Insults and Injuries

"The success of an insult depends upon the sensitiveness and the indignation of the victim"

SENECA THE YOUNGER (5? BC – 65 AD)

“On the Firmness of the Wise Man”

 

 

So I bought this book on quotes and being one who is not essentially moved by quotes of famous dead (sometimes not so much dead) people I was amazed to discover that I could not put it down.  I was sitting in Borders while pretentious people sipped their over-priced lattes and sniffed at me and my non-caffeinated beverage.  I ignored them.  Mostly.

 

 

But this quote hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.  I was reflecting on a conversation of days gone by and remember thinking to myself  right after, “Wow, they just made me feel really bad.  I feel horrible.  And it’s because of them.”  But that’s not really true, now is it?  Can someone really make you “feel bad” because you weren’t doing their bidding?  Or is it our fault, the ones who have that hole opening in the pit of our stomachs for letting our feelings get hurt?

  I am leaning toward the latter. 

 

I feel bad – all the time.  For things I didn’t do, things I won’t do, things I can never see myself doing and things that I don’t plan on doing in the near future.  A few examples of these are:  enjoying sushi (not gonna happen), balancing my checkbook,  refraining from biting my nails, maintaining an organized closet, enjoying the company of anyone pre-pubescent, knitting, exercise, meditation or yoga, enjoying a fine wine (yech),  “partying,” and reading poetry for fun. 

 

That’s just not me.

 

I guess score one for me for figuring out one aspect of my personality. 

Here’s hoping that I am not Sybil-esque.  Seems to me like finding out one bit of who I am was hard enough, I don’t even know where to start with the other parts.  What if there are too many?  What if I spend forever trying to figure out who I am, piece by piece, and find out that the parts do not equal a whole?  I’d be a little old lady, sitting by myself in a muu-muu and slippers reminiscing over my lost marbles.

 

So, if the success of the insult depends upon the victim, what does one do if they are one in the same?

Iron Chef - Huntington!

Awhile back, I decided, after watching a Marathon of Rachel Ray, that I, too, could cook a "stewp." A "stewp" is Rachel's way of saying a soup-like stew, pretty clever, huh? Or something...

Anyway, so I go to the grocery store all by my petrified lonesome and start gathering up the list of "simple" ingredients. By the time I'm done in the produce aisle my cart start to resemble that of a bunny's on a marijauna munchie spree.

I unload my treasure trove of veggie delights and fresh-picked yummies on to the chopping block and then dice and slice to my heart's content, according to directions of course. After careful measuring and systematically following all of the directions printed off of foodnetwork.com, I wait, let the "stewp" simmer and prepare to be dazzled by my culinary masterpiece.

I stoop over my "stewp" and ladle up a spoonful. It's gorgeous and smells heavenly.

I sip.

I spit.

Ew. Ew. EW.

It tasted like a mixture of tomato soup, curry and more tomato soup infused curry.

 

I dumped the whole batch in the drain and turned on the dispoal for pure vindictiveness.

I vowed never again to waste my time making "stewp" again. Ever.

Until last night.

I saw a recipe in JANE magazine - seemed simple enough: olive oil, onion, mushrooms and some paprika. Throw it all in a skillet and simmer and voila! You have Transylvanian Mushroom Soup.

So I tried again.

I chopped the onion and the mushrooms. I added a clove of garlic because, well, I kinda thought a soup inspired by the birthplace of vampires to at least contain SOME garlic! I tried very hard to follow the recipe to the letter, but I must've messed it up somewhere.

Thirty minutes later I had brown, runny mushroomy-liquid that tasted like oil. Not garlic. Not onions.

Oil. I poured it down the drain and then made myself a sandwich.

Now the regular readers of my blog know that I am not usless in the kitchen. I happen to make a mean peach cobbler and the bitchingest artichoke dip known to man ( yes, it even beats out the Olive Gardnen's!). However, I think that in the Kitchen Arena - I have been beaten. First by that too perky person's recipe for the nonsensical "stewp." TKO, baby.

And secondly by a Halloween-esque soup cut from the pages of an okay fashion magazine. TKO - again.

But that's okay. I will take my failures and let them manifest gloriously into other dishes. I will not stand by and let my culinary prowess be determined by the detrimental effect of something that begins as water! No!

I will strap on my apron with "HOLLY" emblazed across my ample bosom, grab up my pink Kitchen Aid Mixer and a tin of flour and get to work!

