Month: January 2008

A slippery situation

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Slippery. Slimy. Slick. It made a sluicing sound as it squished through the sides.

The water was warm on my hands, making them feel cleaner as it washed the rest of the soap suds away. However, when I had finished washing and drying them off, I noticed that grimy/sticky feeling remained on the palm of my hand. I’m not entirely sure how it got there—maybe from checking my car’s oil or perhaps from rotating the wheels on my rollerblades—but it certainly wasn’t coming off by traditional methods.

I went to my secret weapon: dishwashing soap. After a couple minutes of scrubbing, washing and drying, my hands were clean as a whistle again. Cleaner, actually–whistles are always in someone’s mouth, I doubt they’re that clean.

When I thought about this later, though, I realized something bizarre: if dishwashing soap is stronger than hand soap, why don’t we just use dishwashing soap all of the time?

I’m an avid hand washer. Even if I’m not doing anything at all–if I’m just sitting on the couch, contemplating my navel, without a care in the world–I start to feel like my hands are dirty after a length of time. So I wash them constantly, despite often telling people it has been more than a few days since the last washing. Ever since finding out about the almost magical properties of dishwashing soap, I’ve converted and will never go back.

First of all, it feels nicer. Instead of the gel-like feeling of some soaps, dishwashing soap has a nice silky syrupy feel that brings handwashing above and beyond just a tactile experience. Second, and lastly (because how many reasons do you need, anyway?), it makes my hands cleaner. If I wash my hands with normal hand soap and they can’t get the job done, then I use dishwashing soap and it makes them feel brand new, wouldn’t it make more sense to use the latter soap at every opportunity? Why wouldn’t I want my hands to be as clean as possible at every opportunity? This is especially relevant since we use hands for so many more tasks that we use dishes, such as for eye-booger wiping and nose picking, to name but a few.

To better illustrate my point, here is a very similar example: Why would you drive a VW Rabbit when you’ve got a Lamborghini in the garage?

You wouldn’t.

Money Management 101, or “Lessons from the Strip Clubs”

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On occasion, I frequent strips clubs. It is never a sober decision to go, but as any number of drinks carry me towards the end of the night, to myself and several friends and coworkers it becomes a reasonable and economical place to go. A not bad seven dollars will gain you admission and a free drink ticket (domestics and wells only) at most of the finer establishments in Hawaii.

Once you are through the door, you also get one of the best lessons in money management you could possibly receive.

Strip clubs, and their limber and acrobatic workers, offer premium examples of the economic concepts of incentives and the human response to them and bartering. Like a soda or gumball machine, you stick your money in, a prize or reward comes out. In theory, the more money you put in, the more of a reward you receive. Incentives.

What makes it tricky, though, is that, unlike a soda or gumball machine, the exchange of goods is not one to one, nor consistently priced at strip clubs.

This is where the old world bartering comes in.

You have something the dancer wants: money, and the dancer has something that you want: punani. Through initial and on-going negotiations you have to work to make both sides happy about the equivalent value they are receiving for their goods.

In any good negotiation, though, you must appear more interested in what you already possess than what you are about to receive. At least if you don’t want to end up with the short end of the stick.

Intoxicated and confronted with full body nakedness at 1:30 in the morning, this, obviously, can be rather difficult.

That’s where you learn the lessons. Ten, Twenty, Fifty dollars, will teach you the hard way when it is gone in a second. Properly managed, though, the three dollars change you had from your admission can last you the rest of the night and still afford you that double cheeseburger at McDonalds after you leave.

The most rewarding part of love

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As I finished talking, she looked at me sheepishly, like she had something she wanted to say but had forgotten how to speak. Finally, she said in a tiny voice, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Babe, we’ve been together for nearly three years now. I just think it’s time that we take our relationship to a new level.” I was nearly pleading with her at this point.

“I’m just afraid that I’ll open up to you and I’ll end up getting hurt,” she responded.

“You know I love you, honey. You know this. Whether we do this or not, it won’t affect the way I feel about you. But I know that it will deepen our relationship and bring us more intimately together.”

Head pointed slightly toward the floor, her eyes darted up and looked at me, and I thought I saw a small twinkle in them. And sure enough, a quiet grin swept lightly across her face, one cheek to the other.

“Okay,” she said, almost whispering. “Okay.”

With that, she leaned slightly to the side, and I heard a soft exhale, like someone opening a new bottle of Coke, punctuated by two short high-pitched squeaks.

Her eyes widened a bit in anticipation of my reaction. I hugged her close to me and told her, “I’ve never felt closer to you.”

* * *

Is there any moment in a relationship quite like the first time your girlfriend farts in front of you? I don’t think there is.

There’s a certain crude magic to it. Provided your girlfriend isn’t named Helga or Bertha and has never won any chili-eating contests, you may not be accustomed to an elegant young woman squeaking one out, asking everybody if they smell fresh baked bread. After all, women are advised from a very young age that farts may be a lot of things, but ladylike is not one of them.

