Most of you have probably heard of the Twilight book series. Since I am a huge fan of pop culture and always want to be in-the-know on the latest trend, I decided to read the books. Stephanie Meyers has taken over Dan Brown's number one spot on my worst writer's list. As a fan of Anne Rice novels and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I was almost offended by the nonchalant liberty Meyers took with vampire myth. Despite this, I read all four books, and found myself secretly enjoying them, like some guilty pleasure along the lines of spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar or OC marathons. So, to save the rest of you from wasting your time with these books, I will provide you with my summary of each one.
Book 1:
Bella is a very clumsy girl who hates weather. Edward is smokin' hot and mysterious. It turns out he's a vampire and Bella is into that. They start dating but Edward is really tempted to kill her whenever they are together because she smells delicious. Bella is cool with that. They can't kiss all that much because Edward might break her face with his super lips. Also, Edward glitters in the sun, which Bella thinks is just precious and totally vampire-like. Some other vampire also thinks Bella smells really tasty and tries to eat her but Edward and his buddies rip him apart and burn the pieces. Then Bella and Edward go to prom and Edward still wants to eat her. The end.
Book 2:
Edward decides he is over this whole scene and peaces out. Bella is really emo and doesn't talk to anyone and just sulks. She starts hanging out with this kid Jacob who is totally into her. Jacob is werewolf, but Bella is cool with it. Bella won't date Jacob because she's an idiot. Then she jumps of a cliff for funsies and almost drowns. Then she hears that Edward is going to kill himself in Italy, so she goes to Italy to try and stop this from going down. She does absolutely no site-seeing and has zero meals in the country where food is perfect. Instead, she just hangs out with vampires and convinces Edward she's not dead. Then they leave. Edward still kind of wants to eat Bella.
Book 3:
So remember that guy that they killed in the first book? He had a girlfriend and she's still pretty angry about her man being murdered, so she wants to kill Bella, but not because she smells tasty. Jacob the werewolf wants to date Bella but Bella is more of a vampire kind of girl. The crazy chick comes with an army of vampires to kill Bella, but Bella hides out in a tent while everyone else fights. The bad guys die. Edward has learned to control his cravings for Bella's blood.
Book 4:
Bella graduates from high school and promptly marries Edward so that they can have sex before she becomes a vampire. Unfortunately, MTV was not there to film an episode of "Underaged and Engaged." They go to an island and have sex for, like, 17 days, but each time, Bella wakes up with a bunch of bruises and the bed is all ripped to shreds. Bella thinks, "Worth it." This is why Rihanna got back together with Chris Brown. Then Bella finds out that she's pregnant, and at an accelerated rate. Edward is all like "Woman, we are getting this taken care of right now" and Bella is like "Noooooo, it's my baaaaabbbyyy" and Edward is like "But you will die, idiot" and she is like "worth it." So Bella is slowly dying because this baby demon keep breaking her ribs and eventually it breaks her spine and she starts spewing blood and Edward makes her a vampire to save her. Once she is a vampire, she is really smokin' hot and she and Edward have lots more sex. Then they hang out with their baby. Then some other vampires come to see what's up. The entire book leads up to a big fight. They are all ready for the fight and have all been practicing their cute little vampire super powers for weeks. Then they talk it out and part ways. Then Bella and Edward have sex again. The End.
There, now you don't have to read the books. You can just see the movies, which are sure to be entertaining in their ridiculousness.
If the Twilight series can teach us anything, it's that you can be absolutely talentless and do no research on your topic, and still become a millionaire.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
All My Single Ladies
Allow me to tell you a little bit about my friends. They are all beautiful, charming, intelligent, fun-loving.....and single. That last adjective doesn't seem to belong in the category, but unfortunately, these wonderful and very available ladies can't seem to find a boyfriend. I could go on about men fearing independent and intelligent women, but I think Oprah has the market cornered on that one. And I could talk about how my friends and I need to open up our hearts to more possibilities, but I don't completely buy into that. Instead, I would like to discuss what I feel is our main issue: We are completely and unforgivably awkward.
