When I was 21, I bought a beehive blender to make my kitchen look "retro". I bought one for my friend Emma as well for Christmas, but I never gave it to her.
Months later, the glass pitcher broke and I used Emma’s as a replacement. That broke too. Now I have two beehives, no blender.
Blenders are called mixies in India. Even more interesting, a Polish person invented the blender. Seeing as milkshakes are delicious, Polish jokes are no longer welcome in my home.
When I smoke cigarettes around other people, I fan the smoke away from them and apologize the whole time. When I use a blender around people, I get nervous the sound will bother them and apologize the whole time. I don’t like to bother people.
A blender is one of the few appliances you can't substitute. If the recipe calls for a blender, and you don't have one: you are completely screwed. You can't crush ice; you're not the Hulk.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Air Conditioners
My sister and I always shared a room. 7 years my senior, Tara usually operated with complete disregard for my state of slumber during her morning routine – blow drying her hair in our room while I slept, and, essentially moving about as if I did not exisit.
In hindsight, I got even by moving to her bed once she left for school. Her bed was located next to the air condition which was, presumably, on purpose. After, she left, I’d throw my blankets on her bed and relish in the comfort of being under a thousand layers of cotton and rayon in a freezing room, sometimes squealing with delight.
This one particular morning, I delayed in going to her bed feeling immobilized for no apparent reason. Laying in my bed, day dreaming about being older and the fancy, exiciting life I would have, I heard a sound I never heard before: actual electronic sparks. It looked and sounded like lighting bolts from a cartoon shooting out of the air conditioner and onto my sisters bed.
I screamed my bloody head off.
Known to be little melodramatic, it took a while to convince my parents of what happened.
My father, Ed, whom was employed by Con Ed phoned in a complaint. Luckily the sparks didn’t cause a fire, but Con Edison came to take a look at what happened as a favor to my dad.
They said two things that day that blew my mind: a. this resulted from a squirrel messing with the poles outside my window and b. I would had been electrocuted. In other words, I would have been killed by a squirrel.
After that I never went in Tara’s bed.
One would assume this would never happen again, but two weeks later, it did. This time, the sparks just happen to miss my sister by a hair of a second. Tara and I plotted the death a squirrel clearly spawned from Satan. As usual, because it happened to my sister whom my parents loved more than me, we moved our beds after that and went easy on the air conditioner for once.
Whenever I think of this, it confirms my belief in divine intervention and rodents are satan henchmen as are bed bugs and colicy babies.
In hindsight, I got even by moving to her bed once she left for school. Her bed was located next to the air condition which was, presumably, on purpose. After, she left, I’d throw my blankets on her bed and relish in the comfort of being under a thousand layers of cotton and rayon in a freezing room, sometimes squealing with delight.
This one particular morning, I delayed in going to her bed feeling immobilized for no apparent reason. Laying in my bed, day dreaming about being older and the fancy, exiciting life I would have, I heard a sound I never heard before: actual electronic sparks. It looked and sounded like lighting bolts from a cartoon shooting out of the air conditioner and onto my sisters bed.
I screamed my bloody head off.
Known to be little melodramatic, it took a while to convince my parents of what happened.
My father, Ed, whom was employed by Con Ed phoned in a complaint. Luckily the sparks didn’t cause a fire, but Con Edison came to take a look at what happened as a favor to my dad.
They said two things that day that blew my mind: a. this resulted from a squirrel messing with the poles outside my window and b. I would had been electrocuted. In other words, I would have been killed by a squirrel.
After that I never went in Tara’s bed.
One would assume this would never happen again, but two weeks later, it did. This time, the sparks just happen to miss my sister by a hair of a second. Tara and I plotted the death a squirrel clearly spawned from Satan. As usual, because it happened to my sister whom my parents loved more than me, we moved our beds after that and went easy on the air conditioner for once.
Whenever I think of this, it confirms my belief in divine intervention and rodents are satan henchmen as are bed bugs and colicy babies.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Fainting
I fainted yesterday.
I woke up and said "what the fuck just happened", like a lady.
I fainted last summer after riding my bike for 10 hours; that time, I said "always cocacola" when I came to. I was thristy.
That time, I knew I passed out from dehydration; this time, the doctor said I got up to fast. My insurance paid a guy to say that to me. That's the problem with America.
When you tell people you fainted, they usually tell you a story about fainting.
When I was about 12ish, I learned how to make yourself pass out. From then on, my friends and I used to passed out all the time - on street corners, sleep overs. Someone told us a story about a boyplaying the same game and dying, so we stopped. None of us were interested in dying.
My sister fainted once when we were on vacation in Wildwood. I was 13, she was 20. She leaned back on a car and started shaking. I thought she was dancing and was so mortified. "Right now? You're going to do this right now?"
