my family has been overseas for the last few weeks (or months or years, depending on the family member) and today, the loneliness struck me like my cat head-butting a pillow...which is to say, not very hard, but it sure was fun to watch.
there is a sex in the city episode where maranda torments herself with the idea of dying of an accident alone in her apartment, with no one to find her until weeks later, and of no one to feed her cat. today i felt empathy with that fear, NEVERMIND the complete lack of logic behind it---i don't live alone, i have classmates and work colleagues, and my cat has an automatic feeder with 3 lbs of food just in case.
in all seriousness, what brought this to my attention was the fact that my land-line phone has not rung in 4 weeks or so, and my voicemail and answering machine are not flooded with messages beseeching an ingrate (me) to call a worried, doting mother (mom). by now there would be at least 20 messages and infinite number of calls, given that if my mother does not speak to me for 48 hours she panicks. she imagines gruesome scenarios and calls me, and my best friends, EVERY HALF HOUR...until the constant ringtones---rather like aural chinese water torture---wears me down into obedience. i used to dread the persistent repetition of the first eight bars of pachelbel's canon (my fault; i really should change that ring), but now, it would be music to my ears (HA! ok, i am officially ashamed. so ashamed that here ends this post).
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Panty Grimoire
recently i began trading the work of my gifted and talented hands in exchange for money. i speak not of organ, nor of calligraphy, nor of cooking nor even bookbinding. i speak of that glorious position known as Panty Stocker. i actually believe the true title is "sales support." in any case, i imagined it a task which i would easily master, and to tell the truth i fold panties with the best of them (or, given my many years of origami practice, perhaps i AM the best of them)....and yet the one aspect which i failed to examine, the one minute obstacle that thwarts my inevitable conquest of All Things Undergarments, is Panty Identification.
as far as i know, there is no such thing as a Panty Guide (audubon missed out on a ground-breaking opportunity). there is the VS catalogue, of course, but that seems to be more of a "various half-naked women" guide than a true Panty Guide. or three-quarters-naked women. anyways, you see the point. how can any woman fully claim her womanhood without being able to cook, do laundry, and EASILY identify and sort all manner of panties? how could i have lived so long, and WORN panties my entire life, without appreciating every quality of each individual panty species? they were all created unique, but equal, and it is their diversity that strengthens them. for example, their shapes:
string bikini
regular bikini
low-rise string, and low-rise regular, bikini
hipster
low-rise hipster
brief
high-leg brief
v-string (thong)
boy thong (a WHAT?)
thong
boy short
girl boxer
girl short
boy boxer (okay, i was just joking about these last two)
their sizes:
xs, s, m, l, xl (disappointingly straight-forward)
their material combinations:
cotton, polyester, lace, spandex, mesh etc etc.
their colors and graphics:
from sophisticated black to innocent white to blushing pink to bright-orange ruffles on the butt of cerulean plaid (i kid you not, check the next time you visit the store).
their COLLECTIONS:
this stumped me. a lot. pink, angels, sexy little things, very sexy, body by victoria, pout. er. um. since every collections has a separate panty with every single possible variable factor (oh yay, combinatorials!) that means that i should familiarize myself with approximately 203987626 different panties. in truth, i just now made up that number. in further truth, i would not be surprised if that number were entirely accurate. who would refute me?
i found myself longing for a logical categorization of all...panties, for lack of a better description. "crotch-cover" came to mind as another description, but as some panties lack crotches it is ultimately faulty. the possibility of substituting other common terms was effectively discarded because of nomenclature issues. panties it is, and this is the Partial Panty Grimoire, installment 1 (further installments pending).
1) pout: a collection formerly known as "lifestyles," geared towards the early to mid 20s demographic. therefore every panty is plastered with cupcakes and butterflies and ruffle/plaid combinations....)
2) sexy little things: slutwear. no, seriously, a superior described them to me as "avant-garde lingerie." which immediately evoked images of grossly thin women wrapped in saran wrap and newspaper and ornamented with Cheerios. but luckily the sexy little things collection is conservatively avant-garde, and the white products are quite popular with brides. this collection probably bears the most ribbon, lace trim, beads, and sequins. perfect for drag queens.
3) angels: lingerie for the innocent adult. panties in pastels, doily-type lace, lots of bows and flowers.
4) very sexy: if angels is for the innocent, very sexy is for the corrupted. animal print galore, although i can't help but wonder: who is aroused by a zebra? very sexy also has an abundance of gold ornamentation---rings, links, chain---and the combination of the two is rather like watching a zebra wear gold chain necklaces. oh, the zebra stripe print is rarely in black and white, so imagine a zebra, dyed purple, decked out in bling. this is very sexy indeed.
4) body by victoria cotton "hi-leg brief": middle eastern granny panties. by which i mean the majority of middle eastern women that enter the store make a beeline for this panty table, pointedly ignoring the mostly-naked models and suggestive lingerie leering at them from every angle. this particular panty also attracts grannies.
5) pink boy thong: a thong built solely to train preteen girls to the sensation of string up one's butt, similar to acclimating a foal to the bridle.
