Overly Verbal

So say you’re at Harris Teeter. And say you’re in the frozen food section, and you discover that Harris Teeter’s “H.T. Traders” line of products (tagline: “Harris Teeter - Searching Near And Far”) newly includes something which goes by the name of “Tiramisu.” And say the packaging claims that this product is “Imported from Italy,” and is a “Delicate sponge cake topped with coffee flavored liqueur, mascarpone cream & dusted with cocoa powder.”

And say you’re tempted to purchase some, because it’s only $2.50, and while the picture on the package does not even remotely resemble tiramisu, you’re sort of curious about whether it’s any good. Heck, if California Pizza Kitchen can do it, why not Harris Teeter?

Although I have been known to give questionable advice in any number of arenas, I think you’d be wise to take my advice on this one: don’t buy it. In fact, if you see anyone wandering around near it, tell them not to buy any either. I bought some, and then I ate it, and then I said aloud, even though no one was here to hear me, “This is not delicious.”

To be fair, the packaging commands “FOR OPTIMUM FLAVOR ALLOW CUPS TO THAW IN REFRIGERATOR ONE HOUR PRIOR TO SERVING,” and this I did not do. Maybe if I had, it would have been delightful, but I think it probably still would have just made me sad. The package comes with two individual plastic cups of “tiramisu”, and I only ate one (actually, two thirds of one. The rest went in the garbage disposal.), so maybe if you come over, we can thaw the other one in the refrigerator for an hour, and then you can eat it and see if it tastes better that way. (But really I only offer because the faces you are likely going to make if you eat some will be amusing to me.)

Why does Harris Teeter always make me think, “Wow, I wish I could have that [unit of time or money] back?” (And why does anyone keep reading my blog?)

Big trouble on the home front today. (I had a job interview scheduled for today, and therefore was not going to work, but then they rescheduled it for tomorrow, which is why I happen to have all this time on my hands today, not being at work and all.)

I cannot decide whether I should have bangs.

I think I look adorable with bangs. I’m thinking Suzanne Vega in the video for Luka bangs. (I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what my hair looked like in 1987, come to think of it. You can watch it on YouTube.)

I very nearly cut my hair ten minutes ago so that I would have bangs. (Don’t worry, I cut my own hair all the time. It’s easy: you just need sharp scissors, a steady hand, and to be very careful that you don’t muck it all up. But if you do mess it all up you can just go to a hairdresser and have your hair made short again.)

But then I thought that maybe girls who wear glasses shouldn’t wear bangs.

(But Lisa Loeb wears glasses and bangs sometimes, and she’s freakin’ adorable.)

(But then there’s this. It’s not the independent sassy alternative part so much as the dateless part that’s concerning me.)

Whatever should I do?

So I’m looking for a job, right? Did you know that you could earn $8.50 an hour as a “shampoo assistant” in a salon? And that there are apparently “shampoo protocols”* in which you would have to be trained if you were to shampoo other people’s hair for a living? Nope, neither did I. (Unfortunately, my eczema is exacerbated by water.) (The type on my palms, anyway. The type of eczema on the back of my wrists is aggravated by chemicals commonly found in cleansers.) (“Um, Jen, you have two different types of eczema, both on your hands?” “Yup. My immune system is, in a word, amazing.”)

But it gets better. You know those ladies in the mall who squirt perfume on you? They apparently earn $17 an hour, and aren’t just squirting perfume: they’re “promoting beauty and skincare products”. (Unfortunately, perfume makes my eyes water.) But I don’t get it. Why would you make twice as much money standing around looking pretty and enumerating the putative benefits of anti-wrinkle cream (pardon me, creme) than you would executing shampoo protocols?

(And if I was only one inch taller than I am now, I could model clothing. But I’m not, so I can’t. (But that would be kinda fun, I think, being a model. And being this skinny ought to be good for something, oughtn’t it?))

And if I didn’t have quite so much concern for my personal safety? I could be an “exotic dancer with sensual massage”. And earn $100 an hour. (But since I’m not exactly sure what that job title is a euphemism for, I think I’ll pass on that one.)

It is possible that the reason I cannot find a proper job is that I lack what I have heard people refer to as “focus”. (Or maybe it’s just that when faced with a website that has literally hundreds of job listings, I have a tendency to really delve into those listings: compiling information, gathering data. That’s an important job skill, isn’t it?)

