Category: Miscellaneous

Today I drank a can of water for the first time. As imagined, it tasted like drinking aluminum. I’ve decided I don’t much like drinking water from a can, so my advice is simple: if you ever get the chance to try it, I don’t recommend it.

Cruising through K-Mart this weekend, cutting through the Foods I Refuse to Eat&#153 section to get to the DVDs, I spotted the Spam&#174. Having avoided Spam&#174 for decades, I stopped to look as a reminder of all that should never be and all that, at least for me, will never be again. Searching for the label, I chuckled because it wasn’t easy to find. If I “concocted” Spam&#174, I wouldn’t want the ingredients readily known, either, so it was a knowing chuckle. Considering I’m not a crazy vegan who gets morally indignant when others eat meat, the Spam&#174 fascination died quickly, only to be replaced by the undeniable reality that is Treet&#174.

What is Treet&#174 and why does no one ever promote this in all its glory? With all that “Virginia Baked Ham Taste”, who could loathe such a glorious addition to the luncheon meat aisle? Consider this amazing product promotion from the wonderful folks at Armour:

A popular addition to the Armour Franchise – Premium Pork Luncheon meat uses 100% pork with seasonings for a great taste. Fully cooked, ready to eat – enjoy hot or cold. Try it in one of the great luncheon meat recipes.

Seriously, people, what is wrong with America? We’ve descended to the point where people will happily buy a can of squishy, congealed meat by-product bathed in fake seasonings to make the resulting glop assume the fake identity of a Virginia Baked Ham. It’s positioned next to the Vienna Sausages, so in a wink-wink-nudge-nudge way, I know what it’s supposed to be, but for the love of anything that is even minutely holy, people who buy and consume this should be smacked and force-fed frozen peas.

As an experiment, let’s pretend for a moment that I’m a child who eats meat. If my mother or father places Banana Treets in front of me as I watch morning cartoons, I’d rationalize that my parents don’t love me and would prefer that I quietly move out and live with trolls. I’d happily agree, but the move would have to wait until I finish heaving out my guts.

Before America’s food processors dump churned horses pigs into nuclear war-proof product cans bound for discount store shelves, here’s a simple request: run spell check on the label.

I have a new guardian for my job. When I’m stuck dealing with the crazy people who are not only crazy people but also incompetent people, I need someone who appreciates my point of view. I need someone who can give the appropriate posture and attitude and ferocity of mental superiority. This person exists. He is Patrick, Protector of Sanity within the Office of Ridiculousness and Incompetence&#153.

Today, he will look menacingly at his first assignment, the Forces of Evil Who Require Tony to Work on Government Holidays&#153. I suspect that I will call him into action many, many times after today. Even when I’m not invoking his name, he will stand watch in menacing anticipation. Ain’t he cool?

Did you know that if you insert a dollar bill into a vending machine and then insert extra coins before selecting your item, the vending machine will exchange your small coins for quarters?

I tried this on a whim when buying a pack of gum. At 60&#162 for the gum, my 40&#162 change would add to a pocket full of change. And I have an exhausting, never-ending need for quarters to pay for Metro parking every day since a day parked at a meter is cheaper than a day parked in the garage. Because the meters accept only quarters, I have an obsession that fosters creativity. So I put $1.10 into the machine and waited. I expected a quarter, two dimes, and a nickel to fall into the change slot. When I only heard two clinks, I did a mini mental dance.

The Evil Vending Machine Giver of Nickels and Dimes&#153 will never win again!

Liz Lovely is back from summer vacation and they bring cookies!

Your favorite cookie artisans are back! We’ve relocated to Vermont, built a brand new bakery, and just watched our first shipment of cookies head off to the distributor last week. It’s been quite a summer…

Start looking for your favorite cookies at your local retailers starting September 1st. And if they don’t have ’em… tell them you want ’em!

By my calculation, today is September 1st. That means that I might find some cookie joy at my local Whole Foods? Today? Oh, my.

Liz Lovely has many different cookies in its product list but the Cowboy Cookie&#153 is the choice of choices. All of the other cookies are workable, but they don’t match the goodness that is the Cowboy Cookie&#153. I have a new phrase for Cookie Monster: “CC” is for Cowboy Cookie&#153.

I’m going to gain so much weight over the next few months.

