Thursday, January 24, 2013

Who decided on soup ratios?

I haven't posted here in a million years, but I think you'll understand what's driven me to: soup.

I'm eating soup, and it's like... who decided on the ratio of noodles to broth?

No one eats soup because of the broth. It's like that thing that maybe you'll drink a little bit of if it's salty enough because otherwise who wants to drink vaguely chicken-y water, but like, you don't just go pick up a can of broth and guzzle it down. You pick up a can of chicken noodle, the fancy kind that has chicken AND vegetables along with the noodles, because it's a fancy way to trick yourself into thinking you're healthy. It doesn't matter if you ignore all the celery*, because you eat the carrots and it makes you feel good about your life choices.


So you gobble up all the noodles first and then the chicken and then the carrots, and you're still starving but all you have is a bowl full of fucking broth (and leftover celery and onions, get OUT of my soup you assholes). And it's like, you paid money for that can of soup, so you probably shouldn't throw out all the broth, right? You went to the trouble of putting salt in it, even though you bought the healthy low sodium kind because it made you feel like your life is heading in a better direction when you were at CVS also buying popcorn for the second time in a week. But you still don't ENJOY the broth.

I really don't understand how there isn't a market for extra noodle-y soup. I want you to fill the entire can with pasta and pour soup in the cracks, and I feel like almost every other human on earth would appreciate this. Noodles are the best part of soup and arguably the only reason to bother. My can should not be one part noodles to three parts broth. That just makes me SAD.

Whatever, now I have to go make spaghetti or some shit.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Mystery of the Grocery

Every once in a while, I decide that I'm gonna try to be real fucking grown up. That shit means doing my laundry (probably because I have run out of underwear besides those weird big pairs that you only wear when you're on your period), cleaning my room (shoving everything in my closet), and grocery shopping. Ah, grocery shopping. When you live in the city with no car, it's just a beautiful and wonderful experience. On opposite day. 

See, when I'm home alone on a day off work, I look at my cabinet and think, "You have pasta and you have a cookie from July and crumbs at the bottom of a bag of generic Fruit Loops. What's your damage, asshole?" Really, I am completely inept when it comes to food. And I will have about a week and a half of days like this, where I roll my eyes at the leftover peanuts in a bag of old trail mix and mentally create grocery lists in my head. Oh, the food I need! The ingredients I could purchase to make actual food like human beings sometimes do!

But I usually end up hitting the grocery store on the way home from work, which means I don't remember jack shit. I end up grabbing a basket and wandering around like a lost child. I'll put some fruit in a bag, because health, right? Cherry tomatoes look like a fun snack! And then comes the diary aisle. I'm out of shredded mozzarella! I need more milk that will go bad before I finish it! YOGURT ON SALE FOR 60 CENTS??

When I finish the produce and dairy is when I begin to lose it. How do people focus in a grocery store? THERE IS FOOD EVERYWHERE. And nothing is more exciting than the little yellow sale tags. Hot dogs for TWO DOLLARS? Salami that is perpetually marked down?? Oh my goodness, tiny little bags of microwave popcorn - and they're fucking movie theater butter!! And don't even get me started on the frozen food aisle; it's too achingly overwhelming to think about.

I feel an insane amount of accomplishment as I lug two bags of groceries home, fifteen minutes of arm suffering for food is nothing! And then I unpack what I have and realize that I bought fifteen unrelated items. What do I do with salami if I have no bread? What am I going to eat for dinner when I get home from work? WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY KINDS OF PASTA?

This doesn't even include my randomly timed stops into CVS, which usually bring forth weird $1 food items like an individual packet of tuna.

I truly have no idea how to put together meals and prepare for the grocery store. I panic when things I like are no longer on sale (SHOUT OUT TO THE LAUGHING COW CHEESE WEDGES THAT WERE $2.99 ONE WEEK), putting two apples in my basket makes me feel like a health goddess, and I keep buying lunch meat without bread.

