You no want the shrimps head? January 31, 2007

So, I have this assignment to eavesdrop on a conversation between two people and write down what they say, as accurately as possible.  I’ve been trying to do this in various places, but there’s always an issue.  The people talk too softly, or the music is too loud, so I can’t hear them, or I’m sitting too far away to catch everything, or I can only hear what one of the people is saying.  It’s been a pain.  So today, I decided to take myself out for sushi for lunch.  The sushi place I go to is usually pretty quiet, and it’s small, so I was thinking I’d get seated next to a couple of other people, and I’d listen in on the conversation, and I’d get to eat sushi for lunch to boot!

Of course, when I arrived, there were only four other people in the place.  I was able to grab part of the conversation of the couple closest to me, but they left soon after.  Eavesdropping isn’t actually what this post is supposed to be about, however.  This post is supposed to be about shrimp heads.

I’m not a very experienced sushi eater.  When I go by myself, I try to stick with things I know.  But today, I was feeling adventurous, so in addition to my Crunchy Shrimp Roll (which, I believe, doesn’t really qualify as sushi, but it’s DAMN tasty), I ordered some sashimi–ama ebi (sweet shrimp) and yellow fin (don’t remember the Japanese name).  Sweet shrimp!  I thought.  That sounds delicious!

Um, yeah.  No.  Not delicious.  It was a piece of raw shrimp, for god’s sake.  I felt brave (plus I paid $3.50 for the damn thing.  $3.50 for a piece of raw shrimp!  What the hell is wrong with me?) so I popped the thing into my mouth, after thoroughly soaking it in soy sauce.  And while it certainly tasted, um, FRESH, it also tasted raw.  And weird.  And I chewed and chewed and for some reason my throat absolutely refused to swallow it, and I held my napkin over my mouth because I thought there might be a possibility that I was going to throw up, right there, onto the remaining pieces of my Crunchy Shrimp Roll.  But, I swallowed it down, with the help of some water and shoveling a piece of Crunchy Shrimp Roll in there too, to mask the sliminess.

And about three seconds after I got that down, the server saunters up with a little porcelain bowl and sets it down.  “Here is your shrimp head,” she said.  Shrimps have heads?  I thought.

The stuff in the bowl looked delicious.  It was like a giant piece of shrimp with lots more legs than I’m used to seeing, and some feeler type things sticking out, and it was fried, and there were some greens and some green onions and some kind of sauce and some red blobs that may have been tomatoes, but I’m not sure, along with several slices of lemon.  It smelled delicious.  But I had absolutely no idea how to eat it.

I finished the rest of my food, and the server came and took my plate and she pushed the little porcelain bowl towards me.  “You no want the shrimps head?” she asked.

I smiled.  “Of course!  Just saving the best for last!”

Yes, I know.  I could have just asked her how to eat it.  But I didn’t, okay?  I pulled the thing over towards me and lifted the big chunk of shrimp up with my fingers, and poked around inside it with my chopstick.  There was some stuff in there.  I put the thing in my mouth, and because I wasn’t really interested in eating shrimp shell, I just sort of sucked stuff out.  It was tasty.  I poked around inside it a little more, and ate a few more bits of unidentifiable stuff (probably a bunch of shrimp shit, who knows?), and then gave up.

That was my adventure for the day.  Eating a shrimp head.  Now, even if I find out how I’m really supposed to eat a shrimp head, it’s likely I’ll never get one again, because there is NO WAY IN HELL I’m ever going to order that ama ebi again.  Ever.  Just thinking about it gives me the willies.

This is my theme song November 3, 2006

Heh!

And, my CHILDREN and their FRIENDS (hello Doogie!) showed this to me:

Shoes

And here’s another, which may or may not be all that funny, but is totally hilarious when you’re sitting at your computer, surrounded by 9-11 year-olds, being told what to watch.:  Muffins!

Nutty Day October 25, 2006

Crazy Fire Totally Ruins Viki’s Day, and makes her car smell

I had an unbelievable day yesterday. It began with seeing a couple of my cabinets go into my kitchen. Which was nice, and I left for my tutoring session and class happy, thinking I would come home in a few hours to my cabinets up and my kitchen taking shape.

Then, all hell broke loose. I can’t even tell you about the first part of the hell, but let’s just say security was called. That’ll give you something to think about. I may be able to write about it sometime in the future, but for now, just trust that a good chunk of my morning was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster.

