An old woman often stops in to shop at the grocery store where I work. When she’s not sucking employees into helping her for ten or more minutes at a time, she’s sitting with her silent husband in the café where they drink the free milk that’s intended for customers to add to coffee or tea.
I had the luxury of running into her four times the other night.
First, she needed to know if we have decaf coffee. I showed her the options. She wanted to know how dark one of them was, so I opened up the bag and poured two beans into her hand. She compared them to the other beans (which are in clear bins).
“It’s too dark.”
“I’m sorry, but that is all we have for decaf drip coffee.”
She put the beans into her mouth and chewed them.
“Grind them for me.”
Like many stores, we have grinders that customers can use. It’s pretty easy to use. But, since I have to be nice, I went ahead and did it for her. I resealed the bag and handed it to her.
“Did you seal the bag?”
I showed her how the bag was, indeed, sealed.
“Do you have creamer?”
I told her yes, and pointed to the spot on the shelf with the creamer.
“Show me.”
???
So I picked up a container and said, “This is one of them.” I did this with all the creamers. She didn’t want any.
I just want to add that this woman, while elderly, is able-bodied.
Before this unnecessarily long story gets even more unnecessarily long, I’ll just say that I also helped her look through her eggs to make sure none of them were broken (she said, “Open one and check them for me” and then told me I didn’t need to check them as thoroughly as I was), and then I spent a good minute trying to understand that she was asking for dry cottage cheese before she found it on the shelf herself.
Then later on she flagged me down again.
“Do you have decaf instant coffee?”
CHRIST, WOMAN. I JUST GRINDED YOUR GODDAMN COFFEE FOR YOU.
“Yes. I can show you what we have.”
I spent another five minutes showing her the options and answering questions. She decided to take the coffee I grinded for her.
As she walked away from me, she let out a long fart.
Here’s where I give you the history of my running:
I ran 8th grade track when I was 14. That’s 12 years ago. That’s it.
I still have my track t-shirt, and it still fits because I stopped growing in 8th grade–other than getting a little lumpier in certain spots.
That’s really about it. I didn’t run track or cross country in high school, even though my coaches strongly recommended it–because I was scared and shy, and staying at home writing bad poems about relationships I never had in a dimly lit room while listening to depressing music like Silverchair was just, for some reason, more appealing than going out and doing something I liked with other people. That involved being around people. See? People. Scary.
In 8th grade, I was one of those runners that was in-between. I wasn’t one of the fast sprinters, and I wasn’t a star long distance runner. I always ended up running the 400 meter (one lap around the track), the 800 meter (2 laps around the track) or the 4×400 or 4×800 relays.
I don’t think I ever got first place in my solo runs The female relay team I was part of, however, was famous (note: I use the word “famous” very loosely here). We always won. I was always the second runner. I wasn’t fast enough to be the first runner, and I wasn’t fast enough to be the team’s anchor, but I was good enough for the team, and it was one of the few things that made an insecure 14 year old me happy.
Not continuing my running through high school is probably one of my regrets. Also, side note: I don’t believe people when they say they have no regrets.
Over the last few years I’ve been the occasional jogger—I’ll be diligent about it for two months or so, then I’ll do it sparingly, and then I’ll decide that standing up while eating cold pizza and watching Law & Order SVU on my laptop is sufficient exercise for a day. I mean, it’s exercise you can do in your underpants, and there’s food involved. There’s a valid argument in that.
Anyway, I am jogging again, and it’s surprisingly not that hard. I have a 3 mile route in my neighborhood (I can’t run the whole thing without stopping yet, but I can run the majority of it). It certainly helps that I live in a really pretty neighborhood with beautiful yards and views of mountains and water and boats and the cityscape.
I thought jogging again was going to be really hard, so I just want to take the time to say: IN YOUR FACE, Susan Powter! (Remember? Susan Powter sometimes shops where I work.) I have stopped the insanity!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to finish that 1/2 pound block of pepper jack cheese that I bought for lunch.
I know that title is sort of a reference to a Toby Keith song—at least the phrase always will seem like a reference to that stupid song, thanks to the fact that I lived in Missouri when the song came out, and I worked at a KFC that played country music most of the time, or I heard country music coming out of passing car windows all the time, or I heard it at home with my parents all the time–and I should probably be sentenced to a term of public humiliation for making the reference. Toby Keith kind of makes me want to throw up, even more than Ricky Martin did when he was all over the radio in 1999.