6) boy short, girl boxer: two separate panties, each inflicted with gender-identity confusion. these are panties, i am sad to say, that i cannot yet identify without checking the label.
so perhaps i am still yet a Page of Panties, yet i sense squire-hood not far off. my heart yearns for further mastery---oh to be a knight of knickers, or a queen of questionables, or an overlord of underwear---but i fear that to delve too much deeper into study would require too much money, and kill too many braincells, than i can afford to lose.
as far as i know, there is no such thing as a Panty Guide (audubon missed out on a ground-breaking opportunity). there is the VS catalogue, of course, but that seems to be more of a "various half-naked women" guide than a true Panty Guide. or three-quarters-naked women. anyways, you see the point. how can any woman fully claim her womanhood without being able to cook, do laundry, and EASILY identify and sort all manner of panties? how could i have lived so long, and WORN panties my entire life, without appreciating every quality of each individual panty species? they were all created unique, but equal, and it is their diversity that strengthens them. for example, their shapes:
string bikini
regular bikini
low-rise string, and low-rise regular, bikini
hipster
low-rise hipster
brief
high-leg brief
v-string (thong)
boy thong (a WHAT?)
thong
boy short
girl boxer
girl short
boy boxer (okay, i was just joking about these last two)
their sizes:
xs, s, m, l, xl (disappointingly straight-forward)
their material combinations:
cotton, polyester, lace, spandex, mesh etc etc.
their colors and graphics:
from sophisticated black to innocent white to blushing pink to bright-orange ruffles on the butt of cerulean plaid (i kid you not, check the next time you visit the store).
their COLLECTIONS:
this stumped me. a lot. pink, angels, sexy little things, very sexy, body by victoria, pout. er. um. since every collections has a separate panty with every single possible variable factor (oh yay, combinatorials!) that means that i should familiarize myself with approximately 203987626 different panties. in truth, i just now made up that number. in further truth, i would not be surprised if that number were entirely accurate. who would refute me?
i found myself longing for a logical categorization of all...panties, for lack of a better description. "crotch-cover" came to mind as another description, but as some panties lack crotches it is ultimately faulty. the possibility of substituting other common terms was effectively discarded because of nomenclature issues. panties it is, and this is the Partial Panty Grimoire, installment 1 (further installments pending).
1) pout: a collection formerly known as "lifestyles," geared towards the early to mid 20s demographic. therefore every panty is plastered with cupcakes and butterflies and ruffle/plaid combinations....)
2) sexy little things: slutwear. no, seriously, a superior described them to me as "avant-garde lingerie." which immediately evoked images of grossly thin women wrapped in saran wrap and newspaper and ornamented with Cheerios. but luckily the sexy little things collection is conservatively avant-garde, and the white products are quite popular with brides. this collection probably bears the most ribbon, lace trim, beads, and sequins. perfect for drag queens.
3) angels: lingerie for the innocent adult. panties in pastels, doily-type lace, lots of bows and flowers.
4) very sexy: if angels is for the innocent, very sexy is for the corrupted. animal print galore, although i can't help but wonder: who is aroused by a zebra? very sexy also has an abundance of gold ornamentation---rings, links, chain---and the combination of the two is rather like watching a zebra wear gold chain necklaces. oh, the zebra stripe print is rarely in black and white, so imagine a zebra, dyed purple, decked out in bling. this is very sexy indeed.
4) body by victoria cotton "hi-leg brief": middle eastern granny panties. by which i mean the majority of middle eastern women that enter the store make a beeline for this panty table, pointedly ignoring the mostly-naked models and suggestive lingerie leering at them from every angle. this particular panty also attracts grannies.
5) pink boy thong: a thong built solely to train preteen girls to the sensation of string up one's butt, similar to acclimating a foal to the bridle.
6) boy short, girl boxer: two separate panties, each inflicted with gender-identity confusion. these are panties, i am sad to say, that i cannot yet identify without checking the label.
so perhaps i am still yet a Page of Panties, yet i sense squire-hood not far off. my heart yearns for further mastery---oh to be a knight of knickers, or a queen of questionables, or an overlord of underwear---but i fear that to delve too much deeper into study would require too much money, and kill too many braincells, than i can afford to lose.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Grandma, What Hairless Legs You Have
for those of you who don't know, i am short. as in, less than 5 feet short. in my immediate little family of 4, only my brother currently breaks the 5 foot mark (well done to you!) at one point both my mother and father could boast of this goal, but they have been afflicted with skeletal shrinkage due to old age. stack the three of us on top of each other and a single male giraffe would still look upon us with disdain. such is my family.
i have been helping my parents paint their house for the last few days, and with the exception of one day when i conned a long lanky friend into helping out, "painting the house" also means "scaling a three rung ladder repeatedly, developing excellent calf muscles." it's not that we have tall ceilings; we're just that short. though inconvenient, this was doable until...
THE STAIRWELL. yes. regular three-rung ladders don't work well on stairwells. my father's first suggestion, of course, was to basically construct scaffolding for the whole house---thank goodness my mother has some sense of reason. nono, i said, we can do it, we just have to find stuff to prop up under half the ladder so we don't send paint flying down the carpeted stairs. and so i did one side (story to come later) and my father did the other.
this is how i came to stare at my father's calves for minutes on end (stabilizing the ladder). and then i noticed: he doesn't have much hair. okay yes, he's bald, but i meant on his legs. he has some of course, but not tons. why does this matter?
well, my mother's legs are completely hairless. she doesn't shave, she doesn't Nair, nothing. her legs are the mexican hairless cats of the leg world. a natural phenomenon. my legs, on the other hand, if not subjected to frequent shaving, er....well, i'll spare you the description. if i lived au naturale, i would be hairier than my brother. i thought i inherited leg hair from my father; now i know i am wrong. as far as i know, i am the hairiest person in my entire family. just call me chewbacca.
now, the other half of THE STAIRWELL painting experience---my half. the half that is titled: Conversations With Death.
right. so, i'm climbing the ladder to tape the ceiling, no big deal, la-di-da, but the higher up THE STAIRWELL i get the more freaked out i become. i'm fighting this, of course, because i don't want my father to have to do too much---ah, nobility---but you know, my hands are sweating, my legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. all symptoms of paranoia, and then here's the kicker: i see Death.