I survived, however, partly due to the help and support of my friend Richard, who listened to me babble on about it, so utterly baffled that the only way to make sense of it was to talk about it, and also to other friends present at the time and some faculty members who jumped in right away and helped me take care of the situation.

Anyway, after that, I went to class. Around 2:30 p.m., I noticed that there seemed to be an unusual amount of smoke rising from a building across the way. We decided it was just coming from a chimney and ignored it. By break time, there was a helicopter hovering above and several fire engines and police cars arriving, so a few of us took a little walk around the block to see what was happening. It was a damn building on fire! The old George Diamond Steakhouse and the Louis Sullivan landmark building that housed it (currently empty) was on fire, and we watched for a few minutes as firefighters broke in windows and entered.

I have pictures, but my damn phone won’t send them to my email, which is PISSING ME OFF. When I get them, I’ll squeeze them into this post.

Anyway, throughout the second half of class, we watched as the smoke grew more intense. Flames were visible coming from windows of the building, and chunks of burning debris were flying out and landing on the roof of the building next door. This building is, for your information, just a couple doors down from the dirtiest, grubbiest, most inexpensive and slightly dangerous yet totally fantastic hole-in-the-wall bar on the planet, George’s. There were a few of us in the room a little worried it might catch on fire. Because if George’s goes, where will I get a $5 Ketel One and tonic, made extra strong by Nick? And, most certainly, there aren’t many places in the city that feature signs that read “This is a SMOKING ESTABLISHMENT.” Fortunately, George’s did not burn.  The irony is not lost on me.  Thanks to the firefighters who prevented George’s from becoming a REALLY SMOKING establishment.
There were times when the wind shifted that the smoke blew directly to our window, completely obscuring our view. It was crazy. The building we were in was about a block from the fire, as the crow flies, so we had a pretty good view. Sam decided to let us go a little early, as we all began to wonder about the danger of breathing the smoke. The elevators smelled like smoke, which was a little creepy.

Of course, my car was parked in a parking garage practically across the street from the fire. Which meant I could not get my car. What to do? I went to a bar. Not George’s. I don’t think they were letting anyone in there last night, but down to Kitty O’Shea’s in the Hilton, where we watched news coverage of the fire.

I tried to get my car again around 7:30. No go. Back to the bar for another cocktail. I went to try again around 8:00, and ended up having a very nice, hour-long conversation with a police officer. He’s going to retire soon, and has just purchased some land in North Carolina on which he will live out his days. He helped me engineer getting my car out of the parking garage. The attendant had to drive my car up on the sidewalk, dodge between two parking meters and over a curb, but I did get my car.

And now it smells like chemical smoke. I don’t know what to do about it, but being in it gives me a headache. My husband has the brilliant idea to put a couple of bowls of vinegar in the car, but I don’t know what that’ll get me besides a car that smells like a burnt chemical salad with a vinegar-and-oil dressing, especially after I forget I’ve put bowls of vinegar in my car and start driving.

Anyone have any suggestions?

This story will be way more interesting when I supply pictures. Damn phone.

The Best Nachos Ever August 15, 2006

I don’t often post recipes. Okay, I never post recipes. But these nachos are so goddamned good, I think everybody should be packing pounds onto their hips right along with me.

These nachos are inspired by those served at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants, Nuevo Leon, and I hope they don’t mind my posting my version here. I would still rather go there to eat them, because they cost $6.00 for twelve, which is more than any sane person should eat in one sitting. You can go to the liquor store next door and get yourself a six pack of Modelo, plop down at Nuevo Leon (they’ll put your beer in the fridge for you and bring you one when you’re thirsty) and eat until your stomach has reached such epic proportions that you cannot be unwedged from your booth.

Anyway, the nachos:

Get yourself some high-quality tortilla chips. Absolutely no Tostitos or any crap like that. Most chain grocery stores in my area have begun to sell good-quality tortilla chips in their “Hispanic” aisle. If yours doesn’t, then hunt down a Mexican grocery store and get some. I recommend Del Rey or El Ranchero. There is a brand called Nuevo Leon (I’ve no idea if they’re affiliated with the restaurant), but while they are excellent for chips and salsa and are as fresh as if you’ve just sat down at a good Mexican place that makes their own, they don’t hold up under the pressures of beans, cheese, etc.

Anyway, I like the Del Rey’s the best because they are generally flat and pretty hardy.

