Come Back When You Can Stay Longer

I was talking with a friend of mine tonight who requested that I post a particular story about my father that she is tertiarially involved in.

Don't say I don't do anything for you, love. :)

Alright.

I have made mention in the past about my fathers abiding love for Rachel Ray. If she told my father to eat goose poop on a dust bunny salad, I would be cooking it for dinner. (Don't ask me where I would find the geese. Dust bunnies I can do.)

Also, please keep in mind that my father grew up during the depression. He was by no means homeless or starving (unlike a good portion of America in that time), but he did learn to eat and appreciate some of the weirdest and/or grossest things on the planet. (Like Tomato Aspic Salad. Fucking GROSS. Or my childhood nemesis, Pea Salad. Green jello, into which you pour chopped raw cabbage and CANNED PEAS. You gel it, then serve it with mayonnaise on top. I still will not eat jello is there is anything in it. ANYTHING.)

So, with my fathers culinary indiscretions in mind, onward.

I am on the phone with my friend at the time--who is a consummate cook herself and was married to a professional chef--while attempting to fix dinner for my father. This was at the beginning of the "What will dad eat?" phase, where I cooked anything and everything, whether or not I found it appealing (Chicken livers, anyone?) in attempt to get dad some caloric intake.

I am muttering to myself about various casseroles, sandwiches....Asking my friend for ideas. From the living room, my father yells:

"Ham Hawaiian, Babe!"

I ignore him, having seen the recipe on the counter already.

"BABE!?? Ham Hawaiian! I left the recipe on the counter! Rachel (they were on a first name basis, apparently) made it yesterday!"

My friend is laughing. Wants to know what Ham Hawaiian is.

Gross, that's what.

You take ham steak. (Not the normal, good, salty and delicious ham steak you are all thinking of. No, the canned, processed, pre-sliced 'ham' steak that comes in a plastic wrapper filled with its own putrescent juices. The sweet, chewy, cloying false ham that was so huge in the state I used to live in.) You then char this....ham....in a pan with a 'glaze' made of mustard, brown sugar, pepper, clove powder, pineapple and grenadine. It has the potential to be good, with some tweaking. Like, oh, on a real fucking ham, perhaps. (I have seen REAL Hawaiian ham recipes. They look delicious. Nothing like this one. Ms.Ray, you dropped the ball here.)

I am muttering to myself about how I don't want to make this. How if I do, I want to tweak the recipe to my own specifications and not make it candied, which is what it is going to be. My friend is laughing her ass off.

My father does not agree.

"BOO! (Yes, that was my nickname. My whole life. He wasn't just trying to startle me into compliance.) (It's the shortened version of another more embarrassing nickname that I will not mention here.) Doesn't it look good? I think it sounds great....will hit the spot!"

I cannot change the recipe. He will know.

I make the damn candied fake ham, but I put more mustard, more pineapple chunks. Some ginger. I hide the recipe so he won't be able to compare.

I serve.

Dad takes one bite. (I am off the phone by now, having reduced my friend to a puddle from her laughing at my candied ham plight.)

He looks at me, eyebrows furrowed.

"You screwed with the recipe, didn't you?"

He doesn't give me time to defend myself.

"Hey, Rachel is a PROFESSIONAL. She gets paid to think up great recipes. Has she ever made something that wasn't good? I doubt it. That's why she's famous! She has her own goddamn TV show, for chrissakes. Don't try to fix it if it isn't broken, babe. I mean, come on."

Sigh.

"Dad, if it doesn't taste good, there's more 'ham'. I can make it again."

"No, babe, it's actually really good. I was worried hers was going to be too sweet."

It's my turn to furrow my eyebrows.

"But you still shouldn't screw with a masterpiece."

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Since we are on the topic, I have another one for you.

My father was a recliner man. (Can't blame him there.) His last recliner, which I still own, was an off-white leather la-z-person, positioned so that it made a perfect triangle with the wood stove, the TV, and the ashtray/coaster where his drink was located. We still refer to it as the "Captains Chair".

My designated place in the living room was the couch--one corner specifically. It was as close to the TV/Ashtray/Wood stove as I could get. It was also just out of arms reach of my dad.

Sometimes I would fall asleep on the couch. (What? I can hear all of you gasping in disbelief. Really?) Hey, it happens.

If my father needed something from me while I was sleeping, or, most often, wanted to see if I was asleep, rather than say something, or, oh, look, he would pick up the newspaper and hit me in the head with it.

I'm serious. He wouldn't roll it up or anything, but he would still rap me in the head. Depending on my reaction, he would either laugh at me, apologise, or quickly pretend that he hadn't actually hit me at all.

I hated this.

He would also bang the unfurled newspaper to illustrate a point. I'm not sure what point is illustrated by hitting your youngest daughter in the forehead while she is asleep, but I'm not a parent yet. Maybe this is the sort of thing my mother keeps referring to when she says "You'll understand when you have kids."

Thieving Bastards!

I stole this. Like, totally. From here. (It's ok, because they stole it too.) Also, some seriously funny stuff over there. May have to dig a little for the gems, but if you have time to waste and a weird sense of humor....Go there.

