This past weekend, my sister and I went "camping". I have now been camping twice with her, and I think I can safely say that the next time we go, it will have to be nearly perfect, because we have already dealt with everything that could possibly go wrong. The first time, years ago, we awoke to a river running through our campsite (under our tent) because of COURSE the only available site left in a campground in Wells, Maine in August is situated on the low part of an old creek bed. Grabbing your wet tent and hauling ass out of a campground at 4:00 am, beer cans and sleeping bags flying? A priceless memory.
This time, we arrived at our campsite in near darkness, set up the tent at dusk, purchased damp firewood that would not ignite and discovered the campground had no running water. However, my sister and I sitting miserably in the woods is not the subject of this blog post.
The point is, I keep doing these things. This summer alone I have slept outside at a family reunion in the pouring rain and lead four innocent and unsuspecting friends down the Saco river (camping included) in August, blazing the trail with my "extensive" nature knowledge and the fact that I had canoed the river once before (when I was eleven). I also have a newly-hatched plan to purchase a tow-behind camper and live in it (possibly year round). My sense of adventure seems to know no bounds, and I finally figured out who to blame.
My eldest uncle, Steve, has been dragging anyone who is willing (or anyone young enough to be unable to protest) on "adventures" (he's a registered Maine guide, and his business card once said something like "Steve's Scenic Safaries to Exotic Places") for longer than I have been alive. Some of our highlights included a 3 day, 2 night canoe trip with several family members and friends down the Moose River (I think I was about ten) and a "day" hike up Mt. Katahdin. My uncle also taught me how to drive, gave me my first landscaping job, and likely put me on my first pair of skis.
Yes, the above paragraph sounds idyllic, doesn't it?
It gets better when you hear that we put our boats in that river at about 6 pm in the wilderness of Northern Maine and paddled in the pitch blackness across a lake on the canoe trip. I remember crying, being completely convinced that we would never survive the adventure - and it was just half an hour into the weekend.
We hiked Katahdin beginning at noon, thinking a nice easy day hike of one of the highest peaks in the Northeast would be no sweat. My uncle brought a bag of M&Ms for sustenance, and no flashlight. More tears ensued when we were still hiking at 9 pm. Neither myself, my aunt Leslie, or her friend who accompanied us were terribly impressed with Steve's planning skills. I think by then I must have been twelve or so, at least enough time had passed between trips that I had forgotten my vow to "never go anywhere with Uncle Steve again".
When Steve hired me to work for him, I was fourteen years old and the job required being able to operate a motorized vehicle. He started me out on an ancient Gravely lawn tractor, which was replaced by a three-wheeled atv with a trailer (for hand-picking rocks from a large field), which I promptly used to run over my own foot.
With such a great track record, we moved on to bigger and better things, and Steve taught me and my best friend, Elizabeth, how to drive his Jeep, which was at least 40 years old. No one really believes me when I tell them that I learned how to drive on a 4 speed Willys Jeep, and nobody in my 9th grade class believed either of us when we told them we'd been driving all over the back roads of the Sunday River valley, unlicensed, in a dump truck (Sorry, Steve, if you didn't exactly know about that one).
I credit my uncle with teaching me that the kind of work that I would grow to love would never pay me much. My duties as his employee included staining sheds, mowing lawns, endlessly weeding flower beds, and then there was that damn field with all of those rocks. All for $5.00 an hour. I was, at the time, a bargain. Now I don't even get out of bed for less than $10.00 an hour... still, I think, a bargain.
Steve's personality always leads to interesting encounters with people all over the world. You can most certainly stop in any town in any New England state and find someone who knows Steve Wight. I'm sure you've heard of the "6 degrees of Kevin Bacon"... there are only 3 degrees of uncle Steve. There's "sure, I know Steve!", "I've heard of Steve", and "let me tell you about what happened the one time your uncle convinced me that we should go _______".
I guess it would be safe to say that most of the things I enjoy doing at the age of 27 are things Steve taught me. I still love Jeeps and trucks, I mow lawns for a living, and I escape to nature as often as I can with anyone who will agree to come with me. I am also, as everyone in my family will attest to, the loudest voice in every social situation, and usually the center of attention (unless Steve happens to be there).
My uncle Steve is 69 years old today. He has managed to be the family patriarch for 54 years, married a very patient woman, owned and operated a successful hospitality business for many years, is an outspoken and (generally) respected member of my hometown community, has three children, five grandchilden and several granddogs.
And one neice who can't thank him enough.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Tiny Life
As some of my "followers" (gosh, that sounds pretentious) on facebook may know, I moved exactly one month ago. I have previously blogged about living alone, and I still do, but I moved into the apartment on the 2nd floor of my building. Hooray, less stairs!
The entire living space (minus the bathroom, because I don't count bathrooms as a place you can "live") is 180 square feet. For those of you, like myself, with no concept of space, that's 12x15 feet. About the size of your average dorm room.
I was watching HGTV last week and saw a new show about apartment hunting. The agent was referring to small, one room apartments as "bachelors" instead of "studios", so that is what I am calling my place. My bachelor sized apartment. See what I did there? I turned something cramped and inconvenient into something extremely trendy. Thank you, Home and Garden Television.
This photo does not do justice to how small the apartment really is, but please imagine that this is about half of the one room. The kitchen area is about 6x12 feet. Countertops? What you see is what there is. Also, I am sure you've noticed that the refrigerator looks un-level. That's because it is. The whole place is.
Perhaps the most interesting part about the apartment is the bed. At first look, it would appear to the naked eye that I have no bed. Do not be fooled, as the large doors that line one side of the room contain a....
MURPHY BED!
Oh yes, they do exist outside of sitcoms about broke waitresses struggling with two jobs, trying to get by and maintain their independent lifestyle...oh, oh God.
But back to the bed. I don't understand how it works exactly. There are lots of hinges, springs and dangerous looking metal parts. By pulling on the foot board, the whole thing folds out (with a rather satisfying bang) and drops down, sheets, pillows, stuffed animals and all. It takes up the entire room. There is barely enough space to walk around when the bed is folded out, so it has to be packed away every morning. There is also a "Murphy" table and benches that fold out of another cabinet in the wall. Yes, I live inside a pop-up book.
