Ok, so the day continued in Chicago. My niece's next request was a Brazilian restaurant, the kind where they bring stabbed meat to your table constantly. Those restaurants kick ass, and this one was no exception. Many meats were brought, the salad bar was beautiful and delicious, and all was well. The restaurant was elaborately decorated and quite opulent. For instance, we were seated facing a two-story glass wall, behind which was a giant rack of wines. Cool, I thought. Many wines.
Suddenly, my world changed completely because inside the wine cellar (above ground, maybe not a cellar? Not sure.) a woman dressed in tight red velvet was getting hitched to a series of wires and pulleys. She then was lifted into the air, posing decoratively all the while. While in the air, she would flip and twist and then stop and pose, kind of in a midair ballet/circus. She was an aerial wine dancer.
I seriously laughed as hard as I ever have. I mean, tears streaming from the eyes laughter. And I couldn't stop because every time I would calm down a bit she would flip over and over, ending in a dramatic pose. Again, she was not kidding or doing this ironically. She was expressing herself through wine dancing. It ruled.
So during this day I started thinking about jobs, like Doll Physician and Wine Dancer. In this day and age people use the internet to date, and in describing oneself, those are a little different as occupations go.
I think one might have to modify them, like leave off the Doll part of Physician, or say you're a Health Care Specialist in the field of Plastics, or maybe even Curator of Health for Victims of Circumstance. For the wine dancer you'd have to be more creative, maybe Physical Interpreter of Wine Nuance, or Airborne Purveyor of Wine (with Expressive Movement), or possibly even just Wine Cellar Ballerina: Ascending.
All in all it gave me a new perspective on life, and I've enjoyed thinking about people's online job descriptions ever since. Balloon animal man on the street? Pediatric Sculpture Artist: Medium, Latex. The spray painted statue standing on a milk crate? Stillness Advocate. You see what I'm doing here? Just try it; it's life-changing.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Affliction
I can't believe I forgot to write about the funniest day I've had in some time. I have a niece, and she recently turned 10. She is the only girl in a family of many boy cousins, so she has been my only girly outlet for a long time. I thought that for her 10th birthday we should commemorate the progress into double digits with an excursion--a girly, pink, sparkly excursion.
She elected to have her best friend join us, and two other little girlies met us down in Chicago. So we had a cadre of estrogen, and my niece decided that we would begin our day at the American Girl store. For those of you who don't know, AG dolls are a really big deal. They are sometimes historical and sometimes not; always, though, they are wholesome strivers for the good of all girlkind. The AG store is really more of a tiny specialty mall focused on parting parents from their money. There is a museum-like area, where the historical dolls are set in glassed-in tableaus with expensive antique tiny furniture; then there is the shopping area (that's actually everywhere, salted among displays, information, and feel-good homilies); and finally there is the Most Amazing Area Ever.
There is a little street, but not a street, more like a winding pink path, that has a number of stops one can make with her doll. For instance, there is the pet shop and the cupcake area. But more awesomely there is a Hair Salon, where people can get their doll's hair done in all kinds of styles. I don't know if I made it clear that people who do this have to pay for it. A doll hairstyle. Like springy curls or, I don't know, ponytails or something. Again, requiring money. Instead of struggling through it at home, one can just have a professional attend to it. As I recall the main event in doll-playing-with was doing hair, no? Maybe I just had a weird stylist ambition.
Even more awesome was right next to the salon. It was the Hospital. At first I thought they were just being ironic. No, no, they were not. I started becoming aware of this when I noticed tiny stethoscopes around white-coated doll physicians. Nurses too. I got my initial snickering under control long enough to approach the triage area. I asked, "Um, what kind of things do dolls mostly come to the hospital for?" The doll physician responded (seriously), "We see a lot of dog bites here." After I contained my rising snort I asked, " So what happens then?", thinking that maybe they gave them a fake rabies shot and threw in a few stitches. She said, "We generally just replace the arm, depending on the severity of the bite." I scooted out of there quick, aware that I was about to burst with unkind mocking laughter.