This is precisely the reason that the “long-term relationship fart” can be so important. You’re acting in a way that is completely against everything you might have ever been taught, but a way that is so in line with one’s true nature that once it happens, it feels so natural you wonder how you ever lived without it.

So whether you feel it necessary to have “the talk,” or if a loud one pops out accidentally mid-laugh, farts—especially girl farts—should be a celebrated occasion in any committed relationship. After all, girl farts are like unicorns: they are almost mythical, and you’ll most likely only encounter one if you believe very strongly that they are real.

Well, I believe. Do you?

A Moral Quandary

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(This quandary was born out of a conversation with a friend, who recently started a site called itsapoll.com, where highly divisive moral and ethical dilemmas are posed daily. Check it out each day, if you have a chance, after reading Big Words.)

You are given the opportunity to have your way with the celebrity of your choice and receive $25 for doing it. However, your significant other largely disapproves of it and relationship repercussions (though, not necessarily a break-up) are inevitable if you do. Additionally, at the exact time your celebrity of choice calls upon you to philander, a grease fire breaks out in your kitchen from the Pastrami you were frying up. You do not have time to attend to the fire prior to leaving for your moment of “relations” with your celebrity. Compounding matters, you recently moved into a condominium, so the grease fire will not just threaten your place, but also those on the 9 floors above you, of which most, but not all, have home owners/renters insurance.

Do you do it?

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The Apartment Gourmet: Recipe #2

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The first recipe and an introduction can be found in previous installments of The Apartment Gourmet.

The Re-fried Pizza Calzone

Leftover pizza is a culinary treat common in the apartment setting. Although take-out food is a delicacy for the modest graduate student, even leftover pizza can start losing its appeal; especially if you splurge for the buy-one-large-get-one-free special reasoning that all leftovers can be served for over a week if rationed carefully.

Having stumbled upon this very situation, I have become creative in preparing meals from leftover pizza. One of my favorites is the “Re-fried Pizza Calzone.”

Ingredients:
2 slices of leftover pizza (If you don’t have two slices, fashion two out of one by cutting a slice in half, length-wise)
1 stick string cheese
Calzone stuffings (For this calzone, I used sliced jalapenos which I acquired from a local sandwich restaurant’s pepper bar)

Step 1: Wash hands with soap and warm water for at least 30 seconds.

Step 2: Peel one stick of string cheese, layering cheese on top of two pizza slices.

Step 3: Place both pizza slices in the microwave for about 35 seconds. Cooking time will vary depending on power of your microwave and original temperature of pizza. If pizza has not been previously refrigerated, I recommend a shorter microwaving time.

Step 4: Carefully place Calzone stuffings on one slice of pizza and fashion a sandwich by placing one slice on top the other.

Step 5: In a small pan over medium heat, brown both sides of pizza sandwich until toasty. Because I encourage cheese to spill out and into the pan making crispy cheese edges, I recommend using a non-stick pan.

Step 6: Enjoy!

I like to couple my Re-fried Pizza Calzone with a nice glass of Apartment Punch. I have found a lovely combination of equal parts Cranberry, Fruit Punch, and Blue Stuff to make a stimulating tastebud experience. I have found that the tart cranberry compliments the sweet attributes of the fruit punch and the Blue Stuff seems to add a unique kick.

I hope that you enjoy this simple six-step recipe and stay tuned for more recipes from The Apartment Gourmet.

Please Stop Calling Me…

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No, Troy is not here. No, you cannot speak to Kerry. Yes, I do believe you dialed incorrectly.

I get a lot of wrong numbers. At times, it can be frustrating. I get especially perturbed when the person who dials wrong gets just a hint of anger in their voice when I am not the person he/she intended to be talking to, as if it were my fault.

When you get as many wrong numbers as me, you become somewhat tolerant of telemarketers; at least they are calling to talk to me. I suppose 808.4xx.xxx3 is just close to a lot of other phone numbers, but I feel like people should be just a little more careful when dialing. What if, on the off chance, I was doing something important, like brain surgery?

When I dial a wrong number (rarely happens, but it does), after apologizing and hanging up, I am always curious as to who I just spoke with and what they might have been doing when I called. Surely, they weren’t expecting my call. The possibilities are near endless. It could be some rich guy. Maybe it was a local congressman. Maybe it was a serial killer, and my phone call interrupted what might have been his next kill in a string of female waitress slayings. You just can’t know. Not when you dial incorrectly.

I guess, in the scheme of all in the world, a wrong number and the people involved is fairly trivial, it doesn’t really matter as your relationship with the person ends the moment after it begins.

But just think, maybe your next wrong number could be me or vice versa. Wouldn’t that be a treat.

Buried Treasure

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I’ve just finished looking for a pile of cash in my room. I use the term “finished” loosely there, as I didn’t find it and therefore will probably continue looking at a later date.

