Getting it Greek Style

Anyone who knows me, and by ‘knows me’ I mean reads my wildly hysterical facebook posts on a daily basis, knows that I have been loving the turkey burgers lately. I can’t get enough! I don’t care for red meat. I don’t like it, and it certainly does not like me. Lately I have had a hankering for a burger and rather than go through the physical, emotional and political devastation, I do not satisfy that craving. I instead happily enjoy a tasty turkey burger.

I recently discovered that the diner in my building serves a turkey burger. What convenience! I had one once and it was not half bad. There’s one problem with the diner downstairs. The prices are ridiculous. They are also usually made up on the spot. One time for example, I paid 6.50 for an egg salad sandwich. I questioned this price exclaiming that many places were offering egg salad sandwiches for almost half that price. The response? “Well you wanted lettuce and tomato on it.” Got it. 30 cents of additional produce on a meal consisting of two slices of bread, one egg and two tablespoons of mayonnaise = 6.50. Understood. Did I stop going back? No. I just stopped ordering the egg salad.

One time I got a breakfast sandwich. It was obviously early, so my account of this might not be entirely accurate, but when I realized 40 seconds after ordering that I forgot to ask for cheese, the price went from 3.50 to 5.75. Or something ridiculous like that.

I used to make some iced tea at my desk during the warm summer months. I would simply make a cup of tea, wait for it to cool a bit and pour it over ice. Voila, iced tea deliciousness. One time I went down to the diner and asked for a cup of ice. Full intending to pay for it, I was told in no uncertain terms in a Greek accent with a hint of anger ‘you gonna have to pay for it’. Really? I assumed it would be for free! What with your five dollar add ons! This money I have already put in my hand in no way indicated my willingness to pay for a cup of ice, I’m glad you told me. Would’ve been awful if I was confused at all. (You don’t have to pay extra for sarcasm) I was charged a quarter. No problem! Glad to do it. A week later inflation hit and the cup of ice doubled in price. That same angry Greek accent explained to me something about units and pricing. I glazed over, paid 50 cents and decided to never again forget my Tervis Tumbler at home. Cut to a couple weeks after that when I went with my tumbler asking for ice. ‘I gonna have to charge-a you.’ And I was on my way. Each of these times swearing I would find a way to end my already sporadic relationship with this greedy man.

Then today I decided ‘I’m tired and hungry, I will go get a turkey burger and I don’t care what it costs.’ Since I know that adding anything to it usually means that the price will be pulled from out of thin air, I opt to order a certain variety of a burger deluxe since it is guaranteed to come with cheese ($3.75) and lettuce ($2.25) and tomato ($14.50). “Well I gonna hafta charge a you more for da turkey.”

“I assumed.” I replied. Not in an angry, confrontational way. I was letting him know that I was aware there would be a difference in price and that I was in no way trying to get one over on him with my tricky and sneaky substitution.

“Wull lemme essplain it to you.” He said defiantly.

“No need to explain it. I’ll pay extra.”

“You see, a turkey you get a 4 ounce-“

“You don’t need to explain it to me. I would like the turkey burger.”

“Wull I gonna hafta charge a you more.”

“Well how much more?” I finally asked because he was pressing the matter so intently I though “am I going to have to sign a release saying I understand that a turkey burger is more than a regular one?” or “will I have to refinance my home?” Just give me a fucking turkey burger.

“Ess gon be $6.75.” Totally reasonable! Before I could say “ok” yet again. “Lemme essplain it to you.” My patience was wearing thin.

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

“Wull I jus a wanna tell you –“ And he went on to ‘essplain’ that the turkey burger costs more. I can tell you what he said, but I’d rather translate it into what I heard.

“It’s not because I’m a cheap asshole. The turkey burger is bigger. I know that I’m ripping people off every single day and I’m really defensive about it. And since there’s now a crowd forming and you don’t look pleased, I’m going to state my peace for all to hear!”

He finished, uninterrupted by me, and I nodded in comprehension.

“You know what?” I asked. “Now I don’t want anything!”

And I turned and left. Dumb bastard. I would’ve paid nine bucks for a turkey burger today. Now I’m not coming back until I either get over it or get really lazy. Count on the latter, but for now the boycott is in full effect! It might not put much of a dent on his income. I only ate there 1 or 2 times a month. That kind of patronage probably only made half of his mortgage. Unless I wanted cheese on it. 

Why you didn't get your gift........