I may not be able to make a pot of soup, goshdarnit, but I will make a cake from - wait for it - scratch!

Well, I may have a little help from Betty Crocker on this one - but I'll crack an egg or two on my own, promise!

 

Precarious Pastries and Mullet Mullings

This past Saturday we threw my Dad a surprise 60th birthday party. It was up to my sister and I to go get the cake at Wal-mart.

I loathe Wal-mart.

So - the baker hands us this GI-NORMOUS cake. It was gorgeous - Mom had given them a picture of my dad's '79 Ranchero and they screened it on to the cake! The little hair-netted woman puts this cake in my hands and tells me to keep my arm in the middle since, being a half white half chocolate cake - it could crack and leave a big tear or bubble in the picture.

I am forced to awkwardly carry around this pastry monstrosity while Summer picks out the perfect ice cream "Whatkindshouldweget?" she asks, breathless with anticipation of the giant wall of freezers in front of us. One look at my red, shiny face and she goes, "Ohrightokay. Vanilla!" She throws open the door and pulls out a massive container and swoops down the aisle singing whatever tune that was looping through her brain at that particular time. I am left to waddle behind her, hair plastered to my forehead, cake-encrushed Ranchero cradled in my chubby, aching arms.

We get outside and I place myself carefully in the seat, balancing the precious pastry on my leg. Harry starts to move forward when some Frogger-esque four year old and matching stupid mother fusser WALKS OUT RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Harry slams on the brakes and the vehicle lurches, I scoot with my cake refusing to succumb to gravity's evil lure.

Whew!

No harm came of the icing-laden box!

I slid back up, looked at Harry and yelled : "WHAT THE FREAKIN' HELL - RUN OVER THE DAMNED PEDESTRIANS! I HAVE CAKE HERE! CAKE! ALWAYS CHOOSE CAKE OVER PEDESTRIANS!"

Harry and Summer stared at me.

"Areyouserious?" she asked, incredulous.

"Shhhhhhhh." Harry said as I checked for cracks and bubbles in the Ranchero's whipped frosting finish.

The day of the party - everything goes off without a hitch. Daddy arrives to help Summer's friend "set up tables for a Baby Shower" - we all yell "SURPRISE" and he looks confused and then laughs as Gillian yells "WHEEEEE!" and claps at her papaw.

While dad was opening his presents, my parent's neighbor calls me over. To my chagrin, his live-in girlfriend (who likes to walk around sans pants and undergarments) grabs the ends of my hair.

"Honey, who cuts your hair?" she said.

"Sabrina at Barbie's - she's great, she-" she cuts me off.

"It's crooked. It looks awful, your layers are all uneven. You should let me fix it."

I was shocked. Still stooped over, I  looked at her eyeing me critically and bobbing her lemon yellow mullet.

Yes, yes, I said MULLET.

I smiled. What else could I do?

My dad was having a ball opening his presents and here I stood, speechless having just been insulted by a deflated version of Susan Powder.

At this point, she was talking about her own shop and how she could "fix it" and "make it better." I nodded and walked back over to my dad.

"What was that all about?" Harry whispered to me while giving me a big hug.

"Mullet-lady hates my hair." He looked over at where "Susan" was now happily bouncing on her live-in beau's lap. I shuddered. "But I think I'm gonna take it as a compliment."

BIG TOP, PEE WEES and other corporate matters

So, just when I start thinking that the armpit of Corporate America is NOT the firm for which I work, KABLLOOOEY, it blows up in my face! The aftermath which is the stench of decaying old people (which my office does, in fact, reek of on a daily basis).

Our office morale is the lowest it has ever been in my years of employment. We have gone from jovial days of working and playing to drone-like hour-by-hour torture sessions fearing to speak or squeak that we may be struck down by the "man."

Their oh-so-brilliant answer to their steaming employees complaints of ill-tidings?

Fire one of us.

Make an example.

Rule with fear.

"Welcome to Hell, please wipe your feet and leave your morals and values at the door, please."

So, I was called into the conference room today, apparently one of the partners had deemed it necessary to tell me, personally, that my co-worker/friend had been fired/"offered the choice to resign."

Duh. Like I didn't know that.

Yet on and on he droned, like most corporate professionals, he sooo loved the sound of his own voice, and I was forced to sit and stare.

I nodded occasionally, really, I was beyond livid, and I could not stare directly at his clown-inspired multi-colored shirt and tie in fear of an onset of severe nausea.

