Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat, meat, meat…

Today has been a fucking nightmare. Everything that could possibly go wrong has gone wrong with accounts, with the way people who are checking up on things for customers whose accounts I fixed are going about second guessing (not a one has been right yet), to just the general stupidity of the customers themselves. Bleh. I want my bloody day back!!!

Having said this, I kind of had time to chat at length with a lady at work who raised her kids vegetarian about cooking with less meat today, and it was very illuminating. We’ll call her EarthMomma. EarthMomma is a fascinating, if kind of scatter-brained hippie-type who’s just been through it all. She’s even survived her own botched suicide attempt, and come out stronger than ever. I like her, ‘cause she seems able to find the positives in everything, even the most horrifyingly painful situations. Unfortunately, most of the long chat we had was over a tasty if evil over-processed cheese dip brought in by another co-worker. Also, I was given a huge container of procciutto and mortadella by another co-worker, as her father brought in pounds of the stuff as a gift, and she’s the only member of her family that’ll eat it (and doesn’t want it to go bad, so she’s giving it away all over the place).

To make a long story even longer, this is just a bad place to work if you’re trying to eat better. Last night was the first night I tried seriously to put into effect the reduced meat portions suggested by Mark Bittman in his book ‘Food Matters’ for Orpheus and I. I even picked up a lovely bottle of bone-dry Argentine white wine to go with the Tilapia a la Meuniere that I whipped up… And I nearly ate my own hand, I was still so hungry by bedtime. Fortunately, a carrot seemed to do wondrous things for me just before bed. We’ll see if I can keep up with it. O. actually did better than me, but I don’t think he’s taking things quite as seriously… After all, he eats pretty much whatever he wants to for lunch every day, and most days he eats out. I’ll just have to work on him slowly, I guess. Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat, meat, meat… It’s all I can think of right now. All I want. Stupid fucking vegetables. I don’t want to be a rabbit!!!

The Suck...

Today is dragging ASS… Yesterday, after what Orpheus recently told me was 20 days in the shop, I got my car back. And other than two eency-weency, teeny-tiny things, it’s better by far than it was before it went in (or even before the accident). Unfortunately, those two things involve the dome light no longer working when I get into the car (though it will light up when the switch is turned on the light-stalk), and the horn not working at all. I just can’t afford a new horn right now, and when I can, it may just be kinda funny to get one that plays the Mexican hat dance, as that’s how ghetto I feel tooling around in a bronze-colored grandpa sled. Perhaps I will have the car put up on lifts, as well.

In any case, I’m now reading Mark Bittman’s new book, ‘Food Matters: A Guide to Conscious Eating”, and am utterly depressed. Apparently, as a chemical process, breaking down refined sugars and digesting any refined (read: white) wheat flour are all but indistinguishable in the human animal. This means that, every time I pick up a piece of white bread, I might as well have stuffed myself with cane sugar. I want god dead for designing humans so that we need to eat like f-ing hippies just to live past the age of 60. Shit, why’d it make us smart enough to improve our lot in life if we’d still spend half our time on the planet messing ourselves with teeth falling out everywhere. Asshole!

Further, the phone system at work went to pot today, leaving every incoming call completely and utterly unidentified. When customers are too stupid to enter their own account numbers when prompted, it’s usually my pet peeve… Today, I’m trying to take things slowly, and just de-stress. Oddly, the calls themselves are pretty easy (knock on fiber-board), much easier than they were yesterday or the day before. I guess not having any caller info to start is the karmic debt thereof! Anyway, tonight is probably going to be the kind of joyless that involves fish instead of what I really want to eat, so wish me well, as I wish well all of you, my possibly fictitious readers.