I will admit that "awkward" is a term that is thrown around way too much these days, along with "random" and "literally", but my social circle's case, it's pretty valid. Having grown up with mostly female friends and having had 2 or fewer serious relationships throughout our lives, my group really doesn't stand a chance. How are we supposed to know how to act around boys? We've always been taught to be independent and to never dumb ourselves down for a man. But no one taught us how to flip our hair while batting our eyelashes or laugh at a boy's sad attempt at a joke. Of course, we know the basics of femininity--hair, fashion, makeup, poise--but we don't take it to the extreme of slutty-ness, catty-ness, or lower-back tattoos. The resulting product of such a combination of social graces is a pretty woman who has her life together, but can't get men to see her as worth pursuing. Maybe it's because we look like we don't need men. Or maybe it's because we stay in the friend zone. Or maybe it's because we say awkward stuff like the following:
While at a bar on Friday night, a man approached Caitlin and said, "Do you dance?" Her response "Not competitively." When he grabbed another chick and moved to the dance floor, it dawned on Caitlin what he really meant.
At a bar one weekend, I was trying to get the bartender's attention so I could get a pitcher for my friends. I was waiting patiently, lost in thoughts, when a man next to me said, "Why are you so upset?" I automatically responded with, "Oh, no, I'm not angry. That's just my face." He quietly turned to face the girl on his other side.
In trying to give Emma flirting tips, Caitlin and I (the obvious experts on flirting) were debating between the methods of tactile flirting. Arm touch or chest touch? After assuring Emma that either would work, we went to a bar to demonstrate. Caitlin did her best to lightly touch a man's chest as she was talking to him and I made sure to occasionally touch the arm of the man I was talking to. Neither of us got phone numbers. Emma never used our methods and she has a boyfriend.
At a party, I made the mistake of wearing a shirt from the time when monogram clothing was popular. My shirt had a big rhinestone "E" in the corner, giving me that coveted Laverne-look. A boy came up to me and attempted to make a joke about the "E", saying "Does that stand for...easy? or...excellent...or...ummm.." I stopped him from going any further and jokingly said, "If you don't have anything clever to say, then just move on and talk about something else." Hurt, bad joke guy walked away. My friend Kristina was appalled and said, "Why were you so mean to him!" "What, it was a bad joke." I said. "Yeah, but he was a BOY"she said, flipping her hair and giving bedroom eyes to a boy across the room. Kristina is also single.
I guess what I'm getting at here is that we make plenty of mistakes, but who doesn't? Is there really any surefire way to get a guy's attention or to flirt? Flipping my eye and giggling for me is really just the equivalent of wearing a push-up bra--it's just a deception to make you more attracted to me. Even if I tried to cover it up, any guy would soon discover that I am sarcastic and independent and not at all the delicate flower he had hoped for. So my conclusion is that my friends are great women and deserve great men. So until the men step it up a notch, we're all going to be single and awkwardly lurking the bars.
I will admit that "awkward" is a term that is thrown around way too much these days, along with "random" and "literally", but my social circle's case, it's pretty valid. Having grown up with mostly female friends and having had 2 or fewer serious relationships throughout our lives, my group really doesn't stand a chance. How are we supposed to know how to act around boys? We've always been taught to be independent and to never dumb ourselves down for a man. But no one taught us how to flip our hair while batting our eyelashes or laugh at a boy's sad attempt at a joke. Of course, we know the basics of femininity--hair, fashion, makeup, poise--but we don't take it to the extreme of slutty-ness, catty-ness, or lower-back tattoos. The resulting product of such a combination of social graces is a pretty woman who has her life together, but can't get men to see her as worth pursuing. Maybe it's because we look like we don't need men. Or maybe it's because we stay in the friend zone. Or maybe it's because we say awkward stuff like the following:
While at a bar on Friday night, a man approached Caitlin and said, "Do you dance?" Her response "Not competitively." When he grabbed another chick and moved to the dance floor, it dawned on Caitlin what he really meant.
At a bar one weekend, I was trying to get the bartender's attention so I could get a pitcher for my friends. I was waiting patiently, lost in thoughts, when a man next to me said, "Why are you so upset?" I automatically responded with, "Oh, no, I'm not angry. That's just my face." He quietly turned to face the girl on his other side.
