The Foundations Department

I like to go to thrift stores.

The biggest Salvation Army Thrift Store in the world is in Strongsville, OH, which is a few miles from where I live. I love that you can buy wedding dresses at the thrift store, and old purses.

I love to watch people shop in second hand stores. They're very careful about their purchases, taking time to inspect the Presto Air Popper. They look at the cord. They ask the Salvation Army guy if it works. They go over every seam of the bean bag chair and make sure the miniature plastic spatula is with the toy kitchen set.

I watch the people until something catches my eye. Then I behave like them, although I do not count the pieces of the jigsaw puzzles I buy. I once bought a pill box hat for $1.50 at the Goodwill.

I often donate stuff to the Salvation Army. I loved that my old electric beater was in the housewares department (at least I think it was mine). I wanted to stand up and say, "Hey! That's a good electric beater! You oughtta buy that mother for only $2.99!

Unique Thrift is a huge second hand store downtown. They have the biggest rack of second hand underwear I ever saw.

Most people see a rack of used underwear in a thrift store and think: ugh and move on.

Not me.

I wonder about who sorts the second hand underwear. I think: Wow look at that. It's a rack of used underwear and now I have to figure out how to take a picture of it so I can post it on the Internet! As if anyone cares about how The Great Erin O'Brien interacts with a rack of used underwear.

Then there is the implication of being me.

Because now I am a person taking photographs of used underwear in a thrift store (behaving furtively, complete with eyes shifting back and forth beneath dangling pricetag of yet another hat I have yet to pay for). This puts me in a whole new category (population: 1), but at least it gives the people who are purchasing said underwear someone to roll their eyes at:

Look at the broad taking pictures of the underwear.

Some people. Sniffs. Honey, hand me that bra over there by you--that baby blue one.

* * *

We interupt this blog ...

... to apologize for the technical difficulties.

Members of the readership interested in the relationship between the film Jaws and the turkey carcass in their refrigerator are invited to read this post.

The Management unfortunately allowed the Editorial Department, in collaboration with members of the Cafeteria Staff, to proceed with tasks usually delegated to the IT (Information Technology) Department, thereby botching all aspects of all tasks. Exposing details of said botching will benefit no one and only serve to embarrass The Management more than The Management has already managed to embarrass itself.

The Management is now going to advise all employees of the Offices of Erin O'Brien to step away from the computer.

The Management thanks the readership for the readership's continued patience and support.

--The Management.

* * *

Breaking down the bones

Down.

Get a big-ass pot--I mean big. Take your turkey carcass and start ripping that mother apart. Put EVERYTHING in the pot. Skin, bones, any stuffing cling-ons. All of it.

The candy-asses out there aren't going to like this, but you need to break the bones apart old school. Use your hands and tear them up righteous. Rip the soft backbone and breast bone into pieces. The more you bust those up, the more mysterious inner bone stuff comes out and the better the soup is going to be. Don't piss-out. Bust the shit out of it. If you can't do that, I just don't know what. Go to bed.

Rinse off a couple of raw onions, cut them in half and throw those in there. Leave the skin on for good color. Don't peel them like some goddamn Martha Stewart wannabe. That broad couldn't make turkey bone soup to save her Special Edition Eddie Bauer USS Martha girdle.

Got any old celery hearts? Greens? Carrot Greens? It's soup, for chrissake, throw it in there. Throw any leftover stuffing in there. One last scoopful of mashed potato? Into the pot. We're not effing around here.

Add enough water to cover everything, maybe a little more. You'll want at least three or four quarts of water total. Five or six for a real big bird.

Put the lid on and bring it to a boil. Put that soup down to the lowest simmer possible and let her ride for four to six hours with the lid slightly ajar.

That's right. Four to six hours. Don't eff around and take it off in an hour because you know what you'll have? Watered down turkey piss, that's what.

You will not believe how good that soup smells as it cooks.