The people in the car got out and told me to call an ambulance. I called my mom instead because she's a nurse. My mom brought her to the dr who said Tara was allergic to the....sun. She passed out from overexposure to an allergen. 17 years later, my sister has son who is also allergic to ridiculous things.
I think fainting is what it must feel like to die; and thats, mad dark.
I woke up and said "what the fuck just happened", like a lady.
I fainted last summer after riding my bike for 10 hours; that time, I said "always cocacola" when I came to. I was thristy.
That time, I knew I passed out from dehydration; this time, the doctor said I got up to fast. My insurance paid a guy to say that to me. That's the problem with America.
When you tell people you fainted, they usually tell you a story about fainting.
When I was about 12ish, I learned how to make yourself pass out. From then on, my friends and I used to passed out all the time - on street corners, sleep overs. Someone told us a story about a boyplaying the same game and dying, so we stopped. None of us were interested in dying.
My sister fainted once when we were on vacation in Wildwood. I was 13, she was 20. She leaned back on a car and started shaking. I thought she was dancing and was so mortified. "Right now? You're going to do this right now?"
The people in the car got out and told me to call an ambulance. I called my mom instead because she's a nurse. My mom brought her to the dr who said Tara was allergic to the....sun. She passed out from overexposure to an allergen. 17 years later, my sister has son who is also allergic to ridiculous things.
I think fainting is what it must feel like to die; and thats, mad dark.
Fireflies
Fireflies were my favorite thing when I was younger. Samantha Barr and I spent every summer night collecting them and every summer day developing intricate little bio domes wherein they would live forever. At night, before bed, I dreamt about keeping one on a leash and sauntering about on Tremont Ave.
My mother wouldn’t let me have a dog.
Once, on my way out the door, my mother called me back in to find out where I was going. I stole her crystal sugar pourer or syrup thing (I don’t know what they’re called), thinking it would make a beautiful home for my pets. I shoved it in my underpants and explained that I was going to Samantha’s.
Running out of the house, crystal in hand, I screamed: “I have such a full life”. I was 7 and had no idea what that meant. I watched a tremendous amount of Oprah. As I screamed, I crashed into a fence, presumably blinded with glee. The crystal shattered everywhere - in my hair, all over the ground and piercing my arm leaving me with a thick, short scar that still remains.
My mother never noticed the her missing crystal pourer thing or the cut on my arm much to my relief.
I forget who, but someone’s brother – either mine or samantha’s- taught us what happens when you step on a firefly and slide your foot. After that, we collected them and stomped on them all night long, showing each other our caucus’ glow – as if we’d never seen it before.
After you you learn how to kill something, you stop appreciating its life, it beauty. That was the last summer we collected fireflies, but every time I see one of I think of Samantha and our very full lives.
My mother wouldn’t let me have a dog.
Once, on my way out the door, my mother called me back in to find out where I was going. I stole her crystal sugar pourer or syrup thing (I don’t know what they’re called), thinking it would make a beautiful home for my pets. I shoved it in my underpants and explained that I was going to Samantha’s.
Running out of the house, crystal in hand, I screamed: “I have such a full life”. I was 7 and had no idea what that meant. I watched a tremendous amount of Oprah. As I screamed, I crashed into a fence, presumably blinded with glee. The crystal shattered everywhere - in my hair, all over the ground and piercing my arm leaving me with a thick, short scar that still remains.
My mother never noticed the her missing crystal pourer thing or the cut on my arm much to my relief.
I forget who, but someone’s brother – either mine or samantha’s- taught us what happens when you step on a firefly and slide your foot. After that, we collected them and stomped on them all night long, showing each other our caucus’ glow – as if we’d never seen it before.
After you you learn how to kill something, you stop appreciating its life, it beauty. That was the last summer we collected fireflies, but every time I see one of I think of Samantha and our very full lives.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
St. Patricks Day
I once heard that St. Patrick was not Irish. Supposedly, he was black and this was to be ironic because stereotypically Irish people are racist.
My mom calls this 'reverse racism'. When she says this, it confuses me.
Racism is prejudice that members of one race are intrinsically superior to members of other races. Being Irish isn't a race, and based on this definition racism can't really be reversed.
I should mention, as an Italian woman, my mother doesn't particularly like Irish people - deeming them stoic overall. She fancies herself a passionate, soulful woman which I don’t disagree with. I do disagree with making declarations on an entire culture based on single interactions. I also think she doesn't really feel this way because is happily married to an Irish man - my father- for 40 years.
My mother also believes she is engaged in an "interracial marriage" because she married an Irish man. Whenever she says this, she uses air quotes.
I do not particularly like St. Patrick's Day.
Historically, St. Patrick's Day has been a catastrophe for me and the people of Throggs Neck - my hometown. One of the kids I went to grammar school got beaten to death at the parade, and people close to me tend to use the holiday as a chance to drink, drive, get arrested, break parole and... Well, I think I used to stay home on St. Patrick's Day just waiting for an awful phone call. Over the years, I learned that a watch pot does not make the water boil any faster, and waiting for bad news is not an efficient use of my time.
