pate brisee recipe "grate the butter"

To be fair, though, the person searching for 'purple nurple muffin' probably didn't require a scholarly source to fulfill that information need.  For the rest of you Googlers, who ARE you?  I'm not complaining about the traffic, though I am well aware it was fleeting and probably resulted in disappointment.  I'm sorry I'm not an endless font of knowledge concerning bodily excretions, depilation, or clothing vis a vis the removal and theft thereof.  I can only be so many things to so many people, and clearly, I have fallen short in this arena.  Soooorrrryy. 

Monday, April 18, 2011

Validation

I'm a sucker for schadenfreude - I love reading about other people's social dilemmas.  (If you read this blog, you, too, probably like to live vicariously through the shame of another)  In today's Dear Prudence column on Slate, I found a person with a problem that mirrors my own life pretty uncannily.  This past weekend, my Ron Jeremy protege neighbor went at it no less than thrice in a 16 hour span of time.  At the onset of two of those encounters, I was asleep.  Only at the onset, though, because he and his lady of the night sound like a couple of beached orcas thrashing around on a pile of slinkies.

So the question is, do I follow the advice below?  Or, slam on the ceiling with the butt of a rifle (it's been suggested to use broom or mop handle, but, despite my OCD tendencies, we have neither)?  OR, and this is the preferable option - drown out his throes of ecstasy and structure-destabilization by blasting "Hit 'Em High".  Can a sister get a copy of the Space Jam soundtrack, please.


Q. Neighbor Problem: I am a man in his 20s. I have a great life and girlfriend, and I can't think of the last time a problem truly stumped me like this one has. I live in a condominium complex and have a neighbor, "Samantha," who I am not close with but share hellos with when I see her in the elevator, hallway, etc. We both know each other's names and chat on occasion, but that is about it. Well, a few months ago I was awakened by "Samantha" to be, what sounded like, in the throes of passion in her bedroom (which is across the wall from mine). It was loud enough to wake me from a dead sleep and continued for several agonizing minutes. Now if this had been a onetime thing, I would not be writing to you, but for several months this has been happening multiple times a week anytime between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. Each time I am jolted from sleep (for it is quite a vocal performance, to say the least). Moving is out of the question, for I own my condo, and I am her only neighbor as well. Is there a way to solve this without making it any more awkward than it already is? 

A: Passionate neighbors are a perennial problem. Other readers have said that anonymous notes pushed under the door have worked wonders. Something like: "We're happy that you're having so much fun in bed, but please respect that your early morning passion is ruining the time in bed for those of us who are just sleeping. So when you go at it, please keep it down."

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Working for the Weekend

Happy Weekend, internets!  I hope you all are having wonderful weekends.  I myself have already enjoyed picking up my new glasses, hanging out with my mom and Linus, and then savoring some dinner and wine with a few fine ladies last night (and looking forward to doing god knows what with a gaggle of great folks next weekend).  It's been far too long since I've seen any of my friends, so I was beyond stoked to spend the night with them.  For a while there, I was kind of starting to feel like a pathetic hermit.  I've gone to bed before 10 on a Friday night enough times in the recent past to qualify for AARP membership.  Probably not a healthy pattern for a 25 year old with no (known) social disorders.

I guess last night's excitement was a little too much for me, though.  I got up around 8, had breakfast and gymmed it up as usual, but the day went downhill fast from there.  I haven't strayed far from the couch in hours, and took a highly uncharacteristic two-hour nap.  I made the mistake of falling asleep watching a History Channel show about possible apocalyptic scenarios.  As I drifted off, they were exploring man-made catastrophes and ICBMs were mentioned.  I remember thinking 'hur hur, what's an icy BM?' which was unfortunate because I then had a dream about pooping out ice cubes.

Having no life does have its perks, though.  It gives me plenty of time to cook sort-of-healthy and occasionally delicious meals that would be too time-consuming for someone with any kind of action on the social calendar.  For example, Thursday night I made another bangin' quiche.  This time I made it with broccoli, kale, and onions with sharp cheddar, feta, and Parmesan cheese.  It was especially gratifying because this is the third time I have made quiche for Andy, but the first time he has ever said "Ooh, I love quiche night.  Quiche is my favorite!"  The first time I announced we were having quiche for dinner, he grimaced and declared his hatred for the egg and pie crust concoction.  Since I subscribe to the fish-wife school of 'if you don't like it, cook your own dinner or shut up,' I made it anyway.  And he liked it.  I know this, because he had seconds, and he was visibly saddened when he learned that I ate the last piece two nights later.