i hate, loathe, abhor, detest, consider an abomination, would vomit at the sight of, would throw pygmy goats at, would wish a plague of boils upon, people who ask me "why are you afraid of heights?" hello! look at me! i spent 99.9725% of my life less than 5 feet above the ground! it's like throwing a pagan witch into the southern baptist convention and asking, "why are you uncomfortable?" or giving a rhinoceros snorkeling gear and freeing it in the great barrier reef. or releasing an ostrich on the tundra. ah, i see i have developed an "animals of the african savannah" theme here. you get the point. "oh, but humans adapt! that's how we have survived as a species: high adaptability!" yes, i'm sure. throw me on top of a 2000 foot high plateau that's about 7 feet in diameter and i'm sure the spawn that follows me will have grown suckers on their hands and feet and can run down cliff-sides face-first, like a squirrel. me, i will have perished from fright. or rolled off the edge in my sleep.
anywho, back to Death. he's there, far far below, like 12 feet below, about the size of an apple, going: hello! hello! would you fancy coming down here for a bit? we have fantastic billiards.
Me: what? oh, um, no thank you. not if you don't mind.
Death: but are you sure? it wouldn't be very difficult for you to come with me at all, you know, just a few inches to your right....
Me: yes, but then my tombstone would say, "here lies jo she died by rugburn." and not that it matters to you, but there are other ways i'd rather go.
Death: i think Death by Rugburn is a nice way to go! not to mention you'd die doing something NOBLE for your parents! i can't think of any more creative ways, can you?
Me: more creative? you can't be more creative? wait, i'm an experiment in creativity? what kind of morbid loser are you?
Death: well if you're going to get all testy, i might just have to come up there and nudge you a bit....
Me: alright alright. let's see...my mind could slowly deteriorate until i think i'm a hippo and that charter bus is my mate!
Death: mmmm.
Me: or i could be mistaken as a dwarf by a bigoted giant who smashes me to bits with a medieval club, oh wait that sounds painful.
Death: well if you're not coming up with anything better...
Me: wait wait! or i could be walking along a posh alley somewhere and a piano could come crashing on my head! but it'd have to be a steinway or busendorfer or yamaha or you know, something nice. no clavinovas, please.
Death: no, i like the clavinova idea. it's ironic! it's amusing! it's fitting, you know, really. *pauses* i think you've given me all the ideas i need for my next final destination movie.
Me: what, you're making ANOTHER one of those?
Death: well, it is one of my best roles, you know. i get to let loose my twisted side!
Me: you're a sick wanker, i hope you know. and now *hops off ladder* i'm done, so you lost your chance! BWAHAHAHHAHA!
Death: *poof!*
i have been helping my parents paint their house for the last few days, and with the exception of one day when i conned a long lanky friend into helping out, "painting the house" also means "scaling a three rung ladder repeatedly, developing excellent calf muscles." it's not that we have tall ceilings; we're just that short. though inconvenient, this was doable until...
THE STAIRWELL. yes. regular three-rung ladders don't work well on stairwells. my father's first suggestion, of course, was to basically construct scaffolding for the whole house---thank goodness my mother has some sense of reason. nono, i said, we can do it, we just have to find stuff to prop up under half the ladder so we don't send paint flying down the carpeted stairs. and so i did one side (story to come later) and my father did the other.
this is how i came to stare at my father's calves for minutes on end (stabilizing the ladder). and then i noticed: he doesn't have much hair. okay yes, he's bald, but i meant on his legs. he has some of course, but not tons. why does this matter?
well, my mother's legs are completely hairless. she doesn't shave, she doesn't Nair, nothing. her legs are the mexican hairless cats of the leg world. a natural phenomenon. my legs, on the other hand, if not subjected to frequent shaving, er....well, i'll spare you the description. if i lived au naturale, i would be hairier than my brother. i thought i inherited leg hair from my father; now i know i am wrong. as far as i know, i am the hairiest person in my entire family. just call me chewbacca.
now, the other half of THE STAIRWELL painting experience---my half. the half that is titled: Conversations With Death.
right. so, i'm climbing the ladder to tape the ceiling, no big deal, la-di-da, but the higher up THE STAIRWELL i get the more freaked out i become. i'm fighting this, of course, because i don't want my father to have to do too much---ah, nobility---but you know, my hands are sweating, my legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. all symptoms of paranoia, and then here's the kicker: i see Death.
i hate, loathe, abhor, detest, consider an abomination, would vomit at the sight of, would throw pygmy goats at, would wish a plague of boils upon, people who ask me "why are you afraid of heights?" hello! look at me! i spent 99.9725% of my life less than 5 feet above the ground! it's like throwing a pagan witch into the southern baptist convention and asking, "why are you uncomfortable?" or giving a rhinoceros snorkeling gear and freeing it in the great barrier reef. or releasing an ostrich on the tundra. ah, i see i have developed an "animals of the african savannah" theme here. you get the point. "oh, but humans adapt! that's how we have survived as a species: high adaptability!" yes, i'm sure. throw me on top of a 2000 foot high plateau that's about 7 feet in diameter and i'm sure the spawn that follows me will have grown suckers on their hands and feet and can run down cliff-sides face-first, like a squirrel. me, i will have perished from fright. or rolled off the edge in my sleep.
anywho, back to Death. he's there, far far below, like 12 feet below, about the size of an apple, going: hello! hello! would you fancy coming down here for a bit? we have fantastic billiards.
Me: what? oh, um, no thank you. not if you don't mind.
