As evidenced by my scarcity online this week, I am doing major housecleaning. In doing so, I have unearthed my father's collection of vintage "art" postcards, sent mostly to him by his father.
Per the back of the following entry, which is otherwise blank, this one is titled "Ecole De Fontainebleau" by Anonymous and is apparently displayed at the Louvre. As I recall, it was also duly displayed on our avocado green refrigerator for several months when I was a teen.
Is there any former smoker out there who doesn't want to take a good long drag after that? Is there any doubt Shatner got one hell of a lot of trim back in the day?
So I'm at the discount grocery (duh) and there's this totally obnoxious broad with nine tons of obnoxious crap in her cart (Juicy Juice, Barbie fruit snacks, Gogurt) and she's taking up about 90 percent of the produce aisle while she picks One. Goddamn. Green. Bean. at a time, inspecting each one, putting it back, getting another ... you get the picture.
I'm trying to reach around her and her cart in order to get a lousy cucumber. GOD FORBID she should inch her cart forward to free up the space in front of the bin I'm after.
Broad's got a little kid with her, who is fingering every shiny green vegetable within her reach, to which (of course) Mom is oblivious.
The kid starts pawing on the jalapenos, which low and behold, finally gets our darling Stepford Wife's attention.
"No, Brittany, No!" She bellows, dropping her lone green bean. "That's a hot pepper. It's loaded with dangerous oils. We never ever touch a hot pepper!"
She proceeds to fish a foil packet from her purse, frantically tears it open, pulls out the sanitized wipe and starts scrubbing the kid's hand. The kid stares off vacantly with a slacked jaw.
No, I didn't tell the miserable off. (Did it ever occur to you that the general population does not appreciate your kid's snotty hands all over the vegetables not to mention your own on the reject beans [no doubt rejected for some invalid and candy ass reason] and on top of all the ways you're showing your kid to have zero concern over anything but her own needs, you've nixed any chances of her ever enjoying a decent pepper dish [for no goddamn reason as there isn't any goddamn pepper oil on the outside of that jalapeno] and she'll likely grow up to be one of those silly little broads wrinkling her nose and saying, "eeewwww!" every time she's served something other than a sandwich made with processed ham and Wonder Bread?) Yes, I rolled my eyes and made a big HUFF noise. (GOOD CHRIST, lady, you are a candy ass.) No, she didn't notice.
Behold everything that is wrong with America.
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Your humble hostess concedes that when cleaning, dicing and deseeding large quantities of hot peppers, the residue can stick to the hands, thereby putting the act of manual self-stimulation in peril. In such a case, your hostess advises you to vigorously rub a liberal amount of olive oil on your hands, which will dissolve the oil, then wash with soap and water. Test heat of fingers with tip of tongue and repeat as necessary before employing fingers elsewhere on the body.*
The reader should not infer that his humble hostess has any personal experience with manual stimulation and hands contaminated with hot oil begotten from preparing, say, Hot Hungarian Lecho,** or any other such dish.
*This method is also effective in the removal of tree sap from the hands.
All I had to do was reach into the shopping cart and remove the offending tub in one definitive swoop. My husband (aka The Goat) had slipped it in there.
The Goat, at over six feet tall and composed mostly of muscle and goat fur, is entitled to such indulgences. Furthermore, he could eat buttered bacon every day of the week and it would not elevate his cholesterol. It's a little different for me (my cholesterol once clocked in over 350).
Nonetheless, I acted as if I didn't notice and now we have a tub of Cool Whip sitting in the fridge. What can I do?
First, I outwardly (and I daresay pathetically) protested (Cool Whip! You bought Cool Whip?) while covertly getting accustomed to the idea of it. The assimilation period quickly dissolved into wanting to dunk something into it (it's Cool Whip for chrissake).
While chewing same, I made the ill-advised decision to read the ingredient list, which I do not recommend. Stay instead, dear reader, within the soft soma-like cloud of don't-ask-don't-tell denial. Enjoy this "rich & creamy" treat in blissful ignorance and abandon this post now.