1 can refried beans. It doesn’t really matter what kind. I’d forgo the Taco Bell kind for La Victoria or Rosarita, but just go for the can that says “Traditional.” If you buy the no-fat beans, then you’re a loser. (Okay, okay, you can buy the no-fat beans and some no-fat sour cream and some no-fat cheese and try to make these nachos, and you can also try to tell me that they’re just as good as using the full-fat versions of all the ingredients, but I will just laugh in your skinny, fat-free face).

The following step is skippable if you just can’t wait. If you choose to skip it, just spread a bunch of beans onto each individual chip and place on a foil-lined cookie sheet (why foil lined? Do you really want to stand at the sink, your belly full of deliciousness, and scrub baked-on cheese off your good Williams Sonoma cookie sheet? No. You do not. Just use the damn foil, then you can toss it and just put the cookie sheet away.) If you choose NOT to skip this step, then do this: empty the beans into a saucepan and shake as much hot sauce as you like into the beans. Heat until they are smooth. This makes the beans more spreadable, and also adds the spice of the hot sauce. You can go ahead and use Tabasco, because you’ve probably already got some in your refrigerator. If you don’t, buy yourself a good Mexican hot sauce. You won’t be sorry. Anyway, after the beans are heated, spread them onto the individual chips (as described above).

Shredded sharp cheddar cheese: Buy it already shredded. Who has time to fucking stand over a pan of chips and beans with a shredder? Plus, if you accidentally shred one of your knuckles, you’re going to have to worry that you are eating part of your own body in a few minutes. And that’s just gross. Sure, sure, you can shred the cheese BEFORE moving to the bean step, but what kind of cheap bastard are you? Sure, the big block of cheese is cheaper. But after you eat some of these nachos, you are going to want to make some more, especially since the fiends you shared them with ate most of them, and you are certainly not going to have the patience to shred some more cheese. In addition to that, if you somehow decide NOT to make more nachos, you’re going to have this big hunk of cheese left over, and it’ll probably get all moldy and nasty and hard and rindy in your fridge, and who needs it? You’ll throw it away, and end up making the per-ounce price of the cheese higher than if you’d just bought the damn pre-shredded cheese in the first place.

Okay, so you’ve got your pan of chips with the lovely beans spread on them (by the way, use as many beans as you like. Some people love refried beans, some, not so much. They are required in this recipe, however, so don’t try skipping them. You’ll have an inferior nacho not worth your time or trouble). Anyway, sprinkle your shredded cheese over the beans/chips. Not too much! Don’t go crazy with the fricking cheese already! This isn’t a pan pizza, for chrissakes, this is a pan of nachos. Too much cheese will just bind you up and give you gas.

Place the whole cheesey-beany-chippy wonder under the broiler of your oven. Now, here’s where it gets tricky. The inexperienced will want to do the following BEFORE they begin anything else, but once you’ve gotten it down to a science, like I have, you can do this next step AS THE NACHOS ARE BROILING. But be careful. If you take too long and space out, you’ll burn your nachos, and that sucks. Even if you don’t burn them, if you take too long to do this next step, and your broiled nachos are sitting on the stove, waiting for the next step, they’ll get a little mushy and cold and that’s no good either.

Anyway, VERY QUICKLY, whip up a simple guacamole. This sounds harder than it is, but all you have to do is slice up your avocado (around the center, you know how to do it), spoon out the delicious avocado (meat? What the hell is that green shit called, anyway?) into a bowl, pour in about a tsp of salt, maybe a bit more, and squeeze half a lime into it (you can use the other half for your vodka tonics). Using a fork, mash it all up together. Don’t go crazy. You don’t need to create some uniform avocado soup. Leave some of those nice yellow chunks in there. Yum. DO NOT, under any circumstances, use some pre-made guacamole. That shit’s nasty. It takes exactly thirty seconds to whip up a simple guac, okay? It will take you longer to find scissors to cut open that stupid plastic bag of pre-made guacamole.

So, right when you’ve finished mixing up your simple guac, your nachos will be perfectly broiled (the cheese is melted and the edges of some of the chips are turning brown). Take them out of the oven, and with speed unparalleled, spoon a blop (yes, a blop. It’s like a dollop, but I like the way it sounds better) of guac ONTO EACH CHIP. Then, quick as you can, spoon a blop of sour cream onto the top of each blop of guac.

Eat one. Decide it’s not necessary to place the nachos on a pretty, decorative plate. Eat them, standing up, at the stove. When the people sitting outside on your porch, drinking and waiting for the promised nachos, call out, “Are they done yet?” yell “Just a minute!” (only it’ll sound like “ubamini!” because your mouth is full of nacho. Share the remaining nachos with your friends. Accept their praise, then tell them where you got the fantastic recipe.