He then looked at me and said "We want you to continue doing a good job here... You know that Evaluations are coming up."

Oh Good Lord, help me from strangling him with his Krusty the Clown inspired neck tie!

Heaven forbid if I should be deemed "unacceptable" as a receptionist!

What were they going to do to me if my phone answering skills were not up to par? Not acceptable phone ettiquette? Not able to fax things at the speed of light?

Fire me?

Or worse yet, what if I wasn't given a raise? Oh lordy me! Last year I got less than a frickin' quarter. Gee Whiz! Don't take THAT much money away from me! I would be broke! Phoebe would starve! I would have to buy - discount handbags!

Don't think so.

Know what? They can keep their damn quarter this year. They can buy themselves new clothes, ones that don't look like they've been ripped out of the closets of the Ringling Brothers' Barnum and Bailey Circus.

Or at least buy the shoes to match... now THAT would be entertaining...

That's why they're called DIEt's...

I'm on day four of my DIEt.

I think that the food, in all it's fattening,sugary, carby glory was the source for my wit. Yes, my dear friends, I have decided that anyone who wants to have a sharp tongue need only to slap a donut on that baby and watch as the witty comments fly about - willy nilly!

I feel as though, since giving up caffeine and cutting out sweets and fats - that my brain seems to be the only thing losing it's oomph. Nowhere else can any improvement be seen. My belly still jiggles like a bowl full of jelly and my arms still wave "bye-bye" long after my hand has tired. Now, I'm not insane, I know that it takes months, even years, of DIEt and (ugh) exercise to make "bye-bye" arms go bye-bye, but c'mon! If my brain seems lighter, shouldn't my scale be registering the same?

For example, when talking to my friend today at work, he was happily reporting that his grandmother, who has cancer, was going to be getting out of the hospital because her condition improved so vastly.

I said, "Oh - is she in submission? I mean -uh - um..."

He looked at me, cocked an eyebrow and said, "You mean - REmission?"

"Oh, hee, yeah, that."

So you see - my DIEt has targeted my much needed brain cells rather than my much NOT needed fat cells! What gives? I feel myself getting dumberer and dumberer as days go by!

I just hope that I can remember to tie my shoes by the time day 16 rolls around, and for that matter, work the elevator, computer, phone, remember where the keys are on the keyboard (although "m" and "n" have always messed with my mind) and be able to shave my legs in a timely fashion!

Okay, so I lied on that last one, I usually resort to waiting until Harry sceams like a scared little girl 'cause my hairy legs have left him looking for a loose porcupine from 'tween our sheets.

So until next time, I will keep ya'all updated on the backward progress of my incredible shrinking brain and the (hopefully) diminishing stages of my butt.

I just know you are all riveted to your monitor right now.

:)

 

 

XXX - Things to Do!

As I swiftly approach the XXX portion of my life, that’s 30 for all you Roman Numerically-challenged folk out there, I have decided to start a list of the things I want to do before I enter the last three years of my mid-mid-life crisis.

There will be additions and omissions before d-day hits in September of 2008 - but until then, these are the things I strive to achieve!

Wish my luck, love, happiness, and berries of steel!

Thanks.

Things To-Do

(Before I’m Thirty!)

1. Learn to play a musical instrument (a tambourine does NOT count)

2. Learn to speak a foreign language - conversationally

3. Own at least one pair of shoes that are comfortable at all times.

4. Be able to shop at a grocery store without fear and anxiety of produce and soccer moms.

5. Find that perfect shade of lipstick.

6. Learn yoga.

7. Read at least one best-seller a week.

8. Designate one corner of one room as "all mine."

9. Write a book.

10. Learn to burn a dvd.

11. Learn to work my pink Ipod Mini.

12. Learn to knit/crochet/needlepoint - and have end results recognizable.

13. Grow a tomato.

14. Figure out what I want to be when I "Grow-up"

15. Watch the Indiana Jones movies.

16. Be able to wear a tank top in public without fear of others seeing my jigglies and jubblies.

17. Go to London - see Big Ben.

18. Pet a koala bear.

19. Volunteer.

20. Make Harry Kirby, a cartoon based on my hubby, into a real comic strip.

21. Quit my job.

22. Find a new job that doesn’t require an IQ in the gray area to exceed at it.

23. Paint a mural on a wall in my house - make sure hubby is still breathing - finish said mural.

24. Face a fear (ex: heights, falling, grocery stores, organized fun, wal-mart, spiders, bees, lawn-care…)

25. Learn to make my own pasta.

26. Learn to bake a cake - from scratch.

27. Learn to decorate a cake - with all the tricks and tools of the trade.

28. Learn to do crosswords - without cheating.

29. Watch at least one foreign film a month.

30. Learn to be happy with who I am, ‘cause I am what I am ( Popeye?)

It's ranting, it's pouring...