So after spending the whole day on the phone with Tiffany's because they spelled your name wrong on the engraving, I finally decided to go there in person and take action. They corrected this horrible mistake and soon I was on my way with your beautiful, engraved gift. Then, out of nowhere, these ninjas jumped from behind the bushes and began attacking me. I held on to your gift, holding it tight to my chest and cowering over it as if I were protecting an infant in a tornado. They beat me about my neck, back and legs. I lost consciousness at one point, but never the gift. I begged 'please! Take my life, but not this special gift for Ellen!' They showed no mercy. Eventually they tired and I was on my way, beaten and broken and bleeding but determined to deliver your gift. I turned a corner and slipped on some ice. Because I did not want to break the gift I held it over my head forgoing protection to my face. I broke my nose and blood began gushing from it and left a path on the sidewalk as I slid at great speeds down the slight incline coming to a stop on a patch of sidewalk that had no ice. The pavement shorn my eyebrows clear off. Not a scratch on the gift though. Then I collected myself as best I could and continued to walk. School children saw me and began screaming. It was deafening. Their parents immediately lit torches and began chasing me as if I were an ogre in a small village. I clutched the gift and ran as fast as my tattered body would allow. It was in vain because they caught up to me and set me on fire. I was able to throw myself in a snow bank, gift first of course, and the flames slowly went out. Most of my clothes were burned clear off but I got up, dug the gift out of the snow bank and continued to walk. A snow plow passed spraying me with road salt with stung so badly on my bare, wounded skin. I thought "this is the worst pain I've ever experienced in my life, but far less than the pain of not acknowledging Ellen's two year anniversary with this beautiful engraved gift." Wounds of the skin may heal, but wounds of the heart leave scars for eternity. I continued walking at a much slower pace than before. I was so determined to get this gift to you. As I approached the DMV building next to yours, I tried to avoid the line which was wrapped around the building. The line of angry, obnoxious people waiting to go into the DMV was a large as I'd ever seen. I realized that I needed to renew my license. Someone at the front of the line offered me their spot in exchange for the gift. I couldn't pass up an opportunity like that! First in line at the DMV with no waiting? So, I reluctantly gave your beautiful, engraved gift in exchange for this once in a lifetime opportunity. I hope you understand.

On the Money Side of the Street, 10.18.08

I enjoy being on time to work. I couldn’t care less if I'm not, but I enjoy settling in when I'm supposed to be there. It makes my whole day better.

There's no clear cut easy way to get here from my house though. Even though it is a perpetual cluster fuck, I have found that Central Ave has been the best route thus far. But lately, it is under constant construction. Let me rephrase that: constant obstruction. These men in orange vests take time from their smoking to lay a brick or two, then stand back, exhausted, light up and admire their work.

I was excited that they were mending the brain-jarring potholes that used to knock teeth loose every morning, especially when I rode the shocks-free bus. Such repair is not only necessary, it’s imperative. What I don’t understand, though, is the aesthetic overhaul that they are giving parts of Central Ave. The biggest reason I do not get this is because I thought we were in a recession and times were tough—why is this money being spent? I know my boyfriend and I are a little broke right now, so we prioritized: we fired our landscaper and mowed the lawn ourselves. We had to let Consuelo go and bought a cheap dishwasher. My Boboli pizza had shredded mozz instead of the fresh stuff last night. You know, you make sacrifices. And I think that increasing the overall aesthetic of a dump of a street should not be a priority. I had my heart set on the bonsai maze in my back yard, but it will have to wait.

Fixing the sidewalks is one thing, but is the Hannaford Plaza more enticing with some evenly-spaced brick columns holding up nothing? Columns are supposed to support stuff, right? The only thing these columns will hold up are drunken bums waiting for the 55 bus at 3 a.m. And make sure that turf grass looks nice, otherwise he’s not gonna be comfortable going to the bathroom while he waits! And the brick crossways across random intersections—stunning, just stunning. Was there some big sale on bricks that I was unaware of?

Downtown Albany looks great, but those repairs were done during better times and help out with tourism and downtown businesses. You know, sans the bronze statue of the man on the bench. But Central Avenue? I'm not saying give up on such an important and well- traveled path, but maybe you could start with cleaning up some of the garbage. That seems a little cheaper than useless columns. Then, when we get someone smart in office and the economy is better, you can have your columns and I can have my bonsai maze. Deal?