However, major pats on the back to me for finally buying butter. It only took five months. At this rate, I'll remember the ingredients of a standard sandwich within a year or two!

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Turn that Hurri-can't into a Hurri-CAN!

So, some bitch named Sandy is wrecking havoc. Women, amiright? Classic misogynistic jokes aside, this shit has been sort of weird for a Midwesterner in New York.

On the eve of the hurricane, I was totally playing it cool, leaning against walls at work and being all, "Pffft, in Chicago, we get tornados. Lots of them. All the time." I probably should have worn some Ray Bans and smoked a cigarette as I said it, I was so fucking chill. What a douchebag. Employees around me, like real television employees, not part time gift shop workers, were worrying about how to get to work, wondering how the show would go on. And I was all, peace out, see you on the other side of this bitch~


To be fair, I live in Queens, and the hurricane was mostly a snore for us here. The wind was startling, the water in the toilet bowl wouldn't stop swirling (Is this like, a hurricane thing? Is my toilet possessed? Does the power of Christ need to compel it? Fucking Sandy), and a huge tree on our block toppled over. Otherwise, we've had good luck keeping our power, and I've had good luck sitting in bed, eating food, and watching lots of Disney Channel Original Movies. Halloweentown, right guys? Did you know Kimberly J. Brown has a twitter?

I don't know how one preps for weather like this. After sauntering out of work when we closed early on Sunday, I headed to CVS and wandered aimlessly around the store. I ended up coming home with kettlecorn, tuna, and Reese's peanut butter cups. You know, the essentials. Meanwhile, my roommate filled every possible water holding device with water, stored all around our kitchen like a zombie apocalypse is in the horizon and we might get thirsty.

In all seriousness, I really lucked out here. The worst things the storm did to me was make my sinuses go absolutely insane, and force me to steal internet from elsewhere. But I'm massively hopeful that the city picks itself back up this week; New York is pretty resilient, and I'm sure everyone will return to scoffing over the weather like the beautiful, disinterested masses they are. But it might take a few days. This shit was legitimately terrible, and I hope those of us who survived with homes intact are grateful. It's pretty amazing to see how much New York becomes a community in the face of hardships.

In the words if the immortal Katy Perry, "After a hurricane comes a rainbow." I guess she's right, because there's a rainbow . . . Katy Perry is a meteorologist!

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

What I've Been Up To (Nothing)

Remember how I predicted that this thing wouldn't last? Sigh. Do you ever get that slump around August/September, where you're kind of tired from trying to keep yourself busy all summer, but you feel that little thread of dread whether you're going back to school or not, and it keeps you from being creative?

The is the first fall since 1992 where I haven't been gearing up for a new school year, and since my mind is hazy regarding the second year of my life, I don't quite remember how to handle it. Maybe I should buy a lot of Juicy Juice and watch Sesame Street? God, that sounds kind of perfect, actually. What's Elmo up to these days?

So here's what I've been up to:

Disney World! Whereupon I fell back into that obsession, befriended a 13 year old and an 11 year old to the point where they comment about missing me on my Instagram pictures of cheesecake, got my period on Space Mountain (my mom was disappointed to learn that, no, there are no Mickey ears on their tampons), ate way too much food, got drunk almost every day, and now I'm just continuing to sit on YouTube and rewatch other families' vacation videos while I feel bad about not being there. But it's okay, don't be concerned, I'm already planning a return trip because I don't know what else post-grads have to look forward to.

I got my hair done, finally, after more than four months of ignoring it. Let's not talk about what happened, but just get to the part where my Yelp review caused the salon to offer me an entire free color/cut the next time I go in. Passive aggressive complaining about bad hair stylists works, people.

Amy Poehler and Will Arnett broke up, which somehow seemed to crack any hope I had in relationships and sent me into a really fun downward spiral of anxiety until I landed at the bottom with Amy's body image video. If you haven't seen it yet, what are you, some kind of internet hermit? Watch it. It'll quite honestly make you feel better about a lot of things, and probably will make you cry. It's probably silly, the extent to which we care about our favorite celebrities, but comforting to see one come out of a rocky time unscathed and doling out hopeful advice.