Unfortunately, the sensory experience of Andy's first enjoyable quiche didn't create an indelible memory.  The second time I made quiche, he turned up his nose again and grumbled.  Fish-wifery prevailed, and I cooked it anyway.  I was too excited about using my new/old Cuisinart food processor to make the pie crust to let his disdain dampen my enthusiasm.  Previous pie crust endeavors involved painstakingly shredding sticks of frozen butter with a cheese grater, which was almost enough of a workout to cancel out the subsequent eating of said pie crust.  However, my awesome g-ma recently bought a new food processor and gave me her old one, so my butter-grating days are behind me now. 

The second iteration of quiche was loaded with zucchini, onions, peppers, and broccoli.  It tasted amazing but the crust melted down into a hideous, deformed nightmare during the pre-baking stage.  It looked like something Salvador Dali might serve you at a dinner party, but at least it made a lasting impression on Andy, who finally remembered the third time around the block that he doesn't hate quiche.  As an added bonus, this time I wised up and used dried beans to weigh down the foil lining the crust during pre-baking, and it turned out beautifully.  Although beauty here is relative.  I wouldn't have been embarrassed to serve it to guests, but this lady ain't winning any ribbons at the fair (unless Helen Keller and Ray Charles are judging).

In other news, a bird missed shitting on me by a margin of inches the other day.  I was bent over putting a few things in the passenger seat of my car when I heard a watery splat on the asphalt beside me.  I looked down and saw the telltale white splatter.  I looked up, and saw in the tree above me one very smug-looking robin with incredible sphincter aim.  Somehow, it managed to drop its load in the small triangle of space formed by my body and the acute angle of the car and open car door. 



Here's a little weekend reading for your pleasure:


http://www.slate.com/id/2291205/

This is an interesting article from Slate about how, for almost a century, advertisements have been playing on women's insecurities by inventing flaws in order to create a market for products designed to fix said 'flaws.'  This piqued my interest because I'm endlessly fascinated by vintage advertising (also one reason why I love Mad Men) and also I have been reading 'Born to Run' by Christopher McDougall.  In his exploration of barefoot and ultra running, he reveals how Nike created a demand for their running shoes by claiming that our feet are inherently flawed structures in need of support.  Funnily enough, running injuries, especially foot and knee injuries, were almost nonexistent until Nike invented these first cushioned running shoes in the 1970s.  Instead of improving performance, the padding and support undermined the strength of our feet and allowed us to run with improper form, leading to injuries. 

Nike (obviously) isn't the only company to market its products so insidiously, as this article evinces.  Feminine hygiene product ads prove just as nefarious, and just as destructive.  Thanks, advertisers, for tricking us into mangling our knees, feet, armpits, and vaginae.  <--My spell check suggested this for the plural of vagina, and I think I like it.


Some particularly interesting quotes:

Listerine targeted men and women, but the phrase "often a bridesmaid but never a bride" was made famous by the company's ads. In one 1925 image, a woman reads another woman's wedding announcement with a troubled expression on her face. "Her case was really a pathetic one," the copy intones, describing the woman as nowhere near marriage "as her birthdays crept gradually toward that tragic thirty mark." The culprit? Halitosis, of course.

From the 1930s through the 1960s, according to Andrea Tone's Devices and Desires, the top feminine hygiene product in the country was Lysol. In addition to being marketed as a mouth gargle, a household cleaner, and more, the disinfectant was sold as a douche. Consumers understood that Lysol douche was to be used as a contraceptive, Tone writes, although the ads used veiled language, alluding to problems like "germs" and "odors," and suggesting that a wife's "fear of a major crisis" (code for becoming pregnant) could lead to marital discord and divorce. The ads tended to lay the happiness of the marriage—and the power to limit family size—squarely in the woman's lap. Only the "proved germicidal efficiency of Lysol" can "restore every woman's confidence in her power to please," one 1948 ad declared.


Rats, I thought I was really onto something novel when I started using Lysol wipes the day we ran out of toilet paper.

Monday, April 11, 2011

This Old House

Despite my various associations with Bob Vila, and my great admiration for Martha Stewart's domestic skills, I think either individual would die a little inside if they had to spend a week in my apartment.  Half our stuff is still boxed up, because there is no place to put anything.  Moreover, it just feels so pointless to unpack things that don't have a specific and regular utility when they will just have to be repacked in 3 more months.  Hence, there is very little going on here, style wise. 