Trivia at the Roxbury

Last night, Orpheus and I went to a terrible bar for the second week in a row to play a tawdry trivia game on a team with a few of his remaining college buddies for a $50 gift certificate. For the second week in a row, our team lost. I mean, at least last week we placed second. This week, though? Meh. We didn’t even go to the final “Jeopardy” round. We lost to a team calling themselves “Three Gays and a Lady,” which was just plain embarrassing. I mean, the “lady” in question was a fruit-fly if ever I’ve seen one, and the “gays” in question were of the cosmo-drinking varietal, desperately trying to appear at least five years younger than their actual ages. Now, I may not advertise to just anybody exactly how old I am (28, I’m 28), but I’m not dressing in multiple layers of darted plaid print shirts over skin-hugging concert tees and dark as night jeans tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, either…

So, the real reason I am not enamored of these silly fags is that this bar is one of the STRAIGHTEST bars on earth, frequented by randy low-brow undergrads. And, while I was minding my own business peeing (eyes glued to the wall,) in the lav, one of the fags comes in, blatantly tries to check out my wiener, and proceeds to whip it out and pee about three feet away from the urinal, eyes fixed on whatever he can see of my cock, chatting away the entire time. I had to turn my head to avoid a full eye of huge, tumescent, wart-crusted pee-pee. It was the CREEPIEST cruise I’ve ever experienced, bar-none… IN THE RESTROOM AT A STRAIGHT BAR!!! Plus, he was the ugliest of said fags, so I was doubly insulted. Don’t throw your nasty, desperate Typhoid Mary at me, bois. That’s a warning.

I just can’t stand losing to losers. Especially when one of said losers unsettled me so much I nearly lost my lunch on top of the rest of it. All in the name of a couple free drinks (remember, split five ways, even, this was still a student bar). Next week, I’m hoping for a creepy-fag-free environ in which to win a couple drinks!

Beets, Gay Marriage, unsupportive "Queer Allies", and Letters

Below is a response in the form of a letter that I sent to Bulgaria after he posted re: a heated exchange with someone on the internets who “has gay friends,” but doesn’t support gay marriage. This is after he’s explained to me that he’s sick of people calling it an “abomination,” which is a term he reserves for things he hates, like beets. Another of his friends told him that was decidedly dietary, and why not refer to shrimp as an abomination? His reply, of course, was that he likes shrimp. I took this as permission to draw the dietary law card and play it as an example of wrong-headed de-jure segregation by and for religious reasons (aka, the reasons cited by crazy lady of the internets). Here is my ten cents, more or less as sent to him:

Dearest Bulgaria,

I always find it helpful to draw a line between the various religious prohibitions on diet and actual harm of the body due to true civic law... After all, a person can eat pork by accident and feel guilty for the rest of their lives, but if one is thrown in prison for having sex with their live-in (who is unmarriageable given current laws), it's a different kettle of fish. However, to the idiot who unknowingly chaws the ham sandwich, it's not so clear-cut...

See, it's not so much that this hypothetical Homo Sapiens Religiosa doesn't believe others should be able to make their own choices. In fact, if you query the AVERAGE religious nut, and walk them through your argument, they'll end up agreeing with you, only slightly pissed about it. But the full-blown "Oh, God, I'm going to hell for eating a ham sandwich" type can be a little different, if only because they're SO AFRAID they'll go for the ham sandwich again. Therefore, to their convoluted logic, it must forevermore be denied them, for their own good, and too bad if that unfairly affects others.

Now, here's where things really get complex... The (previously lapsed) diet freaks are also very concerned about people they love/care about/are religiously required to look after not making the same dietary choices they themselves slather after. Everybody else is ALREADY a pervert, as far as they're concerned, so other as to not deserve consideration. Funny thing is, as soon as a loved party goes to a non-Kosher Deli, they're suddenly a pervert, too, and no longer welcome in the community. See, it all boils down to choice. Apparently, the only people who are willing to suck it up and deal with the consequences of their actions are the perverts. Homo Sapiens Religiosa, on the other hand, has proven him-or-herself to be a dangerously weak-willed sop of a human time and time again.

Why? Sometimes it seems that choices aren't meant for people who operate under too many taboos. We're all just high-functioning monkeys at the end of the day, and some of us (obviously,) are simply more high-functioning than others.

Now, where’s the Pork? And what about a side of beets?