In trying to give Emma flirting tips, Caitlin and I (the obvious experts on flirting) were debating between the methods of tactile flirting. Arm touch or chest touch? After assuring Emma that either would work, we went to a bar to demonstrate. Caitlin did her best to lightly touch a man's chest as she was talking to him and I made sure to occasionally touch the arm of the man I was talking to. Neither of us got phone numbers. Emma never used our methods and she has a boyfriend.
At a party, I made the mistake of wearing a shirt from the time when monogram clothing was popular. My shirt had a big rhinestone "E" in the corner, giving me that coveted Laverne-look. A boy came up to me and attempted to make a joke about the "E", saying "Does that stand for...easy? or...excellent...or...ummm.." I stopped him from going any further and jokingly said, "If you don't have anything clever to say, then just move on and talk about something else." Hurt, bad joke guy walked away. My friend Kristina was appalled and said, "Why were you so mean to him!" "What, it was a bad joke." I said. "Yeah, but he was a BOY"she said, flipping her hair and giving bedroom eyes to a boy across the room. Kristina is also single.
I guess what I'm getting at here is that we make plenty of mistakes, but who doesn't? Is there really any surefire way to get a guy's attention or to flirt? Flipping my eye and giggling for me is really just the equivalent of wearing a push-up bra--it's just a deception to make you more attracted to me. Even if I tried to cover it up, any guy would soon discover that I am sarcastic and independent and not at all the delicate flower he had hoped for. So my conclusion is that my friends are great women and deserve great men. So until the men step it up a notch, we're all going to be single and awkwardly lurking the bars.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Crazy Cat Lady
I have had 2 memorable experiences with stray cats. The first was when Brian Setzer (from the 80s rockabilly band and, more famously, from The Brian Setzer Orchestra) sat behind me during a Cleveland performance of The Phantom of the Opera. The second is a current and continuing experience of my mother's love of the neighborhood homeless felines.
Stray cats have been prowling my neighborhood for as far back as I can remember. However, it wasn't until a little over a year ago that my mom started taking a particular liking to them. It began innocently enough--she would buy cheap cat food and set it outside for the hungry cats. As the news spread of this new food source that didn't require chasing or pouncing, cats from all around town came to feast underneath our deck. At first, my mom vowed to stop feeding them so she wouldn't attract anymore cats. But then winter came--the temperature dropped and my mom couldn't bear to leave the poor little kitties starving in the snow. So, she continued to feed them, and in the spring, their numbers multiplied.
The emotional attachment came when we started naming the cats. At first, the names were creative and made for entertainment purposes more than out of love. For instance, Squirrel was named so because I saw her sitting underneath the bird-feeder and, because of her grey fluffy coat, I mistook her for a squirrel. Gerard got his name because half his face was white, making him look like the Phantom of the Opera, who was played by Gerard Butler in the film adaptation. Other names included Inky (because of her black coat), Stinky (because of her mean demeanor), and Coco (because Chanel is a beloved designer, even in the cat world). Then, the names started to sound like potential Flavor of Love candidates, with Funky, Boots, and Little Stinker being the next generation. Later, the cat names became a lot less creative and a lot more descriptive. Now, there's B.O.C. (Big Orange Cat), Big Grey, Calico, and Cow Kitty (it apparently looks just like a cow).
During my summer in Vail, my mom called me with updates about the cats. I began to worry when she said that her goal for the summer was to pet one of the cats. My mind raced with the innumerous diseases these wild animals could carry and I pictured my mother's obituary reading: "Crazy cat lady dies of feline leukemia." However, my dad assured me that he had things under control.
He totally did NOT.
At the end of the summer, I got a call from my mother. She had a tone of sadness in her voice that made me realize right away that something was wrong. She told me that Bing* had died. My dad the enabler had helped her catch her favorite kitten with a net. They took the tiny creature to the vet, only to find out that it was so riddled with diseases that nothing could be done and it had to be put down. My mother felt terrible, thinking that it was her fault that Squirrel was missing one of her kittens. I really did feel bad for her (my mom, not Squirrel the cat). As weird as it is, my mom loves feeding those cats every morning and night, building them little houses out of laundry baskets and hay, and chasing other animals away from the cats' food. We all have our weird little obsessions. My mom's just happens to be stereotypical of old spinsters, which I guess is a stereotype that she is working on breaking.