The best part about moving into this minuscule space is that I have absolutely no desire to go shopping. I can't, I don't have an inch of space to put anything else. The 2nd best part is that I don't ever, ever have to host another house guest - because unless we are going to keep the bed folded up and cover the floor in air mattresses, there is absolutely no space to add another person. Which is exactly how I like it.
The downsides, I suppose, would be that I certainly cannot entertain (I don't have a functional table, and the bookcase is actually in front of the folding one), and that I had to get rid of almost half of my belongings. That includes:
- a dresser I swiped from my college apartment (it was there when I moved in!) and have painted 3 different times to match different apartments over the last 4 years,
- 4 bar stools that I absolutely loved (the old place had a bar),
- a shoe rack (and, subsequently, about half of my pairs of shoes, since I no longer had a place for them)
- a reasonably sized television (see photo. I built the shelf that the TV is on, and the screen is probably about 18". If the room was any bigger, I wouldn't be able to see the picture),
- my box spring (the ol' Murph only takes a mattress on top of the cracked plywood and spring base),
- piles, piles, and more piles of junk I always thought I'd need again some day. Oh yes, this means that the red Tu-Tu left over from a beer fairy Halloween costume 3 years ago went to the Salvation Army, along with old quilt fabric, many rolls of wrapping paper, t-shirts I haven't worn in 5 years, and about 1/4 of my famous baseball cap collection.
I'm sure I will thank myself for this one day.
This tiny living thing has started to teach me a lot. For instance, you can't just leave your clean laundry in the basket until it's time to do more laundry and then just dump the clean on your bed...if you don't have a bed. And if you allow mail, change, shoes or dishes to pile up, it is immediately noticeable. I have to be really tidy in this space, or it gets out of hand VERY quickly.
I can't buy too many groceries. BJ's Wholesale Club? Forget it. If I purchase more than one box of pasta at a time, I have to rearrange the entire cupboard to make space.
Getting drunk in this apartment is actually really dangerous. Any clumsy or wide turns, and things are falling off shelves and the wall. When the bed is folded out, the doors nearly block the hallway to the point that I can barely get by, so if I am even the least bit out of sorts, I crash into it. I'm pretty sure the woman below me already hates me.
SO. Why do this, you ask? Why mortgage the space upstairs (which was no huge digs either, I should add. The only difference was one small room, but it felt like a lot more) for living in a glorified walk-in closet?
Besides the price, which is exactly HALF of what I was paying for rent upstairs (and that was a total steal), I have convinced myself that this is all I need. The only bill that is not included is my electric, which I paid last week at the whopping price of $16.43. Of course it's cheap, the whole place has only two light switches. And I can simplify my life by necessity (what 26 year old needs 4 bar stools?), which is very handy for someone who has just a touch of "hoarding" in their blood.
Also, as noble and trendy as I am trying to make this "Bachelor" apartment thing seem, I would be deceiving you of my real motives if I did not point out that my rent is now just slightly less than my student loan payment...
The entire living space (minus the bathroom, because I don't count bathrooms as a place you can "live") is 180 square feet. For those of you, like myself, with no concept of space, that's 12x15 feet. About the size of your average dorm room.
I was watching HGTV last week and saw a new show about apartment hunting. The agent was referring to small, one room apartments as "bachelors" instead of "studios", so that is what I am calling my place. My bachelor sized apartment. See what I did there? I turned something cramped and inconvenient into something extremely trendy. Thank you, Home and Garden Television.
This photo does not do justice to how small the apartment really is, but please imagine that this is about half of the one room. The kitchen area is about 6x12 feet. Countertops? What you see is what there is. Also, I am sure you've noticed that the refrigerator looks un-level. That's because it is. The whole place is.
Perhaps the most interesting part about the apartment is the bed. At first look, it would appear to the naked eye that I have no bed. Do not be fooled, as the large doors that line one side of the room contain a....
MURPHY BED!
Oh yes, they do exist outside of sitcoms about broke waitresses struggling with two jobs, trying to get by and maintain their independent lifestyle...oh, oh God.
But back to the bed. I don't understand how it works exactly. There are lots of hinges, springs and dangerous looking metal parts. By pulling on the foot board, the whole thing folds out (with a rather satisfying bang) and drops down, sheets, pillows, stuffed animals and all. It takes up the entire room. There is barely enough space to walk around when the bed is folded out, so it has to be packed away every morning. There is also a "Murphy" table and benches that fold out of another cabinet in the wall. Yes, I live inside a pop-up book.
The best part about moving into this minuscule space is that I have absolutely no desire to go shopping. I can't, I don't have an inch of space to put anything else. The 2nd best part is that I don't ever, ever have to host another house guest - because unless we are going to keep the bed folded up and cover the floor in air mattresses, there is absolutely no space to add another person. Which is exactly how I like it.
The downsides, I suppose, would be that I certainly cannot entertain (I don't have a functional table, and the bookcase is actually in front of the folding one), and that I had to get rid of almost half of my belongings. That includes:
- a dresser I swiped from my college apartment (it was there when I moved in!) and have painted 3 different times to match different apartments over the last 4 years,
- 4 bar stools that I absolutely loved (the old place had a bar),
- a shoe rack (and, subsequently, about half of my pairs of shoes, since I no longer had a place for them)
- a reasonably sized television (see photo. I built the shelf that the TV is on, and the screen is probably about 18". If the room was any bigger, I wouldn't be able to see the picture),
- my box spring (the ol' Murph only takes a mattress on top of the cracked plywood and spring base),
- piles, piles, and more piles of junk I always thought I'd need again some day. Oh yes, this means that the red Tu-Tu left over from a beer fairy Halloween costume 3 years ago went to the Salvation Army, along with old quilt fabric, many rolls of wrapping paper, t-shirts I haven't worn in 5 years, and about 1/4 of my famous baseball cap collection.
