Random Salad

It’s 8:00 am and I think I’m still drunk from the night before most probably because of the bottle of Ravenswood Zinfandel and three beers that I consumed in less than five hours.

I’ve always wondered why booze makes you forget things, until this morning that is, when bits and pieces of last night came back to me, more specifically, singing (I mean screaming) “Pour Some Sugar On Me” with my friend Gregg into the karaoke microphone on a make-shift stage at Joe Sensors sports bar. It’s times like those that are best left in the drunken haze they were experienced. Christ.

Speaking of bad, yesterday while driving I saw a large Dodge truck with a license plate that read "GITERDNE." Which made me think, would I ever be brave enough to create personalized plates out of a cheesy catch phrase? I mean, those things don't last and then I'd be stuck for years with some outdated phrase on the back of my car for people like me to criticize and make fun of. Kind of like my “Where’s the Beef” t-shirt I made my mom buy me when I was young. Who buys their 7 year-old daughter a t-shirt that reads “Where’s the Beef?”
However, maybe it's still cool, "Giterdun" I mean. But then again, I wouldn't know since I don't own a flannel shirt, shotgun or framed tickets to a Monster Truck Show.

Daewoo makes a car called the “Leganza” which I believe sounds like it should be a VD. “Bruce went down to Jamaica and came back with a bad case of Leganza.” Ahhh, now you get it don’t you. It does though, right?

Tostitos has once again successfully ripped off Doritos and created their version of “Cool Ranch” and cleverly named it “Southwestern Ranch,” and I have to say, they’re pretty good...crispy, and not too much ranch unlike Doritos who tends to soak their chips in too much ranch and too much ranch is a bad idea. I know this because I’m eating them for breakfast. Yep... definitely still drunk.

Welcome Home, Fuckers!

I was getting into my car this morning when I heard it, the incessant honking of the Canadian geese as they made their way to land more than likely a few blocks over at Lake Nokomis. Every year around this time it seems as though the population of those long-necked sons of satans doubles when they come back from wherever the hell they went. Sure, a few stragglers stayed to tough out the cold Minnesota winter, most probably because of a bum wing, or old age, but the majority of them leave to go South which I could never understand since after all, they are “Canadian geese.” Right?

Now, don’t get me wrong here, I don’t HATE them…I just don’t understand why there has to be SO MANY of them. You know? And when you have so many of them, that means that you have A LOT of bird shit. And their shit is not like normal bird shit, it’s like large pellets of shit, and it’s EVERYWHERE.

In high school I was on the golf team (shut up) and my golf coach was this little old lady in her 60’s who was an excellent golfer, but had quite the temperament and swore like a truck driver. She HATED geese because they crapped all over the golf course and when she would cross one while driving, she would purposely run them over with her automobile. Seriously, I almost died once when I was in the car with her and she violently swerved from the left lane to the right shoulder to take one out that was standing on the side of the road. She actually SPED UP to hit it, missed it, cussed, TURNED THE CAR AROUND TO TRY IT AGAIN, and missed it again.

I felt like I was in some sort of strange cartoon featuring Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. It was crazy, and maybe has something to do with my dislike for them. Some sort of associative disorder with geese and death...Who knows.

However, there is also a side to these devilish creatures that I actually kind of like. First of all, they have complete disregard for things that are larger than them and they appear as if they just don’t give a shit. It’s almost as if they are challenging you to run them over.

You know when you’re driving along and you encounter a goose that just happens to be standing in the middle of the road, so you slow down and eventually come to a stop because the little bastard won’t move? He just looks at you like, “What?” And then you honk your horn and he stands there and looks at you again like “WHAT? Go ahead and run me over, I’ll just fuck up your radiator and get stuck in your grill causing you to spend the rest of the afternoon at the carwash trying to remove my remnants from your cute little white car!” And then I stick my head out the window and waive my arms like a crazy person to try and get it to move all while yelling something along the lines of “Jesus CHRIST! You have WINGS for GOD sakes! Get your feathered little goose ass out from the middle of the FREAKIN ROAD!”

And only after I make a scene does he decide to finish crossing the road so he can go eat gravel on the OTHER side of the street.

Fucking geese.

The Culinary Implications of Fake Bacon

Today I was craving a BLT, only there's one problem with that...I don't eat bacon. And you can't really have a BLT and NOT have the bacon...Right? So, I decided to take a stab at using fake bacon. That's right, fake bacon. I was a little scared at first when I opened up the package and there were a half dozen pieces of what looked to be marbelized playdough in a freezer pack. "Is this what I paid $5.00 for?"

I was clearly visually disappointed in my fake bacon, but I decided to not let it's first impression influence me. So, I smelled it, and it actually smelled like bacon. So, I put three pieces on a plate and read the microwave directions, mostly out of fear that if I were to use my All Clad skillet I would spend the next hour and a half scraping a charred artificial mess out of my $100 pan.

The part that confused me was "microwave until crispy." Crispy? So, I forced myself to touch it. Yep, it's definitely NOT crispy and my playdough analogy was proving itself more and more as time went on.

I threw the plate into the nuke and set the timer for two minutes. And then I watched it, half expecting to witness my fake bacon spontaneously combust right in front of my very eyes.

It took two minutes to go from fresh playdough to the kind of playdough that has been left out, uncovered in the sun for two days. At least that's how it felt. Now was time for the ultimate test...I was going to put it in my mouth. (I know terrifying, isn't it?)

I broke off a piece and tasted it. It took about seven seconds for it to completely disintigrate in my mouth. I didn't even have to chew and watched as Josh gazed on with a look of sheer terror. I didn't know what to think, I mean it's literally been years since I've eaten bacon, but I was pretty sure that this wasn't even close. It was more like a carbon-like form of bacon bits, and I'm sure you can imagine how good that was.

Regardless, I was still craving a BLT so I took the two pieces of fake bacon, and sandwiched them between two pieces of honey wheat bread, mayo, a slice of Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and fresh avocado slices and made a sandwich that would have left any seasoned sandwich connoisseur in awe, and my guess was right! It wasn't nearly as bad in the sandwich as it was on its own.

However, it's only been about 30 minutes since I ate it, and adverse food reactions take at least five hours to take effect. I'll be sure to keep you posted.

(Lucky for you, you've been spared the Fake Bacon Photos...blogger's photo download must be broken for the time being...Consider yourself fortunate.)

UPDATE!
(AHA! Blogger's "Upload Images" is back up and running...too bad for you.)

Back in the Saddle.

When I packed my bags last week to leave Puerto Vallarta, my glorious tan decided to go along for the ride. Then, upon returning from home it realized that it didn’t like Minneapolis and began leaving in sheets large enough to cover a small child. What’s up with that? The one thing I have to distinguish myself from my fellow pasty Minnesotans now lies scattered about various rooms in my home awaiting to be swept up and discarded like the airline ticket stub that brought me there in the first place.

All right, so I have good news and I have bad news about the trip, which one do you want to read first? Well, if you’re anything like me, you’d want the bad news, so here goes.

The second the airplane landed and I stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac, I started to come down with a sore throat which got progressively worse as the days wore on. When day three arrived I couldn’t take it anymore so I made a trip to the resort Doctor who quickly diagnosed me with Strep throat. That’s right…STREP THROAT! Therefore, this year’s vacation was spent replacing Pina Coladas with Amoxcicilian, run of the mill Tom foolery with Halls, and snorkeling for a beach chair, box of Kleenex and a blanket. But looking back it really wasn’t THAT bad, I was able to relax on the beach and despite the Doctors orders, I managed to sneak in a few (or ten) Banana Mamas here and there.

Also, I forgot my kick-ass Superbowl XL pin that I planned on bringing along to document the trip with. I realized this when I got to the airport and wanted to pin it on a friend I ran in to, a friend that I affectionately call “Pissin Jim.” Long story.

Anyway, the GOOD news is I managed to make the turn into Thirtysomething while I was there. Most of you are probably asking yourself, why this is good. Well, it’s better than the alternative, so 30 it is.

Also, we managed to have a great time sailing, boogie boarding, and just hanging out. We were even able to get into a little trouble when our male counterparts decided to recruit the rest of the males in the “warm tub” to our version of the Mexican Olympics where they were scored on their creative plunges off the bridge above the swimming pool into about 5 feet of water. There was definitely alcohol involved and even a casualty when one of our own chipped their tooth on what was to become known as “The Triple Spin of Death.”

Waiting in line at the airport to come home it soon became know that our flight was to be delayed at least two hours because of a Fed Ex plane that skidded off the runway back in Minneapolis due to the snowstorm we were currently having. So, we all checked our bags and decided to head over the bridge, across the highway to this area that appeared to be a cross between a Mexican ghetto and …well, a Mexican ghetto. We were quickly summoned into a restaurant by a man promising great food and drinks. And to be honest with you, it was the best food I had all week. Upon learning it was my birthday they came out with sombreros and shots of tequila, which were done by everyone at the table in some sort of sick Mexican drinking game manner. The manager would come over with a sombrero, place it on your head while the bartender poured the shot down your throat, then they would all yell something while the manager took your head into his blanket and shook it around like a box of marbles all while tilting your chair back and setting it back in place. It was crazy, and I got to do it twice…because it was my birthday.

Happy Birthday to me...and Danika!

Random Thoughts

A few days ago I saw a blind guy walking down the street smoking a cigarette. I immediately thought, "Wait! How is he supposed to read the Surgeon Generals Warning on the side of the box if he can't SEE?" Then I realized that he still has ears, but STILL I think I'm going to write Phillip Morris.

We leave for Puerto Vallarta in TWO DAYS, and I've been on a frantic search for a couple skirts to wear over my swimsuits for events such as going to the bar, playing beach volleyball, going to the bar, eating lunch, going to the bar...etc...and until yesterday I was having NO luck at all. I'd been to Nordstrom, Bloomingdales,Macy's, Marshall Fields, Target, Saks, JCREW, Banana Republic, The Limited, Anthropologie, and I found NOTHING. I decided I was going to try TJ Maxx, wait, actually, I had to talk myself into going there. You see, I'm not much of a clothes scavenger which I believe is what you have to be to go there and shop. I don't have the patience, nor the attention span to sort through the rows of racks to find something that I may actually consider wearing. So, when I dragged myself out of the car to go in I gave myself 20 minutes to scan the store in hopes of hitting the jackpot. No luck. I walked in the door and immediately saw a woman with a cart full of fluorescent. Her hair was backcombed in a way that made her look like she just walked through a wind tunnel and she was holding up a gold shirt with little round shiny dots stitched all around it like the friggin ball in Times Square on New Years Eve. I took one look at her, turned around and walked out the door. That was my 30 second stay at TJ Maxx.

The next day I found myself in the mall, staring at the outside of Hollister. For those of you who have never been there, it's kind of like Abercrombie & Fitch. It reaks of 18-year old male hormone and the music is loud enough to be heard across the street. Of the mall. So, I walked by, turned around, and walked by again. I did this two more times until I stopped in front of the door, held my breath and charged in. I was immediately greeted by a boy, not a day over 15 years old, I smiled and still holding my breath I walked to the back of the store where I saw a few skirts. Much to my chagrin, I was pleasantly surprised, it is there I found my skirt. Both white, blueish grey and brown. I looked the brown one over and I immediately heard, in the back of my mind, the lady at JCREW say in an overly-excited voice"....But BROWN is the NEW BLACK!" I set the brown one down and settled on the white one. I couldn't bring myself to get the brown one simply because of that annoying lady at JCREW. Needless to say, I'm over it and will be back today to get the brown one.

So, I think I'm ready. I have all the cute and charming outfits I need to spend five days drunk on the beach in Mexico...Ahhhh....Vacations.

My life is a mess...

My life is a freaking mess. I realized this after actually looking at my desk while working yesterday. You see, I office out of my home which makes life a little easier, yet at the same time a little more complicated. See Exhibit A:


That, my friends is my “Office Armoire”, or more appropriately “Office Disaster Area”. You know those people who are really quite put together on the outside, but a freakin mess on the inside? Yep, that would be me.

I am normally a pretty clean person, but for some reason when it comes to my work area I just all of a sudden decided not to care anymore. Like, I’d get really busy and just shove things in there, close the doors, and then leave in a hurry to go visit clients not realizing that I was creating a monster, a document-fed scary mess of a monster. And believe it or not, there is a method to my madness...a sort of "organized chaos." Come to think of it, it’s really quite existential, or Freudian…whatever.

It was when I subconsciously moved my work area from the office to the kitchen counter that I realized that shit needs to be cleaned. So I started cleaning it, and found a few interesting things inside, things that generally wouldn’t belong in/on an office armoire.


Every office area needs a pair of maracas. I don’t exactly know why they are there, maybe in case I felt like creating some sort of fiesta while knee deep in sales reports and client phone calls. Maybe they help me keep my sanity. I wish I could say that, honestly I didn’t even know they were there.


This is an authentic 1950’s Ken doll which once belonged to my sister. He used to don a pink cowboy hat which has been lost, but instead now wears a plastic star from Mike’s Smokehouse that was given to me from my friend Andy my freshman year of college. Ken was shoved between the bottled Gas Duster and a box of old Christmas Cards. The star went, the cards went, but the doll stays.


At my house I don’t have to worry about sexual harassment, that’s why I can have not only one, but TWO penis necklaces at my desk. Most probably resurrected from one of the multiple bachelorette parties that I have attended. One is actually a whistle, I’m thinking of attaching to my keychain in case of emergencies.


This really dates me. Not only is it a cassette tape, but it is a BON JOVI “SLIPPERY WHEN WET” cassette tape. For those moments when I’m feeling all nostalgic I can pop it into my cassette player and sing along with good old Jon and the boys. “WOAAAAHHHHHH….WE’RE HALF WAY THERE…WOOOOAAAAAHHHHHH!!! LIVIN ON A PRAYER….!!!” Wait, do I even have a cassette player anymore?


Not only do I not have to worry about sexual harassment, but I also don’t have to worry about inappropriate racial stereotypes. You’re probably wondering, “What the hell is she doing with a model size Mexican in an outhouse?” I got this from my Grandma’s house when we were cleaning it out after she passed. You take the cap off the mushroom and fill it with water and then when you open the door to the outhouse the Mexican turns around and pees on you. It’s so not politically correct, therefore it totally belongs in the Armoire.


And last, but certainly not least, I have the crème de la crème, the icing on the cake, the stuffed armadillo. Yes, ladies and gentleman, that is a stuffed armadillo that has somehow found it’s home on the top of my armoire. The same armadillo that was bought on ebay by a certain someone (Josh) for a bargain of $115. The Lonestar beer that he was holding has long since disappered and I am no longer scared of it, so it stays.

And that’s pretty much it. I’m sure I could have pulled a few more things to write about, but I only have so much time here, and I don’t want to seem like a total freak. What? Too late? Oh well….