Thursday, December 31, 2009

Oh 2009, how very unaware I was of you, until it was too late. And then I didn't care anymore.

New Years and my birthday are the two holidays I love the most. I think they hold for me the same sort of religious significance other people attach to Christmas or Easter. They mark the passage of time, which to me is this fucking miracle, that our planet is revolving and the solar system is moving and the joints of the universe continue to work in still mysterious harmony.

When I turned 30 this year, I had the pangs. They were there. They were mostly associated with the slow and tortuous death of a relationship which I had really loved and depended on, despite it's resemblance to an after school special at points. But even when you feel time starting to flex it's icy fingers, its still pretty cool to realize you've been alive for 30 years. 30 years. The 80s, the 90s, now the Aughts or whatever it is we're going to name them. And when I turn 31, it will be cooler. And 41, cooler still. Because I'm alive and not broken down and the apocalypse hasn't happened, and we are reminded every New Years that we are living human history.

I also had my camera this year, and Jere, and old buildings. How secure going to these places made me feel. Like an individual again. Like a thinker. Like someone capable of creating good things.

2009 was the year the internet and I got married. It was a long courtship. I've had a blog since November 3rd 2001. Here's my very first entry, my first imprint online, like a baby step:

The day I finally fell permanently out of the nest
Time: 8:23 pm.
Excepting of course unforeseen circumstances like bankruptcy, mutilation, running from the cops, ect...
I finally got my own apartment. It only took me twenty two years of being strangled by an umbilical cord to get it through my thick skull that I don't want to live with anyone else. So it's tiny, and...tiny, but its mine all mine and I can walk around naked as much as I want. After I get curtains. Okay, I know a first entry is supposed to be long and all, but I have to go unpack, so we'll talk later.

Funny how I had to relearn that particular epiphany like three more times. So this decade is when I started dating the internet, and then finally last year it proposed to me with a camera and a new site called Facebook and here we are. Ta da.

Fuck facebook, the really influential site of the decade was Livejournal. I mean, it's dead now, we all know that. But it was it, when it was the thing to be.

So now it's 2010 and I blog, twitter, and check my facebook page twenty times daily. My presence is seeded through out the regional webs like a small field weed. You are all there too, in little hidden spots. It is completely normal and natural for us all to type our daily feelings into mechanical windmills and scatter it for whoever will listen. And all those old arguments have been voided. It will shorten our attention spans - Not mine. I write and read more now than I ever did. It will ruin our relationships - I have more real life friends now than before, I'm more open and comfortable with people because I feel like the expectations are easily set. It is creepy to get with someone online - whatever.

I also like the fact that I think my digital world holds me to a more honest standard. It motivates me to actually be more interesting and do more interesting things. It encourages me to tell the truth, which means I should make a truth I'm willing to tell. Say whatever you want about assholes and liars online, in the future Your Online Morality is going to be a real, teachable thing. And we are caught in the birth of it now. That transition from creepy quirky geeky Web to shiny smooth social media digital community, that happened in the last decade. It should be what we all remember about the Aughts. Fuck, I hate that word.

I'm still fat. I'm still dirty. I'm still drinking more than I should, and overdrafting my bank account, and not being the most reliable friend when it comes to plans. I have a car, but it's so filthy, it doesn't really count as an accomplishment.

I have another fucking cat. God.

But I'm not as slutty, and I wear more appropriate clothes, and I don't slather 5 pounds of makeup on ever day. I've gotten really good at not crying. I don't get a crush on EVERYONE.

I'm not pregnant. I'm not desperate. I don't live in Phoenix. I find time to write. I get really interested in things, lots of things.

So these are all improvements. It's all one can ask for.

I think it is a successful year when you are so engrossed in it, that it goes really really slowly. I barely remember 2008, it feels like 2009 has been happening forever. I feel good about this.

I promise, as soon as this gets old, we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming...

If you could go anywhere on a big map of the United States made out of bricks and rocks in the landscaping of a park, where would you go?

I would lie down right in the middle of the Plains and warm myself like a lizard.

I would then go to Florida and kick the shit out of it.

How will the world end?

Well, one day I will find myself 30, and in the insurance field, in a relationship I've been in forever that causes me no great happiness. But I'll have a routine. Then one day something odd will fall out of the sky, and Philip Glass music will start playing all the time. I'll start to see signs that maybe my world isn't what I thought it was. Everyone is following me, everyone is watching me. I'll have paranoid thoughts, and lose my trust in everyone around me. It will seem like the entire world is trying to keep me in one spot, I will never be able to leave. I try to make plans, to focus on my desires, but I am foiled at every turn. Finally, one day, I will make a daring break for it, and slip away on a boat. I will sail to the end of the horizon. It will storm and fury, but I'll know that it's just the world I grew up in trying to keep me there, and I'll tie myself to my boat and sail onwards, until one day I hit a wall. And it's the wall of the world, where the sea ends. I'll walk along the edge, running my hands along painted clouds, until I come to some steps and a door. Then Christof will try and talk me out of it in a large very scary voice from the sky. But I know, waiting on the other side of that door is the real world, and somewhere in the real world is my one true love, and I'll walk through the hole in the sky and away.

The End.

Ask me anything

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

I love you people asking me questions.

is there anyway we county residents can whack every shitbum politician in this town and their puppet precinct bosses? Okay. Sure, there are some who do good for us serfs, but could it be like a combined hit and no one gets caught?

By "whacked" and "hit", I assume that you are referring to the time honored Welsh tradition of pummeling public servants with large salmon every spring. It's an oldie but a goodie. I think the execution of it should be simple. We just need to start a grassroots campaign online, storm a meeting or two, and get everyone a very large fish.

We'll need cabbage to make the traditional fermented celebratory drink, and you should probably get started on that now, it takes a few months.

Do you like me yes or no.

I like this question for sure. I've always like this question. I think there's this great, completely unique, unable to be fabricated sincerely, makes the inside of you smile no matter what the source feeling that comes when someone asks you that question.

So yes, I like you, because you asked me that question.


There are lots of ways I could like or dislike you, seeing as I don't know who you are at all. I could think you're really cute. Or I could think your face is kinda weird. I could maybe have no idea of your existence at all, and you just submitted this random question cause you thought it was funny, without knowing at all what's going on in my inner or outer life, and anticipating it might mean anything at all. You could be an ex. I could be waiting by the phone for you to call, or I could be refreshing your FB page while not writing you anything, or I could be actively trying to forget meeting you that one time cause it made me really uncomfortable.