I'm sure I will thank myself for this one day.
This tiny living thing has started to teach me a lot. For instance, you can't just leave your clean laundry in the basket until it's time to do more laundry and then just dump the clean on your bed...if you don't have a bed. And if you allow mail, change, shoes or dishes to pile up, it is immediately noticeable. I have to be really tidy in this space, or it gets out of hand VERY quickly.
I can't buy too many groceries. BJ's Wholesale Club? Forget it. If I purchase more than one box of pasta at a time, I have to rearrange the entire cupboard to make space.
Getting drunk in this apartment is actually really dangerous. Any clumsy or wide turns, and things are falling off shelves and the wall. When the bed is folded out, the doors nearly block the hallway to the point that I can barely get by, so if I am even the least bit out of sorts, I crash into it. I'm pretty sure the woman below me already hates me.
SO. Why do this, you ask? Why mortgage the space upstairs (which was no huge digs either, I should add. The only difference was one small room, but it felt like a lot more) for living in a glorified walk-in closet?
Besides the price, which is exactly HALF of what I was paying for rent upstairs (and that was a total steal), I have convinced myself that this is all I need. The only bill that is not included is my electric, which I paid last week at the whopping price of $16.43. Of course it's cheap, the whole place has only two light switches. And I can simplify my life by necessity (what 26 year old needs 4 bar stools?), which is very handy for someone who has just a touch of "hoarding" in their blood.
Also, as noble and trendy as I am trying to make this "Bachelor" apartment thing seem, I would be deceiving you of my real motives if I did not point out that my rent is now just slightly less than my student loan payment...
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Beer and Blood
I passed my hunter's safety course last weekend. In New York, as in many states, you must pass a 9-11 hour course in order to purchase a hunting license of any kind. Most future hunters, it seems, take the class when they are eleven so that they may begin shooting animals the minute they turn twelve - if they are blessed enough to be born during any of the hunting seasons.
My sister, as I may have previously mentioned in this blog, is a vegan. She's a "double-whammy" vegan, at that: she doesn't eat meat because she doesn't like the taste, and she also doesn't use any animal products because she has love for the furry and the feathered. She isn't burning down leather stores or throwing blood on people wearing fur coats, but I'd say it's possible that's just because she's too busy.
When my sister heard I was going to be learning to hunt and getting a license, her first reaction was to say (via a text message, which is really irrelevant information because I know my sister well enough to transpose her voice, tone, and facial expressions into every type of media, including text):
"WHAT boy is ever going to marry you if you are always covered in beer and BLOOD?"
Oh yes, the age-old question. WHAT member of the opposity sex will EVER marry someone like me? Does the single 20-something change who they are, what they are interested in, their personal style and lifestyle in order to hook a man? Or do I sit calmy, continuing with the interests and activities that I enjoy, waiting eternally for a boy to drop from heaven (or at least the back hills of central New York) who will "love me for who I am"?
The most important thing to understand in this post: I am not single because I have had no offers. I am not single because every guy breaks up with me. I am not desperate for love, marriage, or someone to share my living space with who will leave dishes in the sink, mud on the rug and pee splashes on the toilet seat (but never wash a plate, pick up the vacuum, or break out the lysol).
I am single for one very simple reason. I haven't found what I want yet. So, in order to put to ease the inquiring minds of my friends and immediate family (the latter of which, I suspect, are the only people who read this), I have compiled a short list of the absolute, steadfast qualities that I require in a potential mate.
1) Must Love Denim. A boy must love denim because it is, literally, all that I wear. I work in jeans (usually with holes and oil spots), lounge in jeans, go out on the town in jeans, and sometimes, after the occasional over-indulgent evening out, sleep in them. What's not to love? Do you even realize how many times you can wear jeans before you have to replace them? All you really need are a few good pairs.
2) Must Drive a Pickup Truck. This is really quite self explanatory, I think. And no, it's a real one. It's non negotiable. This is my blog and my life and I can want what I want.
3) Must Have Facial Hair. Again, not joking here. I'm 26. If you don't have a beard, I am going to assume it's because you are incapable of growing a full one. And that makes you a little boy, not a man, and I'm no longer interested. Period.
4) Must Honestly Like "Me". When a guy meets me and says "oh, the thing I like best about you is that you're comfortable going to the bar in jeans and a t-shirt", he better get used to it. That's not a rare occasion, that's every occasion. If you think I am going to begin dating you and you're going to see me at a downtown bar, or restaurant, or any place casual in a skirt, heels, or a dress, you're wrong. It's not part of my wardrobe. So a guy better either a) not care about clothes, or b) find jeans, tshirts, and baseball caps attractive, cause they aren't going away.
5) Must Tolerate Cats. I don't have one. But I fully intend to someday, and not as a replacement for a boyfriend/husband. Yup, that's right, Future Mate: We will be having a feline in the home. Possibly two. Possibly more.
6) Must Read. I know I have thus far described a perfect man as someone with a beard and a pickup truck, but they have to possess SOME intelligence. I don't care if you read the articles in Outdoor Life or Sports Illustrated from beginning to end, as long as there's interest. The last guy I dated didn't read for enjoyment. When I told my mother this, a long pause was followed by the statement: "Cory reads". Cory is the vegan sister's boyfriend. Which brings me to my next point...
7) Must Love My Family. Anyone who does not find my family and their friends (read: My mother and her best friend) as hilarious and entertaining as I do is probably either a) unintelligent, or b) humor-less. Both of which are intolerable.
8) Must Fish, Ride a Four-Wheeler, Work on Cars, Own a Tractor, Build Houses, Ride Horses and/or Bulls, Kill Animals for Meat/Trophies, and Wear Camo. Ok, I admit I just threw that in there for my sister's benefit. I'm not serious. Any 3 of the above will do.