When I was underage, liked going to the parade because drinking made me feel badass. Badass was the look I was going for back then. Moreover, while I am still kinda going for that look, nowadays I just don’t want to be hung over at work. It gives me the jitters.
St. Patrick was born in Wales. An Irish Slave kidnapped him as a boy and brought him to Ireland. He was reared in Ireland and brought Catholicism to its people. I have no idea what this has to do with alcohol, except that Catholics have wine at communion. So why aren't people drinking mad vino?
Most of the churches I've been to, don't let the attendees drink the wine. In high school, I decided this was a herpes prevention tactic.
I would say "may the luck of the irish be with you" to end this blog, but I don't know any lucky Irish people - except myboyfriend who gets to live with me.
My mom calls this 'reverse racism'. When she says this, it confuses me.
Racism is prejudice that members of one race are intrinsically superior to members of other races. Being Irish isn't a race, and based on this definition racism can't really be reversed.
I should mention, as an Italian woman, my mother doesn't particularly like Irish people - deeming them stoic overall. She fancies herself a passionate, soulful woman which I don’t disagree with. I do disagree with making declarations on an entire culture based on single interactions. I also think she doesn't really feel this way because is happily married to an Irish man - my father- for 40 years.
My mother also believes she is engaged in an "interracial marriage" because she married an Irish man. Whenever she says this, she uses air quotes.
I do not particularly like St. Patrick's Day.
Historically, St. Patrick's Day has been a catastrophe for me and the people of Throggs Neck - my hometown. One of the kids I went to grammar school got beaten to death at the parade, and people close to me tend to use the holiday as a chance to drink, drive, get arrested, break parole and... Well, I think I used to stay home on St. Patrick's Day just waiting for an awful phone call. Over the years, I learned that a watch pot does not make the water boil any faster, and waiting for bad news is not an efficient use of my time.
When I was underage, liked going to the parade because drinking made me feel badass. Badass was the look I was going for back then. Moreover, while I am still kinda going for that look, nowadays I just don’t want to be hung over at work. It gives me the jitters.
St. Patrick was born in Wales. An Irish Slave kidnapped him as a boy and brought him to Ireland. He was reared in Ireland and brought Catholicism to its people. I have no idea what this has to do with alcohol, except that Catholics have wine at communion. So why aren't people drinking mad vino?
Most of the churches I've been to, don't let the attendees drink the wine. In high school, I decided this was a herpes prevention tactic.
I would say "may the luck of the irish be with you" to end this blog, but I don't know any lucky Irish people - except myboyfriend who gets to live with me.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Cancer
I always hated the "cancer sucks" campaign.
Stubbing your toe sucks; Cancer kills you.
I much prefer something along the lines of (pardon my french) "Cancer's a real dickhead" or, at the very least something more aggressive like "Fuck Cancer".
As I get older, I find the word "dickhead" way more crass than I used to and exceptionally more offensive to my ears.
Some people believe cancer is caused by negative energy or stress. I dont entirely doubt this because stress causes inflammation in the body, and inflammation influences cancer causing genes. That's why aspirin prevents cancer. However, it really breaks my heart when cancer patients choose no medical intervention and go the way of hypnosis and crystals. Cause those people die. Indeed, every now and then you hear a story of someone who laughed their way to health, but those are miracles.
The thing is, miracles are rare; they're special (even the Insane clown posse knows that). So, when it comes to your life and death - the thing that makes you just like everyone else - why would would you gamble? It's like banking on mega millions to pay this month's rent.
Most people who work in cancer hosptials say that they would love to be put out of work by cure; I don't doubt this, but, cmon- losing your job sucks.
Stubbing your toe sucks; Cancer kills you.
I much prefer something along the lines of (pardon my french) "Cancer's a real dickhead" or, at the very least something more aggressive like "Fuck Cancer".
As I get older, I find the word "dickhead" way more crass than I used to and exceptionally more offensive to my ears.
Some people believe cancer is caused by negative energy or stress. I dont entirely doubt this because stress causes inflammation in the body, and inflammation influences cancer causing genes. That's why aspirin prevents cancer. However, it really breaks my heart when cancer patients choose no medical intervention and go the way of hypnosis and crystals. Cause those people die. Indeed, every now and then you hear a story of someone who laughed their way to health, but those are miracles.
The thing is, miracles are rare; they're special (even the Insane clown posse knows that). So, when it comes to your life and death - the thing that makes you just like everyone else - why would would you gamble? It's like banking on mega millions to pay this month's rent.
Most people who work in cancer hosptials say that they would love to be put out of work by cure; I don't doubt this, but, cmon- losing your job sucks.
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