Anyway, read. Stolen. Hilarity. (it was origionally marketed as a real thing, but, sadly, it is fiction. Real questions, real answers, just not from the tourism website officials.)


These were posted on an Australian tourism website and the answers are the actual responses by the website officials, who obviously have a sense of humor.

Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia? I have never seen it rain on TV; how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.

Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden )
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles; take lots of water.

Q: Are there any ATMs in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville and Hervey Bay ? (UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?

Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia? (USA )
A: Africa is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Australia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not ... oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is North in Australia ? (USA )
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia ? (UK )
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Austria is that quaint little country bordering Germany, which is ... oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.

Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? (UK)
A: You are a British politician, right?

Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney, and is milk available all year round? (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in America, which is where YOU come from. All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.

Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.

Q: Can you tell me the regions in Tasmania where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay night clubs.

Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in Australia? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first

Photos, Rockband and the Like

So I bought a new digital camera. I hate the color, ("Copper", it tells me. Not so much.) but it's all they had and the price was right. So there.

Anyway, I can now photograph my adventures across this great nation. Considering I don't travel that much, sounds like an easy project.

Alright.

I am camera shy. Like to be behind the camera, mostly. Proof?



T was trying to take a picture of me while I cleaned the bedroom. I hid in the bathroom, as you can see. (And yes, I often use my drawer-pulls as closet space. So there.)

Anyway.

T and I went to the home of the F/A conglomerate last night to play Rock Band--Which is like guitar hero only rather than just playing the guitar, you play bass, drums and sing. (well, you and three friends.) It is a game that causes me emotional duress and hours of fun. (I'm the singer. That should tell you how bad at this game I am.)

Prior to the game, I made F take pictures of T and I, so I can show off the new haircut (Which is not fixed properly in these, but you get the idea).

For instance:



You can see up my nose in this picture.

Anyway, we had fun. I love this photo, so I am sharing it.

F disagrees with....my....skin? Tattoo? Shoes? (I was taking my shoes off. Honest. And my hands look so much like my mom's in this photo that it's creepy. Only my nails are fake and hers are bitten to the quick. Close enough.)



There are a few more embarrassing photos. Lets end on the one that I took of myself, where I am rockin' the "Runaway Bride" eyes and my skin looks feverish. Oh well.



Anyway.....probably more later.

Pagliacci

So.

Haircut has been procured. I like it--and all the party-goers we had at the home on Friday should as well.

(More to come on the party.)

I have decided that drinking, no matter how much, no matter the reason, no matter how badly I want to, seriously needs to be weighed as far as pros and cons go before embarking.

Things I need to think about before drinking:

1)Have I eaten today?

2)What do I have to do tomorrow, i.e., is there a scenario where vomiting could be a really bad idea?

3)Will the people around me be drunk as well? (Drunk people are more forgiving of other drunk behavior. I drink, do drunk shit, wake up and feel the need to apologise to everyone I saw while drinking. In the case of having a party where 20 people were in attendance, this is something of a chore.)


I didn't really consider any of these things before the "We don't work together anymore" party on Friday.

Most everyone I worked with, with the exception of the non-drinkers (mostly, we had one in attendance), those with car problems and those who were out of town came to T's house Friday night to celebrate/lament the fact that we can no longer spend 60+ hours a week together hoping for death. (Oh, and one girl didn't make it because she just bought a new vibrator. I guess she is to be commended for not making up some lame ass excuse for not attending.) This came out to about 20 people, give or take.

I had not really eaten Friday. Half a sandwich. (Mistake #1)

I started on the wine a little early. (Read:The moment I walked in the damn door. Like, hadn't put down my purse or taken off my coat before opening the bottle. No hellos to the F/A conglomerate, no kiss for T, nothing.) (Mistake #2)

I didn't consider the fact that I was supposed to be out at bars continuing the celebration Saturday in the Metropolis with T's family. (Mistake #3)

Basically, by the time people started to really arrive, I was half in the bag. My saving grace? Those bitches love to drink--several of them arrived more buzzed than I. The rest played catch up.

Anyway, drunk. Fun, talking shit, drinking more, finding out incredible dirt on ex-coworkers. Boobs were shown, (not by me), making the party a complete success.

Anyway, I rolled into bed at 3am, and when I awoke several hours later, I thought I was going to DIE. This is by far the WORST hangover I have EVER HAD. EVER.

All day.

I felt like crap the whole ride to the Metropolis to my hair appointment. I wandered around the high-end salon like a moron, parts of my robe dragging on the ground, my mouth agape, wondering if I was going to vomit or die. (Neither happened.) (Oh, and Emily appeared to have perfect depth perception and no hooves could be found. Not the most attractive woman on the planet, but that doesn't mean anything.)

We then went to eat, which was a blessing and a curse. Food was great, as usual. The consequences of food? I ran into T's sisters house and banished everyone from the bathroom.

We did not go drinking. (Well, T's brother in law did with his brother, but that just means the earth was turning on it's axis.)

We did have a nice time, however.