Fit a colander (not too fine) over another pot and pour your soup in there. All the gnarly bones and skin and cooked-into-submission onion will go in the colander. It'll look worse than that Chrissie chick from the opening scene in Jaws after the shark was done with her and they put what was left in a bedpan. DO NOT throw it out.

Put the strained soup in the fridge to cool overnight, covered.

Take the leftover Chrissy stuff and start picking through there. Pull out any good meat chunks. Save those. Now you can throw the rest of that crap out.

Boil up some regular polite carrot and celery and onion pieces in regular water. How big should those pieces be? Well, genius, as big as a person would want to eat in their turkey bone soup. Can't you people figure anything out? Cook them up proper, strain them and put them in the fridge. Cook some soup noodles too. Go ahead and use some pansy girlie shape (ditalini, farfalle, gemelli). I don't care, just use Barilla. Every other kind is piss-poor. Cook those noodles up but not too much or they'll get too soft in the soup and that will suck. Strain those and, you guessed it, into the fridge.

You want to use your egg noodles? Go ahead and use your egg noodles. Good christ--the things that trip you people up ...

You might need a beer or whiskey or something by now. Okay, fine. you're about done for day one.

The next day, take the soup out and skim the fat from the top and toss it. The more the cold soup broth is like jelly, the better. (No, I'm not going to fool around trying to explain high-end gourmet terms like consomme and aspic here. This is just a dumbass blog post, people.) Heat it up (the jellyness of it will go away, so don't worry).

I don't really have to tell you to taste it and add salt, pepper and some spices, do I?

Add the meat and the polite boiled veggies. You can put all the noodles in there, but sometimes they suck up too much broth and that will piss you off. I like to put a scoop of noodles in each bowl and pour the hot soup over that, which also cools the soup to a perfect eating temperature.

Everyone will be dying for that soup on account of the aroma wafting through the house the past two days. It is so good, don't be surprised if your peeps procure a lush silken pillow with the word "Genius" embroidered on it just for you. Put it in front of the box and sit your royal ass down with a steaming bowl of that soup.

This post is done.

* * *

Smoking Goat

The Goat is smoking a turkey in our Weber kettle.


This procedure requires an array of mysterious equipment worthy of a warlock ...


... and copious Goat attention.


The Goat begins preparing some of the associated paraphernalia days before the actual smoking of the turkey.


Although the Goat often wears shoes while lounging on our bed to watch television (which always elicits a GODDAMNIT ANYWAY TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF WHEN YOU'RE ON THE BED from Yours Truly), he compensates by wearing slippers while smoking a turkey.


The Goat will smell of smoke for the rest of the weekend.


Time to make the green bean casserole. See you on the other side.

Thanks

Some weirdo links iffin' you need a diversion today:

Jesus Christ.
Shitty beer.
The Blimp House.
Clitorides.

I am thankful for many things, including all of you. Have a wonderful holiday.

Love, Erin

* * *

To our love send a dozen white lilies

Mousapalooza

This mouse was in my dentist's office.


It is an excellent mouse for beginners. The scroll bar is large and red, making it highly visible and easily identifiable. Manipulating the scroll ball on this model is so simple, anyone can do it.

Well, almost anyone.

I found the candy-like appearence of the scroll ball so inviting, I wanted to lick it, but was too embarrassed to ask. So I took the picture instead.

Mice have a lot of personality. Depending on how the mouse driver is programed, a mouse can be as individual as its owner. For instance, this one is considerably more sophisticated and complex than our first example. Some would call it "high maintenance."


Although I am not sure, I think this it may belong to the woman who is modeling it in such an inviting way. She is sure proud of her mouse. Plus, she's got a certain authority. I'll bet she knows how to manipulate a scroll bar with just the right amount of pressure. She's probably manipulated hundreds.

This is my mouse.


Unlike the other mice, the only predominate feature available on the body of the mouse is the scroll ball.

There is no mistaking the scroll ball on my mouse, mister!

I have been manipulating my scroll ball for a long, long time. Have others manipulated my scroll ball? Sure, but let's keep the party polite and keep those details private.