Make more. Repeat ad nauseum until you’ve gained 20 pounds. Vow to start using fat free beans, cheese and sour cream. Try it once and realize it’s not worth it. Throw the fat-free version in the garbage and send your children to the store with a $10 bill for more ingredients.

Next time I make them, I’ll take a picture. If I can before they all get eaten.

Another complaint about people talking into their cell phones July 11, 2006

So I’m sitting at my computer, checking my email, and I hear a vehicle pull up in front of my house and a woman’s voice talking animatedly. From what I could make out, it was a lot of “that motherfucker…I told that motherfucker…you wouldn’t believe what that motherfucker…and then that motherfucker…” on and on. I go to the window, thinking to tell this idiot to keep moving. But I can’t. You know why? It was my POSTAL CARRIER. That’s right. My mailwoman. And she’s sitting in her mail truck, in front of my house, talking into her earpiece with her “motherfucker” this and her “motherfucker” that.

I wish it had occurred to me to pull out my video camera, although I’m not sure it would have been able to pick up her voice. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called the post office and made a complaint. I mean, honestly. Fine. You want to bitch someone out over the phone? Go ahead. Do it at the table next to me in a restaurant. Do it while walking through the aisles of the grocery store. But do not, I repeat. DO NOT do it while you are DELIVERING MY FUCKING MAIL.

She’s relatively new to delivering mail to my house, and for the past several weeks I have been alerted to her presence on my front porch by her voice, because she is constantly talking on the telephone. And while it annoyed me, I figured, hey, if I had to walk around all day delivering mail, I’d probably talk on the phone too. Or listen to an iPod. Or something. But I would 1. be quiet about it and 2. Not curse a fucking blue streak while walking past people’s homes.

So what happens after I make the call to the post office? Yeah. You guessed it. A supervisor came out likety split and chastised her. I’m pretty sure Miss Motherfucker could probably guess it was me who called, as she parked directly in front of my house and had only made it two houses in to the block. I can’t wait to see the condition of my mail when it arrives in my box in a few minutes.

But you can bet I’ll be standing right by the window listening for her!

There’s nothing I could write that hasn’t already been written about people who talk loudly and publicly into their cell phones. I’ve talked about it a few times before, and a million other people have talked about it as well. It’s old, but it’s not going away. Especially with these handy bluetooth ear piece things.

The problem stems from a complete lack of awareness of one’s surroundings. It’s like people walk around in a little bubble, blissfully unaware of any other human being in the vicinity. And magnified, it just points to a major problem in our society. People don’t give two shits about each other. There’s very little common courtesy around these days. People shove their way around, so focused on their own petty little interests. Argh.

The Fake Flower Phenomenon April 14, 2006

If I could walk down the block and take a picture of this without calling all kinds of attention to myself, I would. I’m considering having my daughter do it, so that anyone who sees her will just think she’s cute and that she’s taking pictures of the pretty flowers.

The phenomenon? People who, yearning for the first blooms of spring and unable to wait even one hot damn minute later nor able to plant some fucking pansies for christ’s sake, available at any fargone hardware store or freakin’ grocery store, stick FAKE BLOOMS IN THE FUCKING DIRT AROUND THEIR HOMES!!!!!

I’m sure this phenomenon is not unique to the woman who lives down the street from me. I’ve actually seen it done before, most commonly with fake pointsettias in window boxes and crap like that. But in the name of all that is green, what would possess you to do such a thing? It’s not like fake flowers are all that cheap. The ones in her yard appear to be silk! Or at least a reasonable facsmile therof. What goes through a person’s mind that causes them to think this shit up?

One proposed scenario?

“Oh, this Chicago winter is so bleak, so cold, so grey and gloomy. I cannot bear it but a moment longer. I yearn for the fresh blooms of spring. I cannot wait for my tulips to begin to pop from the ground. OH WAIT. I FORGOT TO PLANT MY BULBS LAST YEAR! Moan and groan, what do I do?”

She sits, staring out the window, chin rested on hand, raising the other to wipe a fat tear from her eye. Then suddenly, she zips upright, points one finger in the air and cries:

“I know! I’ll stick all those crappy fake flowers from that box in the attic in the ground! That’ll do it!”

The thing is, it didn’t really go like this. Oh no. She shops for these things. This is not an afterthought, a way of reusing a resource already at hand. This is fully intentional, and she’s been doing it for years. Oh, hell. I’ve got to get a picture of this to further illustrate what I’m trying to talk about here.

