Archive | April, 2011

Shit that is really not helpful.

22 Apr

Just finished making dinner. Despite the fact that I like to cook, tonight’s meal is Ramen Noodles. That’s right – 33¢ per pack, friends. A staple of college students everywhere. And me. Because I love them. They’re a Friday Night Guilty Pleasure if ever I’ve had one.

Creamy Chicken is my favorite, but most DC stores don’t sell that, so I settle for the shy half-sister, straight-up Chicken flavor. And don’t even get me started on the noodles I remember from my childhood… there were Ramen that were 2-3 times as wide as these, and a bit firmer. They were (sigh) awesome. And are now utterly discontinued. (Double sigh.)

And as one further side note, let’s all send a mental “thank you” to my mother, who taught me that the key to awesome Ramen is to drain off the water and eat them as seasoned noodles rather than soup. For a woman whose other speciality is fried okra, that is what we call VERSATILITY.

So I’m making them (by which I mean BOILING them) with the timer set for three minutes. I know: when something only needs to cook for three minutes, I probably shouldn’t set the timer and go back into the living room to read. I should stand over the stove and wait. Or wash a dish or something while I wait. But I’m OCD so my kitchen is already spotless, and I’m uber-efficient so just standing there seems like a waste of time.

The point is, I set the timer and sat down. And then it beeped. Fair enough. Time to get the noodles. But I wanted to finish the paragraph I was on, and Ramen noodles really aren’t at risk for OVER cooking. Not like you can spoil a 33¢ meal.

But the timer just kept beeping. And beeping. It reminded me of the scene from “Three Amigos” where Steve Martin was  trying to discreetly get Martin Short and Chevy’ Chase’s attention by whistling, “Look up here!” repeatedly, as if he were a bird. (No clue what I’m referencing? Check out this video:)

Hey Mr. Engineer: Not Helpful. Let me guess, your mom was something of a nag? She wouldn’t leave you alone until whatever it was that was on her mind was addressed?

Well guess what? The rest of the world doesn’t function that way. Tell me once that my noodles are ready, then let me be a big girl. If I want to wait until the water has evaporated and they’re stuck to the bottom of the pan, then so be it. Much more preferable than listening to you chirp away harassing me.

On the fourth set of chirps, I finally responded, stomping into my kitchen ready to stab the timer button with one of my new Shun knives and leave it completely immobilized. But guess what? There, in my kitchen, stood Steve Martin, holding a plate of perfectly cooked Ramen for my dinner and glaring at me for not realizing they were waiting.

So I let it slide. Just this once.

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Clearly this was a man’s idea.

20 Apr

Tuesday morning as Alan and I were getting ready to leave for work, he emerged from my guest bedroom with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Are those your new pants in the closet there?” he asked.

I confirmed that they were.

“Interesting label on them,” he paused. “I can’t believe they actually sell pants that are billed as ‘curvy with stretch.’ That’s clearly a euphamism.”

I would have glared at him, but I share the same opinion. I buy 90% of my wardrobe from Ann Taylor Loft. I love that I can grab clothes off the rack and know if they’ll fit without trying them on, but I think their sizing system is a bit, um, insulting.

They have three styles for all their pants, each named after a woman: there’s the Ann, Julie or Marissa cut. While I like the fit, I find the names stupid. Not to mention, when you have two names clearly rooted in the 70s, what is Marissa doing there? It’s like Barbie and Skipper suddenly having to drag Barbie’s younger sister Stacie along. Just a mismatched item.

So back to Alan. He wanted to know a) how a store actually turned a profit that had a product labeling women as fat, and (to his credit), wondering why I needed a pair of pants designed to be curvy and stretchy.

I explained that the Marissa cut is for straight, boy-cut bodies, so those clearly wouldn’t work for me (I have hips, yo!). And the Ann style is made for — I don’t know, I guess people whose belly buttons are located where most people have a sternum. Or perhaps they should be called the mom-cut, since the waistband is always about four inches above a person’s hips.

