I’m sitting here watching re-runs of Glee, sipping on finger-quote sweet tea. Welcome to Tuesday night.
You see, I made an attempt at sweet tea last night. For those of you who are living vicariously through my blog, I hope you are getting at least a couple of servings of vicarious vegetables a day because I’ve never claimed to be a good cook. On the contrary, you might struggle to find a worse cook. Though I can’t say I suck at it because I generally avoid trying it. It's like saying I suck at having a colonoscopy - I might be good at it, but we'll never know.
When I moved into the house, I had the genius idea to buy cheap food that would keep a long time in order to make my cabinets appear full and to have stuff in the house in case someone came over who could cook. Included in that purchase, were 100 tea bags and 5 pounds of sugar. Last night I put them to not so good use.
While I cooked the frozen chicken tenders [Note: This time I got fancy and put them on a salad.], I decided to make tea. I read the tea bag box which had directions for making one quart of unsweet tea. Turns out, I needed a gallon of sweet tea. It was at this point I started the process. With a call to Mom. She got me started, but I made the critical error of sounding semi-confident on the phone and asking specific questions. Therefore, as soon as I hung up, I had more questions and had abandoned enough of my independence for one day.
So I pulled up Google. 3 queries later, I all but threw in the towel. I was 15 seconds away from trying to calculate fluid ounces to non-fluid ounces so that I could use a Gatorade bottle to measure the sugar when I finally found something with a measurement on it. Sure, it was a piece of Tupperware that was previously home to leftovers from Mom. And yes, my dear mother, I do intend to keep that until you specifically ask for it back.
When it was all said and done, I had made drinkable tea. Honestly, it’s not great, and I have no idea how to improve the process next time, but I count it as a victory nonetheless.
So, to my future wife [Because I know you’re reading this… Well, know is a strong word.], don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll mow the yard and change the air filters, but if dinner is left up to me, we’re having Hot Pockets. I love you.
Now if I could figure out how to get my freezer to stop auto-defrosting my ice cubes, I could really pull the wool over the south’s eyes, fill up my Mason jar glasses with some sweet iced tea, and make them think I was from around here. The Mason jar glasses were courtesy of my grandmother... A meal really is a team effort around here.
Finally, I know Glee isn’t real, and some of you may not consider it cool [which is ironic, considering the glee club itself isn’t cool at McKinley High], but Quinn Fabray, if you’re reading this and have ever wanted to go to dinner with an auditor who has a low-traffic blog, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I promise at as many real dates as you want prior to Hot Pockets.
12.12.2010
B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets
Disciples of Tebow have Jorts. Girls who wish to appear as though they’re wearing pants without actually wearing pants have Jeggings. Consider this post the introduction of the concept of Jet Pants… or Jets. They’re the sweatpants that look like blue jeans.
Sure, those of us who have entered Corporate America know the excitement that comes with the rare opportunity to wear jeans to work. But what if you could appear as though you were wearing jeans, when, in actuality, you were wearing sweatpants?
Honestly, I don’t see that much difference in the comfort of jeans as opposed to the comfort of khakis (what a ridiculous word, when spelled out) or slacks (am I the first person under the age of 60 to use that term?). The one obvious benefit is that you don’t have to use a napkin when you wear jeans.
Take a minute and think outside the inseam: do we really live in a world where you can’t wipe your hands on your pants and feel like you’re legs are surrounded by a cuddly polar bear? Hannah Montana could make this happen – it’d be the best of both worlds. Of course, she’d have to stop taking rides on the reefer rocket first.
In reality, I don’t want Miley as the spokesperson for Jet Pants. I want Mike Vitar. Who’s Mike Vitar, you ask? Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez. Think about how much faster Benny could have run away from the Beast if he had been wearing Jets instead of jeans. I guarantee Jet Pants would have made enough of a difference in his range of motion that the Beast would have never gotten close enough to nip at Benny’s haunches, and, as a direct result, Benny would have never yelled the first curse word I remember hearing. [I believe that to be a reasonable claim. I would have been 8 when watching this movie. Frankly, I don’t remember much before age 8 anyway.]
Seriously, you’re already picturing the commercial in your head, aren’t you? Well, that doesn’t entitle you to the copyright. This little blog is time-stamped, sucker. My extensive knowledge of Business Law indicates that when I prove it my was my idea first, I win. Anyway, in the commercial concept I have guided you to, you are picturing Benny the Jet Rodriguez outrunning the Beast while Sir Elton John is wailing in the background, “Oh, Bennie she’s really keen. She’s got electric boots and a mohair suit.”
When someone produces Jets (and after I start getting royalty checks), be sure to get a pair for yourself. Then stop pretending to drown… because Wendy Peffercorn will be all over you, Squints.
Sure, those of us who have entered Corporate America know the excitement that comes with the rare opportunity to wear jeans to work. But what if you could appear as though you were wearing jeans, when, in actuality, you were wearing sweatpants?
Honestly, I don’t see that much difference in the comfort of jeans as opposed to the comfort of khakis (what a ridiculous word, when spelled out) or slacks (am I the first person under the age of 60 to use that term?). The one obvious benefit is that you don’t have to use a napkin when you wear jeans.