In the meantime, if anyone reading knows the origin of this ridiculous practice, please leave me a comment. I need to understand.

Okay, and also? Remember my recent post where I went through my search strings and talked about all the weird things that have landed people here? Well, because of it, I am getting an unbelievable, I mean truly unbelievable number of hits from people all over the world looking for one particular phrase. What do you all think it could be? (Hint: it was mentioned in the first post, and someone also commented about it. That’s a big freaking hint.)

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid. April 8, 2006

But why, Viki? Why must we be afraid? Whatever could be wrong? Whatever could be upsetting you so?

Well, I’ll tell you. I was sitting at Starbuck’s up until just a few minutes ago. When I walked in, I had expected to find the store mostly empty, as there was only one other car in the parking lot, and its owner was sitting in it, smoking and talking on the phone. But no, the store was not empty. It was packed from wall to wall with giggling, squealing, middle school girls.

Now, normally that wouldn’t be so frightening, would it? I’m a grown woman. I can hold my own in a crowd of young people, no problem. I just push them aside and give them a look that says, “Don’t fuck with me, you little twit. Now stand aside so I can get my latte.” And they wither under my gaze. What frightened me was not that there was so many of them. It was that nearly every one of them was wearing the SAME GODDAMN JACKET.

You may think that I am exaggerating, but I’m not. I’m dead serious. Out of the fifteen, perhaps seventeen young girls milling around in Starbuck’s sipping their Frappacino’s, 98% of them was wearing THIS JACKET:

What’s wrong with that jacket? you might be asking yourself. What the hell kind of crazy, wingnut crap is going through Viki’s mind that she has to get so upset about a silly jacket?

It’s that they were ALL wearing one. Except for two or three who probably just left theirs at home. Most were wearing the pink version, or the “sweet berry” version shown in the photo above. A couple wore black, and only two or three had branched out into colors like red or grey, or even a khaki green version I had never seen. (I guess she must be the innovator). My daughter has been asking for this jacket, not seriously, bur frequently, for months, but I’ve refused because who the hell needs to spend $80 on a kids jacket when there’s a perfectly good one on the hook from last year (yes, I’m cheap that way sometimes). Plus, I do not want her to look like every girl in town.

So while I’m sitting there, in Starbuck’s, thinking about how sad it is that every one of these girls is wearing the same jacket, they begin to file out, and peace is restored to my Starbuck’s. I drink my latte and do some homework, and I’m sitting near the window, see? And what happens, do you think? It’s a nice, pleasant day, about 50 degrees (the sort of temperature perfect for a North Face fleece jacket), so the middle school girls are out in full force. And what walks by? Another group of girls, four or five of them, all wearing that jacket. They enter the store and go up to order drinks. As they’re ordering, another group comes in, three girls, yes, wearing the jacket. They all mill around for a bit, waiting for their drinks, then they leave, and as they exit, I shit you not, people, four more kids come in, WEARING THE SAME COAT. This group is clearly identifying themselves as the outcasts, because their jackets are the dark heather grey and black. But they are STILL wearing the same coat. Then in through the back door comes four more girls, these one’s are clearly high-school age, and yes, all four of them are wearing the jacket. Three in the pink, one in the above sweet berry. As they leave, a family comes in. The daughter AND the son are wearing the jacket.

So I sit there, in shock, realizing that every goddamn child in the entire town except for mine owns the SAME GODDAMN COAT. And I begin to think, hmm. Did I miss that memo? Was there a discount offered through the school? Was there some kind of mandate put out by the village that requires all of the children to wear the same coat?

What the hell is going on here? I’m thinking that the fact that the jacket is probably a relatively good value (at $79 dollars, keep in mind), being warm and all, and lightweight, and a jacket that the kid wants, so you’re willing to buy it because you know they’ll wear it, combined with the fact that probably some cool kids decided that was the jacket to have and then the rest of them followed suit, demanding their parents buy it for them. I don’t think that sentence made sense, but I’m too rattled to try to fix it. Proper grammar doesn’t mean anything right now, in a moment of crisis.

Do these children have separate identities at all? Most of the girls were wearing either jeans or those gaucho pants. Most were wearing Birkenstock clogs. Granted, these are the things their mothers are buying for them, but they’re all the same! They might as well be wearing uniforms. And what does that mean, really, in the larger scope of things? Are these children afraid to stand out? Afraid to be different than every other child in their school? Is this just something that happens with that age (although, keep in mind I witnessed high school girls wearing the same jacket as well)? I seem to remember, when I was in junior high, which, you know, was just last year;), that everyone wore jeans and Izods or Polo shirts. I owned a Preppy Handbook, I’m not ashamed to admit, and I did indeed own several turtlenecks printed with little ducks or turtles or whatnot, with coordinating Polo crewneck sweaters, in wool during the winter and cotton in the fall and spring. Looking back, we did indeed dress all alike. It was easier, I guess, than dealing with the shit-storm that descended on you when you didn’t.