I'll tell you what. 1000 dollars, I like you.

When was the last time you really wanted to punch someone's lights out, and why?

Look, I don't punch things, I throw things. And it's a terrible trait, and something I hate and try to control, because I break shit. Some people just break shit. So I don't like to talk about it, because it's part of the very large dark side of me I try really hard to keep from anyone.

My lighter side also headbutts people a lot, like a baby dinosaur. Someone used to call me a turtle.

Ask me anything

Monday, December 28, 2009

What are you most excited about right now?

Right now, I am not extremely excited about anything. I mean, I just got through setting up one more way for me to interact meaninglessly with the online world, so there's that. I have a decent Gruyere in the fridge, so that's good, however it also reminds me I have to do my dishes so I'll actually have a knife to cut it with. And while I could be doing my dishes now, it's actually preferable to me if I sit here typing out some bullshit than to actually have any clean silverware. I would say I'm excited to be thirty and to like myself, but clearly that's a doubtful truth.

Ask me anything

High Treason (for reasons it's better not to know, it was either this or INXS greatest hits, sorry)

High Treason: the act of betraying your king or state.

Selling secrets, planning coups, attempting or succeeding at assassination, giving information to the enemy during a time of war, spying, poisoning the queen, kidnapping and replacing the president with a robot, not pinning the white queen's scarf down properly so that it keeps blowing away, dancing too close with a person of the opposite or equal sex, also perhaps if that person is being pursued by the FBI for involvement in a cover-up of real data on algae swarms off the coast of North Carolina, handing a nuclear ballistic sub over to Alec Baldwin, conspiring with Austria while teaching your son the prince how to masturbate, opposing Canada's expansion into the West, fighting on the side of Italy, supporting Jacobites, playing with puppet regimes, being on the losing side. Carrying the Hive Queen's last remaining egg around the universe.

Petty Treason: the act of killing your superior.

A servant killing their master, a clerk killing their boss, a sailor killing his ship captain, a slave killing her field boss, an astronaut killing the head of the mission, anytime you kill a police officer ever, a princess killing the evil wizard, killing angels, killing Buddhist monks, killing whales, killing judges, killing polar bears, killing anything and all things that don't seek to kill you.

Moral Treason: committing an intentionally moral or immoral act in an attempt to disturb the balance of our morally ambiguous universe.

See: everything you do on a day to day basis that you think is leading you to hell or heaven. See: love, hate, anger, sin, charity, adultery, teaching, corrupting, feeding, starving, kissing, punching, stabbing, fucking, drinking, smoking, cutting, spending, saving, preaching, singing, recording, typing, dancing, beating the crap out of, also humiliating, shaming, praising, adoring, gentleness and violence.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

"Robbie! I want Robbie!"

Christmas Eve is the official dinner day at my parent's house. So Christmas Day tends to be a little more slack. This year was the ultimate slack, with my parent's opting to go see Avatar instead of do dinner, which left me with nothing to do all day. I could have been productive, but instead I went and drank 1.50 Dortmunders at the vegan bar.

There was this whole billing of bands, which turned out to be mostly drunk boys shouting things over presampled music. Punks of the world apparently can't be bothered to even play the guitar badly anymore. The bartender did the same thing, but he was hilarious and good at it. The other guy ended up sitting on the floor of the stage making pussy references in a mumbled desperate broken voice. It was like watching your asshole friends do karoake, where they get up there and just talk over Mariah Carey. Oh the rush of the don't care didn't care.

I met the guy who's been growing out his beard for charity. I lost three dollars to some other guy because the Cavs actually won. I thought about Peter a little bit, because Christmas Day is the day I miss him most. The rest of the year, its like, he's just this dead person, like everyone else who's dead. But the anniversary of the actual event seems an okay time to think about him, and that stupid bar is probably the best place in Cleveland to do it. Other people might argue that he would like the Spitfire more, but they're wrong. Peter liked stupid drunk young punks more than anything else, and couldn't stand bitter old punks who thought too highly of themselves. Almost everyone in there was ugly, he would have liked that.

Someone stole my copy of Asimov short stories while I was watching some guy play pinball. I suspect it was the guy who slurred something about fucking him, and then also threw the chairs down later, one of which had my coat on it, and thats just the sort of thing that happens. I would be angrier about it, but I'm the one who left it by my beer on the bar. I just want to think about it being read, and not tossed in a parking lot somewhere, or torn into scraps. Who knows, maybe he just threw it across the room and no one noticed. I didn't.

Another guy made fun of me for having a blog and calling it that. What else am I supposed to call it? A journal? A website? I don't understand the revolutionaries who don't want to use the internet. I mean, being a luddite doesn't make you cooler. It just makes you less connected. But you don't want connections to people really, you just want to be left alone to drink and scream and feel superior, which is fine. I get that. It's your bar, not mine.

Later driving home, I had to stop at a Dairy Mart and buy overpriced cereal to eat, because nothing is open Christmas and even though I know this, I never plan for it and always end up with nothing to eat at home.

Edit: In thinking about, the reason I like the vegan bar over the aging punks bar is that at the vegan bar people throw things and are violent, but not towards anyone in particular. They're just being destructive because they can. Which I like. Aging punks will talk your ear off about honor and loyalty, and how they want to beat the shit out of this guy because he did this or that douchebag thing. But they lack the energy to just be rambunctious without fear or anger fueling their motions. If someone throws a chair, it's good fun. If someone throws a chair at you, it kinda sucks.

Friday, December 25, 2009

December is the only month when January is not as far away as it sounds

Hey Mom, this is me drunk at 3am Loving Loving my new awesome giant panda bear of a red fluffy bathrobe, with matching slippers. That's what you bought it for, right? Also, I will coming over late-er it turns out. Because that picture was actually taken at 3am.

I had an allergic reaction to the Motrin I took after dinner, which made my lips get all Zsa Zsa Gabor swelled (also every cat scratch on my body, of which there are a lot). So I had to take some pictures, to remind myself to get collagen sometime. They were the hottest lips ever. Seriously, my lips are thin little slivers in real life, they do not look like this. Rabbit Hole of plastic surgery here I come.

Plastic surgery would appeal to me more if I could get horns. Or something.

Note: Aleve makes my eyes swell up like Quasimodo. Motrin makes my lips swell like water balloons and also maybe go a little numb. I wonder if I've become allergic to all pain killers, or just the cheap ones. Maybe my body has decided to get all quality not quantity. Snob.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Famous Santas Through the Ages

Holy Santa Claus. Loves you and gives you presents. Unless you are one of his serfs. Or an infidel. Wants you to go to Midnight Mass with your mother, you ungrateful churl.