Some might say that my mouse isn't very flashy or new-fangled, but that's the way I like it. I'm a bit of a purist that way. Some would call it "low maintenance."

I hate to admit this, but sometimes my scroll ball gets stuck. When that happens, I get out my can of pressurized air and give it a nice cold blast. After that, my scroll ball works good as new.

* * *

Tell me something good

On a fluke, Eric and I rented American Swing, a documentary-style film that chronicles the notorious New York sex club "Plato's Retreat," which opened in 1977. The club enjoyed it's short-lived glory days while under the management of founder Larry Levenson.

I was riveted by this movie from start to finish.

Despite the outrageous sexual activity going on in the club, there's an innocence and even a naivete about it all that we'll never recapture in our post-HIV society. Even in an STD-free world, the moral majority/bible-thumpers would never abide this level of unabashed sexual freedom.

The interviews are wonderful. I loved listening to people in their fifties and sixties reminisce about the sex they had in their twenties and thirties. The vintage interviews from shows like Donahue are worth the cost of admission alone.

The graphics are, well, graphic and not at all suitable for family viewing; but the footage and photos never feel pornographic. They help to tell the story in the most appropriate way. These people are having fun. The sex is flat-out and raw and everybody's enjoying it. Everything about what you see is real. The boobs and pubes are 100% natural.


This movie depicts a raucous albeit slim chapter from the book of human sexuality. It is sexy, quirky, funny, sad and honest. I can't recommend it highly enough.

If you don't rent it, whatever you do, view the six minute trailer, which gives a generous sampling of what the film is all about.

* * *

Cookie monster

Twilight: a different perspective

To date, I have conducted 17 presentations on the Twilight series at points across northeast Ohio, mostly attended by girls in grades 6, 7, and 8.

The four Twilight series books total about 2,450 pages. That's a lot of reading--and these kids devour it all. Not only do they love the books, but they also sit transfixed for 90 minutes during my interactive discussions--that is until I pose a question. Then their hands shoot up, or they just blurt out answers. Some literally jump from their seats, unable to contain their excitement.

During my discussions, I point out literary devices such as contrast and irony, the references to Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, and the celestial allusions that steer the series. When kids "see" how the book titles work into the story, their eyes pop to O's and they gasp at the epiphany. I often have to calm a group down. The middle school set is usually a tough audience and I laud Twilight author Stephanie Meyer for energizing them so successfully about books.

*spoiler alert*

What's the secret behind that success? Just ask Walt Disney. The saga of Bella and Edward is really just an elaborate fairy tale. Bella is the clumsy new girl in town who meets and falls in love with the mysterious Edward Cullen, a clandestine vampire. Bella is the hapless damsel in distress again and again, playing perfectly against Edward's knight in shining armor. (I call him a "vampire in a shining Volvo." The kids die laughing at that.)

After much trial and tribulation, Bella and Edward marry and have a child. Edward transforms Bella into a vampire, which makes her graceful, strong, immortal and breathtakingly beautiful. Her daughter is immortal as well. I call it the "happily ever after on steroids" or "the happily FOREVER after." The vamp newlyweds even move into a cottage in the woods.

The Cullen vampires, including Bella and Edward or "Bedward," never feed on humans, opting for the less-satisfying animal blood. They talk about being tempted to feed on humans, but I never felt that temptation. Save a mishap at Bella's 18th birthday party, they never come close to sinking their teeth into a juicy jugular, nor do I believe they ever will. Hence, they aren't really vampires, but more like immortal superheroes, which is a better ideological fit for the fairy tale: these vampires aren't going to hurt any innocent humans.

Plenty of people decry this aspect of the series, but not as many are talking about the truly dark side of Twilight.

* * *

During every presentation, I stop and say, "It's time for me to put on my mom hat." Then I explain that fictional boyfriends that follow you around and never let you out of their sight are fine, but in real life that behavior is inappropriate. The kids are savvy and murmurs of "stalker" fill the room.

Next I say, very purposefully, "And at no time should physical interaction between two people end up with one of them covered in bruises." Then I take off my mom hat because these aren't my kids and that's all I really can say, but I'm going to say a little more now.