Death: but are you sure? it wouldn't be very difficult for you to come with me at all, you know, just a few inches to your right....
Me: yes, but then my tombstone would say, "here lies jo she died by rugburn." and not that it matters to you, but there are other ways i'd rather go.
Death: i think Death by Rugburn is a nice way to go! not to mention you'd die doing something NOBLE for your parents! i can't think of any more creative ways, can you?
Me: more creative? you can't be more creative? wait, i'm an experiment in creativity? what kind of morbid loser are you?
Death: well if you're going to get all testy, i might just have to come up there and nudge you a bit....
Me: alright alright. let's see...my mind could slowly deteriorate until i think i'm a hippo and that charter bus is my mate!
Death: mmmm.
Me: or i could be mistaken as a dwarf by a bigoted giant who smashes me to bits with a medieval club, oh wait that sounds painful.
Death: well if you're not coming up with anything better...
Me: wait wait! or i could be walking along a posh alley somewhere and a piano could come crashing on my head! but it'd have to be a steinway or busendorfer or yamaha or you know, something nice. no clavinovas, please.
Death: no, i like the clavinova idea. it's ironic! it's amusing! it's fitting, you know, really. *pauses* i think you've given me all the ideas i need for my next final destination movie.
Me: what, you're making ANOTHER one of those?
Death: well, it is one of my best roles, you know. i get to let loose my twisted side!
Me: you're a sick wanker, i hope you know. and now *hops off ladder* i'm done, so you lost your chance! BWAHAHAHHAHA!
Death: *poof!*
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Olfactory Narcissism
bath and body works is what i refer to as "that smell store." true, there's the body shop, which i refer to as "that other smell store," only because i don't frequent it as often as bath and body works. this has little to do with the quality of either company's products, but rather relates directly to the fact that the body shop is always burning ridiculously extravagant amounts of aromatherapy oil in about 12 square feet of space. i imagine it smells like royal medieval paris, when people soaked themselves in herbage to disguise their own rank body odor.
at any rate, that smell store is the one which USED to sell a bergamot coriander series of products---massage oil, body washes, scrubs, etc. you know, the same aromatherapy line as the eucalyptus mint and lemongrass ginger and various other "fragrances" which remind me more of dessert or curry than cleaning putrid human bodies. not to say i don't like them, but at times i am tempted to eat a limb or at least a digit to see if i taste as good as the bottle smells. luckily i'm able to control this urge.
bergamot coriander is different. i don't understand why it's discontinued anymore than most people can understand my fascination with it. i first discovered it, in massage oil form, at a semi annual sale a year or two ago and fell deeply in love at first whiff. i scrabbled around the bins looking for any other products (let's face it; i don't get massaged with oil every day, or even every other day, or even with any frequency worth mentioning) but alas and alack! there were none to be found. to compound my feelings of woe, a very nice sales lady said, "oh, i think that's the last of it----it's discontinued."
oh the horror! if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes at this very nice sales lady whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by weakness from this dire news. if i were a tenor, i would croon a silky, yet sweet aria at her until she relented and gave up her secret bergamot coriander stash (i was sure she had one). if i were a hearty, stoic mezzo i might poke her with an epee just because i enjoyed vengeance. if i were a bass....well, i can't even begin to think like a bass. do basses think?
regardless, as a keyboardist my overflow of despair and heart-wrenching angst was manifested by lots of impotent fist-clenching. i brought home the lone bottle of massage oil and ruefully hoarded it, occasionally bringing it out for a quick sniff or two---just to tide me over. harmless fix, really. just a little bit more!!! but then...
my dearest friend (even more dear to me now) was at that smell store last week, as they are having their semi annual sale, and brought home three bottles of bergamot coriander BODY WASH! i was singing more alleluias than a catholic at easter! and tonight i bathed in it for the first time...oh what a combination of fresh acidity and musky sensuality! oh what an oasis of luxury for a nose parched in a desert of sewage! (cleveland's fault, not mine). if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes of pleasure whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by sheer hedonistic happiness. it's funny; it doesn't matter what they feel, they always do the same thing.
for the last half hour i have been rolling around in bed, trying to sniff random body parts (the back of my knee, the small of my back) and i'm always struck with amazement that THAT PLACE SMELLS GOOD TOO. i am in love with my smell. i can't get enough of me. i can see it now: i tuck myself into a fetal position as i inhale my gorgeous scent, and i never resurface for bland air. over time my hair and nails grow long and the gods pity me, turning me into a brown bush with black trim that smells fantastic! and a museum will buy me for my oddly human features and of course, my scent, and i will be known as The Jo. and hundreds of years later, whenever a human tucks into a fetal position, they will be doing The Jo. or if someone finds a brown bush with black trim, fragrant or not, it will be called The Jo. and then eventually a person with a smell fetish will be called a Joist, and everyone will want to plant Jo hedges and hold Jo-growing contests, or Jo-cultivation conferences, and my name will live on through all eternity, all owing to one fortuitous semi annual sale.
at any rate, that smell store is the one which USED to sell a bergamot coriander series of products---massage oil, body washes, scrubs, etc. you know, the same aromatherapy line as the eucalyptus mint and lemongrass ginger and various other "fragrances" which remind me more of dessert or curry than cleaning putrid human bodies. not to say i don't like them, but at times i am tempted to eat a limb or at least a digit to see if i taste as good as the bottle smells. luckily i'm able to control this urge.
bergamot coriander is different. i don't understand why it's discontinued anymore than most people can understand my fascination with it. i first discovered it, in massage oil form, at a semi annual sale a year or two ago and fell deeply in love at first whiff. i scrabbled around the bins looking for any other products (let's face it; i don't get massaged with oil every day, or even every other day, or even with any frequency worth mentioning) but alas and alack! there were none to be found. to compound my feelings of woe, a very nice sales lady said, "oh, i think that's the last of it----it's discontinued."