Take a minute and think outside the inseam: do we really live in a world where you can’t wipe your hands on your pants and feel like you’re legs are surrounded by a cuddly polar bear? Hannah Montana could make this happen – it’d be the best of both worlds. Of course, she’d have to stop taking rides on the reefer rocket first.
In reality, I don’t want Miley as the spokesperson for Jet Pants. I want Mike Vitar. Who’s Mike Vitar, you ask? Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez. Think about how much faster Benny could have run away from the Beast if he had been wearing Jets instead of jeans. I guarantee Jet Pants would have made enough of a difference in his range of motion that the Beast would have never gotten close enough to nip at Benny’s haunches, and, as a direct result, Benny would have never yelled the first curse word I remember hearing. [I believe that to be a reasonable claim. I would have been 8 when watching this movie. Frankly, I don’t remember much before age 8 anyway.]
Seriously, you’re already picturing the commercial in your head, aren’t you? Well, that doesn’t entitle you to the copyright. This little blog is time-stamped, sucker. My extensive knowledge of Business Law indicates that when I prove it my was my idea first, I win. Anyway, in the commercial concept I have guided you to, you are picturing Benny the Jet Rodriguez outrunning the Beast while Sir Elton John is wailing in the background, “Oh, Bennie she’s really keen. She’s got electric boots and a mohair suit.”
When someone produces Jets (and after I start getting royalty checks), be sure to get a pair for yourself. Then stop pretending to drown… because Wendy Peffercorn will be all over you, Squints.
12.07.2010
Skip to the Bottom for Christmas Gift Ideas
A brief excerpt from my life… Last work trip I took, I returned to the Nashville airport, walked the 4 miles through long term parking construction to my car, loaded my suitcase in the trunk, climbed inside and turned the key. It was at this point I was welcomed home by the reality that my car was as broke as Andrea Bocelli feeding quarters into an arcade trying to beat Galaga.
After I remembered I had roadside assistance through my recently acquired new car insurance, I soon found myself waving down the tow truck driver. He had a normal name, so, naturally, we’ll give him an alias. So Gus pulls up and asks for my insurance card. Actual conversation to follow:
“This your wife’s card?”
“Nope. I’m Loren.”
“Huh... You a Johnny Cash fan?”
Easily the greatest conversation I’ve ever had with a tow truck driver. A few minutes later, I learned that the airport still charges you for parking, even when you try to sneak your car out on the back of a tow truck.
Gus was nice. I hope he didn’t like me asking him to repeat everything he said because it was hard for me to interpret his twang with the windows down. Anyway, all worked out wonderfully, but I figured if you clicked looking to catch a glimpse of life as me, I should give it to you.
As I type this, G6 is on. A word of warning for all you young, malleable minds (malleable - Wordly Wise level 9 word), no matter how fly you are feeling or how numb you are from popping bottles on ice in a blizzard, it is never a good idea to sip scissors.
Here I thought kids were just huffing rubber cement, which, I learned at church last week, requires a paper bag. It appears we live in a society where everything Billy Madison used to make his blue duck and pass first grade is now used by kids looking for a high while dancing around on a glittery floor, listening to Ke-dollar-sign-ha.
Who needs urban dictionary when you have East Nashville church kids? Not this guy. Even if we don't have Jesus on our neck-uh-lace, you don't want to mess with South Historic Inglewood.
Finally, for those not-last-minute-but-clearly-not-first-minute Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa shoppers, stop reading this and go buy your kids some Pogs. They're quacktastic.
After I remembered I had roadside assistance through my recently acquired new car insurance, I soon found myself waving down the tow truck driver. He had a normal name, so, naturally, we’ll give him an alias. So Gus pulls up and asks for my insurance card. Actual conversation to follow:
“This your wife’s card?”
“Nope. I’m Loren.”
“Huh... You a Johnny Cash fan?”
Easily the greatest conversation I’ve ever had with a tow truck driver. A few minutes later, I learned that the airport still charges you for parking, even when you try to sneak your car out on the back of a tow truck.
Gus was nice. I hope he didn’t like me asking him to repeat everything he said because it was hard for me to interpret his twang with the windows down. Anyway, all worked out wonderfully, but I figured if you clicked looking to catch a glimpse of life as me, I should give it to you.
As I type this, G6 is on. A word of warning for all you young, malleable minds (malleable - Wordly Wise level 9 word), no matter how fly you are feeling or how numb you are from popping bottles on ice in a blizzard, it is never a good idea to sip scissors.
Here I thought kids were just huffing rubber cement, which, I learned at church last week, requires a paper bag. It appears we live in a society where everything Billy Madison used to make his blue duck and pass first grade is now used by kids looking for a high while dancing around on a glittery floor, listening to Ke-dollar-sign-ha.
Who needs urban dictionary when you have East Nashville church kids? Not this guy. Even if we don't have Jesus on our neck-uh-lace, you don't want to mess with South Historic Inglewood.
Finally, for those not-last-minute-but-clearly-not-first-minute Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa shoppers, stop reading this and go buy your kids some Pogs. They're quacktastic.
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