Why is it - when you get married - people expect you to be pregnant?

ALL THE TIME.

If I say "Ohhh - I feel sick all of a sudden." Their eyes double to the size of tricycle wheels and dart to my chubby middle, "Are you pregnant???"

Okay.

First of all - Noooooooooooooo - I'm NOT preggers! There is no bun in my oven, just a taco bell burrito doing the can-can against my sternum and an ill-advised cocktail of mentos and diet coke adding in to the fun!

Secondly, if I were "with child", if somehow one of my husband's mighty mini men of the spermy variety managed to get lucky - I still have been on the pill for YEARS - my eggs will stay over-easy until I decide to slap 'em up for service!

AND thirdly, shame on you people for having nothing better to do than to picture my tubby behind in the middle of a tantalizing horizontal tango with my hairy Harry! That's just wrong - and really, I've been there, it's not all that interesting for outsiders to have to view. Not that outsiders have viewed, um, well, never mind - let's just say that no one has had to witness the tubby tango - to date.

Which brings me to point number two on the Tirade of Holly of today: Why on earth would you want to video tape yourself having sex? I am not one to mull about in the nude. I don't even like the word "nude". I would dress in the shower if I didn't think that my shirt would get stuck halfway down my arms rendering them useless and would lead me to having no other choice but to run out of the bathroom like a right-side-up bat, arms up in the air, hands waving like I really do care, and have my poor hubby untangle me from my outfit.

So - I'm not real comfortable with the idea of propping up a Sony cam and recording the nasty act of coital bliss on film.

Why? Well, other than my obvious dislike for my own nakedness - I think that if I had to witness it omnisciently - I would NEVER DO IT AGAIN. And I think many others would feel the same. There are some things left to the imagination that should never come to pass into reality.

Like Lust Objects.

Yup.

I have switched subjects again.

"Lust Objects" is our new topic.

Please keep up.

No, really, take notes if needed.

So - Lust Objects are not mere crushes. Crushes are what you get in sixth grade when the boy you like makes your orange hyper-color tee turn bright pink in two seconds when he asks to borrow your eraser. Crushes are mindless, fun, flirty and never serious. Lust Objects are obsessions of body and soul. Crippling fear and paralization of lips and mind are often symptoms of a close proximity with a Lust Object.

I had one Lust Object who will remain nameless due to the fact that he is married with kids now and, of course, everyone who knew me from 1994-2000 knew my unquenchable desire to do unspeakable things to this cutie-patootie (sorry for the Rosie quote - but it hopped into my brain with little to no warning - I promise not to lob Kooshes at you now).

Anyway, I obsessed over this boy, went to the movies where he worked EVERY Saturday, daring, and promising myself that I would speak to him, make him mind by uttering that single phrase that would turn him on his cute pinkened ear: "One, please."

Oh well.

Six years later I finally went out with him.

It was going to be Heaven, bliss, pure magic, our chemistry would erupt before the date began and make our loving cups runeth over (holy crap - that was a BAD description! :) ).

It was awful.

He fell off of his pedastol so fast and furious that I mistook him for a real person.

We never went out again - I put him back on his pedastol. Tried to rekindle my lust, but alas, it was gone.

Sigh.

Things were so much better when all of our dates and important relationship milestones were taking place in the comfort of my own imagination!

My last, and hopefully final, rant is on a really weird subject.

Janis Joplin.

I just found out that she was 27 when she died. She was my age when her life ended. At that young age, she had bellowed out songs in front of thousands of people, all of them instantly judging her and deciding about her on the spot. She put herself up there and sang, unafraid of what people thought about her or her voice.

I'm afraid to go to the grocery store by myself.

How messed up is that?

It's not like I'm petrified of produce or anything like that - I don't fear the grapes of wrath, or the sour apples, or the - um- kumquats - I just find the whole place to be very intimidating.

So - I'm adding that to my list of thing to do before 30

- "become unafraid of scary-ass grocery stores."