My hangover finally quit YESTERDAY. (It would appear that I took shots at one point. I think that may have been my final undoing.)

What have I learned from all this?

My ex coworkers really like my hair.

I cannot drink like I could 5 years ago. This is ok.

We are a bunch of nasty people. Apply that in any way you see fit--It works.

People are sad that I quit. Part of me is sad too.

I seem to be far happier as an unemployed member of society. This is ok.

Oh, and everyone give a shout out to T's sister, A (I really need to start assigning different initials to people--I know a lot of A's and C's.) as she is the newest key holder to the blog. (What, do you think I'm just giving out the address willy nilly?)

Randomlings

I am very tired.

This does not bode well for my future--if you only look as far into my future as tomorrow. (Today. It's two thirty in the morning.)

I have to get up early to go get my nails done (Yeah? What of it?) and to purchase supplies for the "Hooray We're Unemployed" party we are hosting tomorrow night before I go to my LAST DAY AT WORK.

Glee really isn't the word for it.

Anyway, I am tired. Probably because I have a new blog obsession and just spent the last 3 hours reading the archives therein.

******************************************

I am cutting my hair this weekend. No, I don't know what specific haircut I will be getting. I'm walking into an appointment in an overpriced Downtown Metropolis salon and entrusting my mane to a nice woman named Emily, who hopefully isn't stricken with hooves for hands or no depth perception or something, and saying, "My hair is naturally wavy/curlyish, I have cowlicks here and here, I straighten it daily and don't want something that is going to be a bitch to grow out. GO!". Hopefully she is up to the challenge.

******************************************

Being that I assume most of my readership has ears, I would like to think that most of you have noticed the addition of a music player on this blog. One person has commented, and I know her in RL and we have similar tastes in music and she loves it....and, being that the majority rules, I think everyone does. So there. But you may have noticed a spread of some vastness--Bob Seger to In Flames? Who the hell is VNV Nation? Why, in Gods name, does she have a Timbaland song on there?

Because I like it. So there. My blog, my playlist, my music. Actually, I have toned it down quite a bit on here.

Oh, and FYI--Turn the Page is probably one of the greatest songs ever written. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

****************************************

Lastly, I stole this from C, who refuses to send me the rest of the pics from her trip out here until I send the pics from her trip out here last year. C is brilliant, but obviously doesn't know how deep my kleptomania runs when it comes to hilarious photos.





This is about the 12th trip to the grocery store while C was here. She is over caffeinated, and T is, well, a boy. Therefore, they "fly" through the aisles at 2am.

(C, I love you. Please don't be mad.)

Also, just to spread the love around, a pic of T in Vegas looking slightly bewildered and like he has a very large body or a very small head.



Again, I love you, and please don't be mad. :)

Endeavours

As I tell the regular customers at both the restaurants that I am quitting, and that our time together is drawing to a close, strange things are happening.

They all want to know why.

So I tell them the diplomatic version. Not the "This company is run by a drunk monkey rodeo" version, but the "I am off to better myself in a way that does not involve kissing strangers asses" version.

Secondly, they all want to know if I have another job.

I tell them no, which is the honest answer.

Then they want to know why I would quit my job if I didn't have another.

I tell them that I want to go back to school. That I awoke on my 26th birthday and realized that I had not realized any of the goals or dreams I had set for myself. That I realized that time is short--that I don't want to be my mother. That before I have children I want to live the sort of life that my grandchildren will marvel over. I want to travel, I want to write. I want to take pictures for real again. I want to wake up every day and have a reason to laugh and smile and things to look forward to instead of dread. I want to be the person I want to be, the person I was supposed to be before all the death and addiction and guilt and drama happened. That I will take those life experiences and turn them from something I receive sympathy for into something people will cheer over.

Typically, at this point, the conversation goes one of two ways.

Either the people cheer, clap, shake my hand. Tell me how great that is, how they wished they had had the same thoughts when they were young, before they were strapped with kids and mortgages and jobs they hated.

Or they tell me I am a moron.

I really want to tell them that the most moronic thing I could do was to stay stagnant in a job I hate, that is taking me nowhere and doing nothing but offending my sensibilities and sucking away at what little soul I have left.

These are usually the same people that tell me that they are not surprised I am a waitress. You know, because I don't really have family and all that. Wasn't born into money.

Oh well.

I think I am going to bed.

(Oh, and to clear up some confusion in the comments: Brian, obviously you have not spent a lot of time with metal heads and punk rockers. They are, by distinction, a stinky group of people. The idea of being in a small, hot, cramped bar with 400 of them who were recently freezing cold and soaking wet makes my nose hurt. Imagine being trapped in an elevator in southern Florida with your son's fresh, sweaty hockey pads, skates, socks and underpants. Now spill some beer on them, have someone smoke a joint nearby, sprinkle on some patchouli oil and mist a hint of vomit over the top and now we are talking. That is what I walked away from.)

Sailing, Scotch, and Sousa

Everyone should take part in one of the above today. Or all, if possible.


Happy Birthday, Dad. We're eating cherry cake today, and I might get it right this time.