Middle school is a perilous place. Kids are just beginning to form their identities, and they’re afraid to be too different lest they be noticed and made fun of. Middle school kids can be mean, because they’re just figuring out how to do that, how to ruin each other and bring each other down.

Why, oh why does it have to be that way?

My reasons why it shouldn’t, at this point, are completely selfish. For one thing, my own daughter will be starting middle school next fall. She will not have a North Face fleece. Unless I have some kind of mental breakdown or something. She will have a warm and cozy jacket, of course. But not a North Face fleece. Other than that, I’m simply terrified. I ran from Starbuck’s, barely taking the time to zip shut my laptop bag, dodging North Face fleece jackets and ponytails left and right, shoving a few out of my way to get to the door. I nearly ran a couple over when trying to exit the parking lot, and as I drove though town (not a lengthy task-town is two blocks long), they were everywhere. Coming in and out of stores. Milling around the train station. I nearly headed for home, thinking I should batten the hatches and stock up on ammo and bottled water! But I steeled my resolve and came here, to the library, where there are not only no middle schoolers, but no one wearing North Face fleece jackets.

This was an awfully long post, and I may have to come back and edit it a bit.

Yeah! It’s Friday Night! April 7, 2006

And I hope you’ve got something better to do than surf blogs.

Once in a while, I take a look at my stats and see what kinds of things people are searching for that leads them to my site. It is always an enlightening experience for me, and I love to enlighten the minds of my readers, so I’m going to, once again, share some of this information with you.

I find it very amusing that lots of people search for either beach ass, ass beach, or florida ass, and find their way here. I think it is because I posted a picture that I took while sitting on the beach, of the ocean, and it included my legs, which look fat and disgusting in the picture, but who the fuck cares.

One of the most searched for items was backstabbing sluts. WTF? It boggles my mind what people Google! What kind of information are they looking for? Do they want to meet a couple of backstabbing sluts? Did they just get stabbed in the back by a couple of backstabbing sluts and they’re all pissed off and checking their e-mail and they just can’t get those goddamn backstabbing sluts off their mind, so they pop onto Google and type in the phrase backstabbing sluts, just to see what will come up? Just to see, perhaps, if there are any other people out there in the internet world who have also been backstabbed by sluts? So that they can find some peace? Find someone they can identify with? Weird. I don’t know what to tell you, oh searcher for backstabbing sluts. They’re out there. Avoid them if you can.

I also got hits off of vikki blows and viki sneezed. What the hell are people trying to find with these phrases?

Another search phrase that landed people here was unhealthy friendship. I wrote about an unhealthy friendship that I ended over a year ago. It’s still over. Thank God! I’m thinking that unhealthy friendship and backstabbing sluts are totally related and I am pretty sure that now that I’ve put those two phrases right next to each other, I am soon going to get a hit off of the phrase unhealthy friendship with backstabbing slut.

Anonymous online confessions. You tell me.

26th and California jail picture was another one. First of all, I’d like to inform whoever was looking for a picture of the jail at 26th and California, it’s called GOOGLE IMAGES. Okay? And what do you need to know? What your future home is going to look like? Let me tell you, if you weren’t able to find a picture. It ain’t pretty. Best start running now.

One of my favorites is the phrase www.fucking sister in law. What the hell do you think is going on here? You think some guy is fantasizing about fucking his sister-in-law and wants to find a website that will tell him how to go about it? You think some guy IS fucking his sister-in-law and wants to find some other guys who are doing the same thing? He obviously (or she, I mean, I guess it’s possible some woman wants to fuck HER sister-in-law) is thinking there’s some website out there that talks about fucking your sister-in-law.

OR, he hates his sister-in-law, and this is of the “I hate my fucking sister-in-law” camp. Either way, I find it hilarious that someone was searching for this, and that they were led here. Don’t you? Because I’ll tell you right now, I love all my sisters-in-law, and I would never have the phrase fucking sister in law in my blog. Unless I was talking about someone else’s sister-in-law. Which, of course, is entirely possible.