Dude. They were dead serious. They were not working at their jobs hilariously. They were truly concerned for doll health, probably even took courses in doll anatomy and maybe even doll amputation/mangling repair surgery. It was really beyond comprehension and altogether too much for me. I lost my shit numerous times throughout the AG experience but the hospital took the cake.
I will continue the day in a separate post, as it is totally unrelated and right now I'm still in AG mode.
She elected to have her best friend join us, and two other little girlies met us down in Chicago. So we had a cadre of estrogen, and my niece decided that we would begin our day at the American Girl store. For those of you who don't know, AG dolls are a really big deal. They are sometimes historical and sometimes not; always, though, they are wholesome strivers for the good of all girlkind. The AG store is really more of a tiny specialty mall focused on parting parents from their money. There is a museum-like area, where the historical dolls are set in glassed-in tableaus with expensive antique tiny furniture; then there is the shopping area (that's actually everywhere, salted among displays, information, and feel-good homilies); and finally there is the Most Amazing Area Ever.
There is a little street, but not a street, more like a winding pink path, that has a number of stops one can make with her doll. For instance, there is the pet shop and the cupcake area. But more awesomely there is a Hair Salon, where people can get their doll's hair done in all kinds of styles. I don't know if I made it clear that people who do this have to pay for it. A doll hairstyle. Like springy curls or, I don't know, ponytails or something. Again, requiring money. Instead of struggling through it at home, one can just have a professional attend to it. As I recall the main event in doll-playing-with was doing hair, no? Maybe I just had a weird stylist ambition.
Even more awesome was right next to the salon. It was the Hospital. At first I thought they were just being ironic. No, no, they were not. I started becoming aware of this when I noticed tiny stethoscopes around white-coated doll physicians. Nurses too. I got my initial snickering under control long enough to approach the triage area. I asked, "Um, what kind of things do dolls mostly come to the hospital for?" The doll physician responded (seriously), "We see a lot of dog bites here." After I contained my rising snort I asked, " So what happens then?", thinking that maybe they gave them a fake rabies shot and threw in a few stitches. She said, "We generally just replace the arm, depending on the severity of the bite." I scooted out of there quick, aware that I was about to burst with unkind mocking laughter.
Dude. They were dead serious. They were not working at their jobs hilariously. They were truly concerned for doll health, probably even took courses in doll anatomy and maybe even doll amputation/mangling repair surgery. It was really beyond comprehension and altogether too much for me. I lost my shit numerous times throughout the AG experience but the hospital took the cake.
I will continue the day in a separate post, as it is totally unrelated and right now I'm still in AG mode.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Pass The Cake
For Thanksgiving today my older sister decided to bake a cake for my younger sister. Under most circumstances that is not a big deal but in this case, my younger sister is allergic to pretty much everything that makes cake exist. So my older sister had to find a way to make an eggless, wheat-less, dairy-less, and delicious-less dessert because my younger sister is always deprived of sweets.
The thought behind this was very nice. A kind gesture from an older sister to a younger, more food-deprived one. She really put some effort into it. My younger sister was excited to have dessert for once instead of always just looking forlornly at everyone else enjoying themselves.
My younger sister was full of anticipation when she saw the lusciously frosted chocolate-y looking cake. She insisted on taste testing. One forkful later, she was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes, but she was unable to speak because the cake had glued her trap shut. In the spirit of solidarity, I took the next bite. I, too, was struck with severe laughing the instant my mouth sensors shot information to my brain. I am talking about the kind of laughter where all of one's abdominal muscles are taxed to their limit, in spite of one's six pack.
I will try to describe the horror baked into that cake. It is hard to determine which assaulted me first, the taste or the texture. They were equally traumatizing but I'm just trying to be accurate. With that kind of extreme sensation, though, sequencing is difficult.