oh the horror! if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes at this very nice sales lady whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by weakness from this dire news. if i were a tenor, i would croon a silky, yet sweet aria at her until she relented and gave up her secret bergamot coriander stash (i was sure she had one). if i were a hearty, stoic mezzo i might poke her with an epee just because i enjoyed vengeance. if i were a bass....well, i can't even begin to think like a bass. do basses think?
regardless, as a keyboardist my overflow of despair and heart-wrenching angst was manifested by lots of impotent fist-clenching. i brought home the lone bottle of massage oil and ruefully hoarded it, occasionally bringing it out for a quick sniff or two---just to tide me over. harmless fix, really. just a little bit more!!! but then...
my dearest friend (even more dear to me now) was at that smell store last week, as they are having their semi annual sale, and brought home three bottles of bergamot coriander BODY WASH! i was singing more alleluias than a catholic at easter! and tonight i bathed in it for the first time...oh what a combination of fresh acidity and musky sensuality! oh what an oasis of luxury for a nose parched in a desert of sewage! (cleveland's fault, not mine). if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes of pleasure whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by sheer hedonistic happiness. it's funny; it doesn't matter what they feel, they always do the same thing.
for the last half hour i have been rolling around in bed, trying to sniff random body parts (the back of my knee, the small of my back) and i'm always struck with amazement that THAT PLACE SMELLS GOOD TOO. i am in love with my smell. i can't get enough of me. i can see it now: i tuck myself into a fetal position as i inhale my gorgeous scent, and i never resurface for bland air. over time my hair and nails grow long and the gods pity me, turning me into a brown bush with black trim that smells fantastic! and a museum will buy me for my oddly human features and of course, my scent, and i will be known as The Jo. and hundreds of years later, whenever a human tucks into a fetal position, they will be doing The Jo. or if someone finds a brown bush with black trim, fragrant or not, it will be called The Jo. and then eventually a person with a smell fetish will be called a Joist, and everyone will want to plant Jo hedges and hold Jo-growing contests, or Jo-cultivation conferences, and my name will live on through all eternity, all owing to one fortuitous semi annual sale.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
'Ole Mole
i love this title for its versatility. for example:
1) replace ' with "wh" and you get Whole Mole, as in an entire furry creature that plagues gardeners.
2) replace ' with "h" and it's Hole Mole, as in a mole hole.
3) pronounce the single "e" as a double "ee" and get "Holee Molee," which is scarily similar to Holy Moly.
4) pronounce it as a spaniard would and you have "Olay Molay," which is scarily similar to the anglo expression "Holy Moly."
so is this blog about moles the unit of measurement, moles the furry animal, moles the mexican sauces, whole holes, holy wholes, or the annoying cheerleaders of the english language, those perky, flexible, ever-present homonyms?
i'll take "what is the most famous distinguishing mark of puebla, mexico, to an uncultured american-centric oaf like myself?" for $46.78.
if you've never had a great mole poblano, i can now officially pity you, as i have finally had a great one myself. a week ago i could only say that i had disappointing moles, some of which tasted only of chocolate and others that tasted like spiced mud. it is funny to me when people refer to mole poblano as "that mexican chocolate sauce," given that the recipe i attempted called for 6 ounces of chocolate vs 20 dried chiles, 1 lb tomatoes, 1 lb tomatillos, plantains, etc. at the risk of making a completely inappropriate analogy, does having a tiny percentage of chocolate make it a chocolate sauce just as being 1/16 black makes one a "colored person?"
i confess: it was egullet.org, combined with too much time and boredom, that prompted me to tackle this 7 hour recipe. a $46.78 trip to the grocery later, i had all the ingredients i needed plus fresca and diet gingerale for hydration.
the recipe consists of a lot of toasting, poaching, blending (in a food processor), sauteeing. there was only one truly frightening moment: frying the chile puree. commentary had warned, "exploding chiles all over my kitchen! cover well!" this was shortly after i had delved deep into the gumbo archives on egullet and had learned that the roux i'd been making for 5 years or so is also known as "cajun napalm." apparently roux sticks to everything and can burn down to the bone --- as one poster wrote, "as i washed the burn under water my skin came peeling off, then flesh, exposing bone." yowch. in horrified shock, i combined the fear of toxic cajun napalm with the dread of burning hot chile puree and melted into a neurotic mess. this is partly why the process took two days: 1 day prep, 1 night to build up my courage, day 2 storm the fort.
and storm the fort i did. two potholders that went down to my elbow. ratty old tshirt that wouldn't complain if it looked like a bloody battlefield and tasted like a bloody mary (extra hot!) not one, but TWO splashguards. glasses to protect my eyes. long wooden spatula, AND i placed the pot on the back burner, just to be safe. and then pouring the puree....
"BOOM! BAM! whop! FOOM! PSSSSHHH! hisssssssssssssssss! CRUK! FOW! whrrrrrrrrm!"
was how everyone else had described it. but no, my pot went a bit like this: "pssssssssssssssss."
that was it! a sort of disgruntled murmur, and then acquiescence. a deflating balloon. a fish peeing in the sea. dumping the trinity in roux (for gumbo) created more of a fuss. adding cream to caramel was like gettysburg compared to this! WHAT??!!! i felt betrayed by the potency of my chile puree. i wanted a do-over. i wanted to throttle each little ancho, pasilla, and guajillo pepper and cry, "I TOASTED YOU WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS! I LOVINGLY DESEEDED AND DESTEMMED YOU! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME????!!!!!"
so then i stripped myself of all my protective gear and ran to check the recipe.
oh.
see, frying the chile puree calls for 1/2 cup. i had memorized this as 1/4. then i thought, well to avoid all that oil, i'll just reduce it by a little bit, say, 2 tablespoons instead of 3.
in the end there just wasn't enough oil to bite back like it should have.
nevertheless, my mole still kicks butt. as in, your butt. as in, all of your butts that have never made a mole poblano FROM SCRATCH before, which i'm pretty sure is all of your butts. and next time, i promise.....