Love,
~Aeffchen

The Holiday That Doesn’t Exist…

So, the chicken turned out quite nicely on the Feast-Day of that martyred twit… I roasted it on halved carrots in a pyrex baking dish instead of in a roasting rack, the carrots interspersed with sprigs of rosemary. The cavity was stuffed with quartered orange, lemon and lime, rosemary and bay leaf, salt and pepper. The skin was rubbed in olive oil, and had more rosemary spread forth over it, and was soothed in its’ crackling with small pats of butter as well as salt and pepper whilst browning.

After I finished browning the bird and set it in to roast, I did baste, and added chopped shallot and potato pieces. It came out just a hint undercooked. Not pink, but that kind of too-white that happens if you take the chicken out a single minute/degree too soon. (Like an idiot, I’d left my meat thermometer back at my place.) But it was beautifully juicy, and it’s not like either Orpheus or I got sick. The main problem was that I conveniently forgot while buying wine that the cavity of the bird was to be stuffed with citrus, and bought a nice little red Cote de Ventoux based on Grenache. This went like lead with the light rosemary-and-citrus chicken roasted on a bed of sweet carrot bumpers. Too bad. Next time, it’ll be a dry, spicy white, and I’ll add a little knuckle of peeled ginger to the cavity. Also, I’ll be wise enough to heed Julia, my kitchen deity, and said cave-of-the-ages will be sewn shut!

All in all, it was a very Italian bird, with the stunning execution of La Belle France botched by this Affechen due to New World laziness. Whatever one may think, though, it was tasty, and it will be again for lunch tomorrow. I just wish I could’ve afforded a capon… Though, that ball-less bird would NEVER have gotten out of the oven. And as to getting a perfect temperature, forget about it! At least I have a beautiful chicken skeleton for making broth...

Customer Service Blues…

Alright, so, if I’d had any idea that, at 28 years old and six years out of college, I’d still be on the phones for a living, I probably would’ve been scared all the way to D.C, to starve in relative obscurity for a few years while learning to be a politico/douchebag… Realistically, this means Orpheus wouldn’t be part of my life, however, and so there’s something to be grateful for on that note (you know, aside from the not becoming a complete and utter poli-whore). And, when one is brutal regarding ones’ political background, and the party one would’ve had to service during that long interim between school and the present, given all choices in aggregate, I’d really rather be on the phones.

That’s neither here nor there, but it is certainly a theme that has been echoing through my curiously empty head today, all during the bus-ride to work, and while I’ve been taking call after pointless call. I have a very full weekend, during which I’ll head home to comfort my poor fat cat re: my absence this week, as well as get a little housework done. I will also, in (silent) celebration of the timely Martyrdom of a certain beheaded saint, try to copy the dish that Fabio on Top Chef made for Lydia Bastianich this week! All this for a holiday which technically O. and I aren’t celebrating. We decided instead, due to our combined near-total dissatisfaction with said Romantic Farce, to celebrate “Steak and a Blowjob” day on March 14th. Steak (amongst other things), I know I can do quite well. But if Fabio’s roasted chicken is good enough for Lydia, then it’s good enough to try out at home, if I can get a (good) chicken for a decent price… Also, sacrificing a chicken in the stead of my relationship, trying to create a slightly romantic air this weekend just might be a good idea after everything Orpheus has been doing for me of late.

I love O., and value him enough that, despite my current lack of motive force behind further education and/or career advancement, despite the job that is (all told,) too easy, despite the difficulties inherent in working together to be with a person, etc., etc., ad nauseum… Despite all these things, I’d rather be with him than doing anything else in the world. Happy (anonymous) Valentine’s Day, Orpheus!

Reality’s bitch…

Last Thursday night, I caused my first car accident since conquering the final hormonal Himalaya of teendom. As such, it’s been a difficult few days. My car was as close to being inoperative as is possible for a vehicle to be and not also emit more noxious fumes than normal while jittering. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Fortunately, the damage was relatively cheap to repair, if not expedient. Fortunately, the bus schedules in Madison have been retooled since my last disastrous brush with the Metro system. Fortunately, I have Orpheus, who has opened his efficiency to me whilst repairs are ongoing, despite the probability that it will cause tension.