To recap, I believe that any "boy" who possesses all of the aforementioned qualities would be happy with a girl who is covered in "beer and blood". Sure, my requirements might be a little steep, but with all the things I have to do (learn to hunt, shoot a turkey, paint my apartment, bake regularly, patch up my jeans, go out with my friends, and read the 50+ unread novels in my bookcase), I'm sure I can keep myself perfectly busy until he shows up.
My sister, as I may have previously mentioned in this blog, is a vegan. She's a "double-whammy" vegan, at that: she doesn't eat meat because she doesn't like the taste, and she also doesn't use any animal products because she has love for the furry and the feathered. She isn't burning down leather stores or throwing blood on people wearing fur coats, but I'd say it's possible that's just because she's too busy.
When my sister heard I was going to be learning to hunt and getting a license, her first reaction was to say (via a text message, which is really irrelevant information because I know my sister well enough to transpose her voice, tone, and facial expressions into every type of media, including text):
"WHAT boy is ever going to marry you if you are always covered in beer and BLOOD?"
Oh yes, the age-old question. WHAT member of the opposity sex will EVER marry someone like me? Does the single 20-something change who they are, what they are interested in, their personal style and lifestyle in order to hook a man? Or do I sit calmy, continuing with the interests and activities that I enjoy, waiting eternally for a boy to drop from heaven (or at least the back hills of central New York) who will "love me for who I am"?
The most important thing to understand in this post: I am not single because I have had no offers. I am not single because every guy breaks up with me. I am not desperate for love, marriage, or someone to share my living space with who will leave dishes in the sink, mud on the rug and pee splashes on the toilet seat (but never wash a plate, pick up the vacuum, or break out the lysol).
I am single for one very simple reason. I haven't found what I want yet. So, in order to put to ease the inquiring minds of my friends and immediate family (the latter of which, I suspect, are the only people who read this), I have compiled a short list of the absolute, steadfast qualities that I require in a potential mate.
1) Must Love Denim. A boy must love denim because it is, literally, all that I wear. I work in jeans (usually with holes and oil spots), lounge in jeans, go out on the town in jeans, and sometimes, after the occasional over-indulgent evening out, sleep in them. What's not to love? Do you even realize how many times you can wear jeans before you have to replace them? All you really need are a few good pairs.
2) Must Drive a Pickup Truck. This is really quite self explanatory, I think. And no, it's a real one. It's non negotiable. This is my blog and my life and I can want what I want.
3) Must Have Facial Hair. Again, not joking here. I'm 26. If you don't have a beard, I am going to assume it's because you are incapable of growing a full one. And that makes you a little boy, not a man, and I'm no longer interested. Period.
4) Must Honestly Like "Me". When a guy meets me and says "oh, the thing I like best about you is that you're comfortable going to the bar in jeans and a t-shirt", he better get used to it. That's not a rare occasion, that's every occasion. If you think I am going to begin dating you and you're going to see me at a downtown bar, or restaurant, or any place casual in a skirt, heels, or a dress, you're wrong. It's not part of my wardrobe. So a guy better either a) not care about clothes, or b) find jeans, tshirts, and baseball caps attractive, cause they aren't going away.
5) Must Tolerate Cats. I don't have one. But I fully intend to someday, and not as a replacement for a boyfriend/husband. Yup, that's right, Future Mate: We will be having a feline in the home. Possibly two. Possibly more.
6) Must Read. I know I have thus far described a perfect man as someone with a beard and a pickup truck, but they have to possess SOME intelligence. I don't care if you read the articles in Outdoor Life or Sports Illustrated from beginning to end, as long as there's interest. The last guy I dated didn't read for enjoyment. When I told my mother this, a long pause was followed by the statement: "Cory reads". Cory is the vegan sister's boyfriend. Which brings me to my next point...
7) Must Love My Family. Anyone who does not find my family and their friends (read: My mother and her best friend) as hilarious and entertaining as I do is probably either a) unintelligent, or b) humor-less. Both of which are intolerable.
8) Must Fish, Ride a Four-Wheeler, Work on Cars, Own a Tractor, Build Houses, Ride Horses and/or Bulls, Kill Animals for Meat/Trophies, and Wear Camo. Ok, I admit I just threw that in there for my sister's benefit. I'm not serious. Any 3 of the above will do.
To recap, I believe that any "boy" who possesses all of the aforementioned qualities would be happy with a girl who is covered in "beer and blood". Sure, my requirements might be a little steep, but with all the things I have to do (learn to hunt, shoot a turkey, paint my apartment, bake regularly, patch up my jeans, go out with my friends, and read the 50+ unread novels in my bookcase), I'm sure I can keep myself perfectly busy until he shows up.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Freegan?
I've read a lot of articles, mostly since the start of the recession, that list a hundred different ways to cut back your grocery bill. I've even read about a movement of people who call themselves "Freegans" (not to be confused with Vegans, and no insult to my sister here), who never spend money on anything material, including food. While raiding the dumpsters of upscale restaurants is a little far for me to go (mainly because we don't really have any upscale restaurants around here), I thought I would try something for a week or two.
I'm not spending money on food. Or drinks, for that matter. I started on Monday night, after spending $3 on a morning coffee and snack and $6 more at lunch on a mediocre, gas-station turkey sub (which, incidentally, bore a "code" sticker with the code "F" - something I suspiciously took to mean "Friday"). It occurred to me, suddenly, that I had just blown enough cash to pay for 2.5 gallons of gas, which is enough to get me to and from work for 2+ days. What a waste!
Monday night, I dined on a bar-warmed hot dog from my place of part-time employment and a small plate of macaroni salad, leftover from a party at the bar on Saturday. When I arrived home, I surveyed my kitchen. In my cupboards, I found:
- 2 boxes of spaghetti, one multi-colored, one plain
- 1 half of a box of penne
- 2 boxes of generic-brand macaroni and cheese
- 1 box of extremely stale cheerios (sadly, they went in the trash)
- 1 jar of gravy
- 2 boxes of stuffing (one for chicken, one for turkey. As if there's a difference.)