Despite the upset with Bing, my mom still takes care of her cats. The neighbors complain that their children might catch diseases or that their dog is getting fat from snatching the cat food, but to them she simply says, "Well then keep your damn kids/dog out of my yard!"
After achieving her goal of petting a cat (and not dying), my mom has moved onto her new goal of getting the cats to come inside. Each day, Boots becomes braver and braver and gets further in our basement before scurrying out. My dad is concerned that it's only a matter of time before the cat sneaks in during the night to eat our brains. But I know that close to the surface, my dad is just as crazy about those cats as my mom is, because they make my mom happy.
*The name "Bing" came during my parents' "Friends" phase. During this, they'd watch 1 or 2 episodes of Friends a day. My dad got a little too involved in it and would occasionally call me to tell me the latest antics Chandler had gotten himself into, which, thanks to reruns on TBS, I was already familiar with. My parents have now switched to the sitcom "How I Met Your Mother," and a similar thing is happening. When I mentioned that I had to dress business casual for the upcoming career fair, my parents said, in unison, "Suit up!" and then told me that I am "such a Robin."
Stray cats have been prowling my neighborhood for as far back as I can remember. However, it wasn't until a little over a year ago that my mom started taking a particular liking to them. It began innocently enough--she would buy cheap cat food and set it outside for the hungry cats. As the news spread of this new food source that didn't require chasing or pouncing, cats from all around town came to feast underneath our deck. At first, my mom vowed to stop feeding them so she wouldn't attract anymore cats. But then winter came--the temperature dropped and my mom couldn't bear to leave the poor little kitties starving in the snow. So, she continued to feed them, and in the spring, their numbers multiplied.
The emotional attachment came when we started naming the cats. At first, the names were creative and made for entertainment purposes more than out of love. For instance, Squirrel was named so because I saw her sitting underneath the bird-feeder and, because of her grey fluffy coat, I mistook her for a squirrel. Gerard got his name because half his face was white, making him look like the Phantom of the Opera, who was played by Gerard Butler in the film adaptation. Other names included Inky (because of her black coat), Stinky (because of her mean demeanor), and Coco (because Chanel is a beloved designer, even in the cat world). Then, the names started to sound like potential Flavor of Love candidates, with Funky, Boots, and Little Stinker being the next generation. Later, the cat names became a lot less creative and a lot more descriptive. Now, there's B.O.C. (Big Orange Cat), Big Grey, Calico, and Cow Kitty (it apparently looks just like a cow).
During my summer in Vail, my mom called me with updates about the cats. I began to worry when she said that her goal for the summer was to pet one of the cats. My mind raced with the innumerous diseases these wild animals could carry and I pictured my mother's obituary reading: "Crazy cat lady dies of feline leukemia." However, my dad assured me that he had things under control.
He totally did NOT.
At the end of the summer, I got a call from my mother. She had a tone of sadness in her voice that made me realize right away that something was wrong. She told me that Bing* had died. My dad the enabler had helped her catch her favorite kitten with a net. They took the tiny creature to the vet, only to find out that it was so riddled with diseases that nothing could be done and it had to be put down. My mother felt terrible, thinking that it was her fault that Squirrel was missing one of her kittens. I really did feel bad for her (my mom, not Squirrel the cat). As weird as it is, my mom loves feeding those cats every morning and night, building them little houses out of laundry baskets and hay, and chasing other animals away from the cats' food. We all have our weird little obsessions. My mom's just happens to be stereotypical of old spinsters, which I guess is a stereotype that she is working on breaking.
Despite the upset with Bing, my mom still takes care of her cats. The neighbors complain that their children might catch diseases or that their dog is getting fat from snatching the cat food, but to them she simply says, "Well then keep your damn kids/dog out of my yard!"
After achieving her goal of petting a cat (and not dying), my mom has moved onto her new goal of getting the cats to come inside. Each day, Boots becomes braver and braver and gets further in our basement before scurrying out. My dad is concerned that it's only a matter of time before the cat sneaks in during the night to eat our brains. But I know that close to the surface, my dad is just as crazy about those cats as my mom is, because they make my mom happy.