But hey, it’s not even 10 AM yet, and I’ve already found three jobs that I don’t want, and one for which I am unqualified through no fault of my own. That’s not nothing.

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* Sorry, but I’m now reminded of this: “A diplomat’s life is made up of three ingredients: protocol, Geritol, and alcohol.” Adlai Stevenson? He was a real hoot.

I’m sorry to have to do this to you, but some people apparently don’t understand why the word cotillions might be useful in Scrabble. Sure, it has more than seven letters, but it builds off the words “cot”, “ill”, “till”, “ion”, “ions”, “lion”, and “lions”. Could we all just try to be a little bit better at Scrabble, so I don’t have to do everything? Geez.

And as long as we’re talking about Scrabble, did you see this?

So the other day I mentioned civil disobedience. And now I feel like I still have to do something, even though the cat litter Mouse needs is now easily available to me. (I think that is now the fourth time I’ve mentioned cat litter here. Why on earth is anyone reading this if I’m just going to tell you embarrassing things about me and talk about cat litter? Why?)

Anyway, I had an idea earlier, while walking to the store: I think it would be fun to put prominent “Please Use Other Door” stickers on the doors of establishments that have only one door.

(Or is that only funny to me right now because I broke my last wine glass the other day? Here’s something - wine glasses are exactly the size of a glass of wine. Water glasses? Not so much. So if you’re using a water glass to drink wine? It’s possible that you think you’ve had one glass of wine when in fact you’ve had significantly more than one glass of wine.)

(Do they have wine glasses at the grocery store? Probably, but I don’t know for sure. I set out thinking I should find out, and thinking also that I need a new umbrella, since I left mine in a cab the other day (which means that the next person that finds an umbrella in a cab, or under a seat in the movie theater or a restaurant, or on the bus, should take that umbrella - it’s only fair.) (And if you then gave it to me? That might not be more fair, but at least I’d have an umbrella again.), but then I got distracted when the friendly employee who was near the lunch meat in the grocery store saw me pick up some lunch meat and said, “Making lunches for tomorrow?” I could have just smiled at him, but instead I said, “No, I was going to go home and eat a sandwich.” And then he said, “That sounds good, I’m kinda hungry.” And then I thought, “Wow, I wish I could have those 20 seconds back.”) (And then you thought, “Wow, I wish I could have those 25 seconds back.”) (But the employees at this store are going sort of overboard with the friendliness - the cashier went out of her way to read my receipt and tell me that I saved 51 cents today. You know what, cashier lady? I can read all by myself, and besides that, there’s no need to ingratiate yourself to me in hopes that I will become a loyal customer of your brand new store, what with your being the only grocery store within walking distance of my house and all.) (But if you were going to ingratiate yourself? 51 cents ain’t gonna cut it.) (And this will now be the third time I’ve wished I could make a cents symbol, and then told you so. I should really try to seem slightly less insane.)

(And here’s something else. One way I might come across as maybe not entirely insane? If I would just not publish on the Internet everything I’m thinking the instant I think it, and after I’ve had significantly more than one glass of wine. But what fun would that be?)

I’m afraid to report that for a while earlier today I had Every Rose Has Its Thorn stuck in my head. And now I’m a little concerned for my general mental health. Not only because I know each and every word to a Poison song, but because before that I had Cheap Trick’s The Flame stuck in my head. And it’s one thing to get one cheesy power ballad stuck in your head on any given day, but two? That just doesn’t seem right.

Not being overly fond of cheesy power ballads, my brain shortly returned to its default state, and now I have Billy Joel’s Honesty stuck in my head. (I am not ashamed to say that I find that a truly lovely song.)

And now I really can’t figure out why I don’t play the piano, since I do technically know how, and feel confident that I would be much better at applying myself to the task of actually learning to read music now than I was at 15. (Plus, I’ve been feeling lately that I need to actively be more creative.)

But I don’t have a piano. Do you have one I can borrow? (Come on, stranger things have happened than someone lending me a piano.) (Today, probably.)

I didn’t have a proper piano when I took lessons, either. I just had an electronic keyboard with full-sized keys. (And that worked, even though it was short something like 20 keys, because I was not so accomplished that I needed a full set of 88.) And although I just did a little browsing online, and discovered that electronic keyboards are surprisingly inexpensive, I think we can all agree that a sound financial management plan does not include the purchase of a musical instrument that might only ever see two weeks of use, at a time when one is not properly employed. (Not that I’ve ever had a particularly sound financial management plan, but still.) So if you have an electronic keyboard I could borrow, that would be fine too.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.

