Sometimes Your Words Just Hypnotize Me...

Carol believes that when you hate someone, often it's because there's something about them that reminds you of yourself.

I find this an intriguing concept.  I remember there had once been this psychological study done on the attractions of humans to other species.  And it turned out that there *was* a relationship between how similar an animal was to us, and how cuddly we believed it to be.  For example, we generally tend to find mammals cuter.  Think about it, tuna vs.dolphin.  Same basic shape, color and size.  Which would you rather have as a pet?

Anyways, so I thought back on some people who I've had an unnatural/unsubstantiated peevage for over the years. ( Unsubstantiated is key.  If you hate the guy who closed down your favorite summer camp so that he could make a race track *cough* Paul Newman! *cough*  that's totally justified. )

I remembered this guy that I used to run into at the bars when I went to bars.  I never talked to him, didn't know his name, but I hated him.  Analyzing the situation, I realize there might be some truth to Carol's theory.  He truly was a mirror.  A reminder of what I was one bad haircut, a little paunch, and a "Member's Only" jacket away from being.  He was my doppelganger, and I just wished he was cooler.

So in hating others, you are actually hating a little bit of yourself.

Carol hates Biggie Smalls.  Read into it what you will.

East Syyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyde!  

I'm Going Off The Rails...

Now to call me a *particular* driver might be accurate.  I have a series of rules and protocols which make sense to me, but maybe not to everyone.  And little things bother me.  If it sounds like neurosis, I guess it's pretty damn close.  I'm a bit like Rain Man.  2+2 is 4, and I'm a very good driver.

But when I'm a passenger in a car, I find myself muttering things under my breath.  Little subconscious editorials of how the other person's driving.  Almost Tourettish in a way.

When I think the person is going too slow, or has the opportunity to pass, I'll say "zoom, zoom".  Or I'll sing, "pass the dutchie on the left hand side", which in this particular area would actually be correct about about 25% of the time.  If, in addition to the people from Holland, you counted Germans as being from Deutschland, this particular part of the song could be eerily correct about half of the time.  Though some might considerate it derogatory to call people "dutchies".. 

I don't even realize I'm doing this most of the time.  But once the driver breaks the code, they usually tend to get a bit irritated.

 

And the thing about irritating bad drivers is, they tend to get worse when irritated.  Which brings on a whole vicious circle of more mutterings and more irritation.

My ultimate muttering?  "Ack".  If heard, this would count as my worst criticism, since it means I believe my life is in danger at your hands.

Ditto if you hear me singing "Crazy Train".   Aye, aye, aye.

 

If You Use A Paper Towel As A Plate, This Recipe Only Messes Up 2 Spoons.

I'm not a great cook.  My goal in cooking is ultimately to minimize dishes.  Everything gets cooked in one pot/pan, which generally also serves as the final serving/eating dish.

 

My bachelor years were comprised primarily of turkey sandwiches and fried eggs.  Lots of protein.  One dish.

But that's not to say I haven't come up with some fantastic recipes of my own.  Case in point:

 

Ghetto Pie A La Mode

 

Toast one slice of white bread.  Not multi-grain, whole wheat, organic or any other crap like that.  The cheapest, mushiest white bread you can find.

 

Spread 3 tablespoons of applesauce per piece of toast.

 

Top with vanilla ice cream to make it a la mode.


Now, some may say this sounds awful, or not even like a real recipe, or nothing like pie.  To them I say, the name starts with *ghetto*.  It's not like you weren't warned.  And I beg of you to try it before you put it down.  It can surprisingly hit the spot, and miraculously make 5 year old nieces and nephews shut the hell up when the only other item in your fridge is sliced process cheese.  (don't try to call it cheddar and melt it on your ghetto pie.  That's just taking it too far.)

 

But now, I guess the scariest part is that I'm the culinary expert of the house.  Discussion from yesterday:

Carol:  Hold on baby, mommy's cooking up something for you.

Me: Whatcha cooking?

Carol:  Oh, I'm heating up a bottle for formula.

Me:  Um.  You're warming up water in the microwave and calling it "cooking"?

Carol:  Shut up.

 

On the Island of Misfit Toys, even a one-armed, cross-dressing Mr. Potato Head can be king.

 

 

"And *This* Is What I Think of You and Your 26.2 Miles..."

Back in 2000, I ran the NYC Marathon.

Let me rephrase that.

Back in 2000, I *jogged* the NYC Marathon, using a unique stride I call the "old man shuffle".  What distinguishes walking from running is that with walking at least one foot is always on the ground.  What distinguishes the old man shuffle, is that at any point in time, both feet are always on the ground.  They just drag alternately in front of the other.

I can proudly say, however, that aside from a urination break on a tennis court in Brooklyn, I never broke that stride.  And it was a helluvan experience.  It's made me love everything about the trip.  I love New York.  I love marathons.   I love little kids standing on the side of the street handing out orange wedges and bits of Snickers and cheering you on. 

I didn't love putting used toilet paper in the garbage can in SoHo.  What's up with that?

Anyways, so it was with some interest that I saw that Paula Radcliffe won the NYC Marathon for 2007.  It was with even more interest that I read she'd just had a baby in January.  And finally, it topped the cake to see the picture.

<a href="http://www.hatemailgreetings.com" target="_blank"><img src=" http://i58.photobucket.com/albums/g249/wibblee/rad.jpg" border="0" alt="HateMail Greetings"></a>

The kid's double saluting with both hands.

Marathoners have the coolest kids.

blognov5

My mum had to jet off this week for a funeral.  Apparently she was in such a rush, she wasn't able to tie up her loose ends.   I get a call from her at the airport, requesting that I pick up fabric samples from her house and go to a small quilting store in town.  Say her name.  They would know what to do.

Very mysterious, no?

As instructed, I find the little baggie of quilting material on her front bench.  I take it to the store and wait patiently in line as the woman in front of me pulls a discount code from a jar and nearly pees her pants for 20%.  She's saved 8.94 on her gingham alone.  You go, girl.

My turn:

Me:  I'm not sure if I'm in the right place, but...

Lady at the Counter:  Oh, you are.

Me:  Okay, my mum told me to show this to you (baggie of material)  and pick up a new baggie.

Lady:  (looks from side to side then grabs a new baggie from a box and hands it to me)   Just take it.  She's actually not allowed to do it this way.  She has to come in herself.

Me:  But she's across the country at a funeral.

Lady:  That's fine.  Just take it.  It's supposed to be $7, but just take it.

Me: Um. Okay.  ...   ...  So what's this all about?  Is it like a Quilt Fight Club?

No response.

Me:  You know.  Like the first rule of Quilt Fight Club is don't talk about Quilt Fight Club?

At this point, I can hear them whistling over her head, as she gives me the same condescending smile she probably reserves for kids who fart at dinner and giggle.

Me:  Well, thanks then.  She won't be back by next Saturday, so I guess I'll see you again to pick up her next fix.

Very mysterious.