*The name "Bing" came during my parents' "Friends" phase. During this, they'd watch 1 or 2 episodes of Friends a day. My dad got a little too involved in it and would occasionally call me to tell me the latest antics Chandler had gotten himself into, which, thanks to reruns on TBS, I was already familiar with. My parents have now switched to the sitcom "How I Met Your Mother," and a similar thing is happening. When I mentioned that I had to dress business casual for the upcoming career fair, my parents said, in unison, "Suit up!" and then told me that I am "such a Robin."
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Face Page
Technology is not really the forte of my parents or most of their generation. Over Christmas break, my mom was thoroughly impressed by the concept of drag and drop, and my Aunt Susie asked me if I had a "Face Page." I think my favorite moment came when my dad asked my brother why he was looking at pictures of "floozies" on his computer. Turns out he was just looking at pictures of his friends on facebook, but my dad said, "Those pictures are too slutty to put on the internet!" My brother clarified for the rest of us that the girls were wearing conservative sweatshirts but my dad retorted with, "But they had these come hither stares!" The internet is too saucy for my dad.
My little brother, Alex, is a whiz with the internet and computers, mostly because he's 17. He recently got a facebook and we are now "friends," which was all fine and good until his every move on the site came up on my newsfeed. I don't want to know who my brother is tagging pictures of or what he is writing on people's walls. In one disturbing episode, I went on facebook only to be hit in the face with "Alex has commented on *Enter teenage girl's name here*'s photo." The comment itself was even displayed on the news feed and was a saucy "Wow ur so beutiful" (misspelling intentional). I immediately texted Alex, informing that he should change his privacy settings so he wouldn't have to subject me to his teenage love fest. Since then, I have been spared witnessing Alex's attempts at scoring honeys.
My little brother, Alex, is a whiz with the internet and computers, mostly because he's 17. He recently got a facebook and we are now "friends," which was all fine and good until his every move on the site came up on my newsfeed. I don't want to know who my brother is tagging pictures of or what he is writing on people's walls. In one disturbing episode, I went on facebook only to be hit in the face with "Alex has commented on *Enter teenage girl's name here*'s photo." The comment itself was even displayed on the news feed and was a saucy "Wow ur so beutiful" (misspelling intentional). I immediately texted Alex, informing that he should change his privacy settings so he wouldn't have to subject me to his teenage love fest. Since then, I have been spared witnessing Alex's attempts at scoring honeys.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Oh Baumkuchen, O Baumkuchen
Christmas is a time of family tradition, and my family Christmas is not short of them. On my mom's side, we have the tradition of eating ham and deviled eggs while we all open our gifts at the same time in a frenzy. There was one year that my mom tried to establish some order to the holiday by having each person open one gift at a time, but this quickly degenerated into the usual haphazard shredding of holiday paper while thank-yous were shouted across the room. I guess you can't change tradition.
The tradition on my dad's side is completely different and very one-dimensional. Christmases with Oma completely revolve around the fact that we are German. My dad is only half German, which leaves my brother and I at a quarter German, but this doesn't hinder our feast of spaetzel and saurkraut. Every year, my mom hides a picle ornament in the tree, promising a special present for the first child who finds it. After much pushing and shoving between my brother and I, someone finds the pickle and Mom backs out of the present reward because she never had one in the first place.
When I was very little, my Christmas outfit was not the traditional red satin and white lace dress that most little girls wore. I wore a durndel, and Oma had a matching one. Somehow, my brother escaped wearing leiderhosen, but that might be because by the time he was born, Oma could no longer fit into her durndel, so traditional German garb was no longer required. Once I got older and learned to play the piano, the most dreaded German tradition was started--as I fumbled around Oma's untuned piano, searching for a key that wouldn't cause everyone's voices to crack, the rest of my family stood around the piano to sing Silent Night in German. Well, really, Oma would sing, Dad would mumble, Mom would turn the pages of the sheet music for me, and Alex would giggle. I'm sure our rendition of Still Nacht leaves the neighborhood dogs howling, but we can't hear them over Oma's strained soprano and Dad's attempt at remembering his high school German.