**spoiler alert**
This stuff is made with hydrogenated oil. It's not even partially hydrogenated. This is whole-hog hydrogenated. It's like the Titanic tanking in your aorta. On top of that, it's loaded with high fructose corn syrup. But perhaps my favorite ingredient is: "beta carotene (color)."
What?
Um, Kraft Foods? THIS SHIT IS WHITE.
None of this deterred me from eating the goddamn fudge-striped cookie/Cool Whip monstrosity (and the two that immediately followed), but a few days later I also creating a hellish "sundae" with vanilla ice cream, crushed pretzels, coffee syrup, dry-roasted peanuts and yes, a massive dollop of Cool Whip.
The worst part of it is that the Cool Whip will linger in my cabinet long after as its fatty particles have firmly attached themselves to the walls of my arteries. Being a Woman in Cleveland, I have to save the empty Cool Whip container, into which I will deposit leftover potatoes, sausage and sauerkraut to dispatch to my father-in-law, who will dutifully return the container to me.
Said too-good-to-throw-away container activity will continue for six to 12 months (or longer), until the lid suffers a massive injury (read: crack) and I can finally recycle it (although my mother has been known to use tinfoil to cover a still-good-enough-to-use Cool Whip container that has lost its lid--I have not advanced to this level yet).
And that of course brings me to the dreaded Bag Disease.
Considering I got NOT ONLY a cool new pair of shoes yesterday, but that wonderful award as well, I'd say it was a pretty good day.
I am exhausted and a bit overwhelmed. There aren't enough thank-yous in the world for the people who put the Lantern Award in my hand.
Now if you'll keep coming back, I'll keep posting. Between the two of us, we'll hold up this little space with some laughs and light and tears and words.
Back in college, the young dandies and I used to play this song at an unnerving volume whilst singing along. Whenever the lyrics chimed "Rock me Amadeus," however, we would instead sing, "Eat me I'm a danish."
I just listened to the podcast from my interview today on "Around Noon." You can listen or download here. My segment starts at about 33 minutes into the broadcast.
I was stunned to find myself engaged by the exchange, which was fast paced and vibrant. If anyone is interested, I referenced two blog entries during the show, Dear People without Televisions and another regarding the Park 51 controversy.
Thanks to host Dee Perry as well as my fellow award nominees Karen Sandstrom and Michael Salinger. I had a blast, guys. Good luck on Saturday!
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Today's graphic features the Coffee Convenience Center in 90.3 WCPN's Green Room.
Harry reached into the tan leather pouch and felt the three folded pieces of paper. He lingered for a moment, fondling them and savoring this unlikely intimacy between himself and the other man. Each slip of paper felt identical. He chose one indifferently and pulled it from the bag.
Taking his eyes from Trace’s just long enough to look into his palm, he said, “Downtown,” with his famous poker face. “Your turn.”
Trace reached into the black pouch without hesitation. He plucked a slip of paper out and tossed it onto the table, his eyes still trained on Harry. “Here,” said Trace, “you read it.”
Harry opened the slip, sweat beading on his upper lip, his confidence seeping out of him. “Muzzleloaders,” he said, and looked away.
Much to my surprise and despite the dubious nature of these pages, "The "Erin O'Brien Owner's Manual for Human Beings" is a finalist for a Lantern Award.
The winners will be announced at an awards ceremony on Sept. 11 at the Palace Theater, which is one of my favorite places in Cleveland and everyone should go there whenever possible whatever the reason, even if it is to watch an awards program involving the unlikely likes of me.
Karen, Michael and I will be discussing all of this puffery on "Around Noon" next Tuesday, Sept. 7, at noon. You can listen to that (for free!) by tuning into 90.3 FM locally, listening online to the live stream via the previous link, or dropping in there after the fact and downloading the podcast.
If all this O'Brien-inity has you overwhelmed with the unbearable lightness of being, why not keep the sails full and sign up for the 27th Annual Western Reserve Writers' Conference and Workshop, at which both Michael and I will be presenting along with a bevy of wonderful Cleveland writers. The event is from 8:30 a.m. to 4 p.m on Saturday, Sept. 25.
I'd love to see you at one or both of these events. Thank you for your continued support.