- 1 jar of pasta sauce
- 1 can of cranberry sauce
- 1 packet of "nacho cheesy pasta mix"
- pancake mix (fully inclusive, just add water)
- taco shells
- powdered milk (I don't drink the real stuff, so I keep it on hand for cooking)
- pumpkin coffee
In the refrigerator and freezer, I found:
- 2 half-full jars of salsa
- 2 half-full bags of shredded cheese
- 1 large potato
- pasta sauce, opened
- maple syrup
- lots of condiments
- tons of butter and margarine. Probably 3 whole boxes altogether. All I can say is, wtf?
- 2 pieces of chicken, left by the boy I recently broke up with (thanks, Dan)
- frozen blueberries
Not a bad haul, altogether. At 10:30 Monday night, I cooked 2 boxes of macaroni and cheese, separated them into four small tupperware containers, and went to bed.
In the morning, I made myself blueberry pancakes and pumpkin coffee, probably a more balanced breakfast than I have had in weeks. Off to work I went, where my coworker, Jim, provided me with several bites of his breakfast sandwich, as he does regularly. Totally set until lunchtime, when I heated up some of the macaroni and cheese. However, after relaying my plan to my boss, he felt bad for me and announced he was bringing me beef stew for lunch the next day. Score! The vehicle manager in my department gave me a handful of trailmix as an afternoon snack, too. Again that night, I ate at the bar.
Today, more pancakes, and delicious beef stew for lunch. Another coworker brought donuts in to share, so I managed to grab a snack, as well. Tonight, I made the "nacho cheesy pasta mix", added some penne to stretch it, and grilled and added the Guilt Chicken that Dan left. Separated into 3 parts, I now have 2 containers of macaroni and cheese and 2 containers of cheesy pasta chicken thing in the fridge.
Admittedly, this diet lacks in some of the essentials, such as fresh vegetables (ok, ANY vegetables), but I'm confident that I can get through till Monday morning on what I have in the house. I am thinking of making mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and cranberry sauce this weekend - a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner (but not VEGAN, as my sister would point out, because regular stuffing has animal flavoring in it. Mmmmm).
I think the moral of this story is that you can definitely look in your fridge and cupboards and think "I have nothing to eat", when in fact you can most likely concoct several satisfying (if repetitive) meals from just the jars, boxes and cans that you keep on hand.
Also, the second moral is that your friends and coworkers will absolutely never let you go hungry. Gives one a certain sense of security.
P.S. Don't worry, Mom, I'm not starving and I'm not (totally) broke.
I'm not spending money on food. Or drinks, for that matter. I started on Monday night, after spending $3 on a morning coffee and snack and $6 more at lunch on a mediocre, gas-station turkey sub (which, incidentally, bore a "code" sticker with the code "F" - something I suspiciously took to mean "Friday"). It occurred to me, suddenly, that I had just blown enough cash to pay for 2.5 gallons of gas, which is enough to get me to and from work for 2+ days. What a waste!
Monday night, I dined on a bar-warmed hot dog from my place of part-time employment and a small plate of macaroni salad, leftover from a party at the bar on Saturday. When I arrived home, I surveyed my kitchen. In my cupboards, I found:
- 2 boxes of spaghetti, one multi-colored, one plain
- 1 half of a box of penne
- 2 boxes of generic-brand macaroni and cheese
- 1 box of extremely stale cheerios (sadly, they went in the trash)
- 1 jar of gravy
- 2 boxes of stuffing (one for chicken, one for turkey. As if there's a difference.)
- 1 jar of pasta sauce
- 1 can of cranberry sauce
- 1 packet of "nacho cheesy pasta mix"
- pancake mix (fully inclusive, just add water)
- taco shells
- powdered milk (I don't drink the real stuff, so I keep it on hand for cooking)
- pumpkin coffee
In the refrigerator and freezer, I found:
- 2 half-full jars of salsa
- 2 half-full bags of shredded cheese
- 1 large potato
- pasta sauce, opened
- maple syrup
- lots of condiments
- tons of butter and margarine. Probably 3 whole boxes altogether. All I can say is, wtf?
- 2 pieces of chicken, left by the boy I recently broke up with (thanks, Dan)
- frozen blueberries
Not a bad haul, altogether. At 10:30 Monday night, I cooked 2 boxes of macaroni and cheese, separated them into four small tupperware containers, and went to bed.
In the morning, I made myself blueberry pancakes and pumpkin coffee, probably a more balanced breakfast than I have had in weeks. Off to work I went, where my coworker, Jim, provided me with several bites of his breakfast sandwich, as he does regularly. Totally set until lunchtime, when I heated up some of the macaroni and cheese. However, after relaying my plan to my boss, he felt bad for me and announced he was bringing me beef stew for lunch the next day. Score! The vehicle manager in my department gave me a handful of trailmix as an afternoon snack, too. Again that night, I ate at the bar.
Today, more pancakes, and delicious beef stew for lunch. Another coworker brought donuts in to share, so I managed to grab a snack, as well. Tonight, I made the "nacho cheesy pasta mix", added some penne to stretch it, and grilled and added the Guilt Chicken that Dan left. Separated into 3 parts, I now have 2 containers of macaroni and cheese and 2 containers of cheesy pasta chicken thing in the fridge.
Admittedly, this diet lacks in some of the essentials, such as fresh vegetables (ok, ANY vegetables), but I'm confident that I can get through till Monday morning on what I have in the house. I am thinking of making mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and cranberry sauce this weekend - a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner (but not VEGAN, as my sister would point out, because regular stuffing has animal flavoring in it. Mmmmm).
I think the moral of this story is that you can definitely look in your fridge and cupboards and think "I have nothing to eat", when in fact you can most likely concoct several satisfying (if repetitive) meals from just the jars, boxes and cans that you keep on hand.
Also, the second moral is that your friends and coworkers will absolutely never let you go hungry. Gives one a certain sense of security.
P.S. Don't worry, Mom, I'm not starving and I'm not (totally) broke.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Watching Paint Dry
One thing, the most important thing, that anyone who plans to read this blog should know about the author is this:
I love baseball.