Natural Selection Santa Claus. Invented the popular "coal for the weak" practice.

Jolly Santa Claus. Made drinking with your mom and telling really exaggerated stories to punks at bars that you later may or may not sleep with a holiday tradition. Can turn from jolly to mean in 12 seconds flat.

Sentimental Santa Claus. The reason Christmas albums exist and why you can't stand to go the grocery stores on holidays. Just as much of a drunk as Jolly Santa, but cries more.

My Dad Santa. Does the dishes like a fucking champ, and always get the movies from Blockbuster. Will never ever tell you what he would actually like for Christmas, which means he gets lots of books, CDs, and socks.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Apparently I am an Expert at Getting Rid of the Aftertaste

So here. I will share my wisdom. All of the following things will clear your innocent little mouth of whatever travesty you've ingested. However, not every one clears everything. It's like a puzzle! A cruel life affirming puzzle that probably won't help you at all! Fun!

Aftertaste Killers

1. Peppermint Schnapps

2. piss colored Listerine (the other stuff is useless)

3. Cigarettes

4. Wet Paper Towels

5. Hard Liquor

6. Kissing

7. Expensive ice cream

8. Charity work

9. Hitting someone in the face

10. Painting something

11. Wearing makeup

12. Being really cruel to someone online

13. A salad

14. Edgewater Park

15. saying I'm sorry

16. pickles

17. peppermint bark

18. a rural roadtrip

19. the Concert for Bangladesh

20. fucking

21. fucking the wrong person

22. talking to your mom

23. going to an art gallery by yourself

24. Moving out of Tremont

25. blocking their emails

26. illegal substances

27. reading some political blogs

28. making your own hummus

29. adopting a cat

30. A shovel and some lime

31. nailpolish

32. blind adoration

33. bloody marys

34. yakuza movies

35. throwing your cell phone out the window
Edit: 36. Marines

Avatar: The Rise of the Blue People who conveniently bear a resemblance to your cat

*Note, there may be spoilers in here. If you're the kind of person who is going to this movie for the stellar plot, you should probably go elsewhere. Or get a clue.*

First of all, here is my prediction, or rather a weak hope. Avatar will be the last movie to get away with a really crappy script, but get critical acclaim anyway because of the CGI effects.

When I saw Coraline, I thought to myself that 3D had finally come into its own as a special effect. The way that Tim Burton used it, it became part of the picture, not the point of the picture. It was, for lack of a less banal word, artistic.

Then James Cameron came along and bludgeoned it to death.

I don't think I really expected anything else. After all, Titanic took awesome scale ship shit and beat it up until it was lying bloody on the basement floor gasping for life. And don't get me wrong, I am a sucker for visual awesomeness. The first half of Avatar was well worth the price of admission. It was beautiful and grandiose and cute. I loved the drops of water when he woke up from Cryo, and the fluorescent gay club vibe of Pandora after dark is like walking into your favorite segment of Fantasia. There were dragons, who doesn't love dragons? Also, and this is key, there was not much talking. There was random crap dialogue, but you could safely ignore it and get involved in the movie.

The exact line where the dialogue became unbearable is, as my viewing companion put it, where the alien sex happens. Alien sex ruins everything. Always. That's when the Blue Braveheart Revolution really gets going, and if I was writing this movie, everyone would have died and the Corporation would have gotten its "unobtainium" (what the fuck?), and a real moral lesson would have been taught.

Instead, the movie quickly goes the route of every indigenous versus civilization movie ever made, and blah blah blah heart is everything and if you're good you win and Mother Earth and all that crap. You know, they didn't really win children. They just beat off one part of a giant army that now is going to come to that planet and nuke them all. Or give them small pox. Or syphilis from all the alien sex.

Also, I am sick of the word Pandora. Can we just officially enter the modern usage as "decent internet radio station" and be done with it?

The best part of my movie going experience was finally going to the Capitol Theater on W. 65th, which apparently I'm supposed to call Gordon Square now. Theater 1 is huge. We were the first ones in there, and we spent twenty minutes discussing how the hell they change the lights on the chandelier. It wasn't a movie theater, it was a bonafide auditorium, and easily my favorite theater now, closely beating out the Shaker Square one that looks like you could rollerskate in front of the screen.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

And for my next act...

Tonight I met a blogger I love in real life, listened to a talk about Hemingway and the emergence of the playboy cocktail lifestyle, which was by seriously the hottest professor I've ever seen in real life, sat at a table with complete strangers one of whom actually stood up every time a girl came to sit down which was fucking awesome, set up a second date, drank something call Death on the Gulfstream and a Dark and Stormy which makes it seem like I'm headed for foul weather don't it now, saw a few girls I totally wanted to talk to, but ditched them for the blogger girl because what what peppermint bark and houndstooth, met a guy who lived downtown and liked Firefly but had never watched Angel, met a Zubal and he told me I could get a tour of the twinkie factory but wait more importantly they have books there, got a splinter in my finger from a bar stool, met up with an atheist from San Francisco, met some of his friends, one of them had the most adorable excited look on his face always, even when talking about church stuff, consulted a man about his beard, got tricked into a shot of vodka, got asked home by a wasted chess player who couldn't remember my name, drank a glass of wine, and then went home.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

I Finally WatchedThe Vampire Diaries A LOT, which should be spelled Vampyr. Really. They're Not Trying Hard Enough.

I have this friend who has been working on a trio of paintings for like, a year. Each one is a city landscape, and he just keeps painting over things, taking buildings down, taking signs down, repainting the signs, changing the skies so it goes from hurricane to mild rain, some sunshine, weird lighting. He was telling me about the newest part over the phone, and I was suddenly really sad that I hadn't been taking pictures of the paintings ever time I went over there. It would show them in every manifestation, and it would be like that movie Smoke, where the guy takes a picture of the same street corner, every day at the same time, for like fifty years. I think the photo journal accompaniment would be cool to have, it would make the triptych into a comment on urban development. Also then he could make an animation of it. MISSED OPPORTUNITY.