THE EMMYS. Were really boring. Like, what happened to Jimmy Kimmel? I usually like him, but dear god, between the predictable comedy winners (can someone run cold water over everyone's Modern Family boners?) and the stale skits, what a cruddy year. Except for the fact that Poehler rocked out with her cock (tits?) out and that bit with her and Julia Louis-Dreyfus was actually the greatest. I LOVE LADIES SUPPORTING LADIES THROUGH UNEXPECTED COMICAL BITS. And I love ladies being super hot at age 41 after two kids and a divorce.

Otherwise I've been going to work, eating junk food, and procrastinating over taking a shower. The usual!

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Internet Wormholes

You know those days where you have tentative plans to be productive? Like, things that are sort of important but not urgent: dirty dishes in the sink,r going to the bank, maybe organizing your junk drawer. So you give yourself some leeway, and decide to spend a little extra time on the computer.

Three hours later, you have four new hobbies and an Amazon shopping card full of things you never needed until that exact moment.

I fall into the most strange, nuanced corners of the internet sometimes. And a chance encounter with one video on Youtube will lead to me suddenly dedicating half my time to wasting my life on something I never knew I gave a shit about. For example, I can get away with a solid four hours of watching nothing but roller coaster videos.

The worst of these spirals is definitely my love affair with Japanese preteen culture.

This spiral begins with my love for Japanese snacks, as was discovered in the Japanese pavilion a Epcot as a child. Yan Yans are made of manna from heaven, I think. It was always an extra special treat to stock up on the various combinations of chocolate-and-biscuit snacks every few years on Disney World vacations.

A few years ago, I realized these could be purchased online. GASP! Would that take away how special they are? $30 later, I realized that no, Pocky sticks taste fucking awesome even when not enjoyed in line for the Norway flume ride (those trolls, you guys). It was then that I stumbled into the world of Poppin' Cookin'.

CANDY YOU MAKE YOURSELF. You get a box full of powder packets and SUDDENLY YOU HAVE SUSHI MADE OF SUGAR AND YOUR VERY OWN GUMMIES AND A CUP OF FAKE RAMEN THAT TASTES LIKE REAL RAMEN. You can't convey these things without using capslock! It's THAT EXCITING.

If you try to find videos of this candy in action, you'll likely stumble upon RRcherrypie and be lost in the deftness of not only DIY candy, but weird crafts full of fake food that I can't wrap my head around. Why does anyone need a fake hamburger the size of a thumbtack that's gonna rot in a few days? It's a mystery, and I will not stop until I find out. (Also, I must recommend emmymadeinjapan for actual reviews on this candy, and so we realize the Japanese have faults like not making this stuff taste like fucking rainbows every time).

Then my world grew even darker. I discovered the world of the Kawaii.

Really, all that means is "cute" in Japanese. But to preteens it means SO MUCH MORE. They inexplicably trade tiny toys -- usually cell phone charms, but like, who has a cell phone with a place to hang charms these days? -- and gather up thousands upon THOUSANDS of Youtube followers. I can't get more than 500 hits on a stupid drunk vlog of me wrapping Christmas presents while pounding Baileys, but some 13 year old goes online to debate the merits of a squishy foam Hello Kitty waffle versus a Mickey Mouse shaped donut and suddenly they have 4,000 subscribers and 30,000 video views.

Everything is squishy. Everything is fake food. There are a million squishy buns with random faces painted on them in the world, and I want to know why.

I will never understand. I'm probably not supposed to. But if you think I haven't stayed up til 3am watching a middle schooler review a fake croissant that you squeeze like memory foam, you'd be wrong.

Who wants to buy me one?

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

What is a semi-serious post doing here?

Shit sort of went down (?) on my tumblr today, and I felt like making a post about it.