Beyond the aesthetics, there are the neighbors.  Where to start.  The guy upstairs.  Let's start with that, because quite frankly, he never stops.  His bedroom is right above ours, and his bed seems to be directly above our bed.  The past month or two, he has been spending an increasing amount of time with a lady friend.  Their favorite activities appear to be furiously copulating, driving somewhere to get takeout food, and thundering back up the stairs to inhale a pile of greasy slop in order to fuel another round.  And another.  And another.  This would probably go unnoticed if his bed didn't produce a sound not unlike a hippopotamus bouncing on a rusty trampoline while gripping a bucket of loose change in its maw.  And it would be forgivable if it didn't happen at bizarre hours on a constant basis.

Then there are the children.  They are everywhere, and they are wild.  We have three very tall windows in the bedroom.  The sills are at mid-shin height, and Ajax loves to sit on one particular window sill.  To keep him from destroying the blinds in that window, we keep them raised to about mid-thigh height at all times.  Still low enough for plenty of privacy, riiight?  Wroooong.  Apparently I wasn't taking into consideration the fact that children might one day decide to crouch outside my window with their faces pressed against the screen, peering into my bedroom.  I walked into the bedroom with an armload of laundry and discovered this juvenile bed intruder who had just caused Ajax to beat a hasty retreat in sheer terror.

Clearly, I need to hide my cat and hide my husband, because they are visually raping everybody out here.  Thank god I had pants on, because, when I believe I am safe in the privacy of my own home, I am often missing some article of clothing or other that would be required for public decency.  A few minutes later, believing I had scared the kid away, I was in the process of taking my pants off when he returned.  What gives?

But I digress.  It's time to share some pictures.  A showcase of minimalism, with a few pretty things to break up the austerity.  Austerity just sounds so much more dignified than squalor, don't you think?

Not going to lie, this bathroom vanity is one of my favorite things about the apartment.  Totally 70's, and complements our goldenrod colored bathtub, goldenrod wall tiles, and array of cream, tan, and goldenrod floor tiles beautifully.  Kinda makes you feel like a rapper - surrounded by gold, even whilst poopin'.

Bedspread, or, giant sheet I bought on clearance from Urban Outfitters a few years ago.  The prettiness really made up for the fact that our mattress was on the floor from June until about a month ago.  The night stand peeking out of the corner of the picture is an old hard-shell suitcase.  It weighs about 8 thousand pounds and has no wheels.  Andy should be thankful for modern luggage, or he'd be schlepping my heavy junk all over the place when we travel (more so than he already does, to give credit where credit is due, I suppose).

Without the sheet, this is just a pile of boxes (nerdily enough, these boxes contain 90% books).  With the sheet, it's mysterious.  There could be ANYTHING under there.  You have no idea.  And you know you like the bright orange Wawa crate peeking out from the bottom.

Big comfy couch.  Seriously, it's a good couch.  Fits well with the minimalist/retro vibe we seem to be curating here.

More old stuff.  This dresser came out of my dad's apartment.  I don't know if it's actually an antique but it seems pretty old.  Once it stopped reeking of cigarettes, I've really enjoyed having it around.

Random found/decorated things, and a non-working wall clock.  Who cares what time it is, anyway?

My spot. 

I'm still not quite over the novelty of having a table.  We spent far too long eating meals on an end table.  Better than nothing, but it was an awkward height.  This Ethan Allen table (from the 70's, of course) is on loan to us, and the fine folks who lent it to us described it quite succinctly:  "A few years ago, this table was 'junk' but now it's 'mid-century'."  Whatever, I like it, and it gets the job done.  I'm also digging the current bounty of this fruit bowl.  I got a little over-zealous in the produce department yesterday when this picture was taken.

The only other decorations we have out.  Bleak print of boats in a harbor, cats on the right, and some Easter swag on the left.  I don't really care about Easter, but the knick-knack on the far left has Peanuts characters on it, and the other thing is a bunny.  I'm pretty sure I get a pass for cuteness here, because it makes up for the pile of mystery under a sheet that lies directly to the left of this scene.

We also have a sick shower curtain, but I got a little lazy and forgot to take a picture of it.  It's a giant vinyl reproduction of Hokusai's 'The Great Wave off Kanagawa' print.  My mom randomly found it somewhere for $2 a couple years ago, and it's the greatest.  If you've seen my back, it's no secret that this is my favorite work of art.  Not the most original preference, but I've loved it since I was a little kid.  Does that make me pompous or pretentious?  I mean, I liked it before it was cool, so clearly, that legitimizes my preference and makes me better, right?


And thus concludes our tour.  If you are lucky enough to live in a fully furnished, fully assembled, non-temporary living space devoid of nymphomaniacs and junior KGB officers, go hug your china cabinet (or whatever kind of furniture civilized people have).