Yesterday instead of cleaning I watched like ten episodes of the Vampire Diaries in a row. I don't know why I put it on the recording schedule. CW was doing like a marathon of the entire first season last week, and I must have thought what the hell. I wish very much that at that exact moment, one of you had kicked me in the head. It's one of those shows where everyone sucks, except for one character, which gets all the sarcastic lines, so he's like a walking Writers inside joke. And that's the character played by my boyfriend from Rules of Attraction. This show might have worked way better if Edward (I mean Stefan) was played by Dawson. And Bella (I mean Elena) was played by Susan Sossamon. And there were no vampires. And the vampires didn't have rings that let them walk around in the sun. If we took those rings away, it would cut in half the amount of 90210 drama. Still leaving it with more than 90210 itself. Also, there are no werewolves, yet. What is the point of vampires if you don't have werewolves?

When I was younger, I used to read Anne Rice and Poppy Z Brite. While I would never be tempted to read them again (because frankly I'd rather reread The Babysitters Club), it does seem like I had a better quality of trashy vampire sex novel back then. I think Stephanie Meyers is lowering people's expectation at how hard an author should work to hide that she's writing porn.

When you watch ten hours of something, anything, you are going to start to feel high on it. My emotional take away from this event was that it's totally true, every new person you date is going to be a compilation of traits from previous people you dated, so I can totally forgive this crappy storyline where Elena looks exactly like some vampire Civil War Belle that Stefan used to be in love with. Because even though its incredibly creepy to have some guy with that kind of hair be stalking you for 145 years in various incarnations, and also quite sad to think that even though you keep being reborn, you will somehow always be stuck in this small town, it's kind of reflective of how everyone's relationships are. Right?

Those rings are seriously lame.

Last night I saw some old friends, and I got extremely drunk at ABC. Then, at home, I was walking to the bathroom from my bedroom, and fell head first down the stairs. Even worse, afterwards, I couldn't get unstuck from between the stairs and the front door, which I hit hard. It took me forever to get up. I think it's actually a good thing I was that drunk, I think the alcohol probably made it better, because when I woke up this morning it wasn't that bad and I didn't even have a bruise yet. It has however been developing on several spots on my body, like a bloody fungi under my skin. Up above? That's my lower back. Also on my knee, and a giant bump on my head. It reminded me of the last time I hurt myself that badly, which was back in Kent when I drank an entire bottle of Southern Comfort, and walked across town with friends to go to a club. I was totally fine the whole way there, until we got to the door and I tripped and fell flat on my face. Hard. Also, there was the time when Marty lived in this house, actually the first time I met him, he had a party and I fell down the basement steps, all the way down. In retrospect, I think this house is actively trying to kill me.

I've noticed that I seem to get the most comments on posts I write that are all serious and shit, and never the funny ones. It's like you guys don't think I'm funny or something. I mean, I'm not the funny one in my family, that's my sister. But I think I'm up there on the ladder, somewhere around "not not funny". So since it can't be my writing, I have to assume it is your fault. You guys are way too obsessed with love and beauty and shit like that, like you think it's IMPORTANT or something. How did I get such serious readers?

Anyway, my brother showed me The Bloggess, and she's become my favorite funny blog. She's one of those ones that is SO good, you want to leave her comments on everything, but there's already 214 comments on each post, so what's the point?

Friday, December 18, 2009

The Drive Home

Don't get me wrong. I had a wonderful time in Painesville, playing Rock Band and hanging out. It's true, I did accidentally rub my eye the wrong way, got some allergen in it, and watched (see, funny?) as both my eyes swelled to look like what you imagine the Hunchback of Notre Dame looks like up close. But she had giant white sunglasses for me to wear, and with my blue plaid shirt, I almost but not quite pulled off the reticent indie pop starling. Until the failure known as Sweet Home Alabama.

But thing is, driving back from Painesville, on Rt 2, late night, all the way back to W. 150th? It's like traveling out of the 9 circles of hell.

Hell 9 is when you're driving on these unfamiliar 40 mph streets, looking for the highway entrance.
Hell 8 is getting on the highway and realizing it is still pitch black and your car refuses to warm up.
Hell 7 is this long stretch of black nothing in front of you for 20 minutes, with deer waiting in the shadows like woodland assassins.
Hell 6 is hitting the one lane only construction, with concrete walls on both sides and barrels and it's not really a car lane more like a bike lane and there's cop lights everywhere littered along the construction zone specifically to make it hard to see the "lane".
Hell 5 is then the ten minute stretch of finished expanded highway, with giant excavated dust shoulders, where machinery used to sit, the whole area eerily well lit and empty, exactly the place where hitchhikers would wait for you to break down and then stab you and take your car.
Hell 4 is Mentor.
Hell 3 is the end of Rt 2, as it becomes 90 west and suddenly there are 7 drunk cars on the road with you trying to decide if they are going west or south, while you're still trying to figure out if the speed limit is still 50.
Hell 2 is trying to decide if 90 or 71 will have more cops.
Hell 1 is tearing off your clothes as fast you can, because you've been in this bra for over 12 hours and need to rid your body of everything restraining immediately or circulation will be lost forever. And then having to stay up more, though being exhausted. See, not so bad. The last circle is home.

Edit: I had a flash last night, while singing Santeria rather loudly as their adorable kid slept a few rooms away, of listening to my parents watching movies and hanging out when I was little, lying in bed and trying to stay awake to hear the movie I wasn't old enough to watch, and how many little kids are going to grow up with that exact same memory only instead of a movie it will be Guitar Hero.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

My Conversation with Zombie Oral Roberts when he shows up at my house tomorrow night

Hi there Oral. How's it going? Now, if you don't mind, I'm just gonna put a lock this steel foyer here, just in case. Not that I'd want you to doubt my hospitality, but you're slobbering on my fake Persian carpet there. It's okay, it's covered in cat hair, so it's not the slobbering I mind. More like what the slobbering implies.

I'm really glad you chose my house to visit in your long anticipated feral flesh ramp. See, I kind of knew you were going to come to this. I mean, I had no scientific proof, but hey, that sort of shit doesn't matter to you, does it? No, I just figured that since your City of Faith Medical Center wasn't actually making any progress curing cancer (and really, how could a bunch of chanting nannies with no valid medical degrees hope for that?) well, they were probably working on a way to preserve your holy carcass after death. They've probably been working on that since you you threatened to off yourself if they didn't give you 8 million by March, which would make a pretty cool album cover name, lets try and remember that one. And if your "faith healers" weren't capable of basic medical care, it makes sense they would eventually turn to Voodoo.

I'm not saying that there were no real that doctors worked there, I'm just saying they were a front. For Voodoo Witches.