Though our Christmas seems as German-filled as the Haufbrauhaus, it has toned down since my dad's childhood, when every pastry and every toy ended in an unpronounceable suffix. My father does not miss most of the old tradition, but one thing that he has mentioned every Christmas is Baumkuchen--tree cake. For years, my mother has searched every bakery and website for Baumkuchen in order to reignite my father's childhood memories. No one except Dad and Oma knew what a Baumkuchen was, so the search was especially difficult. This year, however, my mom was finally successful in her German pastry quest. She called me and said, "You'll never believe what I found for dad!" I knew right away that it was baumkuchen, not because I'm really good at guessing, but because she told me she had found it at the German market in downtown Akron. Unless she was planning on getting my dad another pickle ornament, it had to be a baumkuchen. However, as fate would have it, this was also the year that my dad would occasionally spend half his work days surfing the internet. And of course, he stumbled upon a bakery in Toronto that sold baumkuchen. He brought one home to surprise my mom, who put on an award-winning performance, acting shocked that he had found this endangered German cake. It was a like the Gift of the Maji story, except with cake and less irony.
When Oma came over a couple days before Christmas, Dad said he had a surprise for her, "Something that will bring back some memories." "Is it a baumkuchen?" Oma said, hopefully. She guessed what it was so quickly, I began to think that maybe this cake was more central to their holidays of past than I had previously thought. I imagined everyone in leidherhosen and durndels, dancing around the baumkuchen to tuba and accordion music. This probably didn't happen, but I'll keep it in mind for a potential new tradition.
Dad took the cake out of a gold box. It was not shaped like a Christmas tree, like I had expected, and it was not very colorful or particularly tasty looking either. "I wonder if it will have that almond flavor that I remember," Oma said, a twinkling Star of David in her eye. "Well let's have some and find out!" Dad said, cutting a ring off this magical German tree cake. We each took a small piece--it was very thick and pretty good, but not legendary. After a few moments of silence while we all tasted the baumkuchen, Oma said, "Well, it's more about the tradition and the memories than it is the taste." Dad agreed, saying, "Yeah, this is a good memory."
The tradition on my dad's side is completely different and very one-dimensional. Christmases with Oma completely revolve around the fact that we are German. My dad is only half German, which leaves my brother and I at a quarter German, but this doesn't hinder our feast of spaetzel and saurkraut. Every year, my mom hides a picle ornament in the tree, promising a special present for the first child who finds it. After much pushing and shoving between my brother and I, someone finds the pickle and Mom backs out of the present reward because she never had one in the first place.
When I was very little, my Christmas outfit was not the traditional red satin and white lace dress that most little girls wore. I wore a durndel, and Oma had a matching one. Somehow, my brother escaped wearing leiderhosen, but that might be because by the time he was born, Oma could no longer fit into her durndel, so traditional German garb was no longer required. Once I got older and learned to play the piano, the most dreaded German tradition was started--as I fumbled around Oma's untuned piano, searching for a key that wouldn't cause everyone's voices to crack, the rest of my family stood around the piano to sing Silent Night in German. Well, really, Oma would sing, Dad would mumble, Mom would turn the pages of the sheet music for me, and Alex would giggle. I'm sure our rendition of Still Nacht leaves the neighborhood dogs howling, but we can't hear them over Oma's strained soprano and Dad's attempt at remembering his high school German.
Though our Christmas seems as German-filled as the Haufbrauhaus, it has toned down since my dad's childhood, when every pastry and every toy ended in an unpronounceable suffix. My father does not miss most of the old tradition, but one thing that he has mentioned every Christmas is Baumkuchen--tree cake. For years, my mother has searched every bakery and website for Baumkuchen in order to reignite my father's childhood memories. No one except Dad and Oma knew what a Baumkuchen was, so the search was especially difficult. This year, however, my mom was finally successful in her German pastry quest. She called me and said, "You'll never believe what I found for dad!" I knew right away that it was baumkuchen, not because I'm really good at guessing, but because she told me she had found it at the German market in downtown Akron. Unless she was planning on getting my dad another pickle ornament, it had to be a baumkuchen. However, as fate would have it, this was also the year that my dad would occasionally spend half his work days surfing the internet. And of course, he stumbled upon a bakery in Toronto that sold baumkuchen. He brought one home to surprise my mom, who put on an award-winning performance, acting shocked that he had found this endangered German cake. It was a like the Gift of the Maji story, except with cake and less irony.