Side note 1: Once I downloaded the song “I Wanna Talk About Me” and then burned it to a CD as many times as it would fit and gave it to my friend, Maurine. The CD was labeled “SURPRISE!!!!”
Her reaction was: “This is Toby Keith on repeat, isn’t it?”
This is the same friend who, after I called her on someone else’s phone number using my very handy voice changer toy and said that I was a lonely Satan that wanted to have a date with her—a date that included cuddling and watching Miss Congeniality–replied, “Tina?” Either she is very intuitive, or I am very predictable.
Side note 2: It’s true. I never did like Ricky Martin, and my family sometimes gives me Ricky Martin merchandise because of it. My dad gave me a Ricky Martin biography one year for Christmas, and he put a fake signature in the back of it. He signed Ricky Martin’s name with hearts for the dots in the i’s. My sister made me a special t-shirt spelling out my love for Ricky Martin. Each year, at least one of the gifts I received has “From: Ricky Martin” written on the gift tag. This is how our typical Christmases go. We are a very thoughtful family.
This was all a roundabout way of saying that I signed up at Formspring. Like Twitter, it’s something I keep hearing about, but don’t totally understand. And since it’s free, unlike the iPad (something I definitely don’t understand) I thought I’d give it a whirl. It might also help me generate ideas for future blog posts. I can’t promise that it’s going to make me any less “mysterious” or “secretive” (as I’ve been described by people before), but it might be hilarious.
Maybe I’ll post the answer to these as audio files, using my voice changer, and talking as the Satan character that I created in college.
Side note 3: Did I ever tell you about the guy I repeatedly prank called in college? I met him once or twice through my roommate; she had a class with him and they had to work on a project together. There was something about him that made me realize that this guy needed a prank call or two hundred. Luckily, by this time, my dad had already given me the voice changer for my 19th birthday.
I would call him and all the calls began, “Hello [guy’s first and last name]. This is Satan.”
They’d either get all sappy and say something like, “I was thinking about your soft skin all day today. It was so distracting. I would like to caress it. Will you let me?” Or they’d be more straight forward: “Meet me at the bell tower at 8pm with your pants down.”
My roommate and I would even call him on one phone, and then call him on another, so when he’d put Satan on hold to answer the other line, it would just be Satan again. We were dedicated.
And then he found out it was me. And then I just kept calling.
Oh, also, I used to call this one guy that I worked with repeatedly (while hanging out with other co-workers) and say, “I’d like a cheeseburger!” in a ridiculous voice (the reasoning behind that phrase would involve a long, drawn out explanation about how he reminded us of Grimace, the big purple McDonald’s character). It was perfect for me to be the one calling because 1). I’m funny, and 2). No one ever suspected me, and when they found out, they were surprised but never approached me about it.
Sometimes I think about looking up these guys’ numbers and giving them the old lines again.
Remember how I made seitan a few days ago? And how I was doing it to sort of prepare for a month of non-meat-eating? (if not, there’s a lovely video of the experience of seitan-making in the previous post)
Despite how fun it was to play around with that rubbery dough, it’s kind of gross and I don’t think I want to eat it anymore. Plus, I’m finding that I’m adding it to dishes purely to get rid of it, so I end up eating even more than I initially intended and I just don’t enjoy the dishes that I would otherwise love. And that just seems stupid. Stupid seitan, ruining my stir fry.
Maybe I just need to figure out a better way to cook with it, or a better recipe, or try the pre-made stuff. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the turd-like cutlets will be going in the trash.
Meatless May is going to be tough. I might have to do Wheatless May instead. Or a Gluten Free May instead. Or Sugar Free May–but all the alternatives totally ruin the alliteration I had going on. I could still try a Meatless May–or Milk Free May, and then have a Gluten Free June (for the assonance with the “u” sound).
Can anyone think of any other names for challenging restrictive diet options for the month of May? Requirements for the name: it must be fun to say because it either rhymes, has alliteration or assonance, incorporates the use of the phrases “o-rama” or “a-thon” or makes a reference to Richard Simmons, Janet Reno, or Will Smith.
And just a note: I’m not doing the whole diet restriction to lose weight. I just feel like I often lack the control and self discipline that I could have when it comes to eating. I do a lot of mindless munching, and I’d like to be more mindful about what I’m putting into my body. Plus, I don’t always feel that great after eating, my skin is gross, and it’d be kind of cool to see how changing my diet for a month affects that.
Well, now I guess it’s time to finish off that pound of bacon that I’m snacking on.