FOOM!
1) replace ' with "wh" and you get Whole Mole, as in an entire furry creature that plagues gardeners.
2) replace ' with "h" and it's Hole Mole, as in a mole hole.
3) pronounce the single "e" as a double "ee" and get "Holee Molee," which is scarily similar to Holy Moly.
4) pronounce it as a spaniard would and you have "Olay Molay," which is scarily similar to the anglo expression "Holy Moly."
so is this blog about moles the unit of measurement, moles the furry animal, moles the mexican sauces, whole holes, holy wholes, or the annoying cheerleaders of the english language, those perky, flexible, ever-present homonyms?
i'll take "what is the most famous distinguishing mark of puebla, mexico, to an uncultured american-centric oaf like myself?" for $46.78.
if you've never had a great mole poblano, i can now officially pity you, as i have finally had a great one myself. a week ago i could only say that i had disappointing moles, some of which tasted only of chocolate and others that tasted like spiced mud. it is funny to me when people refer to mole poblano as "that mexican chocolate sauce," given that the recipe i attempted called for 6 ounces of chocolate vs 20 dried chiles, 1 lb tomatoes, 1 lb tomatillos, plantains, etc. at the risk of making a completely inappropriate analogy, does having a tiny percentage of chocolate make it a chocolate sauce just as being 1/16 black makes one a "colored person?"
i confess: it was egullet.org, combined with too much time and boredom, that prompted me to tackle this 7 hour recipe. a $46.78 trip to the grocery later, i had all the ingredients i needed plus fresca and diet gingerale for hydration.
the recipe consists of a lot of toasting, poaching, blending (in a food processor), sauteeing. there was only one truly frightening moment: frying the chile puree. commentary had warned, "exploding chiles all over my kitchen! cover well!" this was shortly after i had delved deep into the gumbo archives on egullet and had learned that the roux i'd been making for 5 years or so is also known as "cajun napalm." apparently roux sticks to everything and can burn down to the bone --- as one poster wrote, "as i washed the burn under water my skin came peeling off, then flesh, exposing bone." yowch. in horrified shock, i combined the fear of toxic cajun napalm with the dread of burning hot chile puree and melted into a neurotic mess. this is partly why the process took two days: 1 day prep, 1 night to build up my courage, day 2 storm the fort.
and storm the fort i did. two potholders that went down to my elbow. ratty old tshirt that wouldn't complain if it looked like a bloody battlefield and tasted like a bloody mary (extra hot!) not one, but TWO splashguards. glasses to protect my eyes. long wooden spatula, AND i placed the pot on the back burner, just to be safe. and then pouring the puree....
"BOOM! BAM! whop! FOOM! PSSSSHHH! hisssssssssssssssss! CRUK! FOW! whrrrrrrrrm!"
was how everyone else had described it. but no, my pot went a bit like this: "pssssssssssssssss."
that was it! a sort of disgruntled murmur, and then acquiescence. a deflating balloon. a fish peeing in the sea. dumping the trinity in roux (for gumbo) created more of a fuss. adding cream to caramel was like gettysburg compared to this! WHAT??!!! i felt betrayed by the potency of my chile puree. i wanted a do-over. i wanted to throttle each little ancho, pasilla, and guajillo pepper and cry, "I TOASTED YOU WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS! I LOVINGLY DESEEDED AND DESTEMMED YOU! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME????!!!!!"
so then i stripped myself of all my protective gear and ran to check the recipe.
oh.
see, frying the chile puree calls for 1/2 cup. i had memorized this as 1/4. then i thought, well to avoid all that oil, i'll just reduce it by a little bit, say, 2 tablespoons instead of 3.
in the end there just wasn't enough oil to bite back like it should have.
nevertheless, my mole still kicks butt. as in, your butt. as in, all of your butts that have never made a mole poblano FROM SCRATCH before, which i'm pretty sure is all of your butts. and next time, i promise.....
FOOM!
Friday, May 25, 2007
Non-tetrapod chordate-ing...
...is my new hobby. admittedly, i wear hobbies like most women wear handbags, but in this case if time allows it, it just might stick like that coach bag no woman can ever give up.
my first experience with non-tetrapod chordate-catching was with my dad, in my youth, using stinkbait for catfish. i do not remember much about the trip except for the stench in the minivan, catching a hook through my left index finger, and casting my very first cast into a tree on a sandbar (non-rescuable, line was cut, game was over, i was sad). i could not have been more than 10, and the shame and pain of that single failed cast has haunted me until....
well, four days ago, to be exact. that was when we boldly marched into a lodge of a west virginia campground at 8 in the morning, bought our licenses, received somewhat confused instructions on how to reach the closest bait and tackle shop, bought poles and minnows and nightcrawlers, and began our journey to angler-dom.
we didn't get to start until 9:30...admittedly late for fishing, but the most pressing issue when we began was how on earth to drive a sharp metal point through a tiny gasping fish, or how to cut a wriggling, angry nightcrawler into pieces to then be skewered on this point. we were a comical mess, using latex gloves to avoid sliminess and dropping bait and generally looking like citified fools. but then....the first cast!
after a while we were joined by a very old, adorable, west virginia couple. they had been married for 58 years, and i assume for the last 50 years the wife would talk and the husband would nod his head sagely and say, "mmmmmmmmmhm!" occasionally he would laugh, or mention that he had been stationed in texas in the war ("that's dubya dubya two," his wife chimed in) but mostly he sat back and would intone, "mmmmmmmmmmhm!"