When Oma came over a couple days before Christmas, Dad said he had a surprise for her, "Something that will bring back some memories." "Is it a baumkuchen?" Oma said, hopefully. She guessed what it was so quickly, I began to think that maybe this cake was more central to their holidays of past than I had previously thought. I imagined everyone in leidherhosen and durndels, dancing around the baumkuchen to tuba and accordion music. This probably didn't happen, but I'll keep it in mind for a potential new tradition.
Dad took the cake out of a gold box. It was not shaped like a Christmas tree, like I had expected, and it was not very colorful or particularly tasty looking either. "I wonder if it will have that almond flavor that I remember," Oma said, a twinkling Star of David in her eye. "Well let's have some and find out!" Dad said, cutting a ring off this magical German tree cake. We each took a small piece--it was very thick and pretty good, but not legendary. After a few moments of silence while we all tasted the baumkuchen, Oma said, "Well, it's more about the tradition and the memories than it is the taste." Dad agreed, saying, "Yeah, this is a good memory."
Monday, December 01, 2008
The Thanksgiving Pimp
Thanksgiving at my house is always a great day of family togetherness. My brother and I are the only kids, as we have no first cousins, so everyone else aside from my parents is kind of old. The ages range from 17 to 93, and the food shows it. Each year, the food gets a little mushier, the dinner starts a little earlier, and it's only a matter of time before half of the dinner guests are enjoying their Thanksgiving feast intravenously. I'm thankful to be able to celebrate Thanksgiving with all my family members, but just like any family, they are a bit quirky.
My only job on Thanksgiving is to make the cranberry sauce. It takes about 5 minutes and the directions are right on the bag, so it's the only job at my level of cooking. I thought everyone enjoyed having real cranberry sauce, but I found out this year that I have basically been the only one eating it and that all the other family members prefer the canned crap. This just means more cranberry sauce for me, which I don't mind.
The Thanksgiving hijinks started before the grandparents even got there, when my brother came downstairs dressed as the Thanksgiving Pimp. The Thanksgiving Pimp is a character beloved by all. His job is to usher in the "ho ho hos" for the Christmas season. It entails my brother wearing an undershirt, his suit jacket, and a black fedora until my dad and I make fun of him enough that he changes into normal clothes. This is a new tradition starting this year. I don't know if it will make it to 2009, since Oma didn't really appreciate me calling my brother a "suburban pimp".
The day's festivities continued when all the old folks started showing up. As soon as Oma walked in the door, she approached my diabetic grandfather with a brand new blood sugar meter. She wanted to know how to use it (and was shocked that she would actually have to draw blood) and the two of them sat in the living room trying to figure the piece of equipment out for 2 hours before even glancing at the instructions.
The food was delicious as usual. At the end of the meal, Oma wanted a family photo. She spent about 15 minutes trying to chase down the dog to get him in the picture, but since he is also old and basically deaf, he refused to participate in the photo session. Instead, unbeknownst to anyone, the dog ate an entire plate of chocolate truffles. This is how we found out a great way to get rid of relatives on a holiday--have your dog puke all over the house. Once people had to watch their step for fear of treading in something unpleasant, it was time for everyone to go and the holiday was over. Another way to get rid of relatives (well, really just Oma) is to put in a movie. She hates the talkies.
My favorite part of Thanksgiving this year was the stuffing and the Thanksgiving Pimp. I hope both make a reappearance for Christmas
My only job on Thanksgiving is to make the cranberry sauce. It takes about 5 minutes and the directions are right on the bag, so it's the only job at my level of cooking. I thought everyone enjoyed having real cranberry sauce, but I found out this year that I have basically been the only one eating it and that all the other family members prefer the canned crap. This just means more cranberry sauce for me, which I don't mind.
The Thanksgiving hijinks started before the grandparents even got there, when my brother came downstairs dressed as the Thanksgiving Pimp. The Thanksgiving Pimp is a character beloved by all. His job is to usher in the "ho ho hos" for the Christmas season. It entails my brother wearing an undershirt, his suit jacket, and a black fedora until my dad and I make fun of him enough that he changes into normal clothes. This is a new tradition starting this year. I don't know if it will make it to 2009, since Oma didn't really appreciate me calling my brother a "suburban pimp".