I am not a sports fanatic. I do not have the stats for every one of my favorite teams memorized for each sport. I don't analyze Sportscenter, read every article on ESPN.com or belong to a single fantasy league for any season.
I can't name more than a half dozen football players or even three professional basketball stars. I know nothing about hockey. I have been known to get distracted by an interesting soccer game on television every now and then, but I couldn't tell you who's playing, and I mostly just watch it for the amusing commentary (European people are hilarious, particularly the British).
But, man, do I love baseball.
It's very easy to pick out a person who doesn't enjoy the sport. I work at a bar. In New York. If a Boston Red Sox highlight comes on Sportscenter and I rejoice, everyone in the joint who is a baseball fan (with the exception of the toothless miscreant who lives down the street and the senile blue-haired man who sings Frank Sinatra at random daily intervals - they both like the Sox) will have a nasty comment for me. Those who are not fans (I like to call them "non-believers") either remain silent or feel the need to toss out a statement like "I can't wait for football season" or "I could never get into baseball" or the most recent, "baseball is so boring, it's like watching paint dry".
This last comment is entirely untrue on several levels. Paint does not move at all (unless you're sloppy and leave drips). Paint drying does not draw a crowd, specifically a crowd of 37,493 for 650+ consecutive home games (if you're a Sox fan). Fenway Park, incidentally, is the smallest ballpark in the major leagues. So one can assume the attendance at most other stadiums is higher.
Drying paint doesn't turn you into a crusader. In 1999, Sox CEO John Harrington announced that Fenway Park would be partially demolished to build a new, modern stadium for the Red Sox nearby. The city of Boston, region of New England, and members of "Red Sox Nation" across the country revolted. "Save Fenway Park" stickers appeared on cars. It is rumored that the city of Boston was uncooperative with the Sox ownership group, thus blocking the construction of a new park. Myself, I like to think that city officials are just as big fans as we are. Regardless of the real cause, Red Sox fans consider it a triumph for their "nation" that the Sox are able to remain at Fenway.
Paint drying on a wall does not turn you into a selective historian. I have heard teenagers babble on and on about the "Impossible Dream" season or about the Buckner tragedy of 1986. I wrote papers in high school about Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Babe Ruth. Having read his book twice, I consider myself a bit of an authority on Carl Yastrzemski (I just spelled his name correctly without having to Google it). I have argued and analyzed at length about the events surrounding the ball-through-the-legs incident of '86. And I was born in 1985.
Drying paint does not cause emotions that you never knew you had. When the Red Sox blew their chances in the 2003 playoffs, I curled into a ball on the single bed in my freshman dorm room and cried myself to sleep while my friends went out partying. I still get goosebumps thinking about 2004, when I called my mother from a similar dorm room to celebrate the World Series victory and discovered she was crying.
I spent the better part of my childhood listening to the Boston Red Sox on the radio. We didn't have a cable station available that carried the games, and we were lucky to get to see one every couple weeks on a network. Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano (exciting in part because their names were fun to say) are the voices I remember from the radio. "Way back, WAAAAY back, this ball is GONE!" As it turns out, I don't know if I can tell their voices apart, but both are distinctly etched in my memory. Trupiano's contract was ditched by the Sox in 2006, long after my parents got cable and also after my move to New York. However, on the rare occasion that I happen to be driving through New England or sitting at my family's camp in Maine when the broadcast for a Red Sox game begins, they always play a clip of a Castiglione and Trupiano broadcast. It's enough to make your chest get tight and maybe make your eyes water, depending on the kind of day you've had. If you aren't a baseball fan, you'll have to take my word for it.
I may be the daughter of a woman who really, really loves to paint, but I doubt either of us have ever felt that way about watching it dry.
I love baseball.
I am not a sports fanatic. I do not have the stats for every one of my favorite teams memorized for each sport. I don't analyze Sportscenter, read every article on ESPN.com or belong to a single fantasy league for any season.
I can't name more than a half dozen football players or even three professional basketball stars. I know nothing about hockey. I have been known to get distracted by an interesting soccer game on television every now and then, but I couldn't tell you who's playing, and I mostly just watch it for the amusing commentary (European people are hilarious, particularly the British).
But, man, do I love baseball.
It's very easy to pick out a person who doesn't enjoy the sport. I work at a bar. In New York. If a Boston Red Sox highlight comes on Sportscenter and I rejoice, everyone in the joint who is a baseball fan (with the exception of the toothless miscreant who lives down the street and the senile blue-haired man who sings Frank Sinatra at random daily intervals - they both like the Sox) will have a nasty comment for me. Those who are not fans (I like to call them "non-believers") either remain silent or feel the need to toss out a statement like "I can't wait for football season" or "I could never get into baseball" or the most recent, "baseball is so boring, it's like watching paint dry".
This last comment is entirely untrue on several levels. Paint does not move at all (unless you're sloppy and leave drips). Paint drying does not draw a crowd, specifically a crowd of 37,493 for 650+ consecutive home games (if you're a Sox fan). Fenway Park, incidentally, is the smallest ballpark in the major leagues. So one can assume the attendance at most other stadiums is higher.
Drying paint doesn't turn you into a crusader. In 1999, Sox CEO John Harrington announced that Fenway Park would be partially demolished to build a new, modern stadium for the Red Sox nearby. The city of Boston, region of New England, and members of "Red Sox Nation" across the country revolted. "Save Fenway Park" stickers appeared on cars. It is rumored that the city of Boston was uncooperative with the Sox ownership group, thus blocking the construction of a new park. Myself, I like to think that city officials are just as big fans as we are. Regardless of the real cause, Red Sox fans consider it a triumph for their "nation" that the Sox are able to remain at Fenway.
Paint drying on a wall does not turn you into a selective historian. I have heard teenagers babble on and on about the "Impossible Dream" season or about the Buckner tragedy of 1986. I wrote papers in high school about Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Babe Ruth. Having read his book twice, I consider myself a bit of an authority on Carl Yastrzemski (I just spelled his name correctly without having to Google it). I have argued and analyzed at length about the events surrounding the ball-through-the-legs incident of '86. And I was born in 1985.