Snack Attack

I must be cursed. Maybe this happens to everyone and they just don’t all batshit crazy like I do, but I feel like I constantly find the most disgusting things in my food. So I'm starting a photo log. About a year ago I was reaching into a snack pack sized serving of Lays original potato chips when I touched what felt like a furry little mouse. I screamed bloody murder, threw the bag across the room and did the hibbity jibbity dance for several minutes all while making the most eloquent dry heaving noise. It does not matter that it was probably just some strange oily clump, or whatever the woman on the phone described, I know it felt like a mouse. I know it looked like a fuzzy turd. I know it was not a delicious potato chip.

Eventually my nightmares subsided. After my post traumatic stress disorder therapy, I was able to enjoy the quality products that Lays© had to offer. Of course, their mea culpa involved coupons for more of their product in the hopes that I would continue to be a reliable customer, sans fuzzy turd.

No sooner am I healed from my salty snack fiasco then I buy myself a jar of Planters Dry Roasted Peanuts. I love these so much a rarely get out of the store without making that delightful popping sound that comes with the breaking of the vacuum packed seal. I believe this to be the jars way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ to the thanks I am giving for the freshness insurance that comes with said popping sound. It’s comforting and soothing and tells me “you will be satisfied with this snack. So you can imagine my dismay when the first serving from the jar presents something that does not feel like a peanut. No sir. It feels like bones and teeth. I know it is not bones and teeth but there was a split second before my hand old my brain to tell my eyes to look and make sure. Until then, I could only assume it was the skeletal remains of the fuzzy chip mouse. It was this.

So yet again, my salted snack craving thwarted by what I'm told is a normal occurrence? “Sometimes the nuts just get cluster and the oil and blahblahblah……” How do I know this???? I'm no snack expert! I'm supposed to believe the word of some 800 number employee reading from a page? There’s no sanctity in my snacks anymore. And my consolation? Coupons for more snack, more risk, more chances to be disappointed and scared to eat this wonderful treats. That is all for now, I'm sure I will have updates as my life goes on, if it does after such a tragedy. Pretzels, don’t let me down.

PS Keep in mind, I found what I believed to be an eagle’s talon in a chicken salad a few years back but was not camera ready. I'm ready now. I hope you all are too.

Pot Luck

Pot luck. Odd name for a chancy crap shoot of a feast. I don’t see ‘luck’ being the outcome. I have experienced far too many unidentified smells in this office to trust what a fellow employee made for these gatherings. And since I trust some more than others, I withdraw myself from said gatherings altogether to avoid being rude. “No thanks, I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, otherwise I’d sample your ambrosia that you’re handing to me with that hand of yours riddled with some identified dark substance underneath your nails. However, I have plenty of room for super clean Eileen’s double fudge brownies.”

Now I think my bitterness towards these office parties is no secret. Call me a bitch, that’s fine. I'm sorry that I have work to do and don’t want to pretend that I give a shit about you, nor do I think that it’s an example of caring to stand by you, sing along and have a piece of cake. To be perfectly honest with you, if I had a cake for my birthday/engagement/promotion/wedding/resurrection, etc., I wouldn’t want you pretending to be happy for me whilst you drool over my mom’s angel food cake with chocolate frosting. Odds are I don’t even know your name and you’re probably singing out of key. So when these sort of gatherings are expanded for the more important people, or even for some random displays of appreciation for ourselves, it should be a huge red flag to you that I would rather do work.  “Oh, I’d love to come wish Paula well as she leaves for a week for a minor outpatient procedure, but I’d rather monotonously enter data into a spreadsheet for several hours.”

Now, I'm not sure how people cook in the privacy of their homes. I know when you're cooking for yourself you may not take as many precautions as you would if you were cooking for other people. Or is that just me? You know, testing the marinara by licking the spoon and putting it back in. Or worse, your finger! *dry heave* Perhaps you like to smoke when you cook. How do I know that at one point when you were worried about getting cream of mushroom soup on your Kool you let the ash grow to donkey dick proportions and then ‘oops, in the soups’?

“No one will notice.” You thought to yourself. If you even noticed that the ash mysteriously disappeared.