P.S. Click here to determine where you can find The Best Cookie On The Planet&#153.

Yesterday, Danielle and I were in “The Teacher Store”. Why it’s called that is obvious, but that’s not its name. It’s Hammett. While browsing, I came across the true joy of The Teacher Store: finger paint. I know kids love to use their hands and get dirty and let their imagination run wild, but perhaps a little more thought should be put into the marketing because, as much as kids like to use their hands, they’re usually using their hands to put things in their mouths. That’s why finger paint shouldn’t look like peanut butter and jelly.

I’m sure Danielle won’t put it next to the paste.

Tomorrow I have a team lunch with my fellow computer-programming nerds. This is typically an anticipated joy for most working stiffs, but not me. I hate them. First, I’m asocial. I scrub-up well, but that doesn’t mean I want to hang around with people. I’m a solitary creature more often than not, so team lunches mean the nightmare that is the group outing.

That would be survivable except for problem number two. I’m always singled out as the difficult person because I’m a vegan. Ignore that I understand how distinct my dietary habits make me and that I adapt to each new menu. I accept that I’ll have the pasta or the pasta at most restaurants, but that doesn’t prevent others from placing upon me the challenge of finding a lunch spot for the group. I would enjoy that if my choice of Indian didn’t get nixed immediately every time. Picking without being able to pick is stupid but that’s what happens. Since I have a team lunch tomorrow, it happened again.

“I” ended up choosing a mexican restaurant since I can get veggie fajitas. Except I can’t. The menu doesn’t list veggie fajitas as an option. It seems that uppity, chic restaurants believe that the hip urbanite likes to shove dead animals down his throat, but only when it’s covered with cheese. Vegans are those disgusting leeches on society who want to save all the trees and hate capitalism. So I’ll adapt.

However… I have to worry about a restaurant that includes chihuahua cheese on its menu. I don’t know what chihuahua cheese is, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting it. To understand, I had to look it up. According to the Food Network, chihuahua cheese is “see asadero“. What? If it’s called asadero, why not put asadero on the menu instead of chihuahua cheese? Since that didn’t answer my question, I clicked over to asadero.

Definition: [ah-sah-DEH-roh] A white cow’s-milk cheese of Mexican origin that’s available in braids, balls or rounds. Asadero, which means “roaster” or “broiler,” has good melting properties and becomes softly stringy when heated–very similar to an unaged monterey jack cheese. Other names for this cheese are Chihuahua and Oaxaca. See also cheese.

Note to all chefs: say what you mean and mean what you say. Why do you have so many names for the same cheese? A rose by any other name…

That doesn’t help me decide what I’m going to have for lunch on Friday, but it does raise another thought. Recently, Paris Hilton’s chihuahua was missing for a week. Which poor chef had the task of milking Tinkerbell?

As I walked through the metal detector at work, my briefcase rolled through the x-ray machine. As it came through, I noticed a sign I’d never seen before: “Do not touch revolving belt.”

“Why not,” I thought. I picked up my briefcase and touched the revolving belt. Nothing happened.

The Man&#153 can try, but he can’t keep me down.

The first insightful statement I heard this morning is that I’m no longer on the cusp of my thirties, that I’m now “in” my thirties. Yay me?

Today is Father’s Day, but for me it’s just another day. Not because I want it to be, but because it has to be. When everyone else makes the obligatory call to dad, I do nothing. I have nowhere to call.

My father died in March 1977. I’m now more than four years older than he was the day he was shot while sitting in the passenger’s seat of his friend’s pickup. A mindless game of quick draw with their handguns and an accidental pull of the trigger and my brother and I were sentenced to a lifetime of wondering how our father’s presence would’ve impacted our lives.

I don’t have children yet, but my brother has a 3-year-old son, the same age we were when our dad died. Knowing what we missed and not wanting The Boy&#153 to miss any of it, my brother dotes on my nephew with all the attention and love every child should be so lucky to receive. He doesn’t spoil The Boy&#153, but he embraces every moment he shares with The Boy&#153 as his best moment ever.

The Boy&#153 has what we lost. He has a father to share every joy and every pain, no matter how big or small, monumental or inconsequential. If I ever have children, I hope I can do the same. I want to pass on to my children what my brother has taught The Boy&#153: although he’ll never meet his grandfather, he got the best possible father because of it.