Someone brought up the idea of a Plan B to me. And no I don't mean the morning after pill because for that to apply to me there would have to be a night before, and that is happening approximately never (I can turn ANYTHING into a joke about my invisible sex life!). And I might have gotten soapboxy, so I don't mean to determine anyone else's lives for them. But I feel pretty strongly about the way I'm living mine right now, and I want others to know that it's okay to feel the same.

When I decided to leave a traditional state university to study television at an urban arts/media college, I pretty much said goodbye to safety nets and backup plans. I had tried to see if getting an English or media degree from a traditional establishment with a better chance at having some sort of money paying opportunities in the future, and it didn't work for me. I had to be doing something I really gave a shit about, or I was going to be (even more) miserable in college.

A good chunk of my life is a royal mess, but the one thing I know for certain is that I want to do comedy. It took me nearly 19 years to get to the point where I figured that out, and another year after that until I really tapped into the passion I have for it. And everything else feels so uncomfortably uncertain that, with every bit of might in my flabby arms, I'm gonna hold the fuck on to that passion and let that be the thing I let myself have. So even though I felt like I was the worst and I angsted regularly over my nonexistent social life, I still knew I was doing something I loved. I could bang out a dramatic blog entry and cry a little at night, and then wake up and go to sketch writing class and feel happier than I'd ever feel anywhere else.

All I know is that sitting around a table, joking with other people and talking about what's funny and what's not? It's the best time I've ever had. There's nothing that brings me more joy than to figure out how to make people laugh. I feel like it's the same as how to make people care. It's a positive reaction and it makes everyone feel better and feeling crappy is shit so I want everyone to feel AWESOME because FEELING AWESOME IS TITS! And tits are lovely, so.

Essentially, I love doing this thing and I'm terrified of ever letting myself give up on it, because the drive I have is the only sense of stability in my life. It's why I'm in New York instead of flopping around like a dead fish back home in Chicago suburbia. Instead of dipping my little toe into the water I just kind of did a fucking canon ball because there is probably a pool noodle that I want in the pool and not I am in the pool and I have to find it. And yes it totally is hard because I can't open my eyes in chlorine and like, lungs, y'know? But the pool noodle is going to be fun FOREVER once I find the damn thing so I'll just keep inhaling water through my nose on accident and hoping the warm spot next to me isn't piss.

Where the fuck did that weird metaphor even come from...

Basically, right now, I'm 22. I just graduated college. I just moved to New York City. And I'd like to think I'm doing pretty okay, given the circumstances. I've got food in my fridge, even it its a weird assortment of cheddar cheese and peanut butter with no bread to make an actual sandwich. I was fortunate enough to land a paying part-time job just two weeks out into the city. And I get to go see improv shows full of people I admire and who inspire me whenever I want to. I've been fortunate enough to see my personal life hero four times this summer. There's a comedian I look up to so much who sometimes responds to my tweets like she is interested in my life (I still don't understand, but I'm grateful times a thousand). I've found some other comedy lady friends who inspire me and make me wanna make shit.

Right now, anxiety aside, my life is pretty fucking dandy. I feel like I'm moving toward something I want to do and I'm fortunate to be in the perfect environment to do it. I don't have to worry about what I'm doing next month. I don't even really have to worry about what I'm doing this weekend. I don't WANT to worry about that stuff now. I have my whole life to worry! But right now, when I can, why not take some chances and let myself believe that I'm capable of achieving some awesome shit?

You can sit around all day thinking "maybe someday I might do something sorta cool." Or you can sit around and think "FUCK I'M GONNA WIN SO MANY EMMYS IN MY LIFETIME THAT I'M GONNA GIVE LIKE FIVE OF THEM TO STEVE CARELL TO BALANCE OUT THE WORLD'S INJUSTICES!" There's probably about the same chance of success in either school of thought, so why not choose the one that gives you a lifeline while you need it?

Studying television in college is a scary thing when you face the real world after graduation. But I'd rather give myself reasons to enjoy the ride while I can. I spend so much time feeling crappy for other reasons... I just want something I can believe in. I need that. I need to tell myself, "Hey buddy, remember that time in five years when you're gonna be on SNL and that time five years after that when you're gonna rule the world? YOU WILL." Because that makes me feel awesome right now.