Another person was searching for meaning with the phrase kidneys ache beer. I’ve spoken before about my kidneys aching, but it’s from vodka, not beer. Or vodka AND beer. Whatever. What I’m thinking is that there are a lot of people out there that don’t know anything about the internet except for GOOGLE. So they sit in front of their computers (I’m thinking they have a couple cocktails or three in them at this point, and another one on a coaster next to their mouse pad), and they type in www.google.com, because, they think, “Hey, everybody’s doing it!” And they look at that empty search box with that blinking cursor, and they type in the first goddamn thing that comes into their heads. In this person’s case, they’d had MANY MANY beers. And their kidneys ached. And they were sitting there, at their desk, draining yet another beer, and they were thinking, “Man, my kidneys hurt. I wonder if it’s from all this beer?” So they type in kidneys ache beer into the search box, thinking that will give them some kind of answer. That’s what I’m thinking.

What do you think about the search phrase exhibitionism and cleaning lady? What I’m thinking is that I need another cocktail before I analyze that one. Exhibitionism and cleaning lady. Exhibitionism and cleaning lady. What comes to mind, people?

I’ll tell you what comes to mind. What comes to mind is some sick fuck who lost his job, and his wife still works, but everything’s okay because she made more money than he did anyway, and he sits around all day, drinking, because what the hell else is there to do all day when you’re not working? I mean, you’ve got a CLEANING LADY, for chrissakes! So he pounds a few beers or ten and gets it in his head that it might be nice to give his cleaning lady a tip, you know? Because she does such a good job? And what better tip than to show her what he’s got in his pants? Only, he’s not going to do this in an obvious way. He’s not going to be sitting at the computer, naked, surfing porn, when she walks in (although he’s clearly doing this at other times). He’s going to wait until she pulls up in her thirteen-year-old Toyota Corolla with 237,495 miles on it that she bought for $500 at the used car lot downtown right after she arrived here from Poland (I’m allowed to be un-PC about Polish people, as I am not only 1/4 Polish by birth, but I’m also, as they say, Polish-injected. We’ll see what kind of people find their way here off of THAT search string, no?). So anyway, the Polish cleaning lady with the nice rack, who brings her own vacuum, and only charges $60 for the whole damn house, pulls up, and this guy, who has been standing by the front window, half-hidden by the drapes, drinking a beer, and probably fondling himself, rushes up the stairs, into the bathroom, the door of which he leaves slightly open, as if he wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the house (who shuts the bathroom door when they shower while in the house alone? You have to be able to hear the phone, or the doorbell, or if some crazy, crack-addled nutjob is coming in to rob you, right?). Okay, sorry, lost my train of thought. I’m embarrassed. I’m usually able to sustain an unbelievably long sentence for miles before having to stop myself with a well-placed period. ANYWAY, the cleaning lady comes in, hears the shower, realizes that Mr. Lazy-Ass, Lost-His-Job, Living-Off-Better-Educated-Wife’s-Hard-Work fuckhole is home, yet cannot force herself to start downstairs. Because if you’ve ever been a professional cleaning lady, you know that it’s best to start upstairs, and just sweep and wipe all the dust and dirt down, until you’re done, and then wash yourself out the door as you wash the downstairs floor, no? Correct me if I’m wrong.) So, she heads up the stairs with her bucket of supplies and her vacuum, and who times it perfectly but Mr. Lazy-Ass? He saunters out of the bathroom, all wet, loosely holding a towel around his dampened body (because he only had time to jump into the shower for a quick second before he heard her heading up the stairs, so his hair is still pretty much dry, completely giving away his little plan), beer in the other hand, because who doesn’t bring their beer into the bathroom when they’re showering midday? He sees her, and in his “shock,” drops the towel! Thus, we have “exhibitionism and cleaning lady.” Well played, Mr. Lazy-Ass. And unless she likes what she sees, you are probably going to be hearing it from your wife when your cleaning lady quits on you. And you’re probably going to have to start cleaning the house yourself until she’s able to find some other young Polish girl with a nice rack.

Wow. I think I need to take a deep breath after that one.

Next up, we have How to deal with someone who babbles. I don’t know whether to be insulted or proud. You know what? I’ll tell you how to deal with someone who babbles. Show her how to blog, okay? And everything will be okay.