If the obsessive boyfriend antics aren't bad enough, Stephenie Meyer commits an unconscionable transgression in the fourth Twilight book, Breaking Dawn.

On their honeymoon, Edward and Bella (still human) consummate their marriage. That part is handled tastefully enough in a pan-to-the-moon sort of way. The next morning, however, Bella is bruised all over because of their physical inequity. Edward is apologetic. Bella tells him that it's nothing and is eager for more sex.

Hey, Steph? Did it occur to you that you just subliminally endorsed the standard abuse template in the most indelible way in front of every tween from New York to California?

There is no context framing the "morning after" other than the implication that when Bella is finally a vampire, the sex will be forever great and bruise-free. The painfully obsessive nature of their relationship makes this even worse. Bella's unhealthy addiction to Edward is exactly the type of situation that breeds an abused woman. The few times I tried to explain how insidious this message is, I was met with knitted brows. No surprise, this is complex and dark stuff many adults can't properly process. Hence I learned to make my comments few and clear, but I am nonetheless furious at Stephanie Meyer over this.

I remember when I smoked. I used to tell myself that plenty of people smoked their whole lives with no health problems even though I knew that was flat-out wrong. I can't help thinking some young girl, desperate to justify the behavior of an abusive boyfriend she adores, is whispering to herself: it all worked out for Bella.

* * *

The Twilight talks were wonderful and exhausting. I loved the mom-daughter teams. I even had a few boys and a smattering of solo adults. The experience gave me faith in the future as well as a renewed sense of responsibility as a writer.

It's a tragedy that some of that responsibility didn't spill onto the series' author before her work catapulted into the stratosphere.

* * *

Healthcare Reform bill vs. Twilight Series

Healthcare Reform bill: 2074 pages.

Twilight series: 2444 pages.

If every 12-year-old girl in America can read the Twilight series six times, 100 US Senators can read the HCR bill once. GOP Senators: quit your bellyaching.

Although, since I had to read the entire Twilight series, can I just read the HCR bill synopsis?

* * *

Goat love

The Goat brought me roses. Hi Goat.

You. Tube.

Tonight your humble hostess will complete her 16th speaking engagement, the last of a run that's spanned about a month.

Translation: I'm tired, peeps.

Hence, in lieu of original content, here's a collection of weirdo YouTube faves, arranged by video duration from shortest to longest. View and enjoy, and please leave a link or URL for your recommended YouTube tidbits in the comment section.

Salvation

So comes the word.

There is a safe haven from the swirling miasma of Beck and Bachmann and Caribou Barbie: making dinner.

Making dinner, I tell you--making dinner!

Leveling a cup of flour, breading the chicken and steaming the broccoli. It's beautiful, really. And so goddamn satisfying: You cook, you serve, the people eat and everything is as it should be. All the boxes are checked, neat as you please.

The mere idea of Wesson oil makes me inflate with a joyous sigh. A rubber spatula is a placating miracle.

Deliver unto me a vapid Stepfordian life! Dissipate the black cloud of Limbaugh from my life. Let me acquiesce. Allow me to flip an omelet with ease, courtesy of a girl named Pam.

Hand me a can of Campbell's condensed cream of mushroom soup and 20 minutes later, I shall present you with a platter of Chicken Rotini Supreme worthy of the pages of Family Circle, Redbook or Woman's World.

I turn on the kitchen stereo. Burt Bacharach and Dione Warwick pour from the speakers like Heinz Gravy over meatloaf as I slide the 4-quart Corning Ware casserole dish from the shelf and turn to the world of simmering, braising and stirring occasionally.

Heal me. Absolve me. Free me from the talons.

Amen.

Katherine's Collection

Several weeks ago, I posted about a strange toothfairy doll that my dentist had. I was completely transfixed by it and wanted to learn more about the manufacturer. "Katherine's Collections" was local, but they turned out to be oddly cagey about their merchandise, which is only available via dealers. Even their website has limited access. I did a little research about the company and found their story compelling. I thought it might be worthy of a profile I could pitch, so I queried them a few times. They did not respond.