1. My quality of life is vastly improved now that there is a 24-hour grocery store within walking distance of my home. (For example, today I ate a salad for lunch, without going to a restaurant. That was when I realized that there was previously nowhere within easy walking distance of my home to buy fresh fruits and vegetables.) (Well, you can sometimes find a banana at 7-11 (not that it would be particularly wise to purchase and then consume any bananas you might find at 7-11), but really, it’s no wonder America is full of slobs when people live in communities where you can’t buy fresh fruits and vegetables without taking a bus.)
2. I am not as comfortable in a ball gown as I am at a baseball game, and it cracks me up each and every time a man who claims to be looking for a woman who is that way sends me an e-mail. (And you know what else? No one ever writes it like that, with the parallel balls - they always say “cocktail dress”, which is not nearly as nice.) Sure, I look fantastic all gussied up, but 9.95 times out of 10, I’d rather be at a baseball game (which is probably why there are something like 160 baseball games in a season, and far fewer debutante balls (otherwise known as cotillions) (a fact which I mention only because it might come in handy in Scrabble)). (And speaking of baseball, I did not watch one minute of the World Series this year. Not even any replays on the local news. I sure am busy lately.)

   Also, if you claim to be a man who is as comfortable in a tux as in flip-flops, I’m not going to believe you (and I’m not sure I’ve mentioned before that I really can’t see what purpose there is in even ever wearing flip-flops, unless you’re at a pool or something (except maybe if you grew up on or near a beach). Otherwise, don’t do it. Really.). Claim to be as comfortable on your bicycle as in a library, as comfortable switching trains in Grand Central as you are making risotto in your own kitchen, sure. But a tux and flip-flops? Nonsense. (And can someone please explain to me again why I don’t write online personals ads for a living?) (Oh, right, because that would be unethical, Cyrano de Bergerac notwithstanding.)

3. Sometimes things that are bad for you can be lovely. For example, until this afternoon, I was growing some mold on some pineapple in my refrigerator (did I mention I’ve been busy?). And it was two different colors, and growing in interesting patterns and shapes, and if anyone else had been here, I would have made them look at it, because it was pretty. (Which is probably why I spend most of my at-home time alone. I make people look at mold and stuff when they come over.)

So you know that Pablo Picasso song? It’s stuck in my head. Not the David Bowie version, the other one. I think I should look into getting a job developing a medication that would get a song out of your head.

(Or maybe a medication to make me stop transcribing the imaginary conversations in my head. (You: “Speaking of jobs, are you ever going to get a job, Jen?” Me: “I have an interview sometime next week. Details were surely follow.”))

So this is going to come across much like my earlier statement that people who drink Amstel Light are not automatically devoid of interesting stories, but I’m going to say it anyway: California Pizza Kitchen makes the best tiramisu ever.

(I know Goethe agrees with me. You probably don’t, in which case, please do tell me where to get the best tiramisu ever.)

After dinner last night, the “best tiramisu in the city” was delivered to the table. And it was not that good, and so I told my dinner companion about my love for the CPK tiramisu. (Later, we’re in a cab, and ask the driver where to get the best tiramisu. I refine the question: “What’s your favorite Italian restaurant?” And when the cab driver, unaware of our after-dinner conversation, answered, “California Pizza Kitchen”? It was magical.)

(Speaking of best-evers, does anybody know whether the demise of the Tower Records stores is a harbinger of the closing of the Tower Cafe in Sacramento? They have the best french toast ever.*) (Even better than mine.) (Please make a note of the fact that I just said someone does something better than I do. That way, next time you call me cocky, I can remind you of the french toast thing.)

Now, I gotta figure out what I’m going to do with the extra hour this weekend. Don’t forget to change the batteries in your smoke detectors and flashlights.

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*Unless you’ve recently made me french toast. If you have, yours is better than that at the Tower Cafe. (And if you haven’t recently made me french toast? You should. I like french toast.)

So all is right with the world. The grocery store that just opened by my house has both the cat litter Mouse uses and my favorite cheap red wine. Hallelujah.

In other news, the Bible does actually say, “It is good for a man not to touch a woman.” Still can’t figure that one out. Don’t we have to create more men in the image of God? How are we going to do that without touching each other? Geez.