The moment the cake was in my mouth I knew it was going to be tragic. The cake was dry and crumbly, but adhered by a bitter non-chocolate frosting with the consistency of synovial fluid. So even though it disintegrated rapidly, possibly allowing me a moment of hope that it would be over soon, the "frosting" caused the entire mouthful to linger, similar to how a "fecal impaction" might cause an intestineful to linger. Though I chewed through tears and laughter, the cake did not respond to saliva or teeth. It remained crumbs of anguish suspended in a slurry-like frosting medium. Swallowing was inhibited by the inability of my mouth and throat muscles to identify and adapt to the situation, and also primal fear at ingesting such a fucked up substance. I continued to chew in the hope that the cake would be rendered neutral. Alas it was not but I managed to overcome my instincts and force it down.
I had expected that once I swallowed the cake, my ordeal would be over. Instead the flavor continued to grow and change in spite of the fact that the cake was no longer present in my mouth. It went from rancid, gritty, and devastating to bitter, determined, and inescapable. Even though I was still laughing, in the back of my mind I felt trapped and began to wonder if I would ever escape the taste.
My sister had used her regular cake recipe, but checked online for replacements for most of the ingredients. For instance, instead of normal flour she had to use the ground essence of Hell. No sugar at all--clearly it was sweetened with the triumph of Chairman Mao. For eggs, I'm not sure what she used. Maybe a different type of egg, like basilisk or something. Instead of normal frosting ingredients, she used a sweet(ish) plant extract, memories of war crimes, and curare. The frosting (that I call Hate) also had speckles, which I later found out was particles of vegan non-butter that refused to meld with the other terrible ingredients. All in all it tasted like ass, but worse, like ass that had been sauteed in prison wine.
We passed that cake around all day, enjoying the reactions of relatives and friends who thought they knew what they were getting into but did not, because the full range of human experience could not equip anyone for that cake. It sounds morally questionable and un-holiday-like to do that but it was done with full disclosure. Taste this gross cake, we said. It really sucks, we told them. And they did, and laughter came upon them. And us.
That cake was the highlight of our Thanksgiving. The Cake From Gitmo.
Chocolate cake, yes
It seems like it might be good
No no no it's not
Kind loving sister
Makes cake worse than death and pain
It's the thought that counts
Crumbs stuck to the roof
Of my mouth oh sweet Jesus
Moth feces plus frosting
The thought behind this was very nice. A kind gesture from an older sister to a younger, more food-deprived one. She really put some effort into it. My younger sister was excited to have dessert for once instead of always just looking forlornly at everyone else enjoying themselves.
My younger sister was full of anticipation when she saw the lusciously frosted chocolate-y looking cake. She insisted on taste testing. One forkful later, she was laughing so hard tears were coming out of her eyes, but she was unable to speak because the cake had glued her trap shut. In the spirit of solidarity, I took the next bite. I, too, was struck with severe laughing the instant my mouth sensors shot information to my brain. I am talking about the kind of laughter where all of one's abdominal muscles are taxed to their limit, in spite of one's six pack.
I will try to describe the horror baked into that cake. It is hard to determine which assaulted me first, the taste or the texture. They were equally traumatizing but I'm just trying to be accurate. With that kind of extreme sensation, though, sequencing is difficult.
The moment the cake was in my mouth I knew it was going to be tragic. The cake was dry and crumbly, but adhered by a bitter non-chocolate frosting with the consistency of synovial fluid. So even though it disintegrated rapidly, possibly allowing me a moment of hope that it would be over soon, the "frosting" caused the entire mouthful to linger, similar to how a "fecal impaction" might cause an intestineful to linger. Though I chewed through tears and laughter, the cake did not respond to saliva or teeth. It remained crumbs of anguish suspended in a slurry-like frosting medium. Swallowing was inhibited by the inability of my mouth and throat muscles to identify and adapt to the situation, and also primal fear at ingesting such a fucked up substance. I continued to chew in the hope that the cake would be rendered neutral. Alas it was not but I managed to overcome my instincts and force it down.