"who's the better fisherman?"
"i am....i catch all the big ones."
"mmmmmmmhm!"
"honey, cast over there----i kin see that big black bass jes' lookin' at me. no! not over THERE----here....no, that's too far out, do it agin!"
"mmmmmmmhm!"
"i don't bait my own hooks, ya know, i don't like all them worms. i make him do it fer me."
"mmmmmmmmhm!"
"you two girls should come on down to parkersburg...you'd have fun, we've got like what, honey, 60 restaurants?"
"mmmmmmmhm!"
"well you have fun and good luck, it was nice meetin' ya'll, have a good trip!"
"mmmmmmmmhm!"
a black bass and 4 bluegills later, i'd say it was a good trip.
"mmmmmmmmmmhm!"
my first experience with non-tetrapod chordate-catching was with my dad, in my youth, using stinkbait for catfish. i do not remember much about the trip except for the stench in the minivan, catching a hook through my left index finger, and casting my very first cast into a tree on a sandbar (non-rescuable, line was cut, game was over, i was sad). i could not have been more than 10, and the shame and pain of that single failed cast has haunted me until....
well, four days ago, to be exact. that was when we boldly marched into a lodge of a west virginia campground at 8 in the morning, bought our licenses, received somewhat confused instructions on how to reach the closest bait and tackle shop, bought poles and minnows and nightcrawlers, and began our journey to angler-dom.
we didn't get to start until 9:30...admittedly late for fishing, but the most pressing issue when we began was how on earth to drive a sharp metal point through a tiny gasping fish, or how to cut a wriggling, angry nightcrawler into pieces to then be skewered on this point. we were a comical mess, using latex gloves to avoid sliminess and dropping bait and generally looking like citified fools. but then....the first cast!
after a while we were joined by a very old, adorable, west virginia couple. they had been married for 58 years, and i assume for the last 50 years the wife would talk and the husband would nod his head sagely and say, "mmmmmmmmmhm!" occasionally he would laugh, or mention that he had been stationed in texas in the war ("that's dubya dubya two," his wife chimed in) but mostly he sat back and would intone, "mmmmmmmmmmhm!"
"who's the better fisherman?"
"i am....i catch all the big ones."
"mmmmmmmhm!"
"honey, cast over there----i kin see that big black bass jes' lookin' at me. no! not over THERE----here....no, that's too far out, do it agin!"
"mmmmmmmhm!"
"i don't bait my own hooks, ya know, i don't like all them worms. i make him do it fer me."
"mmmmmmmmhm!"
"you two girls should come on down to parkersburg...you'd have fun, we've got like what, honey, 60 restaurants?"
"mmmmmmmhm!"
"well you have fun and good luck, it was nice meetin' ya'll, have a good trip!"
"mmmmmmmmhm!"
a black bass and 4 bluegills later, i'd say it was a good trip.
"mmmmmmmmmmhm!"
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Gaming, dude
i admit: i am a secret gamer.
secret because if i were to admit this...addiction (i'm feeling honest), non-gamers would scorn me and true gamers would deride me for my faux-gamer-ness. i would hang in societal limbo (despite the pope!) between the cool, normal people who don't communicate solely in acronyms and the cool, nerdy virtual people who manage to come across as casanova AND einstein simultaneously online.
no, my gaming habit brings me neither profound joy nor copious amounts of virtual women wanting to form virtual relationships. usually it is done in the morning, alone, as a sort of catharsis from all those creepy, non-cathartic dreams i had the night before. and usually the game is one that came as a free demo on my computer, FATE.
FATE's premise is idiotic, quite frankly. you are given various missions, which invariably consist of killing various monsters, and you can choose from assorted hairstyles, names, faces, and pets to make your character. well, two pets: a dog and a cat. even with my best efforts, i could not get the pet colors to change (hey, if you can change your hair color, you should be able to change fur color)....no, the cat is hopelessly ginger, and the dog benignly white and brown. this pet cannot die. it can "flee" when its life is low, which means that it runs in maddening aimless curlicues around you while you are being pummeled to death, but it is, in fact, immortal. you can "perish," but you can also pay to have your life restored. besides immortality, your pet is also endowed with a ridiculous amount of strength (it can carry a pack that's the same size as yours) and the uncanny ability to morph into bizarre creatures if it eats certain fish. oh yes, and you can fish in this game. you must have a pole, naturally, but no fishing license....you simply drop the hook, and when an exclamation point appears above your head, accompanied by a "thwuk," you have approximately 1.146267 seconds to press "set the hook." if your reflexes are just right, "you just caught a fish!" and much jubilation is allowed.
i spend a good portion of my time faux-fishing.
but i do enjoy hacking things to bits. mindlessly, of course---the great thing about FATE is that nothing looks remotely humanoid, so you needn't think. here is a list (not comprehensive, as in demo mode i cannot progress past level 3):
1) nocturne stalker: a purple tiger
2) nocturne fungus: a purple giant mushroom
3) myconid: a pink giant mushroom
4) topaz, emerald, ruby gels: giant blobs named for gems for inexplicable reasons
5) noxious gel: the toughest gel to kill; unlike the others it can poison you
6) goblin: green semi-human thing
7) goblin scout: bigger than the goblin, and blue
8) bat: a bat
9) rat: a rat. there are also sewer rats, which are bigger.