Updated for an unrelated note: This article linked my Poetry in Muffin photo from my Flickr account. Just seems funny to me.
I’m thinking of going on a month long vegetarian diet—and possibly a vegan diet. I know that there are a lot of health and environment benefits to cutting down or cutting out meat consumption, and I already don’t eat meat every day. But I like meat, and don’t think I’ll ever be a full time vegetarian. However, I want to give it a try and see how I feel. Plus, it’ll be a fun way to force myself into trying new foods and recipes, and I’m always excited about that.
In preparation for Meatless May (honestly, yes, I did choose May because of the alliteration), I’ve bought some TVP (textured vegetable protein), which I’ve never used—
In the words of Cheap Trick, I want you to want me. I want to play you the way Rick Nielson plays that five-neck guitar.
Do you see what I did there? Metaphor.
(Note: Once I saw Cheap Trick in concert (for free!)–in 2002, I think–and I only knew a few of their songs (and I still only know a few of their songs) and had no idea that there would be a five-neck guitar. When that thing was whipped out during “Surrender” I just about peed my pants, or cried, but mostly like both. That was the moment that made me decide that the concert was a good one, because a five-neck guitar is just so over-the-top and ROCK AND ROLL. It was also a good concert because there was a fat man in the row in front of me named Dave and he was incredibly drunk. He told us that he was in a band and they only played shows in drag.)
I thought it was just about eggs and candy and bunnies. And pastel colored things, like the hat on this very stylish lawn ornament I saw a few blocks from my apartment:
On Wednesday, I am leading the ESL class I volunteer with, and the students want to talk about Easter. Many of them were unsure of what the holiday is, or why they are seeing goddamn bunnies and jelly beans all over the freaking place. They didn’t really say it like that, but I am sure that is how they would say it if English were their native language.
I’m not sure how qualified I am to lead a class about Easter. For my family, Easter meant this:
On the day before we would color eggs. Each year I would get more adventurous with how I tried to decorate them. I’d mix colors and make striped eggs. I’d get out the white crayon so I could create designs on the eggs that the dye would not stick to.
On the morning of Easter, my Easter basket (which I reused each year) would be on the coffee table and filled with candy like jelly beans, gumballs, and Whoppers that looked like spotted eggs. The eggs we colored the day before would be hidden in the living room, and I’d search for them while my parents drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. (My sisters were too old for the egg hunting by the time I was old enough to remember it) And that’d be it. I’d probably eat a few of the eggs and then feast on the candy, and we might have a big dinner with ham in the menu.
I went to one outdoor Easter egg hunt. I found a lot of eggs, but started to feel guilty about how I was finding more than the other kids. At the end of the hunt, I shook the Easter Bunny’s hand. The bunny suit was awful, and I could see a scrawny white arm up the costume’s sleeve.
I talked to Bryan about what he did for Easter. He said: church things, like egg hunts. His family would also hide eggs (real eggs and plastic eggs) in their yard. They’d often find eggs months later while mowing the lawn.
Also, I remember this one time on the school bus, this girl named Leslie showed me this smashed leftover Easter egg she had in her backpack. It was green and the smell made me gag. I moved to another seat, even though we weren’t supposed to be moving around on the bus.
Eventually we just sort of stopped celebrating Easter and, during my freshman year of college, when I learned that Easter had something to do with Jesus and resurrection I (after looking up the word “resurrection” and probably making a joke about how it has “erection” in it) I didn’t do much of anything. I spent that Easter in my dorm room, alone, watching tv. At the time, my current tv obsessions were: anything on Comedy Central, even if it played three times in one day (such as Crank Yankers, Chapelle’s Show, South Park, or, if I were lucky, a Kids in the Hall marathon), Most Extreme Elimination Challenge, Elimidate and the Fifth Wheel. I probably also ordered some Domino’s Chicken Kickers using my meal plan card and only put on pants when I needed to leave the room to use the bathroom. And I most likely thanked Jesus for giving me a weekend nearly alone in the dorms so that my bowels could relax a little more and I could peacefully poop with no one in the neighboring stalls.
This year I’ll be working a day shift rather than my usual evening shift. I’m grateful for that. Hey, is Easter a time where I’m supposed to get all grateful for stuff? Or is that just Thanksgiving and Christmas?
Anyway, I’ll be writing the Easter lesson plan with the help of Wikipedia and other quick sources. In the meantime, tell me about your Easters or lack of Easters, or your favorite hard boiled egg recipes.