The day's festivities continued when all the old folks started showing up. As soon as Oma walked in the door, she approached my diabetic grandfather with a brand new blood sugar meter. She wanted to know how to use it (and was shocked that she would actually have to draw blood) and the two of them sat in the living room trying to figure the piece of equipment out for 2 hours before even glancing at the instructions.
The food was delicious as usual. At the end of the meal, Oma wanted a family photo. She spent about 15 minutes trying to chase down the dog to get him in the picture, but since he is also old and basically deaf, he refused to participate in the photo session. Instead, unbeknownst to anyone, the dog ate an entire plate of chocolate truffles. This is how we found out a great way to get rid of relatives on a holiday--have your dog puke all over the house. Once people had to watch their step for fear of treading in something unpleasant, it was time for everyone to go and the holiday was over. Another way to get rid of relatives (well, really just Oma) is to put in a movie. She hates the talkies.
My favorite part of Thanksgiving this year was the stuffing and the Thanksgiving Pimp. I hope both make a reappearance for Christmas
Classroom Rules
With the hectic class schedule that some Notre Dame students undertake, I can understand not having time to have a meal in between classes. While snacking is perfectly acceptable, there are certain foods that people should refrain from eating in a classroom setting.
Here is an incomplete list of acceptable classroom foods:
Bagel
Coffee
Any drink from a vending machine
Gummy candy
Crackers
Most baked goods*
Small sandwiches
*coffee cake or any other particularly messy and crumbly baked good is not acceptable
This list may not provide the healthiest food options, but it's not all that good for you to be eating on the run, either, and eating the above listed foods is a lot better than eating the follow:
Unacceptable classroom foods, most of which I have actually seen people eating in class:
Banana
Baked potato
2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew
Popsicle
Salisbury steak
Pop Rocks
Celery, apples, or any other very crunchy food
Pizza
Maybe I'm being picky, but loud foods or food items that require multiple utensils are really distracting and kind of disgusting to sit next to.
While we're on the subject of classroom pet peeves...
To those who bring computers to class--please be mindful of your desktop image. If you have a laptop, I will definitely look at it because your game of solitaire and/or your AIM conversation is much more interesting than the lecture going on. However, it's a little strange to gaze upon an image of a half-naked lady or an official Hanson brothers fan club photo sitting right there on your computer for all to see. Obviously, you have chosen this photo because you like to look at it a lot. You see your desktop several times a day, so it only follows that you really like to look at pictures of the Olsen twins as often as possible. But to those sitting around you, your desktop is an unsolicited peek into your personal life. I didn't really care to know that you were into busty blondes or that you have a special affinity for babies dressed as vegetables. So to all the laptop carriers out there, please be kind to your classmates and maybe choose one of the default desktops, or at least something we can all enjoy, like a picture of George Clooney or some puppies in a basket.
Here is an incomplete list of acceptable classroom foods:
Bagel
Coffee
Any drink from a vending machine
Gummy candy
Crackers
Most baked goods*
Small sandwiches
*coffee cake or any other particularly messy and crumbly baked good is not acceptable
This list may not provide the healthiest food options, but it's not all that good for you to be eating on the run, either, and eating the above listed foods is a lot better than eating the follow:
Unacceptable classroom foods, most of which I have actually seen people eating in class:
Banana
Baked potato
2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew
Popsicle
Salisbury steak
Pop Rocks
Celery, apples, or any other very crunchy food
Pizza
Maybe I'm being picky, but loud foods or food items that require multiple utensils are really distracting and kind of disgusting to sit next to.
While we're on the subject of classroom pet peeves...
To those who bring computers to class--please be mindful of your desktop image. If you have a laptop, I will definitely look at it because your game of solitaire and/or your AIM conversation is much more interesting than the lecture going on. However, it's a little strange to gaze upon an image of a half-naked lady or an official Hanson brothers fan club photo sitting right there on your computer for all to see. Obviously, you have chosen this photo because you like to look at it a lot. You see your desktop several times a day, so it only follows that you really like to look at pictures of the Olsen twins as often as possible. But to those sitting around you, your desktop is an unsolicited peek into your personal life. I didn't really care to know that you were into busty blondes or that you have a special affinity for babies dressed as vegetables. So to all the laptop carriers out there, please be kind to your classmates and maybe choose one of the default desktops, or at least something we can all enjoy, like a picture of George Clooney or some puppies in a basket.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)