Archives for May 2011

05.09.11

Monday Dare: this is why we can’t have nice things

Every Monday, I’m picking from the List of Things to Do, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help, and Possible Fun to Have. It’s a list I made before The Projectstarted, and I’m still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please feel free to throw them my way. I’m calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words “challenge” or “goal.”

This week : Try new foods.

Over the weekend, Harv took me to a nice restaurant. I was prepared. I brushed my hair. I changed into shoes that didn’t require an athletic sock accompaniment. I even practiced curtsying. That’s what happens in nice restaurants, I think. The maitre’d leads you to a table that doesn’t have a paper table cover and a napkin dispenser; and after he pulls out your chair, you’re supposed to curtsy to show your class and let those bitches know you belong there. 

The meal taught me a few things.

If given a choice between flat, sparkling or ice water, don’t ask, “Which one’s the free one?” It’s the ice water. You’re welcome.

The next time I see a dandelion in the yard, I will not throw it away or spray a shitload of Ortho Weed Killer on it. I will save the weeds the delicacies in a little wicker basket and garnish our Kraft Mac & Cheese with a strand or two.

Next time, after accepting a bite of Harv’s crispy pork belly, I won’t tell the server who dutifully comes by to check on my dining experience that the pork belly was even better than Denny’s Grand Slam bacon. He didn’t understand, but I didn’t hold it against him. Maybe he hasn’t been to Denny’s. I bet the chef would have been happy to hear the compliment. After the server left, Harv sighed and said this is why we can’t have nice things.

I enjoyed my meal immensely. I’d like to divulge in detail all the tasty bits of my meal, but it’s hard to translate fancy-restaurant-menu speak. I recognized some lettuce in my salad, and there might have been a snail or two somewhere.

I’ve been missing out. Growing up in Texas, I rarely ate anything other than the standard fare. I didn’t venture outside the burgers and fries and cheese pasta and pizza and chicken fingers and milkshakes except to share Korean meals with my family. This non-adventurous tendency has stayed with me as an adult. Eel? Liver? Duck? Goose fat? Hell no.

I’m picking one new food each day for the rest of the week. I’m having pre-emptive stomach cramps already.

Are you a picky eater? Have you tried anything new that you’ve ended up loving? Hating?
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Harv and Cal are coming out of the Witness Protection Program. I’m posting a family picture on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page today. “Like” the page and check it out.
image via knockknock.biz

May 9, 2011
05.05.11

Sorry I’m so awesome. Please send me motel pens.

As a kid, I never played video games or tetherball or ran around outside. I was too busy collecting shit. This is probably why I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was 12. To this day, I still don’t know how to swim.

I had several collections: motel pens, bookmarks, and commemorative souvenir plates. Each grouping was carefully displayed in my bedroom.

I laid out the motel pens according to the color spectrum. When I had trouble remembering the order, I would just repeat the name of my trusted friend, ROY G BIV, under my breath. The bookmarks were divided into two categories. The ones with tassels received favored treatment. They were fanned out across a corner of my dresser. The non-tasseled losers were stuffed inside a Payless Shoe Source box underneath my bed.

Each souvenir plate had its own plastic stand. The fancier gold-rimmed plates from places like Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon got a primo spot on the top shelf of my bookcase. Plates purchased in gas stations with just a state name printed on the front were usually relegated to the third shelf, still within eyesight, but you really had to bend at the hips to see those.

My most prized collection was my stack of credit card statement advertisement inserts.

I’m not bragging, but my colorful assortment of glossy inserts was impressive. My favorites included:
  • A ceramic bald eagle statue to celebrate America’s 213th birthday
  • A porcelain doll with real hair and moving eyelids. Limited edition of only 750,000
  • A gold–like his-and-her watch set for three easy payments of $17.63
I fucking lived for perfume sample inserts. I would peel each sample carefully and rub it down the length of my arm.

Every other day, when we walked to the apartment complex mail center, I skipped in heady anticipation, hoping to see a credit card statement in our box. The bigger credit card companies often included multiple mini-pamphlets. The department store statements usually had one dinky insert. Sometimes, they weren’t even the folding kind, just a sad little single sheet pimping out polyester sweater sets.

I’m a little sad Cal will never have the joy of starting her own Credit Card Statement Advertisement Insert Collection. She’ll never know the thrill of a growing stack, vaguely scented with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful or Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door, offering hours of entertainment. We’ll never know the heartache of refusing her a chiming mantle clock, as my parents experienced on a weekly basis.

What did you collect as a kid? Do you collect anything now?

image via blueq.com
May 5, 2011