Maybe there will come a point where I burn out. Maybe it'll crash and burn and my name will never be in the credits of a tv show and I have to stop. But hell if I'm gonna let that day be any time soon, and hell if I'm gonna let that happen without clawing tooth-and-nail to avoid it. I don't, at this point in time, care about what I'll do if that happens. Right now, I'm gonna try to do comedy and attempt to enjoy myself while I do it. Maybe something happens, maybe it doesn't. That's life.

This might have gotten lengthy, but I've actually made myself feel a lot better in general at the end of this. I don't know if this will help anyone else, but if you're at an uncertain place in your life, make an unnecessarily long blog post about why you're doing something you love. This has been extremely therapeutic.

And I feel like gracing Steve Carell with Emmys will help achieve world peace, so it's not like I'm not working toward a greater good.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Hopelessly Mundane

The other day, I went to the laundromat.

I hate going to the laundromat. It's not even a big deal; the one near me is air conditioned, equipped with wifi, affordable, open 24 hours, and only a block away. But laundry is an official chore. My schedule generally has room for one day off work for avoiding real life, and one day off when I absolutely have to do my laundry because I won't have another chance for half a week.

Last Friday was that day. After the usual morning of sitting around in my underwear reading the internet and attempting to understand the appeal of the Olympics, I told myself I'd do laundry at 3. So naturally at 1:30 I ordered thai food, sat around, watched Alice In Wonderland on YouTube (there was a mushroom in my soup that looked like a cartoon mushroom... you don't understand, like once you see this mushroom, you have to watch a cartoon Disney film that deals with mushrooms, and the options in that category are limited), paused it for long chunks of time to watch other videos of roller coasters, and pretended I was going to get writing done before finally kicking my own ass out after 5.

What was that movie where people fell in love at a laundromat? Seven Days And Seven Nights*? It was one of those movies that no one cares about, so Comedy Central would air it during the middle of the afternoon on weekdays where it would continue to never be watched. I've never sat through the entire thing but I've definitely read Friends fan fiction based on it. Ross and Rachel met in a laundromat, had inexplicable chemistry, and then fucked a lot. This is generally the use of fan fiction: heedless, constant sex. As a Have Not, I appreciate this function. It certainly brightens one's day to read about unfamiliar experiences (this is a very sad paragraph).

I don't think it's necessary to explain that I do not ever stumble into Meet Cutes at the laundromat. Ever.

Where are all the cute, artsy Astoria boys in glasses who like comedy and want to ask me out to the beer garden? Or is that a thing I made up in my head? Because every time I go to the laundromat, it's just me, the silent, always judging Asian owners, and some random Austrian or Indian family with a million young children who treat the laundromat like their own personal obstacle course. I don't understand why, when there are three large plastic tables and I'm the only person sitting at any of the tables, suddenly two mechanics and their little ginger sons need to sit down to fix the Pac Man machine and impart drill-bit related wisdom NOT ONLY AT MY TABLE BUT ON THE BENCH I AM ON. With no apology for the noise.

I went to sit on a stool next to my washing machine in silent protest, which probably just made me look like a pathetic child. Really, it was the perfect opportunity for some cute boy to set down his whites on the nearby counter and look at me in curiosity, because in my imagination everything I do is impeccably endearing and my outfit of ratty leggings and an already-worn-this-week tank top is super sexy, and my hair in a sweaty bun is just like, irresistible. Our eyes would meet and we would look away, blushing, several times until whomever leaves first asks the other their name. We would then meet again, next laundry day, like some sort of fucking serendipity that means we definitely need to go home and take off our pants.

Instead, I realized I forgot to bring any of my pants that needed washing.

All the pants I am wearing this week haven't been washed for two or three weeks.

And I wonder why I don't have any Meet Cutes.

*An internet mcsasspants sassed me. It's 40 Days and 40 Nights. EXCUSE ME, NUMBERS ARE HARD.