It doesn’t hurt that we’re both in the “it hasn’t sunk in yet” phase of planning to move in together come August. But, of all the things I have on my plate to worry over for the next little bit, this tight co-habitation is the trickiest. We have had conversations that define this trial specifically as:

1) Artificial, as I’m invading his (already severely limited,) space.
2) A bad indicator of how our life together will be, as we’ll be moving into a place that is bigger, wherein we both get to set rules and develop a comfort level.
3) A bit unfair, as this is a situation which leaves me financially strapped for a time, and also a touch unstable, emotionally.

So, that’s all agreed upon. Still, though… it’s tough. O. has gone out of his way to clean things at his place up, free up space, chip in more cash for the groceries, and on and on until I can’t list the thoughtful things he’s done anymore. I worry that he’ll consider a week and a half too long, and consider the sacrifices too many. You know the drill, I think. I just hope to god I’m wrong, and that he comes to the conclusion that things won’t end up so bad, after all. In the meantime, I am kind of walking on eggshells.

Also, I am such a big idiot that taking the bus after dark has proven to be a challenge for me. Poop. Poop on the bus schedule! The screw-up last night was so heinous that I called BakedAlaska for a ride. Ended up having dinner with he, QuakerNoOats and EvilGenius whilest O. wished I’d gotten home on time and played barefoot and pregnant in the galley-style kitchen. Fortunately, though, BakedAK is a veteran public transportation-goer, and showed me a better route to take to work in the mornings. Strike one with Orpheus, at once saving fifteen minutes each way on the damnable pneumonia-coach!

Monday, bloody Monday… (Or, Anniversary Time)

So, Orpheus and I had our anniversary on Monday. It was sedate, laid back… It’s the second time in two months we’ve celebrated an anniversary (this time, it’s in commemoration of Feb 2nd, 2007, the date we started dating officially. Last, it was Jan 2nd, 2007, the date we met). As such, it was somewhat practiced, and even shared 1/3 of the food on offer for consumption…

See, I’d meant to do the same red wine/olive oil/shallot marinated sirloin with a rip-off of Bulgaria’s BF’s sexy potatoes (only better), and another rip off of his chorizo-shrimp. Unfortunately, I completely forgot to bring the potatoes home with me from O.’s place (for some unknown reason, I brought them with me to his place on Sunday night… Stupid!)… This left me with a deranged plan for surf-and-turf, with absolutely no vegetable accompaniment. Needless to say, even with the days’ pressures effecting me somewhat negatively in the kitchen, dinner was a dream scribed on the doubtless hardening walls of our arteries with cholesterol (see a picture of my fat-slimed, empty plate below).

For an anniversary, it wasn’t a super-steaming night. We went to bed, and snuggled, and kissed a lot. Even had a bit of a hot mutual masturbation session… But there wasn’t screaming sex or anything. Which is just well and good. I’ve been run down a little lately. It seems that, though I rarely remember dream, I’ve been remembering a LOT of them in the last week. Like, more in six or seven days than I’ve remembered in the last five years contiguously. Due to this weird situation, I can’t even muster the energy for sex, which should come as a surprise if you’ve been reading me for awhile. I’m hoping that tonight will be a night sans-hallucination. Hell, I’m hoping it’ll be the first of many such nights. I need my beauty coma.

Also, I’m feeling the restlessness of true, deep horniness, but no vim to get up to any vinegar about it.

Happy Anniversary to me!

So, my darling ducks… The happy day has arrived. Orpheus and I have been dating for two years as of today, 2/2/2009. When we met, I certainly didn’t think that we’d still be together now, much less getting ready to move in. It’s been a long road, but it’s only getting more enjoyable as time goes on, and each of us learns more about the other. I’m very happy right now, and hope that I can stay sane and calm for a long time with this one.

That’s pretty much it for today, except that O. got a copy of the latest Muppet Christmas Special on DVD starring Whoopie Goldberg as god. We’re going to have to drink a lot of booze after I make dinner tonight to get through that.