Is everyone familiar with the five second rule? I know I am. I also know I don’t abide by it one bit. I am a bit OCD. I don’t even eat food if it’s fallen off my plate onto the table, much less on the floor, nor do I expect anyone else to. I also keep my kitchen pretty immaculate, which I'm sure you believe you do as well, but your cats have a different idea. Little Fluffy’s back was itching him something fierce and earlier this afternoon he tried to ease his pain by rolling and writhing about on the linoleum in hopes that one tile may be warped enough to peel and scratch that nasty itch. Even if it is clean in your kitchen, Murphy’s Oil Soap residue is not my choice of marinade.

Maybe it’s me--I have been getting more and more germaphobic in the past few years. And I don’t wish to be inundated with whatever food grossness I may have left out. I'm aware that if I had enough time to type them all out, I'm sure you would’ve have enough time to read it. I love it when I share some debilitating hang up with someone only to have them make it worse. “You know, I have to thoroughly wash the vegetables in the supermarket if they aren’t already packaged.” I'll say.

“You know it’s not much better if they’re packaged! You know some filthy immigrant could’ve……(you fill in the blank),” says some asshole who used to be my friend.

I know nothing is perfect. I know nothing is clean, but I have selective neuroses, and I'm messed up enough as it is without you getting a kick out of making me worse. So I preemptively ruin everyone else’s day. I turned my friend off of canned beer and soda by telling him that some guy at the bodega was resting his bare foot on the top of a 12 pack of cans one day. Right where you put your mouth. I got another friend to stop putting lemon in her water by telling her how the bartenders where I worked used to play catch with the fruit, very poorly. It’s no longer a garnish when you’ve squeezed and dropped it into your drink. Now it’s a floating bacterium. Enjoy! And I’ve worked in enough restaurants to ruining your special occasions for the rest of your lives. Chef’s surprise anyone?

So, I'll leave it at that, no response necessary or encouraged. And you can take your pot luck and shove it up your ass, if you haven’t already.

Homemade? Not till I’ve been in your home.

Rickie Lee Jones, The Egg, April 29th, 2011

“So…..that just happened……..”

That’s the thought that’s going through my head after seeing one of my idols, Rickie Lee Jones, in concert tonight. Imagine the perfect setting… 12 feet away from her in the Egg, one of my all time favorite places to see a show. I trembled just taking my seat at the thought of seeing her so close and hearing her voice so near. The last and only time I saw Rickie was in Northampton, Massachusetts about 8 years ago. I was fighting a pretty serious flu that required me to sit on the aisle and get up several times to use the bathroom. Also, George Bush was in office at the time which made for a very cranky Ms. Jones who intermittently reminded the audience to ‘take {their} country back’. I can understand and sympathize with such irreverence during that time. It was that awkward time for our country where 9/11 was still fresh but the impending war and patriot act was starting to chip away at the unconditional love and patriotism our nation briefly acquired. But I also wanted to hear some fucking music. I know which forums to attend to get my politics, thank you very much.

Considering all the variables as to why the first Rickie Lee Jones concert experience was not the greatest, I didn’t give up on her. I at least decided I would wait for a Democrat to be in office before seeing her live again.

Cut to this evening. For the most part it was a truly magical experience. She opened with “Satellites” which was a nice, friendly welcoming. Almost made me forget that she had pronounced “Albany’ wrong. Several times. I got to hear “Weasel and the White Boys Cool”, another favorite of mine. I realized that though I hadn’t listened to some of her albums in quite some time, the words swept back through me immediately and I mouthed them along. I showed some aural restraint out of respect for the audience and the close proximity of the performer. If only some others had shown such courtesy. During “Chuck E.’s in Love”, her most well known (and yet least favorite of mine) there was a girl sitting next to me that sounded like she was auditioning to be a backup singer. Speaking of the audience, I don’t think there was a single person in it other than my mother and I who did not get up and go to the bathroom. Shocking. But I digress.

The most mind-blowing portion of the night did not come from one of her dark lyrics or her knack for making the live version of the song delightfully unrecognizable. It came during the song “Company”. She berated her guitar player in a manner I can only describe as uncomfortable. Like having dinner at a couple’s house and watching them have a passive aggressive argument; once you sense it’s about to escalate you politely mention that ‘maybe it’s time to get going’. As a musician I’ve barely even spoken to people in my band like this in practice, much less on a stage. During the most dramatic part of the song she adlibbed the line ‘where the fuck are you, Jeffrey?’  Then she basically shooed him off the stage when the song was over.