10) skeleton: a skeleton; diabolically fast and difficult to kill without magic
11) timberwolf: a timberwolf
12) gnoll: big and blue with a tail
13) bugbear: big and brown, no tail
14) kobold: imagine a rhinoceros walking upright
15) wereboar: smaller, brown, 25% fire weakness
16) tunnel crawler: a long creepy caterpillar. this one gives me nightmares
17) mottled lurker, creeping widow, tunnel spider: various spiders.
18) mummy: not to be confused with...
19) zombie: one of these is immune to basically all magic. i just let my minions finish them off so as to not confuse myself and accidentally wind up dead.
20) forest imps and imp shaman: they generally appear in groups of 3 to 4, with one imp shaman at their head that can do things to you like slow you down or electrocute you. short and green with orange hair, or in the case of the shaman, a magenta-ish color with dark purple hair.
21) basilisk: giant green lizard that breathes something that looks like purple bubbles.
so my mornings run thusly: roll to my right side and reach for the laptop on the floor, place laptop on stomach with knees propping it up. turn on computer, open FATE. pick one of three previous games i have started, or trash them and begin anew. fish. travel into the dungeon and use spells to create rat, spider, and skeleton minions (6 allowed at a time). feed my pet a fish so it turns into a "dire unicorn" or my favorite, "the brain beast" (literally, a giant brain on legs with two flapping tentacles). poke a few gels with my choice of spears, or whale on a kobold with my trusty bone club. feel immense satisfation at having slaughtered a walking rhinoceros with naught but a piece of bone. commence the day.
secret because if i were to admit this...addiction (i'm feeling honest), non-gamers would scorn me and true gamers would deride me for my faux-gamer-ness. i would hang in societal limbo (despite the pope!) between the cool, normal people who don't communicate solely in acronyms and the cool, nerdy virtual people who manage to come across as casanova AND einstein simultaneously online.
no, my gaming habit brings me neither profound joy nor copious amounts of virtual women wanting to form virtual relationships. usually it is done in the morning, alone, as a sort of catharsis from all those creepy, non-cathartic dreams i had the night before. and usually the game is one that came as a free demo on my computer, FATE.
FATE's premise is idiotic, quite frankly. you are given various missions, which invariably consist of killing various monsters, and you can choose from assorted hairstyles, names, faces, and pets to make your character. well, two pets: a dog and a cat. even with my best efforts, i could not get the pet colors to change (hey, if you can change your hair color, you should be able to change fur color)....no, the cat is hopelessly ginger, and the dog benignly white and brown. this pet cannot die. it can "flee" when its life is low, which means that it runs in maddening aimless curlicues around you while you are being pummeled to death, but it is, in fact, immortal. you can "perish," but you can also pay to have your life restored. besides immortality, your pet is also endowed with a ridiculous amount of strength (it can carry a pack that's the same size as yours) and the uncanny ability to morph into bizarre creatures if it eats certain fish. oh yes, and you can fish in this game. you must have a pole, naturally, but no fishing license....you simply drop the hook, and when an exclamation point appears above your head, accompanied by a "thwuk," you have approximately 1.146267 seconds to press "set the hook." if your reflexes are just right, "you just caught a fish!" and much jubilation is allowed.
i spend a good portion of my time faux-fishing.
but i do enjoy hacking things to bits. mindlessly, of course---the great thing about FATE is that nothing looks remotely humanoid, so you needn't think. here is a list (not comprehensive, as in demo mode i cannot progress past level 3):
1) nocturne stalker: a purple tiger
2) nocturne fungus: a purple giant mushroom
3) myconid: a pink giant mushroom
4) topaz, emerald, ruby gels: giant blobs named for gems for inexplicable reasons
5) noxious gel: the toughest gel to kill; unlike the others it can poison you
6) goblin: green semi-human thing
7) goblin scout: bigger than the goblin, and blue
8) bat: a bat
9) rat: a rat. there are also sewer rats, which are bigger.
10) skeleton: a skeleton; diabolically fast and difficult to kill without magic
11) timberwolf: a timberwolf
12) gnoll: big and blue with a tail
13) bugbear: big and brown, no tail
14) kobold: imagine a rhinoceros walking upright
15) wereboar: smaller, brown, 25% fire weakness
16) tunnel crawler: a long creepy caterpillar. this one gives me nightmares
17) mottled lurker, creeping widow, tunnel spider: various spiders.
18) mummy: not to be confused with...
19) zombie: one of these is immune to basically all magic. i just let my minions finish them off so as to not confuse myself and accidentally wind up dead.
20) forest imps and imp shaman: they generally appear in groups of 3 to 4, with one imp shaman at their head that can do things to you like slow you down or electrocute you. short and green with orange hair, or in the case of the shaman, a magenta-ish color with dark purple hair.
21) basilisk: giant green lizard that breathes something that looks like purple bubbles.
so my mornings run thusly: roll to my right side and reach for the laptop on the floor, place laptop on stomach with knees propping it up. turn on computer, open FATE. pick one of three previous games i have started, or trash them and begin anew. fish. travel into the dungeon and use spells to create rat, spider, and skeleton minions (6 allowed at a time). feed my pet a fish so it turns into a "dire unicorn" or my favorite, "the brain beast" (literally, a giant brain on legs with two flapping tentacles). poke a few gels with my choice of spears, or whale on a kobold with my trusty bone club. feel immense satisfation at having slaughtered a walking rhinoceros with naught but a piece of bone. commence the day.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)