Would you like some whiskey, Oral? Ha Ha, whiskey? Oral? I mean, where else am I going to put this? Don't growl at me, we can't all be graduates of O.R. University. Oh, and while I'm thinking of that, let me just thank you for that bastion of reason, who gave us such notable minds as Michele Bachmann, Ted Haggard, Kathy Lee Gifford, and Kenneth Copeland. By the way, I don't have any evidence, but just from watching her public appearances, I'm pretty sure Michele gave up her oath and is drinking heavily. You should talk to her. Let her know God hates her. Maybe chew up her throat a little. Not enough to make her a zombie too though. Ugh, what a horrible thought.

Let's talk about faith healing. Why is it that really successful faith healers always seem to be embroiled in real estate scams and embezzlement? Misappropriation of funds scandals, like the one that got your son fired from his job at your university? No, not the son who killed himself because he couldn't please you or your god. The other one, with the stupid name. Robert Roberts. Who does that to their own kid?

It's too bad he didn't inherit your talent for bringing the dead back to life.

I mean maybe the hole in the scam is that your market can only get so big. There are only so many old people with money left in this country. None of the new old people have any, since health care costs have been bankrupting them for the last 30 years. Oh, that's right, and you.

I guess the point I'm trying to make here, Mr. Zombie Roberts, is that I think that whole "don't speak ill of the dead" crap is bunk. There are people in this world that did nothing good, that tricked and scammed and lied their way to death, that preyed upon the weakness and loneliness of people and instead of giving them actual ways to feel joy, sold them a halloween mask of hell, damnation, and quick moral fixes. I don't see why anyone should ever speak well of these rats, and you are one of them.

Now I'm going to pour this alcohol on you, and I'm going to throw this match on you, and I am going to smile as I recreate for you that burning hellfire you loved to evoke in the only real way a person can.

And don't mind him over there, he's my 900 ft. Jesus. He told me to do this.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Messages for Other Drunk Friends At Various Other Points: A Holiday List

Stop feeding bacon to the dog, she's going to throw up.

Tomato juice does NOT go with everything, I promise.

You got drunk on manischewitz. Can you even spell that? You probably shouldn't drink a bottle of something you can't spell.

Watching you try to use your iphone right then was the greatest thing ever.

I promise you, everyone knows you're gay. Now.

Why did you have duct tape on your throat? Was it a monk thing?

I swear, if you leave me here with these people, I will never forgive you. But you did. For 45 minutes. Nobody's house in Lakewood is 45 minutes from Clifton.

The only reason he sold that to you is because he wanted a blow job.

Lady Gaga really really sucks. Hardcore. Not attractive. Can't sing.

I told you she was going to throw up.

Stop texting your boyfriend. Seriously. Stop it. I'm not joking. I'm going to throw your phone over the fucking patio wall if you don't.

You? Look exactly the same as in high school You? I didn't recognize at all.

Why are you still wearing frosted makeup? You'd be so much prettier without it. Like, a million times prettier. You look like Lady Gaga right now.

Why is it that every bar I go to with you is full of douchebags? Yes, I know I'm not supposed to use that word anymore. But they're not supposed to be tan in January.

Just make out with me already, so we can move on with our lives. There are other people I want to make out with tonight.

You look like a terrorist in that hoodie.

You should make some friends who don't work at Bar Cento.

Modern Family is not funny.

To A Friend Who Got Drunk the Other Day

Many people are going to be in love with you. And you will be in love with many people. But the miraculous moment is when those two things happen at the same time, with the same person. That's what everyone is terrified about messing up, or throwing away, or not having a chance at. Everyone thinks they're fucked if that doesn't happen to them, and they think they're fucked if it goes away.

Nothing in the universe only happens once though. It's unnatural, unheard of, and unthinkable. So when *poof* that magic moment happens, you can't lose your head. You can't just go running off into the sunset with the prince. You have to spend some time thinking about how this person correlates with the rest of your life. Do they just complicate it? Or do they put a dead stop to it? There are different levels of love, and how much do you actually love them? Do you love them enough to move to Europe, or do you love them because they want to move to Europe? Do you actually want to love someone enough to sacrifice things for them, or do you want someone who will sacrifice things for you? Sometimes we don't know what we're willing to trade for love in advance, but in the moment we have no excuse for not defining it. Once it's defined, you have to act accordingly.

There is nothing right or wrong you can do about it. There is no big decision you are going to regret for the rest of your life. Life is a string of meaningful events that with the passage of time become balanced and understandable.

Also being alone is kind of awesome if you're not beating yourself up over it all the time. But it does require a large amount of forgiveness for yourself, and courage for the rest of the world. Being alone requires that you be a better person than you would have to be as part of a couple.

Oh, and learn to enjoy web comics.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Why Is This Blog So Boring? I mean, Recently. I have no excuse for before.

I have all sorts of ideas for posts and photos, but I've had a hard time finding time to write them. I've been working as much overtime at work as I can stand, and this weekend I need to clean out my library/storage room/kitty prison and turn it into a home office, since next week I start working from home. *jumps up and down in unadulterated childlike joy*

I wanted to run a post about how your Christmas Lights tell us about your personality, which will happen. As soon as I find time to drive around looking at lights. I wanted to write a Bachmann's Greatest Quotes, but that requires reading way too much crazy talk and right wing shit, and I just haven't been in the mood i.e. able to take a mental beating. There's the ever popular "how I feel about Christmas since I'm an atheist, which no one ever bothers to think of. My voicemail doesn't tell you to not believe in God, so why is the opposite message socially acceptable, blah blah blah." But whatever, I like presents and food and people being done with school therefore drinking more with me. Also I think that would turn into a really really long rant about religion imposing on my life in general, and I'm supposed to be focusing on cleaning and cooking and paying my bills right now. Jere and I just entered into a Short Story Battle to the Death last night over beers (not Christmas Ale, you bastards), so that's gotta be done. Rebecca and I are working on a screenplay, and I'm supposed to be writing characters for that.

Lastly, but firstly, I'm supposed to write some content for Cleveland Area History, and if I were Chris, I would have given up on that by now. I promise I will do it. This week. At some point. Promise. I just have to come up with a way that I won't get ticketed for it.

The point is, I have all this stuff to work on, plus I want to make some crystal hair accessories for myself for New Years, and I have yet to make NYE plans, and I have to assemble the ingredients for wassail for Christmas Day, and I have to get my hair cut, and I wanted to hit up this building before the snow really comes down, and the point is now that I don't have reality tv to distract me I have to actually work on writing, like an actual writer might do.