I had expected that once I swallowed the cake, my ordeal would be over. Instead the flavor continued to grow and change in spite of the fact that the cake was no longer present in my mouth. It went from rancid, gritty, and devastating to bitter, determined, and inescapable. Even though I was still laughing, in the back of my mind I felt trapped and began to wonder if I would ever escape the taste.
My sister had used her regular cake recipe, but checked online for replacements for most of the ingredients. For instance, instead of normal flour she had to use the ground essence of Hell. No sugar at all--clearly it was sweetened with the triumph of Chairman Mao. For eggs, I'm not sure what she used. Maybe a different type of egg, like basilisk or something. Instead of normal frosting ingredients, she used a sweet(ish) plant extract, memories of war crimes, and curare. The frosting (that I call Hate) also had speckles, which I later found out was particles of vegan non-butter that refused to meld with the other terrible ingredients. All in all it tasted like ass, but worse, like ass that had been sauteed in prison wine.
We passed that cake around all day, enjoying the reactions of relatives and friends who thought they knew what they were getting into but did not, because the full range of human experience could not equip anyone for that cake. It sounds morally questionable and un-holiday-like to do that but it was done with full disclosure. Taste this gross cake, we said. It really sucks, we told them. And they did, and laughter came upon them. And us.
That cake was the highlight of our Thanksgiving. The Cake From Gitmo.
Chocolate cake, yes
It seems like it might be good
No no no it's not
Kind loving sister
Makes cake worse than death and pain
It's the thought that counts
Crumbs stuck to the roof
Of my mouth oh sweet Jesus
Moth feces plus frosting
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Duck, Dutch, Duck
Every night my littler one has to read to me out loud for 20 minutes. He usually picks nonfiction and I like it because I learn interesting facts, like that beluga mothers shoot hot creamy milk into their babies' mouths. That little morsel made me feel a bit uncomfortable, but most other times I expand my knowledge rather than feel like taking a shower.
For quite a few days in a row he was reading a biography of Ronald Reagan. I know. It was Dutch this and Dutch that, and was pretty boring as biographies go. What I'm saying is that Ronald Reagan is no Clara Barton. Anyway, one day he got to the exciting assassination attempt. I listened that day because it was finally interesting.
He read, "The president and his aides got into the car." He then stopped, puzzled.
"I didn't know Ronald Reagan had AIDS, Mom."
I had to explain to my child of the new millenium that it was not, in fact, HIV to which they referred but instead a helper sort of person employed by the important among us. Lest it sound like I remained calm, let me assure you that I nearly shot protein bar out of my nose in a failed attempt not to crack up.
For quite a few days in a row he was reading a biography of Ronald Reagan. I know. It was Dutch this and Dutch that, and was pretty boring as biographies go. What I'm saying is that Ronald Reagan is no Clara Barton. Anyway, one day he got to the exciting assassination attempt. I listened that day because it was finally interesting.
He read, "The president and his aides got into the car." He then stopped, puzzled.
"I didn't know Ronald Reagan had AIDS, Mom."
I had to explain to my child of the new millenium that it was not, in fact, HIV to which they referred but instead a helper sort of person employed by the important among us. Lest it sound like I remained calm, let me assure you that I nearly shot protein bar out of my nose in a failed attempt not to crack up.
Monday, November 14, 2011
One Simple Thing
That post title is actually the title of a song from the 90s I think. I was pretty amazing in the 90s so I know cool stuff like that.
One thing I have been sucking at really bad lately is blogging. The main reason for that is school, which I guess most reader(s) of this blog would know. This blog is turning into one big excuse for not blogging. I have decided not to feel guilty about it.
I don't think I've ever posted about my jiu jitsu instructor and his tendency to say horrifying things while teaching. He will drop a total bomb and not even notice. I usually look around to see who is snickering with me: mostly no one. So either people are devoid of human speech comprehension or have no sense of humor at all, or possibly I'm a 15 year old boy incognito. Some examples:
While teaching a head and arm triangle (my head right next to his, my arms wrapped around his neck and arm to choke him): "Nope, not feeling it. Nope, nope....give me more head, more head, more head." At this point I collapse in giggles. He realizes that might have been awkward. Maybe find a different way to ask for greater head pressure next time.