She moved to the piano and played more of my favorites – “We Belong Together”, “Pirates”, “On Saturday Afternoons in 1963”, “A Stanger’s Car” and “Living it Up”. Before “Living it Up” she referenced the oh-so-current Fatboy Slim, asking the audience to try and provided percussion sounds. Another awkward moment that kind of wrecked what should’ve been one of my favorite songs of the evening. That one was not so delightfully unrecognizable. I was desperately hoping for Coolsville, but to no avail. Then she returned to the guitar and begrudgingly asked for “what’s his name, oh yeah, Jeff” to “come back from purgatory”.

She did a song that I didn’t know. I believe it was off her new album. She prefaced it with ‘so this is about another dead kid’ and rolled her eyes. At that point it seemed as though she had enough of Albany (pronounce Al as in the name and bunny as in the bunny). She seemed almost bored. Then she did “Night Train” and left pretty abruptly. Definitely the only show I’ve seen at the Egg that didn’t have at least ONE encore.

I’m not disappointed. I’m a little confused. She talked about being on some sort of celebrity poker show. I found myself questioning her ‘celebrity’ and chuckling. She’s not as well known as she should be and has more of a cult following in my opinion. After a performance like that I could see that small crowd growing smaller by the day. Certainly not the ‘celebrity’ someone might want for ratings on a poker show unless she can provide that kind of train-wreckage ‘what is she gonna say next’ aspect that these reality shows require, which is a shame when she should be known for the great music she has written and recorded over the years. I think I’ll just stick to listening to those recordings from now on.

Act Of Faith (written March 18, 2010)

I feel like there should be a new show called Celebrity Douchebag Club – like Celebrity Fit Club but instead of pounds of fat there are pounds of narcissism. And there’s always time for them to ‘weigh in’.

This is not shocking. That’s kind of what makes up their respective celebrity. But there seems to be a shift in the trend in the past few years. Instead of asking celebrities about themselves (usually their favorite topic) they are asked to weigh in on other celebrity scandals. My question is this: if I don’t really give a shit about the scandal to begin with, why the hell do I give a shit what Drew Barrymore thinks about it?

Upon learning of Tiger Woods’ affair, I will admit I was shocked. I was also a little entertained. This squeaky clean golf pro all of a sudden grew horns? Sensational. But you know what? I don’t feel bad for his wife. Know why? Because I don’t know who the fuck she is. She’s not a friend of mine, I'm pretty sure we’ve never crossed paths, and I'm near positive I can’t pronounce her last name. So you will not see my name along side of the citizens of the world in their public outcry and overflowing sympathy for Elin Norgebasbyrwsbt. Want to know why else I don’t feel bad for her? What kind of wife doesn’t know her husband is carrying on that many affairs? Bullshit. I’ve never heard her speak publicly, but unless she’s Helen Keller lame, she must’ve known something. Don’t you think?

And now Sandra Bullock’s husband cheats on her. So sad, so devastating! Right on the heels of her Oscar win and all the accoutrement that goes with it. Who would’ve seen it coming???? America’s sweetheart tames a motorcycle riding, beer drinking, tattooed man named Jesse James. They fall in love, get married and life happily ever after. Her career doesn’t take her away from her thrice married husband, no sir. And how cute is it that after being married to a porn star, he’s ready to settle down with goofy, snort-laughing girl next door. And they’ve never been exposed to movies where this same scenario plays out and doesn’t go so well for the leading female. (See Hope Floats)

Get real. Why do you think Keanu Reeves wasn’t in Speed 2? You can’t keep an action hero tied down! But more importantly, if my husband were to cheat on me and I were publicly (more limited than say, Sandra Bullock) humiliated, nothing would make me feel better than to have completely delusional strangers tweeting about it! My heart would fill with joy and all the sadness would go away. I would pick up the pieces and move on with my life. Or move to my hometown, rediscover my roots and fall in love with the ugly duckling turned handsome prince that I shirked off all throughout high school. I would say great tag lines ‘I never believed in second chances’ and he would say ‘well, I believe in you’ as the music swells and the rain pours down and I realize I loved him all along. That’s how it happens, right?

Maybe it’s a little hypocritical of me to go on about how people go on, so I'm gonna stop now. People just need to realize that celebrities are not your friends and family. And when your husband goes to get a little nookie cookie somewhere else because you’re too busy being obsessed with watching the ‘E!’ channel, I'm pretty sure Sandra Bullock is not gonna rally on her facebook page for you.

Now, I have to go. Brad and Angie are having another baby and I have got to get a card.