Because the hard part about art stuff that you don't get paid for is finding time to do it between the stuff you do get paid for.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Top Chef Recap: Finale Part Two

The Wrong Brother Won.

(p.s. I am extremely drunk on jello shots and it is possible that later today I will have wished that I wrote a more fanciful, articulate review. However right now I just know that both of them know it, and Kevin knows it, and if Padma doesn't know it, it's only because at some point Top Chef had to become the Establishment and we had to start rebelling against it. It has become a new standard of judgment in the culinary community, and therefore we must bring it down, and tirade against it's inequality and inadequacies, and later tonight we fought about kittens and commitment and I'm sorry but I think it's totally fair to see shadows of my past relationship in your fickleness of stray cat keepingness. Also Bryan should have won. But I've never known if I'm spelling his name right, and quite frankly, I don't care enough to google it. There was no great sibling rivalry resolved today. There was only us, screaming, into the nothingness that is the Council's palate, like salivating starving dogs at the Culture Counter, with no rhyme or reason. )

edit: today I read that the reason Kevin was in a funk is because he and his wife split up right before heading back to Napa. So Kevin, I'm sorry you didn't win, and I hope you're okay. I want to organize a mass group of people and camp out in Atlanta with Kevin t-shirts and spend lots of money at your restaurant, because thats the only non-creepy non-sex not stalking thing I can think to do. Also, it is warmer down there right now. But I'll probably just stay up and here and feel sorry for you. Also, the mom thing takes on whole new meaning.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Some Things That Really Happened

1. They made batteries out of paper. I also have a battery made of paper. It's called the Norton Anthology of Short Stories. It's rechargeable. It does not, however, work well in vibrators.

2. They finally wired up the ocean floor. The war with the Mer-Mercenaries will begin as a serious of isolated events....

3. Ohio made the BBC News. Because we are more efficient at killing people. Go us! I hate that this guys death, no matter what kind of scumbag he was, will now be remembered as an experiment. Experimental deaths should be honorable things, like testing cancer treatments, or embedded brain prosthetics.

4.This girl wrote this crazy awesome G.I Joe theory craziness. I mean, she's always writing crazy awesome stuff, but this one touched me. In that special place.

5. I totally won some nail polish! Which, I'm not gonna lie, restores my faith in humanity today. Ohio Authority recently also had this story about this girl who bit her nails and then stopped cause she liked nailpolish, and then became a super successful makeup blogger. Which is of course exactly what's going to happen to me. So I have Zoya to thank for my future condo in Barbados and line of Swarovskis headbands. Thanks Zoya! (psst, Midwestgrrl, I will totally trade a bottle for some peppermint bark)

6. But just in case I might go to bed feeling somewhat okay with the world, just a reminder that everyone still really sucks. A whole lot. Bye Bye Public Option. You were easily my favorite myth of the decade. Like America's literacy rate, or Hannah Montana's virginity.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Since I'm in the recommending mood...

I have 2 things to recommend:

1. The movie "An Education" is playing at Cedar Lee right now. It's really fucking good. Based off a book by Nick Hornby (you know, that guy who also wrote High Fidelity and About A Boy), it follows the strange affair of a 16 yr old girl in a school uniform and a "worldly" man. In my head, the ending is completely different, but Peter Saarsgard will make you wish you were 16 yourself, and Carey Mulligan as Jenny is completely charming and engaging. It's also surprisingly funny, with Alfred Molina carrying the best lines as Jenny's dad. Nick Hornby writes the only kind of romantic comedies I can watch. The kind of comedies that are actually sad stories, but are funny because you know they are, and actually you're a mean girl. After the movie I said, this is how I would have ended this. And my companion said, that is of course the way any cynic would end it. But it would have been more true. It's still fucking good.

2. Michael Symon's new restaurant, B Spot. I will admit, I was a little underwhelmed when I went to that other one, Bar Symon, in Avon Lake. Probably cause it was in Avon Lake, which is the middle of nowhere. But B Spot, despite it's location in the middle of Christmas Village central, is wonderful and casual. I mean, it's a mall restaurant. If you want to, you can sit in the patio, which is in the mall, and look at the fancy chandeliers and awful post modern rococo disaster which is any shopping strip on Chagrin. But sit inside, and sit at the bar proper, so you can meet Krissy the Wonderful Bartender. Krissy played the "guess which beer I'm serving you" game with flair. The Kentucky Bourbon beer was sweet and warm and perfect for after dinner, by the way. There are all sorts of older women in various animal prints, and young couples that aren't pretty but have money, and therefore found each other. I also found my new favorite burger in the world there, the Red Hot, which has pulled pork, pickled tomatoes, jalapenos, pepperjack, and siracha mayo. The Parmesan fondue chips are amazing. There's a whole array of sauces on the counter, from Coffee BBQ to Balsamic. And there is a PICKLE BAR in the middle of the room. Pickle Bar, where have you been my whole life? Be sure to get a milkshake to go when you leave. The Vanilla Apple Pie Bacon one was fantastic, but I preferred the Chocolate Espresso with broken up beans to suck through the straw. On the little Symon in the middle of sauce trays, he describes the types of doneness you can get, with "well done" described as "no pink, sad, hot in the center." That's the kind of burger restaurant this is.

Oh, and I saw them serve an actual wedge salad, which I thought was only for steakhouses in NYC. Cool.

Car Insurance Logic: How To Not Find Yourself Screwed This Winter

Disclaimer: This is advice I am giving you solely as a private citizen. I do work for an insurance company, who shall go nameless, because they have nothing to do with the advice I'm giving you. Before you make any changes to your policy you should check with a licensed agent for your state at your company.


It's about to become bad driving time in Ohio, and is already in lots of other states, so its time to review your car insurance policy and know what the F you have on it. Insurance is pretty basic, but if you don't take the time to know what you're paying for, there's nobody to blame but yourself if you have an accident and don't have the right coverage. A lot of people assume their agent is selling them what they want, but when it comes down to it, you are responsible to check your own policy and make sure it's on there. No company is really going to do anything about the "I thought my agent put it on there" excuse. There are good agents and bad agents, and the same goes for the people you talk to in customer service when you call to make changes. So when they send you that thick envelope in the mail, READ YOUR DECLARATION PAGE AT THE VERY LEAST. Do not just use it as a coaster till you get around to throwing it out.


Full coverage is not a real term. What is "full coverage" to one person, is not to the other. So yes, GENERALLY if someone tells you that you have full coverage, you probably have Comprehensive and Collision coverage. However you may not have Medical. Or Roadside Assistance. Or Rental Car Reimbursement. Or Uninsured Motorist Property Damage. Do not assume you just "get" any of those things with "full coverage".