Even though the mysterious behavior only fueled my intrigue, I let it go. I didn't think more about it until I returned to my dentist last week and mentioned the doll and blog post. He said that Katherine's Collection was having their once-a-year open-to-the-public warehouse sale starting that day. I couldn't verify the sale anywhere online, but I hopped in the car anyway. Silver Lake is only about 20 miles away.

A temporary sign announced the sale. The lot was packed. Inside the warehouse, people were dragging boxes loaded with decorative finery up and down aisles of ... well ... stuff. I dutifully got a box and started the bovine trek through the cavernous warehouse. I didn't find any Oompa Loompas prancing around, but the merchandise was worthy of a Tim Burton set. Everything seemed to have a point of view. My fingertips hovered over the beaded purses. I perused the bins of shimmering ribbon.

The more closely I inspected the merchandise, however, the more frayed ends and damaged items I found. A darling pudgy harlequin ornament was missing a foot. Another beaded one was shedding its sparkles. Rhinestones were plastic instead of glass. I would be charmed by a figure, then disappointed in its quality. Everything I saw was manufactured in India or China.

But the masks uber-charmed me. Sequins and gold trim and feathers. Elaborate petals blooming from foreheads. They were just seven or ten dollars each. I started to shuffle through the pile. Many were damaged, but I persevered and found three I loved.

Then I came upon the larger dolls.


I loved their outfits and faces and hair. Many of them were about three feet tall--they were marked $80 to $150.


This one was garbed in Christmas finery, but I thought she looked like Laura Bush. She was marked $250 and (nearly) life-sized--that's my hand for reference.


All I had was my phone cam, which barely captures the presence of the dolls.


I ended up with a small mermaid. She is truly wonderful and perhaps a bargain for $8, providing I don't ponder the conditions under which she was manufactured. She'll be fine as long as I set her on a shelf and leave her alone. If we have a little girl as a guest, however, I don't think the mermaid will last very long. She's beautiful, but made with the cheapest textiles.


The same is true of the masks. There are telltale holes in one mask where some accoutrement has already fallen out, another has tears in the backing.


It's tragic that the brilliance behind this success is dulled by mass market shoddiness and the question of Asian working conditions. I can only imagine how breathtaking these creations would be if they were carefully handmade with quality components.

Note to self: don't sell out.

* * *

Kindred spirit

Artist Ai Weiwei


* * *

An open letter to Colgate Palmolive

I'm in the backyard mucking around. I reach into a pile of leaves and encounter something warm and slimy. I scream and recoil. Slug nest? Some sort of mold? Who knows and who cares! I do a frantic grass wipe before high-tailing it to the house.

My hands are pretty filthy underneath the goo-streaks and I dither for a split second at the screen door. I opt to use my dirty but relatively un-slimed pinky to slide it open. At the sink, I carefully use the same digit to turn on the water. Then I put my forearm atop the bottle of Softsoap and give it an awkward albeit solid pump.

Instead of a nice thick bead of soap, I get that telltale gloppy fart noise. I furiously pump the bottle. More farts, no soap--just a few useless bubbles. I lean in to inspect the bottle and see that there is plenty of product left--enough, in fact, to wash my hands five times over, but it's not coming out.

Why? Because the little plastic pump suction tube ends three-eighths of an inch from the bottom of the goddamn bottle!

* * *

Dear Colgate Palmolive:

Due to the cutesy little shortened suction tube trick you miserable bastards are pulling with the Softsoap, I'm paying for 7.5 ounces of soap of which only about seven are usable.

This is no time for some insufferable Boy Scout "Be Prepared" speech, so don't you shake your heads and mutter about your economy refills. I buy the disposable soap dispensers for a reason. I'm running a Utility Grade operation here. I've got kids running in and out all day long washing their hands. Do you have any idea what that dispenser looks like after seven ounces of use? It's smudged and dented and shitty.