Whatever. With those as my other options, I’ll take the pants that are designed for someone with a distinct waist and hips with a different measurement. And even if they may have been named by a passive-aggressive man who wanted his wife to diet, I’m going to just think that the “stretchy” allows me to have an extra helping of dinner without sweating it.

Now that I think of it, I’m seeing the advantage to pants that have a waist band four inches above my actual waist. Sign me up for the Ann cut!

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Don’t tug too hard or you’ll destroy it.

18 Apr

Who wants a phallus for Christmas?

At pottery this weekend I asked Jill to demonstrate how she pulls and attaches a handle to a mug.

I’ve been trying to do it during open studio without guidance, and as a result, my handles have come out looking bent, uneven and generally like they won’t stay on for a single dishwasher cycle.

As always, Jill made it look easy. But even in the hands of a lesbian, the process of pulling a handle also looked – well – dirty. You basically have to keep pulling on a piece of clay until it gets long and smooth, shaped much like a… nevermind.

As Jill was demonstrating this technique, she said, “Now be careful when you go to attach it. You want to keep pulling on it to work the clay, but you don’t want to jerk it off.”

Then, because she’s awesome, she caught herself and – as if she were Beavis’s seventy-year old grandmother, said, “Heh-heh. Don’t jerk it off!”

And that’s why I like pottery.

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I wish everyone kept it this real. And blunt.

17 Apr

Some of the students in my pottery class are getting hyped up for the annual student show. I’ve attended it before (as a purchaser, not a potter), so I’m familiar with the set-up, but I didn’t know what the process was behind it.

Apparently students who want to participate have to sign up, volunteer to bring some food, and then stick price tags on their stuff. I’m not participating, mainly because I’ve been focused on smaller pieces, but also because I don’t have a ton of stuff that I think is purchase-worthy. Even so, it’s been fun watching other students starting to freak out about it.

Remember the guy I referenced a few weeks back? Of course he’s participating, so yesterday I enjoyed hearing Jill (the owner) trying to coach him in (what I assume is) an attempt to avoid a train wreck with an audience.

“I have two pieces of advice for you,” she told him. “First, a lot of new students get really excited and hyper. They have a lot of nervous energy and they’re kind of spastic. Try not to be that way when there are people here. They won’t buy your shit and you’ll probably break something.”

“What’s the second piece of advice?” he asked, dismissing the first offering.

“Pricing. Don’t price anything ridiculously low – like a dollar – but generally you should probably price a bit lower than you think — you want your shit to sell.”

“It’s going to be hard to price my stuff,” he began explaining. “I mean, I look around and it’s just not similar to anyone else’s pieces. It’s really unique.” (I looked up and saw what looked like an assembly line of bottles coming off his wheel, remarkably similar to the pieces created by the person next to him.)

Jill must’ve done the same thing, because she said, “Easy with the ego, pal. Your shit isn’t that different.”

Amen. That’s probably sage advice for a lot of situations.

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Marriott: Is it a coincidence that your name includes “riot?”

16 Apr

Last week I was on a whirlwind tour of New York and Connecticut, visiting four major clients in three days. I’m not sure what jackass drafted that meeting schedule (oh wait – that would be me!) but I had three 12-hour days without so much as a pee break unscheduled.

Suffice it to say, on Tuesday, following a sleepless night, a long day of work and a rainy commute that doubled my travel time, I was THRILLED to see my hotel.

After checking in, I strapped myself down with bags like a pack mule so I’d only have to take one trip to my room, where I had plans to eat dinner in bed before crashing for the night. Or so I thought.

When I got to my room, however, as soon as I had the door cracked, I was bowled over by a heat wave. Then, as I opened the door, I was greeted by a bag of trash… and two wildly unmade beds. It occurred to me that there might actually be people in this room, so I cautiously backed out and beat a quick path to the front desk.

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