Every time you make a claim on your insurance, you are going to have to pay a deductible. There are very few exceptions, and they are EXCEPTIONS. If your insurance is paying for a claim, they are going to take a deductible out of that and you are going to pay that to the shop. It is not just when you are at fault for the accident. Comprehensive claims are by definition never At Fault accidents, but you still always have a deductible. Vandalism? You have a deductible. Hit and Run? You have a deductible.

And you CHOOSE what those deductibles are. If you have an accident and find out you have a 1000 dollar deductible, that is because you picked that out when you started your policy. You said, "if something happens, I can pay 1000 dollars out of my own pocket to fix the car." The insurance companies don't force you to have a certain deductible. If you can't afford to pay 500 if something happens, then call your agent and lower that. But you will pay more on your monthly rate. Because you're paying for better coverage


In the state of Ohio, our minimum required Property Damage, what we have to carry to be legal, is 7500 dollars. That's it. If you hit a decent SUV or any car newer than 05, that's not going to get you very far. And they are going to come after you for the rest.

Our minimum Bodily Injury limits (to pay for the other party's medical bills) are 12,500 per person, with a 25,000 per accident max. You see it on your statement as 12.5/25. 25,000 is not very much when it comes to medical bills anyway. An ambulance ride only can cost upward of 1500. But the number you should be looking at is that 12,500 per person. PER PERSON. So no one person you hit can get more than that.

It is usually extremely cheap to move yourself up to the next level of coverage when it comes to BI and PD. Like, maybe a dollar more a month cheap. There is no reason why anyone should be driving around with less than 50/100 in BI and 50 in PD. Even if you have a crappy car, and you have liability only because you're poor or you don't care about your car, you should still have 50/100. It's a minimal difference, honest.


I know you think it's a weather claim. But it's not. A weather claim is when your car is flooded, or a tornado hits it, or hail pounds it into ground meat. It's when weather happens TO your car. If you make the decision to drive your car in nasty conditions, it's your responsibility to decide what is worth the risk or not. If it's raining and you hydroplane, you are at fault. If you hit black ice and slide off into a ditch, you are at fault. So maybe, just maybe, you should slow the F--K down.


This is a coverage that is completely different state to state. In some places, it covers you for hit and runs. In other states, you need to prove that the other driver has no insurance, which means you need to know who they are. Some states don't even have this coverage. So this leads us to our final point...


Most companies now have 24 hour customer service reps who should be trained on certain states. If you call, you can ask to speak to someone who knows how to answer your questions. To work in insurance and answer specific coverage questions, you need a license for most places, so there will be someone there who can help you. Or talk to your agent. But this is not something where you're going to be subjected to a crazy lecture for an hour, this is simple. Insurance is not rocket science, and it is not your insurance company's fault if you never bothered to find out what you're paying for.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Shout Out

Hey New Marc's at Cams Corner! Hey you there! Yeah, look at you!

I'll admit, I'd been burned before. You were always so demanding. I either had to drive to Parma to Southland, or deal with your scuzzy useless stores on Lorain and Puritas. Even the Marc's in Mayfield was constantly crowded, and the aisles seem to move in on you like a torture device. Plus it was so hard to find stuff! And the lines were horrible human centipedes on klonopin.

But you've won me over with your giant wide open spaces, your deli counter and produce section and smaller than usual discount crap section tucked nicely away in the corner where grocery shopping people like me don't have to maneuver around old biddies shopping for ornaments made in China. You have Corbo's cookies! And fruit cups 3 for 5! Not generic kinds either, no it was like, Dole. You gave me a 1/2 pound of hard salami for 1.50. You had my kind of cat food. I bought everything my broke ass needs to eat lunch and dinner for a week for 20 dollars. And I even got ice cream! When I got to the line, there was only one person in front of me! They didn't pay with a check! When there was an issue, the manager was there in 5 seconds! And best of all, like a jewel shining above us, there were flat screen tvs at every lane, playing not Fox but FOOD NETWORK.

And when I didn't have 27 cents, the cashier, who had all her teeth and didn't mumble, GAVE IT TO ME.

Also you are 5 minutes from my house. I'm sorry Giant Eagle. I will still go to you for certain things, like prosciutto, croissants, olives, wine, hoity toity payday week things. But I'll have to deal with a deficit of Fuel Perks, because Marc's wins.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Top Chef Recap: Finale Part One

Dear Best Friend,

What is the best way to hide a baby bump? I am normally very sexy, but as I get bigger, I'm afraid of wearing my normal clothes.

Yours truly, Knocked Up in Napa

Dear Knocked Up,

Instead of wearing your normal slutty clothes, what you should be wearing is even sluttier clothes. If last night's tv watching taught us anything, it's that pretty girls who are pregnant should wear even less clothing than what got them there in the first place. Try digging out your old cheerleading outfit, or dressing in a really fattening color, like white. It'll be ironic, since you're obviously anything but virginal. Change your hairstyle dramatically. Or, if you're really brave, wear clothing that has been previously only worn by cast members of Resident Evil movies and Blade. People will be so busy wondering where half of your sleeves went, they won't look at your fat little belly at all.

Dear Best Friend,

Which is worse, over-salting goat cheese or feeding a pregnant woman
a raw egg?

Yours truly, Cheated by the Brothers Grimm

Dear Cheated,

Up until last night, I would have said the raw egg thing. Salmonella and all. But apparently over salted goat cheese is really fucking nasty. Also, if you are called on the carpet for this sort of thing, NEVER EVER CONFESS THAT YOU WOULD HAVE MADE YOUR PERFECT DISH A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT WAY. If possible, make sure you have some sort of epic story arc, like Cain and Abel, or Lucy and Desi, that will make you indispensable to the editors. Show no weakness. Next time, try hitting on your furry married co-star. It can't hurt.

Dear Best Friend,

What is Michael Chiarello's fucking problem?

Yours truly, California Dreaming

Dear California,

I don't know, but if you could please, as a state, do us the favor of forbidding him from traveling across state lines, I know we'd all be grateful. Please make sure he understands this includes all Top Chef production sets. I suggest also maybe imprisoning him in a wine cave under his beloved valley for all time, with animated grape vines removing his vital organs every 24 hours, until a sous chef should find him and put him out of his misery.