While trying to pass a guy who is crunched down in a disaster-like position, on knees with head and arms crunched into mat (turtle): "So when he moves, I'm just going to beat him off to the side." On this one, someone did ask with incredulity mixed with snorting, "You're going to what?" He realizes that might have been awkward.
While trying to get my partner to perform x-guard on me: "Dude, just stick it in there. You've got to really give it to her." We rupture, trying not to laugh. He walks away, unaware that he pretty much just taught porn instead of jiu jitsu.
What's funny here, aside from everything, is that this is a guy who stumbles over the word crotch, when it is clearly the only word that will convey where one needs to have one's legs, or arms, or whatever. He feels it is not a nice word.
One thing I have been sucking at really bad lately is blogging. The main reason for that is school, which I guess most reader(s) of this blog would know. This blog is turning into one big excuse for not blogging. I have decided not to feel guilty about it.
I don't think I've ever posted about my jiu jitsu instructor and his tendency to say horrifying things while teaching. He will drop a total bomb and not even notice. I usually look around to see who is snickering with me: mostly no one. So either people are devoid of human speech comprehension or have no sense of humor at all, or possibly I'm a 15 year old boy incognito. Some examples:
While teaching a head and arm triangle (my head right next to his, my arms wrapped around his neck and arm to choke him): "Nope, not feeling it. Nope, nope....give me more head, more head, more head." At this point I collapse in giggles. He realizes that might have been awkward. Maybe find a different way to ask for greater head pressure next time.
While trying to pass a guy who is crunched down in a disaster-like position, on knees with head and arms crunched into mat (turtle): "So when he moves, I'm just going to beat him off to the side." On this one, someone did ask with incredulity mixed with snorting, "You're going to what?" He realizes that might have been awkward.
While trying to get my partner to perform x-guard on me: "Dude, just stick it in there. You've got to really give it to her." We rupture, trying not to laugh. He walks away, unaware that he pretty much just taught porn instead of jiu jitsu.
What's funny here, aside from everything, is that this is a guy who stumbles over the word crotch, when it is clearly the only word that will convey where one needs to have one's legs, or arms, or whatever. He feels it is not a nice word.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Unrest
My sister texted me last night to say that she saw a sign for Occupy LaCrosse. You know, LaCrosse, WI where all the heavy financial moguls live. Of course I support civil unrest and protesting, and I understand that people from small cities have political feelings too, but that cracked me up. Then she texted me again, and it was on:
Sis: "The Amish out here will have signs that say 'Fuck Wall Street, they wear fancy zippers.'"
Me: "We are the 1%. The percent with home-canned relish."
Sis: "Our horses will shit on your Wall Street."
Me: They will occupy the creamery.
Occupy!!!!!!
Sis: "The Amish out here will have signs that say 'Fuck Wall Street, they wear fancy zippers.'"
Me: "We are the 1%. The percent with home-canned relish."
Sis: "Our horses will shit on your Wall Street."
Me: They will occupy the creamery.
Occupy!!!!!!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Dorklet
As in, tiny small nerd offspring. My elder son, the one who formed obscene Mesopotamian sex toys in art class, just informed me that he thought that project was dumb. Hell yes, I thought. "Why is that, love?" I asked, expecting some kind of answer about either rolls of clay being boring, or fake cuneiform not being accurate, or even Mom it looks like a penis.
Instead, he told me, with scorn in his tone, that the Hammurabi code part was written onthe dildo a Cyrus cylinder. Evidently Hammurabi was keepin' it real in Babylon way earlier than Cyrus. The historical inaccuracy of the item was clearly not working for him. Two people, whether they presided over the same land (kind of, geographically not kingdom-ly) over time, should not be joined together in an art project that falsely presents them to be unified when in fact they were like 10 generations apart. I support his disregard for flights of fancy like that.
Proud day, this.
Instead, he told me, with scorn in his tone, that the Hammurabi code part was written on
Proud day, this.
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