Drying paint does not cause emotions that you never knew you had. When the Red Sox blew their chances in the 2003 playoffs, I curled into a ball on the single bed in my freshman dorm room and cried myself to sleep while my friends went out partying. I still get goosebumps thinking about 2004, when I called my mother from a similar dorm room to celebrate the World Series victory and discovered she was crying.
I spent the better part of my childhood listening to the Boston Red Sox on the radio. We didn't have a cable station available that carried the games, and we were lucky to get to see one every couple weeks on a network. Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano (exciting in part because their names were fun to say) are the voices I remember from the radio. "Way back, WAAAAY back, this ball is GONE!" As it turns out, I don't know if I can tell their voices apart, but both are distinctly etched in my memory. Trupiano's contract was ditched by the Sox in 2006, long after my parents got cable and also after my move to New York. However, on the rare occasion that I happen to be driving through New England or sitting at my family's camp in Maine when the broadcast for a Red Sox game begins, they always play a clip of a Castiglione and Trupiano broadcast. It's enough to make your chest get tight and maybe make your eyes water, depending on the kind of day you've had. If you aren't a baseball fan, you'll have to take my word for it.
I may be the daughter of a woman who really, really loves to paint, but I doubt either of us have ever felt that way about watching it dry.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Cry, Cry, Cry
When I was a teenager, I wasn't a real big cryer.
Ok, that's not true. I cried when my soccer or softball team lost the championship. I know I definitely cried a lot when Nomar Garciaparra got traded to the Chicago Cubs (who did we even GET in that trade, anyway?). But real things, like natural disasters and human suffering and all that? Never. Call it being conveniently (or generationally) detached.
In college, I only cried over boys. Well, maybe the occasional bad grade or unfair ruling by a teacher on the policy of retaking a poor exam. But mostly boys. Boys whose names I can no longer remember without struggling to picture their faces. Hours spent sobbing into my Red Sox pillowcase in a cinder blocked dorm room while my friends went out and I claimed to be "sick". Call it late-onset teenage angst.
In the wake of reaching my mid-20's, I've started to realize I cry all the time. Not about baseball (well, wait till October, anyway) or boys. All of a sudden I seem to be a hub of emotions, springing up at the strangest times.
Things That Make Me Cry:
1) Country Songs. Not even necessarily sad country songs. Happy ones, too. Touching ones. Songs about daddies and daughters and courageous mothers and the people we all grow up to be. Mainly, these songs prompt a tear when I am alone, driving, in my rusted pickup truck.... did I just write my own song? Sometimes a song invokes a little welling up, but there have been rare occasions where I find myself all-out bawling when I reach my destination. Brad Paisley is always good for that. And Reba! Reba, the queen of a strong sob story. I don't even need beer to cry my tears into.
2) Movies. Specifically movies that have no surprise left for me and that I have seen 865,000 times. I watched You've Got Mail last week and cried like a baby, even though I have every line memorized. The same goes for Field of Dreams, every time. Kevin Costner, standing alone on his majestic field that he created, realizing suddenly that the whole thing came about because of a secret desire to see his father again? "Hey, Dad? You wanna have a catch?" Waterworks kick off wherever I am. I cannot watch that movie with others. One, because I cry, and the second reason being because I recite every line word for word and it drives my friends to the brink of violence.
3) Other People's Suffering. I know you're supposed to feel for others, but I seem to have recently reached a whole new level. I wept openly when I read an article in our local newspaper about a deputy sheriff who, at 25, died in a violent altercation. He left behind a young son and a pregnant wife. When his wife heard the news of his passing, she immediately went into labor and gave birth to a perfect baby girl. Oh, the tears. I don't even know these people! I am sure we can all agree that it's sad, but I am NOT the kind of person who is driven to sobs by stories of strangers. What is wrong with me?
Recently, I spent a day in the Emergency Room for a flu-like illness that was persisting into it's sixth day. I ended up, as chance would have it, in the "room"(read: stall) next to a woman who works for the same company as I. She recognized my voice and started talking to me, and for the rest of the 7.5 hours that they kept me there, poking and tapping me, I had to listen to her go through the various (apparently painful) stages of prepping for gallbladder surgery. She cried several times. I cried right with her. When I was leaving, she tearfully told me they had to cut off her wedding ring. Instead of offering my sympathy and heading for the door, I burst into tears all over again. It was just so sad! Again, what is wrong with me?
The only thing I can conclude is that this is yet another part of the eventual transition into My Mom. I remember watching movies with her as a child, hearing a sniffle and glancing over with the inevitable obnoxious child question: "MOM, are you CRYING?" It was always answered with a sniff and a "no" (liar), but I could never understand what it was about that kind of stuff that moved her to tears. I guess now I can understand. Just so long as it's not early-onset menopause, I think I'll be just fine...
Ok, that's not true. I cried when my soccer or softball team lost the championship. I know I definitely cried a lot when Nomar Garciaparra got traded to the Chicago Cubs (who did we even GET in that trade, anyway?). But real things, like natural disasters and human suffering and all that? Never. Call it being conveniently (or generationally) detached.
In college, I only cried over boys. Well, maybe the occasional bad grade or unfair ruling by a teacher on the policy of retaking a poor exam. But mostly boys. Boys whose names I can no longer remember without struggling to picture their faces. Hours spent sobbing into my Red Sox pillowcase in a cinder blocked dorm room while my friends went out and I claimed to be "sick". Call it late-onset teenage angst.
In the wake of reaching my mid-20's, I've started to realize I cry all the time. Not about baseball (well, wait till October, anyway) or boys. All of a sudden I seem to be a hub of emotions, springing up at the strangest times.