Or if you’d prefer not to talk about Easter, please comment with what your favorite Prince song is. Mine is a toss up between “Little Red Corvette” and “When You were Mine.”
The whole Prince thing isn’t off topic–in case you were thinking that this post just took a strange turn. Prince is clearly dressed as a farmer, perhaps an egg farmer (and Easter involves eggs), in this photo:
I find it to be a very festive shot.
But in case you don’t see it, maybe this picture will make it a little more obvious:
Now that the Easter Prince picture exists, I can mean it when I say HAPPY EASTER!
Here’s the latest installment of Vintage Tina. This installment might also be known as “I Can’t Believe This Chick Got a Creative Writing Degree.”
—
Excerpts from April 1997 journal entries, age 13
Dear Diary,
Happy very late New Year! I decided I wanted a diary just a few minutes ago. It used to be my 6th grade math journal. That’s probably why it says math journal on the cover. (duh) I guess I better warn you, I have an awfully boring life. No boyfriend. I don’t really like anyone. Except maybe Jonathan Taylor Thomas. But he’s different.
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Yesterday I sat outside for about 20 minutes and got a tan. (farmer)
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I saw the episode on Ellen where she says she is gay. I realized there is nothing wrong w/ being gay. But even if I say that, I hope I don’t end up gay. I could not handle all that discrimination…I think it would take so much courage for Ellen Degeneres to tell the world she is gay.
—
Dated April 1999, age 15.
Hate Rain
The feeling of paranoia
Spreads throughout the place
Feelings ate up by maggots
We see hate on your face
Lots of innocent people
Being buried alive
By the dirt of hatred
No one can survive
There’s a war of insanity
Taking over the sane
People are like zombies
All things are in vain
Nothing good comes from the bad
There is no good remaining
Society has gone rotten
From the clouds, hatred is raining
Note: “Hate Rain” is a very original title and I feel very paranoid after reading this. Paranoid ABOUT MY BOWELS.
—
Excerpts from April 2001 journal entries, age 17:
I take the ACT next Saturday. I am dreading them. EXTREMELY. I am scared that I’ll get a terrible score. Maybe my test will just be returned with “STUPID KID” written in bold capital letters across it with one of those markers that soak through the paper.”
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I am watching SNL. “where ever there is a gathering of two or more whores, there is always a Tina.” –Tina Fey
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Speaking of evil, Amy and I saw on t.v., this man’s last name was Satan. Is that not funny? I wonder if that man ever dressed up as a devil for Halloween.
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It’s 4-20 today. Yeah. So people will be talking about marijuana. How great. It’s also the two year “anniversary” of the Columbine shooting. I remember hearing about it first in the art room at school.
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Wow. This is a good good night. Bob Dylan was AWESOME.
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So. I now have a car. A CAR! 1992 Chevy Cavalier. It’s electric blue in color.
—
Excerpts from April 2002, age 18
Last night at work I discovered that I am employee of the month. I guess it’s nice—I get six hours paid without having to work, and I think a chance to win a DVD player. So I guess that’s cool but kind of embarrassing too. My picture has to be posted in the lobby. note: I worked at KFC, and the picture of me in the lobby was me giving a huge fake smile with a thumbs up. Next to the buffet.
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I parked by JC Penney at the mall, and went to that entrance—and could not find my way out of the store!!! I was hot and sweaty and frustrated.
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Today while walking to my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot I had this really bizarre thought.
I thought up that maybe I’ll never get married and I’ll grow up to be a never married elderly woman who goes out to lunch by herself often. To all you can eat buffets. And NO, I don’t know why I thought of that, but YES it is amusing.
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I just woke up and COULD NOT FIND MY GLASSES! I don’t know why they weren’t on my headboard. They were under my bed.
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Today the impossible happened. I made a pot in pottery! And I even PULLED it up to 4 inches tall! Insane, I know.
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It’s so weird– I’m almost FINISHED with high school. DONE. NO LONGER ATTENDING. CRAZY I TELL YOU.
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Last night I was reading Catch-22 and I glanced at the title at the top of a page and it looked like it said Crotch-22.
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Today I came home from school and said to my mom, “it’s hot outside.”
And she replied with, “yeah, I spilled coffee all over the floor.”
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a dream excerpt:
…she [my art teacher] wanted me to fill out something for an award, I think. It said to describe the show “Trading Spaces” in depth.
—
So there you have it. Proof that I stopped maturing at about age 18.