The only one I’m worried about, and this will be the last one, because this is, I’m fairly certain, one hell of a long blog post that nobody surfing through via BlogMad is going to be able to read during their 25 seconds, and we all know no one is sticking around beyond that, right? If you do, leave me a comment. I’ll give you a prize. And I’ll know if you’re telling the truth, because you will have to have read all the way down to this part of the post! Anyway, the only one I’m worried about is writing teachers in the northern suburbs of chicago. Why am I worried about that? Because I’m trying to BE a writing teacher in ANY suburb of Chicago, or in Chicago itself. And I’m thinking that anyone looking to hire a writing teacher, say some lovely, wealthy, older gentleman who wants to write his life story but doesn’t think he knows how to write, who looks for a writing teacher by GOOGLING for one, might come across this blog and think, I would NEVER hire this woman to teach me how to write! She’s some kind of crazy, drunken lunatic! Let me assure you, dear lovely, wealthy older gentleman who wants to pay me $100,000 a year to teach him how to write his memoirs, that ALL of the writing on this blog is PURE FICTION. I am just taking on a persona, if you will. I am actually a completely sober, totally organized, fantastic writing teacher. So hire me. Okay?

You must read this April 5, 2006

No, not this entry on my own blog.

The entries on Bent Collective, written by Steve and Al, about their experiences on September 11th, 2001. While I am sitting here with the chills, and feeling as if I want to vomit (not out of being disgusted, but out of an odd sense of fear mixed with the memories of that day mixed with the realization that I have put the thoughts of that day out of my head for nearly five years now), and although I normally wouldn’t recommend that you go ahead and read something that is going to make you feel that way, I have to do it now.

Steve and Al are both excellent writers, excellent chroniclers of their experiences in life.

Hell, just go over there and read. And don’t just read those entries, read everything on the entire blog. I’ve learned a lot from Steve and Al about a great many things that go on in this world that I might otherwise, really HAVE otherwise turned an ignorant, blind eye to.

Hey Everybody! I’m looking at Gay Porno! March 21, 2006

Yeah, so, I’m putzing around on the internet this morning. The kids are getting ready for school, I’ve made their lunches and fed them, the day is progressing like any other. I’m surfing Blog Mad for double credits. Checking e-mail. You know. The usual.

I decide that it would be a good idea to send a friend a link to a rather nasty video of something unmentionable. I had seen it on another friend’s site and the image of it is burned into my brain for all eternity. Seriously. There are moments when I’m tired, or someone says the word “horse” or “butt” or “butt sex with a horse” or something along those lines and the video begins to play in my head all on its own, and no amount of booze or drugs is going to get it out of there. If they ever invent some way of pinpointing a memory in your brain and erasing it, I’m going to take full advantage of that service.

So, I go to my friend’s site and find the link. Keep in mind, as I’m doing this, my kids are about 10 feet away from me, putting on their shoes, their coats, their hats and gloves, gathering the schoolbooks, etc. I’m thinking to myself, I’m going to open this link in a new tab, copy the url, and close it down quick. They’ll never know, and I won’t even have to see it again. Because it’ll take a while for the video to download, right? Sure!

Then, all of a sudden, everything goes fucking haywire. Firefox windows start popping up all over my screen! All containing gross images of, well, I’ve completely blocked it out of my head but it was pretty nasty. And out of my speakers comes hollering a man’s voice, gleefully exclaiming:

Hey everybody! I’m looking at gay porno! Hey everybody! I’m looking at gay porno!

Over and over again, as the windows keep popping up and I’m clicking like crazy, actually for a moment thinking that I’m going to be able to keep up with them by closing them down, but to no avail, so as my children migrate slowly towards my chair (“What’s that all about, Mom?), I close the lid of my laptop but I can still hear it going on and I’m thinking

Oh, my god. I’m going to have to go to the Geek Squad to get this fixed, and my laptop is going to be singing “Hey everybody! I’m looking at gay porno!”

So I lift the lid again, just a little, just enough to stick my finger inside and hold down the power button and turn the whole goddamn thing off, half worried that it wasn’t going to work and my laptop would forever be singing “Hey everybody! I’m looking at gay porno!”

But it worked, thank the stars.

Then of course I worried that when I turned it back on, it would still be happening. But it didn’t. The sing-song of “Hey everybody! I’m looking at gay porno!” was gone, and all is back to normal.

So now, I need to send my friend an e-mail and let her know about it. Or do I? Because as long as it doesn’t infect the computer with anything, it is kind of funny to picture some kid sitting in Starbucks perusing the internet and coming across that link and clicking on it, no? No. I do need to let her know. I’ll leave it up to her whether or not to leave it up.

The lesson for today, folks: Don’t try to sneakily get the url for a gay porn video so you can send it to a friend. Because you might get outed.