That is the worst sign ever, you pretentious twats

Last night was anything but poetry for our Fearless Foursome. They were spirited away to Napa Valley, the Den of Easy Virtues. Once there, they came face to face with the soggy pork known as Chef Chiarello, the bastard who stole Top Chef Master title from Hubert, and who had kidnapped their princess and impregnated her with mystical soul sucking grapeseed babies. Their first challenge to was to get on his evil Train of Sustainable Doom, which was obviously a trap. Once imprisoned in the tiny kitchen car, they were forced to cook grapes grapes grapes. These dishes they fed to the Princess, like pomegranates to Persephone, knowing they were powerless to help her. With every bite, her soul turned more and more a deeper shade of khaki beige, with spots of sportscoat navy.

The brave boys managed to escape, but Jennifer oh my Jennifer. Like the Grinch, Chiarello set his evil eye upon her and determined that he would steal her talent for himself. Right then and there, he resolved that she should never win Top Chef. She would come to live with him in his faux Italian villa, while her soul would fester in a cedar barrel, trapped in the cellar with all his other victims. Like Ursula the sea witch and her bottles, see? Ripert he would deal with later.

Their destination was the annual harvest festival, call The Crush because traditionally this is when the indentured Chinese and Mexicans would pass out and drown in the mighty vats. They were forced to race each other through mazes to gather the ashen scraps of a raped countryside, and out of the scraps they must compose the dish to save their lives and careers.

First, the meats. Kevin chose the stoic and silent Cow as his totem, strong and cornfed. But did he cook it long enough? Bryan also used beef, understated and sweet, elegant. But where were his figs? Michael, devious ambitious Michael. Was it any wonder foi gras was his choice? And was it a surprise the stingy bastard didn't put enough in his soup? But Jennifer my Jennifer. Your duck was the prize of the night, the gilded feather in your cap. How ironic that it should also be the seal on your coffin, since Chiarello renewed his vow to bring your star down, once he tasted it's toothsome duckyness. (also, my friends, Kevin, that is what toothsome actually means.)

And the vegetarian dishes? Kevin took a carrot and a radish, said a magic Southern Witch spell over them, and created two pieces of vegetable that tasted like a 5 course meal. Bryan wove a ravioli so fine, the spiders were jealous. Michael put a raw egg in some vegetable stock and fed it to the princess. Maybe, he was trying to put her out of her misery? I think that's giving him too much credit. And Jennifer my Jennifer, it's not your fault that the evil Chiarello switched salts on you, giving you the cursed salt with the very slow melting that was ultimately your downfall. I know he did it. Did you see at judges table, how he immediately knew what had happened, even before you did?

The princess, whose transformation to rogue angel fighter was complete by the second scene, felt a tear on her cheek, and wondered what it was.

In the final level, the heroes faced the Circle of the Black Thorn, and though their armor was shining brightly, the Council nit and picked until the smallest pores and ingrown hairs had been exposed. When the smoke had cleared, Voltron remained united, to fight it out in the final battle. And Jennifer was left to hitch her way back to Philly, and battle Chiarello's minions by herself until she could be reunited with her Master, The Sorcerer Ripert. Who watched the battle from his ivory tower, and plotted revenge for the humiliation of his secret daughter.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Sandwiches! Honey!

So I woke up today with a horrible migraine. I don't normally get migraines (thank you whichever synapse controls that), but every once in a while they hit me and knock me over like a bag of potatoes. The pain in my head I can deal with, and the dizziness, but what really kills me are the smells. Absolutely everything smells terrible to me when I get this way, and then I start the serial vomiting. Two years ago I was in the throes of one of these, but also in training for work, and the girl next to me was chewing grape bubblegum? I ended up running out of the room like five times, before finally just leaving. I had to keep plastic bags in the car with me for the ride home. On the plus side, I am now incredibly adept at driving while throwing up, which seems like something that should come in handy at some point in my life.

I know, why am I discussing stomach nastiness in a post titled Sandwiches? Well, I didn't go anywhere today, and I couldn't eat anything till about an hour ago. When the pain finally went away, I was starving. I hadn't gone to the store recently, so there weren't a lot of options. But I had bread. Anytime you have bread, you are good.

What follows are some very ugly pictures of some very yummy things. On paper plates, yes. DO NOT JUDGE ME.

Peanut butter is something I always forget that I love until I run out of money, and then I'm really fucking thankful I have it in the fridge. Peanut butter is great on bread, crackers, celery, carrots, apples, pets' noses, even melted on ice cream. But my favorite thing is peanut butter and honey on white bread. Crunchy only please. What exactly is the point of that other kind?

THIS IS IMPORTANT: You have to toast the bread with the peanut butter on it already, so it gets all gooey, and then when the honey hits the toast and whole nuts it does this thing in your mouth where it tastes like brittle. Pair this with hot chocolate, and you're all set for watching reruns of the Fresh Prince of Belair and being sort of embarrassed that you know all the words to the theme song. I also had some pecans, so I crumbled those inside. It was so fucking good. All I was missing was celery on the side. I love celery. It's like crunchy water.

However, one peanut butter sandwich was not quite enough, so I scoured around my fridge for something else. As usual, I had about three open jars of pickles, 2 jars of olives (Marty, I've turned into you), lots of bread, jam, marmalade, and some deli turkey which had been in there for about a week. I love turkey sandwiches, but I can't buy it in more than 1/4 pd increments, cause I hate the slimy feeling it gets after two days in the fridge. I know its still good. But that's not the point, right? I end up buying way more salami than I want to because turkey betrays me.

So today I figured out how to get rid of that sliminess...fry it. Fry it in butter, with cumin, salt, pepper, paprika, ginger, ground mustard, garlic. Then pile it on some rye bread, with yellow mustard on one side and a good dollop of honey on the other side. Not only is it fantastic? Your house smells good and you sort of feel like you actually cooked something even though the total effort involved in this is five minutes of standing in the kitchen feeding the cat turkey scraps. It's like a lazy girls Cuban.

I suppose you could add things like tomato and stuff, but those are things that spoil, and therefore have no place in my fridge.

So I'm feeling better, I've been resourceful, I've got some Fred and Ginger movies saved, and Top Chef is tonight. I've also gone around my house and done everything I could to eliminate any smell of any sort, just in case. Cause it sucks to clean the kitty litter when you're vomiting in your mouth. I think I might just start mounting the litter box in the window. I wonder how hard it would be to build something like that?

And apparently I was not the only one trying to use up everything useful in the cupboards today.
Midwestgrrl gives you the pantry rundown.