Things That Make Me Cry:
1) Country Songs. Not even necessarily sad country songs. Happy ones, too. Touching ones. Songs about daddies and daughters and courageous mothers and the people we all grow up to be. Mainly, these songs prompt a tear when I am alone, driving, in my rusted pickup truck.... did I just write my own song? Sometimes a song invokes a little welling up, but there have been rare occasions where I find myself all-out bawling when I reach my destination. Brad Paisley is always good for that. And Reba! Reba, the queen of a strong sob story. I don't even need beer to cry my tears into.
2) Movies. Specifically movies that have no surprise left for me and that I have seen 865,000 times. I watched You've Got Mail last week and cried like a baby, even though I have every line memorized. The same goes for Field of Dreams, every time. Kevin Costner, standing alone on his majestic field that he created, realizing suddenly that the whole thing came about because of a secret desire to see his father again? "Hey, Dad? You wanna have a catch?" Waterworks kick off wherever I am. I cannot watch that movie with others. One, because I cry, and the second reason being because I recite every line word for word and it drives my friends to the brink of violence.
3) Other People's Suffering. I know you're supposed to feel for others, but I seem to have recently reached a whole new level. I wept openly when I read an article in our local newspaper about a deputy sheriff who, at 25, died in a violent altercation. He left behind a young son and a pregnant wife. When his wife heard the news of his passing, she immediately went into labor and gave birth to a perfect baby girl. Oh, the tears. I don't even know these people! I am sure we can all agree that it's sad, but I am NOT the kind of person who is driven to sobs by stories of strangers. What is wrong with me?
Recently, I spent a day in the Emergency Room for a flu-like illness that was persisting into it's sixth day. I ended up, as chance would have it, in the "room"(read: stall) next to a woman who works for the same company as I. She recognized my voice and started talking to me, and for the rest of the 7.5 hours that they kept me there, poking and tapping me, I had to listen to her go through the various (apparently painful) stages of prepping for gallbladder surgery. She cried several times. I cried right with her. When I was leaving, she tearfully told me they had to cut off her wedding ring. Instead of offering my sympathy and heading for the door, I burst into tears all over again. It was just so sad! Again, what is wrong with me?
The only thing I can conclude is that this is yet another part of the eventual transition into My Mom. I remember watching movies with her as a child, hearing a sniffle and glancing over with the inevitable obnoxious child question: "MOM, are you CRYING?" It was always answered with a sniff and a "no" (liar), but I could never understand what it was about that kind of stuff that moved her to tears. I guess now I can understand. Just so long as it's not early-onset menopause, I think I'll be just fine...
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Without TV
I don't have cable. When people say this, it usually stands to mean that they have several "basic" channels (as in the case of my childhood, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX and public television). I have none of these. Since connecting the cable in my apartment in December "just to see", I have discovered that one channel, ESPN, comes in crystal clear, and all the other channels fade or get blurry or lose sound the farther you get from channel 15. I also get the workout channel (all women in sports bras, all the time), so I suspect that this arrangement clearly was set up by a former tenant of my apartment - also, clearly, a male.
I rarely find myself missing television. I think if I had TV, I would have it on almost all the time for "background noise", something that I have discovered is completely unnecessary. I also don't have a stereo, so sitting in silence is pretty common in my place.
Also, not having TV, you can avoid those silly conversations with most people. "Ohmygod, have you seen that new commercial? The one for Geico, where the guy is walking down the street and goes--" can be cut off with a shrug and a simple statement of "I don't have cable". This ends the description of the commercial that I haven't seen, and also detours the conversation away from the inevitable "well, you had to see it yourself I guess" moment. In certain circumstances, the commercial watcher will continue with their description, assuming that their powers of storytelling are colorful enough to make me appreciate the humor and cleverness in the advertisement without ever seeing it myself. (Incidentally people, please stop. No one has those powers.)
One thing I do miss about television, however, is TV movies. I swear, I can waste an entire afternoon (okay, weekend) on Lifetime movies or ABC Family originals. The acting is horrible, the plots are predictable, and 9 times out of ten, the film is going to make me cry. Nothing like a good made-for-television cry on a rainy Saturday afternoon, because Kelly just found out that the boy who pressured her into sex, saying he would love her forever, not only knocked her up but also gave her syphilis. Tear-jerker, everytime. Or that Janie Doe, who thought she had a perfect suburban life, found out her husband was actually a stalking psycho killer with big-haired, shoulder-pad wearing girlfriends in 3 counties. Now that's a good plot.
Ok, maybe I lied. Maybe I really do miss television. Because I have to admit that despite my love of sports, especially this time of year, ESPN just doesn't have quite the same affect on me...
I rarely find myself missing television. I think if I had TV, I would have it on almost all the time for "background noise", something that I have discovered is completely unnecessary. I also don't have a stereo, so sitting in silence is pretty common in my place.
Also, not having TV, you can avoid those silly conversations with most people. "Ohmygod, have you seen that new commercial? The one for Geico, where the guy is walking down the street and goes--" can be cut off with a shrug and a simple statement of "I don't have cable". This ends the description of the commercial that I haven't seen, and also detours the conversation away from the inevitable "well, you had to see it yourself I guess" moment. In certain circumstances, the commercial watcher will continue with their description, assuming that their powers of storytelling are colorful enough to make me appreciate the humor and cleverness in the advertisement without ever seeing it myself. (Incidentally people, please stop. No one has those powers.)
One thing I do miss about television, however, is TV movies. I swear, I can waste an entire afternoon (okay, weekend) on Lifetime movies or ABC Family originals. The acting is horrible, the plots are predictable, and 9 times out of ten, the film is going to make me cry. Nothing like a good made-for-television cry on a rainy Saturday afternoon, because Kelly just found out that the boy who pressured her into sex, saying he would love her forever, not only knocked her up but also gave her syphilis. Tear-jerker, everytime. Or that Janie Doe, who thought she had a perfect suburban life, found out her husband was actually a stalking psycho killer with big-haired, shoulder-pad wearing girlfriends in 3 counties. Now that's a good plot.
Ok, maybe I lied. Maybe I really do miss television. Because I have to admit that despite my love of sports, especially this time of year, ESPN just doesn't have quite the same affect on me...
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