Also, I forgot a pretty important detail about the bizarre deli encounter the other day. The lunch menu is entitled, “Happy Lunch Menu” and features such items as “spagitti” and “chicken noddle” soup. As you can well imagine, the Happy Lunch Menu does not make me happy at all. (But of course I ate there again today, to see if the strange man was around. And he wasn’t.) (And I ordered a turkey club, and it was only cut into halves, not quarters. I almost sent it back to have it cut properly, but I was hungry. What the fuck is so hard about making sandwiches?)

Another thing that does not make me happy? My cell phone. I’ve had it for just over a year, and it’s one of those nifty pay-as-you-go phones, so I only pay for minutes that I use. So the service calls me the other day, to tell me that the technology in my phone is being discontinued, and I need a new phone. Sure, if I just buy enough minutes, they’ll give me a free phone, but I don’t want a new phone. I want things to work longer than 15 months. Planned obsolescence pisses me off. (And if I get a new phone, am I going to be able to transfer all the text messages I’ve saved on my old phone to my new phone? Easily, I mean, and without paying someone else to do it? Probably not. And I love the text messages on my phone, and don’t want to do without them. What else are you going to do on the bus but re-read some of your favorite text messages? I’ve actually thought of writing haiku from text messages taken completely out of context, because that would be funny. And now that I have a blog, I’d have somewhere to publish them. But that would be mean, I suppose, because it’s not nice to inflict haiku composed of text messages on other people, especially people who put up with you when you’re exhibiting symptoms of mild insanity. And I am trying very strenuously not to be so mean.) (I’m not succeeding, but at least I’m trying.)

Finally? I still love being a temp. People say the funniest things to you. For example, “I don’t even know your name, but it seems like you work here already.” Or, “What did you say to the temp agency to make them understand that you’re perfect?” Or, when someone thinks I’m out of earshot, “Ask Jennifer. I’m pretty sure she can do anything.”

Otherwise, I have nothing of import to report, nor do I have any recent photos of my cat. (But the song stuck in my head all day long? Dan Fogelberg’s “Same Auld Lang Syne.” The horns at the end? How does one make an instrument connote hope and despair at precisely the same time? How?)

So I’m in a deli today, just finishing my sandwich (and here’s something - I believe that when I order tuna salad on white toast, I have a natural-born right to also have provolone. So if your establishment exists only to make sandwiches, and you say to me, “Lettuce and tomato?” and I say to you, “Yes,” and then you say, “Cheese?” and I say, “Provolone, please” the next thing you say to me should not be, “We don’t have provolone.” Because that’s just going to make me sad, and it’s not very nice to make me sad when it’s only lunchtime. I really do believe in the little guy, the independent sandwich shop, hardware store, bookseller, etc., but you know what? Subway always has provolone. Always.)

Crap. I’m lost. So I’m finishing my sandwich, and reading a magazine, when a man sitting near (but not close to) me, turns to me and asks, “Are you a Redskins fan?” And I say, “Um, no. Not at all.” Which should have been the end of the conversation, no? (Because, hi, I’m reading. And therefore not talking, those two things being mutually exclusive and all.)

So then he starts telling me about his life. He’s clearly what we’ll call differently-abled, and apparently used to watch all the Redskins games, but then realized that it was a “vanity”, and it was destroying his life. So God seems to have spoken to him, and now, instead of watching Redskins games, he hangs out in delis. (Which I suppose is better, given that I think football is kinda complicated to follow and all. I mean, I’d much rather hang out in a deli than in front of my TV watching football.) So then he starts quoting 1st Corinthians at me. The body is a temple, blah, blah, blah. So what do I do? I say, “Clearly you are a wise man. I hope that you can continue to neglect to watch football games, in order to serve your lord. See you later.” (Really, that’s what I said. Because I’m all tolerant of people who are not like me and whatnot.) (But I wish I had had another half hour to sit and talk with him, because he quite obviously needed someone to talk to.)

But that’s not an interesting story at all, is it? Until you add in the part where I came home and started reading 1st Corinthians on the Internet, to make sure it had the part about your being a temple in it. (I was pretty sure it did, because this guy seemed to know his shit, but I just wanted to doublecheck.) So it does. And now, instead of looking for a new job, or worrying about how insane my life is at the moment, I’m going to sit down and read some more of the Bible. (Because there are some really bad translations of the Bible on the Internet. For example, “. . . it is good for a man not to touch a woman.” That’s not really what it says, is it? I gotta look into that.)

Wish me solace.