Oh sure, I could save up all the bottles with their half-ounce of unused soap and try to empty them into the least beat-up bottle (and you can bet that I'd be having to get my finger in there and pop out the dents and then scrub the pump top and bottle as well and it still wouldn't look like new).

Yeah right.

Like I'm going to dick around cleaning used soap bottles and then upending them on the vanity, leaning them between the Kleenex box and Lavoris bottle like some half-ass suburban housewife Jenga game. And if I did get it all propped up (not like I ever tried or anything) and went to put the laundry in the dryer while the soap drip-drip-dripped, you just know that the whole operation would fall over and Softsoap would go everywhere. Or it wouldn't be stacked right and half the soap would ooze down the side of the recipient bottle (that I just cleaned). It'd probably get on the mirror somehow as well (not that I know or anything).

Say I just shitcan the bottle. What of that undispensed soap in there? Does it effectively make the recyclable bottle unrecyclable? Will it muck up the recycling process? I don't want to screw up everything like the guy dumping his used oil down the drain and contaminating up half of Lake Erie.

I'm done with your Softsoap and its dicky little suction tube. I'm off to the land of 99-cent Lucky SuperSoft, which clocks in at 16.9 ounces and, courtesy of a suction tube that goes all the way to the bottom, I'll enjoy every ounce of it.

Kiss my ass goodbye, shitbags.

Love,

Erin

* * *

Irritating ends

-Those little plastic connector string-thingies that attach price tags to clothing and that you have to cut off, thereby sending the little "T" ends flying to places where you (inexplicably) cannot find them.

-The belief that there is always one more application in the toothpaste tube, inevitably resulting in toothpaste tube torture.

-The washing* of soiled Tupperware containers, which isn't so bad but always requires the drying of said containers, which is nearly impossible due to all the little ridges and grooves (particularly in the lids) where droplets of water cling and that require the person drying to fold up the towel and then manipulate it into the offending crevices.

-Missing puzzle pieces, particularly on brand SPANKING new 2,000-piece Springbok puzzles, which are effectively reduced to 1,999 pieces and rendered infinitely less valuable than their pristine counterparts.


-The last remaining crumbs in the potato chip bag, particularly when one's Dearly Beloved straightens the bag, thereby creating a "taut" corner, which he then upends into his mouth, but due to some unidentifiable miscalculation (perhaps operator error in bag-straightening or excessive crumb velocity due to misjudged bag upending speed), scatters the remaining potato chip crumbs into an array of places including but not limited to: his mouth (45%), his face (30%), and upon the floor and/or into the unnavigable landscape of his easy chair (25%).

-Instant lottery ticket scratch-off turds (which are admittedly less irritating when the lottery ticket yields winnings).

*applies to both manual and automatic efforts.

Goat blowing leaves

Phone cam round-up

Butter looks like four tiny nipples.


Erin is dumb.


Dig some vintage Triumph.


Tree porn and I love it.


Hey man! Gimme that last spring roll!


Godfather redux.


Here's three bucks, hand over the happy.


Goat flower.


Full frontal nudity.


Road apple.


Onions atop St. Theodosius


Smoke 'em if you got 'em.

Three dollars for a Sunday

$1 The dollar is in very serious trouble. Even his own mom is trying to get rid of him.

$2 The money guys are starting to admit that deregulation was a very, very bad thing. Told you so--I've been crowing about Glass-Steagall for over a year.

$3 Think the US national debt is troublesome? Dig the derivatives market. It's good for about $190,000 per person ON THE PLANET.

And some spare change for a guy who maintains the best economic news aggregate around.

Cold and creamy

I am one of the last American women who uses cold cream. The store didn't have Pond's, so I bought Suave. I don't care. It's cold cream for chrissake.

I'm not going to tell you what I do with it. Me and the other seven women who still use cold cream are going to stay all mysterious about our cold cream secrets. We think it makes us sexy in a Playtex-18-Hour-Cross-Your-Heart bra kind of way.

For more important historical information about cold cream and how it defies radioactive dirt, I invite my readers to view this concise and entertaining footage: