For reasons unbeknownst to me-- some dietetics majors are hoping and planning and praying to go into foodservice after graduation. Like-- on purpose and stuff. Maybe a bit more high-end-- like hotel-restaurant management, but it's all foodservice to me. I would never go to college to enter foodservice-- even as a manager. The hospitality people scare and confuse me. I've done foodservice for the majority of my working life-- all positions, and all manner of eatery-- and I went back to college to get out of foodservice for good. So imagine how stoked I was to find out that a lot of dieticians make their careers in foodservice...
Hooray. Wooo, and stuff.
Seems like the booby-prize to me-- but what do I know?
Regardless of my opinion on the matter, I am required to take a few courses on foodservice management. My last one covered a lot etiquette for formal and not-so-formal gatherings. Did you know that there is an appropriate way to handle finding hair in your food? I won't go into it-- but spitting the nasty into your napkin isn't it-- nor is badmouthing the waiter. We covered etiquette on all sorts of things-- all very fascinating to me. Our final was to serve a formal dinner for the administrative faculty at the Victoria. The Victoria is an old mansion-turned fine-dining restaurant/bed & breakfast that was gifted to my school when the owners couldn't pay the taxes on it. Even though I hate foodservice-- I'm a sucker when it comes to touring old buildings. I can't help myself. As an added bonus-- we were going to get to eat dinner for free.
Best final ever. Until....
The 22 year-old breeder from Podunk took the floor. Even though I'd been awake for nearly 24 hours straight-- I was really, truly, enjoying eating my perfect dinner in this beautifully ornate piece of history. I was even able to mostly tune out the obnoxious foreign-studies girl from Ethiopia. (Apparently Ethiopia is the very bestest place in the whole wide world and America sucks butthole. Whatever.) It's not every day I get an expertly prepared meal. Tomorrow, I knew, I'd be back to peanut butter sandwiches under the fluorescent lighting of the Evil Empire breakroom.
::enter breeder, stage left::
Out of nowhere, this girl who we all tolerate because we have to, looks at this other girl who is 27, and me (29)-- and loudly instructs us that:
"You and Vanessa need to start having some babies-- it's not good to wait until you are so old."
(stunned fucking silence from the whole group) Alas, this was not a clue. Henceforth, the breeder continueth proudly:
"You might not be able to have a baby if you wait too long. It gets harder and harder to get pregnant the closer you get to 30."
Me: "uh... (stutters something inaudible)"
27 yr old: (Turns bright red and stares at her fork.)
Seriously. The whole group has now stopped eating and turned their attention to Jada and me-- looking for our response. And still, the breeder continueth:
"You should get pregnant the second semester of your senior year..."
Oh now this just takes the motherfucking CAKE! This cow has it scheduled out for us????? What the hell happened to polite dinner conversation? What happened to minding your own business? Discretion? A comfortable silence? I mean, you just don't... yanno? There are throngs of people I'm nosy about-- but you don't see me doing that! No-- etiquette says you secretly stalk their myspace or facebook to answer your questions concerning another's reproductive preferences. You simply DO NOT publicly discuss my uterus in any facet! I had to shut this breeder down. Fast. But here's a catch-- I couldn't be my usual stab-you-in-the-eye-self. I at least-- had to demonstrate a touch of class. (Think! Think! Think!!!!!!!!)
Here's a list of rejected shut-downs:
"When I want life advice from a 22 yr old freshman who never learned how babies are made, I'll ask you."
"Oh? Should I invite you in on the conception? I would hate to miss any of your enthralling wisdom."
"Shut up, you dumb whore." (My favorite)
Here is my "touch of class:"
"Eh.. I don't know-- I think I'll probably just adopt an older child someday. Get 'em when their big enough to push a lawn mower. You know-- skip that whole useless stage. What do you think-- about a ten year old maybe? They can pretty much take care of themselves."
The breeder was offended: (gee, did I say something wrong???)
"Oh my gosh! You are terrible! I would never let you adopt my child!"
...and here is the point where my sleep deprivation, aggravation, and general smart-assedness took right the fark over without even asking me:
"Well praise God then! If your child is even half as dumb as you, the laundry would never come out right!"
:: exit breeder, stage left::
And I enjoyed my perfect dinner, happily ever-after.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Monkey Stomped.
If I don't get to serious levels of work SOON, I may as well just drop half my classes. If I were to do something as wondrous as W.O.R.K, maybe someday soon I could be the "stomper" and not quite so much the "stompee." [dreams, cheek in hand, staring off into space] Last tuesday I felt so much more... um... not like a lazy jackass. But then again, last week, all my deadlines were a full WEEK away. This week they are a full week closer. Odd how that happens, huh? Odd and unfair. It's a cruel world. WAHHH! Somehow I've convinced myself that nobody else in the history of academia has ever had to work full time and go to school full time and keep up home & hearth type crap. At least not without huge accolades and kudos from all who witness the heroic and inspiring saga. Would it kill y'all to send me some roses every now and then? I'm doing this for you, yanno.
Illusions of grandeur? What illusion? pfft!
Of course, I need only look as far as my MIL to see that I'm just being whiny. She's doing master's level coursework, is a (?) office manager (?) at her job, and takes care of 2 kids and 2 very hyper dogs. So, yeah-- she wins on that. (Luv's ya Harriette!) I "take care of" a fairly self-sufficient husband who is super-supportive, and two completely self-sufficient kitties. They've abandoned the notion of getting fresh water from the kitchen and now drink solely from the toilet. (The kitties, not the husband.) We try to use one bathroom for us-- and leave the other as their "water dish." It's for the best, really. Plus, I was tired of getting their death-glares when they caught me pooping in their water dish. Perfectly understandable, I think.
********************************************************************************
Why do some ppl seem so proud of their diseases? There are a few ppl in my sphere of existence that just can't wait to tell me how badly they've abused their body since last we spoke. They are genuinely thrilled to express how uncompromisingly stupid they have been in terms of staying alive. I've been trying to explain to one girl for 2 YEARS now that just because she has "low blood sugar" (read: can't pronounce "hypoglycemic") does NOT mean she gets to eat as much sugar as she can get her hands on. In fact, it means exactly the opposite, unless she's really excited to graduate to full blown diabetes. The last time she told me allllllllllllll her little health oddities and eccentricities it became pretty clear that we need to throw her a party-- she has reached her goal of insulin dependence. YAYYYYYY!!!!! I cannot fathom that someone who spends as much time hangin' with the docs as she does has never had the mystery of hypoglycemia explained to her. But then again-- this is the girl who thinks ppl who have pacemakers will DIE if they ever go out into the cold. (Um-- ppl in Wisconsin have pacemakers....) Thinking about this makes my head hurt. I wish she would stop telling me her disgusting health stuff. I do not care how many potty breaks she takes in a day. Really. She tells me how many times a day she pees. WHY??????
*************************************************************************
I'm sure on a scattalogical bent today. I wonder what's up with that? Maybe it's because I have no female friends around me anymore. For some reason-- the only ppl I hang out with right now are guys. Of course "hang out" has been reduced to two 15 minutes breaks and 1 hour long lunch. I'm learning that with guys, no amount of potty humor is too much. Nothing is too vulgar, distasteful, or unnecessary. You actually get extra points if you can re-enact a scene better than the next guy. Double points awarded if you can make the lone female of the group (ie, me) turn a little green while she tries in vain to enjoy her awesome home-cooked dinner. Triple points awarded when lone female gives up and hands the plate over to one of the guys.
Last night's band of scatti-scholars emulated how morbidly obese ppl have to mount toilets in small bathrooms. (Not that the conundrum has never crossed my mind, but...)
WHERE MY GIRLS AT!?!?!?!?!?!
I neeeeeeeed a girl's night out before I up and sprout a penis.
Illusions of grandeur? What illusion? pfft!
Of course, I need only look as far as my MIL to see that I'm just being whiny. She's doing master's level coursework, is a (?) office manager (?) at her job, and takes care of 2 kids and 2 very hyper dogs. So, yeah-- she wins on that. (Luv's ya Harriette!) I "take care of" a fairly self-sufficient husband who is super-supportive, and two completely self-sufficient kitties. They've abandoned the notion of getting fresh water from the kitchen and now drink solely from the toilet. (The kitties, not the husband.) We try to use one bathroom for us-- and leave the other as their "water dish." It's for the best, really. Plus, I was tired of getting their death-glares when they caught me pooping in their water dish. Perfectly understandable, I think.
********************************************************************************
Why do some ppl seem so proud of their diseases? There are a few ppl in my sphere of existence that just can't wait to tell me how badly they've abused their body since last we spoke. They are genuinely thrilled to express how uncompromisingly stupid they have been in terms of staying alive. I've been trying to explain to one girl for 2 YEARS now that just because she has "low blood sugar" (read: can't pronounce "hypoglycemic") does NOT mean she gets to eat as much sugar as she can get her hands on. In fact, it means exactly the opposite, unless she's really excited to graduate to full blown diabetes. The last time she told me allllllllllllll her little health oddities and eccentricities it became pretty clear that we need to throw her a party-- she has reached her goal of insulin dependence. YAYYYYYY!!!!! I cannot fathom that someone who spends as much time hangin' with the docs as she does has never had the mystery of hypoglycemia explained to her. But then again-- this is the girl who thinks ppl who have pacemakers will DIE if they ever go out into the cold. (Um-- ppl in Wisconsin have pacemakers....) Thinking about this makes my head hurt. I wish she would stop telling me her disgusting health stuff. I do not care how many potty breaks she takes in a day. Really. She tells me how many times a day she pees. WHY??????
*************************************************************************
I'm sure on a scattalogical bent today. I wonder what's up with that? Maybe it's because I have no female friends around me anymore. For some reason-- the only ppl I hang out with right now are guys. Of course "hang out" has been reduced to two 15 minutes breaks and 1 hour long lunch. I'm learning that with guys, no amount of potty humor is too much. Nothing is too vulgar, distasteful, or unnecessary. You actually get extra points if you can re-enact a scene better than the next guy. Double points awarded if you can make the lone female of the group (ie, me) turn a little green while she tries in vain to enjoy her awesome home-cooked dinner. Triple points awarded when lone female gives up and hands the plate over to one of the guys.
Last night's band of scatti-scholars emulated how morbidly obese ppl have to mount toilets in small bathrooms. (Not that the conundrum has never crossed my mind, but...)
WHERE MY GIRLS AT!?!?!?!?!?!
I neeeeeeeed a girl's night out before I up and sprout a penis.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Manners For Americans, Explained
Manners For Americans-- Explained.
I know it's not healthy to fixate upon your shortcomings, be it personal, in your marriage, your job, or your countrymen, but I'm getting sick and tired of all those uppity European folks looking down their pasty noses at our lack of manners. Sadly, we've dropped below the ettiquette-standards of the Germans, who supposedly belch at the end of the meal in a show of gratitude. Our manners are even below that of the Scots, who used to carry daggers in their boots that could be employed either in the slicing and buttering of bread, or stabbing the host, should the need arise. Further still, our standards may even be lower than that of the Brits, who once believed that every man ought to eat one pound of red meat per day to retain his health, and freshen his breath with apple pie in lieu of toothpaste. (There for a while the mystical art of dentistry was all but lost on the Queen's own.) Oi. And, there was that time all across the whole of Europe, where they had to learn the hard way to separate themselves from their feces, or risk plague. France is still working this one out. Give them time, give them time. My fellow 'Merkins-- these are the folks calling us "Sloppy Americans." This means we are at code red at the table. Well, it's not really the table anymore, is it? Only a people as efficiency-driven as us could find a way to streamline dinner, farting on ourselves, and a movie into one masterful function. We've even shortened the title of such an event to "Date Night." We are some clever piglets, aren't we? Most of us (my house enthusiasticaslly included) no longer recall exactly what that structure-- yanno-- the one with the four legs and the flat top-- was originally used for. We hypothesize that the pilgrims once used such things for birthing babies-- but today it is where we keep our bills, old magazines, our car keys, and perhaps a bag of withered apples. But, for most of us, leaving food on such a structure seems a little out of place and maybe even unsanitary. I mean-- that thing could've had placenta on it!!!!! Ewwww.So, that in mind, I've drafted a few "live by" rules for the Dinner-Couch.Food consumed at the dinner-couch should be portioned out so that it does not slop over the sides of the plate. At all times, remember that the plate sits on your lap-- not the food itself, unless Wal-Mart has run out of styrofoam plates. In such a case, a wise host/hostess will circumvent the need for plates by ordering a pizza. Should Wal-Mart be out of styrofoam cups, it is not acceptable to simply pass the 2 litre 'round. A solution to this could be as simple as buying a case of beer. It is acceptable to stare blankly at any guest asking for a glass, but not ok to actually get them one unless they volunteer to wash dishes. However, if there is a major sporting event on t.v, and y'all support opposing teams-- it is perfectly acceptable to yell, "SCREW YOU BIOTCH, GIT IT URSELF, YOU MULLET-WEARIN' GOAT RAPIN' GOTS NO TALENT (insert team name here) FAN!" But, assuming Wal-Mart has kept a good stock of landfill edifying dinnerware for your convenience, most foods can easily be consumed without embarrassment at the dinner-couch. Just remember-- if it falls down the crack of the couch-- let it go. I cannot stress this enough. If you lose a chicken nugget, let it go. The smell will eventually alert the host/hostess to it's presence and subsequent need for removal. However, should you forget this little rule and go diving for it anyway, do remember this rule--YOU MUSTN'T EAT IT. The "5-second rule" is best applied to foods that land on hard, non-fuzzy surfaces. Picking the hair of your nugget makes you look a bit piggish. This is unfortunate but nonetheless true.It is of high importance that the last member sitting down to the dinner-couch be polite and ask if anybody requires an eating stick, paper towel, or another beer. If you are having Army/Navy (etc) buddies over to watch sports, it is advisable to use a beer-filled cooler as a foot-rest, and just bring the roll of paper towels. Eating sticks are a wasted effort in this situation.If you are having a quiet evening with a significant other, and he/she serves spaghetti, or some other hard-to-manuever-on-the-couch type of food-- rest assured, your significant other doesn't love you. They are trying to make your life miserable by making you work to eat your dinner. Find a new significant other immediately.If it is summertime, and you are sunburnt, it is NOT OKAY to work at peeling off the scorched skin at the dinner-couch. Go outside to do that, you nasty-ass! Same applies to toenails and boogers.Farting is only semi-okay-- but only if you are SURE it will be silent and you can get away with it. This works best in groups of 3 or more. Blaming your wife/girlfriend is hilarious in the correct setting, but if it's just y'all two-- she might be on to your little scheme.Okay! Now just follow these simple rules and we will all be able to hold our heads a little higher!
I know it's not healthy to fixate upon your shortcomings, be it personal, in your marriage, your job, or your countrymen, but I'm getting sick and tired of all those uppity European folks looking down their pasty noses at our lack of manners. Sadly, we've dropped below the ettiquette-standards of the Germans, who supposedly belch at the end of the meal in a show of gratitude. Our manners are even below that of the Scots, who used to carry daggers in their boots that could be employed either in the slicing and buttering of bread, or stabbing the host, should the need arise. Further still, our standards may even be lower than that of the Brits, who once believed that every man ought to eat one pound of red meat per day to retain his health, and freshen his breath with apple pie in lieu of toothpaste. (There for a while the mystical art of dentistry was all but lost on the Queen's own.) Oi. And, there was that time all across the whole of Europe, where they had to learn the hard way to separate themselves from their feces, or risk plague. France is still working this one out. Give them time, give them time. My fellow 'Merkins-- these are the folks calling us "Sloppy Americans." This means we are at code red at the table. Well, it's not really the table anymore, is it? Only a people as efficiency-driven as us could find a way to streamline dinner, farting on ourselves, and a movie into one masterful function. We've even shortened the title of such an event to "Date Night." We are some clever piglets, aren't we? Most of us (my house enthusiasticaslly included) no longer recall exactly what that structure-- yanno-- the one with the four legs and the flat top-- was originally used for. We hypothesize that the pilgrims once used such things for birthing babies-- but today it is where we keep our bills, old magazines, our car keys, and perhaps a bag of withered apples. But, for most of us, leaving food on such a structure seems a little out of place and maybe even unsanitary. I mean-- that thing could've had placenta on it!!!!! Ewwww.So, that in mind, I've drafted a few "live by" rules for the Dinner-Couch.Food consumed at the dinner-couch should be portioned out so that it does not slop over the sides of the plate. At all times, remember that the plate sits on your lap-- not the food itself, unless Wal-Mart has run out of styrofoam plates. In such a case, a wise host/hostess will circumvent the need for plates by ordering a pizza. Should Wal-Mart be out of styrofoam cups, it is not acceptable to simply pass the 2 litre 'round. A solution to this could be as simple as buying a case of beer. It is acceptable to stare blankly at any guest asking for a glass, but not ok to actually get them one unless they volunteer to wash dishes. However, if there is a major sporting event on t.v, and y'all support opposing teams-- it is perfectly acceptable to yell, "SCREW YOU BIOTCH, GIT IT URSELF, YOU MULLET-WEARIN' GOAT RAPIN' GOTS NO TALENT (insert team name here) FAN!" But, assuming Wal-Mart has kept a good stock of landfill edifying dinnerware for your convenience, most foods can easily be consumed without embarrassment at the dinner-couch. Just remember-- if it falls down the crack of the couch-- let it go. I cannot stress this enough. If you lose a chicken nugget, let it go. The smell will eventually alert the host/hostess to it's presence and subsequent need for removal. However, should you forget this little rule and go diving for it anyway, do remember this rule--YOU MUSTN'T EAT IT. The "5-second rule" is best applied to foods that land on hard, non-fuzzy surfaces. Picking the hair of your nugget makes you look a bit piggish. This is unfortunate but nonetheless true.It is of high importance that the last member sitting down to the dinner-couch be polite and ask if anybody requires an eating stick, paper towel, or another beer. If you are having Army/Navy (etc) buddies over to watch sports, it is advisable to use a beer-filled cooler as a foot-rest, and just bring the roll of paper towels. Eating sticks are a wasted effort in this situation.If you are having a quiet evening with a significant other, and he/she serves spaghetti, or some other hard-to-manuever-on-the-couch type of food-- rest assured, your significant other doesn't love you. They are trying to make your life miserable by making you work to eat your dinner. Find a new significant other immediately.If it is summertime, and you are sunburnt, it is NOT OKAY to work at peeling off the scorched skin at the dinner-couch. Go outside to do that, you nasty-ass! Same applies to toenails and boogers.Farting is only semi-okay-- but only if you are SURE it will be silent and you can get away with it. This works best in groups of 3 or more. Blaming your wife/girlfriend is hilarious in the correct setting, but if it's just y'all two-- she might be on to your little scheme.Okay! Now just follow these simple rules and we will all be able to hold our heads a little higher!
We've Been Forced To Make Some Cutbacks
{the following rant is directed at a real-life "friend" of mine}
"We here at Kung-Fu Jellyfish Attacks, Inc, feel that the service you, {name omited} are providing as "Female Friend" can be rendered much more economically with a Coconut Cream Pie. Actually, the pie started yesterday and is doing just a bang-up job. Now, if you'll just sign this little waiver stating that you will in no way try to influence the Coconut Cream Pie, I beleive we are done here. Oh, and we appreciate your service with us, and wish you the best of luck in your future life-sucking endeavors. Good day, {name omited}.
In short, you, {name omited} as my friend, suck big hairy donkey balls. Get out."
Anyone else ever been the "new-kid" in a place and found yourself latched onto the first "friend" that would have you? No matter how much they sucked, generally speaking? I knew this girl was bad news. My first clue was her preference for chasing chemically dependent married cooze. My second clue was how much she enjoyed pulling 'lil ol me into her never-ending drama. There's no drama like lesbian drama. SHEESH!!!! Most people's final straw would've been when she led me, UNKNOWING, into a place where I could've easily been murdered, just for how much this one chick's husband hates her. (I know it's hard to follow-- but really, all you need to picture is Alabama trailer trash at it's finest) SPRINGER! SPRINGER! I got out of the ordeal with only a busted out windshield. Yep. This peach had ME do the driving on this trip. Nice, huh? I had it replaced to the tune of 315 dollars. I gave her multiple FREE ways to pay me back for this, but she is too self-absorbed to think that maybe I find that important. Derrrrr... And can you beleive, we still hung out, even after that??? Stupid on me-- right thar.
But, the final straw was a few weeks ago when we were gonna chill by my pool. And I was gonna grill salmon and make strawberry daquiries. The only catch was that these daquiries were gonna be non-alcoholic. I had a ton of salmon thawed out. Robin and I waited until after it got dark-- after alllllll the bugs in Alabama came out and made grilling an impossibility-- and then gave up on her. She didn't even call.
Now, for any of my real life friends, you know that when I say "I'm cookin"-- the appropriate response is to drop everything and run to my house. The skillet is my easle. I grew up without cable, internet, a cell phone, MTV, and we didn't even have a vcr until I was in high school. I can't tell you a single Gun'sNRoses lyric or even a song title. I can, however, tell you the temp at which olive oil will scorch, and the difference between a scallion, a shallott, and a green onion. I'm a fat girl. Food is my thing. To diss me when it comes to food is unforgiveable for any reason. And when their is a pool and a blender and the opportunity to hang out with my charming self???? Her services as my friend are now being met by a pie. At least I know the pie is shallow and thoughtless from the get-go. The pie also smells better. Cigarettes are bad, mmmkay?
So, to make a painfully long story short, she finally texts me last night and says she wants to go out. (Really, that's code for she wants to get drunk and let me sit by myself but she'll have a sober ride home. Yay-- fun for me!)
Mmmmmm. Pie.
Such sweet vindication.
"We here at Kung-Fu Jellyfish Attacks, Inc, feel that the service you, {name omited} are providing as "Female Friend" can be rendered much more economically with a Coconut Cream Pie. Actually, the pie started yesterday and is doing just a bang-up job. Now, if you'll just sign this little waiver stating that you will in no way try to influence the Coconut Cream Pie, I beleive we are done here. Oh, and we appreciate your service with us, and wish you the best of luck in your future life-sucking endeavors. Good day, {name omited}.
In short, you, {name omited} as my friend, suck big hairy donkey balls. Get out."
Anyone else ever been the "new-kid" in a place and found yourself latched onto the first "friend" that would have you? No matter how much they sucked, generally speaking? I knew this girl was bad news. My first clue was her preference for chasing chemically dependent married cooze. My second clue was how much she enjoyed pulling 'lil ol me into her never-ending drama. There's no drama like lesbian drama. SHEESH!!!! Most people's final straw would've been when she led me, UNKNOWING, into a place where I could've easily been murdered, just for how much this one chick's husband hates her. (I know it's hard to follow-- but really, all you need to picture is Alabama trailer trash at it's finest) SPRINGER! SPRINGER! I got out of the ordeal with only a busted out windshield. Yep. This peach had ME do the driving on this trip. Nice, huh? I had it replaced to the tune of 315 dollars. I gave her multiple FREE ways to pay me back for this, but she is too self-absorbed to think that maybe I find that important. Derrrrr... And can you beleive, we still hung out, even after that??? Stupid on me-- right thar.
But, the final straw was a few weeks ago when we were gonna chill by my pool. And I was gonna grill salmon and make strawberry daquiries. The only catch was that these daquiries were gonna be non-alcoholic. I had a ton of salmon thawed out. Robin and I waited until after it got dark-- after alllllll the bugs in Alabama came out and made grilling an impossibility-- and then gave up on her. She didn't even call.
Now, for any of my real life friends, you know that when I say "I'm cookin"-- the appropriate response is to drop everything and run to my house. The skillet is my easle. I grew up without cable, internet, a cell phone, MTV, and we didn't even have a vcr until I was in high school. I can't tell you a single Gun'sNRoses lyric or even a song title. I can, however, tell you the temp at which olive oil will scorch, and the difference between a scallion, a shallott, and a green onion. I'm a fat girl. Food is my thing. To diss me when it comes to food is unforgiveable for any reason. And when their is a pool and a blender and the opportunity to hang out with my charming self???? Her services as my friend are now being met by a pie. At least I know the pie is shallow and thoughtless from the get-go. The pie also smells better. Cigarettes are bad, mmmkay?
So, to make a painfully long story short, she finally texts me last night and says she wants to go out. (Really, that's code for she wants to get drunk and let me sit by myself but she'll have a sober ride home. Yay-- fun for me!)
Mmmmmm. Pie.
Such sweet vindication.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