Let me clear this up for anyone confused: I actually lost a pile of cash—or, more accurately, an envelope full of cash—in my room somewhere a month ago. It’s not like I just decided one day—today—that I had nothing important on my schedule and thus would hunt around my room to see if I could find a pile of cash. Sure I love the thrill of an adventure, but even that’s pushing it for me.

As for when I lost it, I say a month ago because that’s the last time I saw it. It’s not as if a month ago I placed it somewhere and immediately defined it as “lost.” That would just be plain silly, after all, because 1) I would be lying to myself and anyone I told such a yarn to since if I placed it somewhere, logically I would have to know where it was unless I suffered a massive head injury of some sort immediately after I “lost” it, and 2) putting a pile of cash somewhere and immediately declaring it as “lost” seems a lot like someone is trying to lose it—though one would have to be quite deranged to think something like that might actually work in the first place—and who would actually want to “lose” a big pile of cash, anyway?

As I began to tell before I got lost in my own head, I just finished looking for the envelope today, and I noticed something quite odd about my scouring behavior. After looking in my desk drawers and school bags, and checking around my desk area, I proceeded to look in the bathroom cabinet, my underwear drawer, and even inside of a bible.

Having not found what I was looking for in any of those places—since, of course, my search was not for foot ointment, boxer shorts, or enlightenment—I continued the search.

I thought about how I had looked in most of the usual places first, of course, but later in my quest had found myself checking places that not only did I know I wouldn’t find the envelope but if I were to find it there, I would be vaguely disturbed at my own thought process for 1) leaving it there in the first place, 2) thinking to look there after so much time had passed, and 3) knowing I would think to look there when I left it there to begin with. So now, after having given up looking for the day, instead of pondering where else on this unforgiving planet I might have left a whole load of cash, I’m stuck instead trying to understand the intricate twisted nature of my own psyche.

It’s a strange feeling, to say the least.

These Pants aren’t Pleated, they’re Wrinkled

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I’m not particularly fashionable. My wardrobe consists of 80% brown Quiksilver shirts, 6 pairs of varying styles of jeans, and ankle high socks (both, white and black). Aside from special occasions, the only time I get new clothes is when my mom buys them for me.

This really shouldn’t be a problem, though. And for most guys, it isn’t.

I’m not as fortunate.

I spend my days in the hustle and bustle of the advertising world. Among the several clients to which I provide my services and expertises is a large, high-fashion oriented shopping mall. As such, it is my responsibility to know, inside and out, both the product my client offers and the target audience it provides it to, and make recommendations based on that knowledge to them.

And that is the crux of the problem.

Each week, I meet with client, a very fashion-oriented group, to discuss the status of items and on-going recommendations. During these meetings, I attempt to dress as professionally, and fashionably, as I can, as everything I wear is under scrutiny from the client.

Here are some blaring mistakes, for which I received judging looks for:

1. Pleated pants – I actually don’t see the issue with this, but I am told pleats are no longer in style (actually, apparently, they were never really in style). Now, when asked, I just tell people my pants are wrinkled.

2. Ankle-high black socks – I should receive credit that I wear black socks at all, but that’s not the case. One cross-legged position resulting in an exposed ankle and I was dogged for the rest of the meeting.

3. Brown shirt, Black shoes – I don’t own brown dress shoes. I probably should considering the number of brown shirts I possess. The up-and-down on my outfit went: brown shirt, black belt, khaki slacks and black (ankle) socks and shoes. Yikes!

4. Lack of an undershirt – With my previously mentioned sweating problem, this resulted in fairly offensive pit stains. Damn you, “perspirant” deodorant.

5. Plain white shirt, black pants. – While inherently there isn’t anything wrong with this, several people assumed I was on “my mission”. I was only missing the name tag.

I am sure there are other instances of fashion indiscretions that I don’t even know about.

Are there any other fashion faux-pauxs I should stay away from?

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Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

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I am lucky to have neighbors who appreciate the fine art of tap dancing. I happened upon this discovery at about 2am yesterday morning whilest on a study break.

When my eyes start getting droopy from a jam-packed day of school, studying, report writing and homework and when all is not yet accomplished, I put on my tapping shoes. There is nothing like a good ol’ shuffle-ball-change or time step to bring my spirits up and get my blood pumping.

So feel my downstairs neighbors.

After shuffling-off-to-Buffalo for a good five minutes or so, I heard a definite tapping sound coming from my tile floor. The people below me were communicating through a series of bangs and taps!

At first, I was skeptical. Maybe someone in the building is putting up pictures or assembling furniture at this wee hour of the morning. I decided then to conduct a little experiment. I started tapping out one of my favorite time steps… a flap, heel, heel, brush, heel, toe, heel. And you know what came back from downstairs?

Bang, bang, bang, bang!

Now, I’m a novice tapper but to me, that definitely sounds like someone trying to replicate the tapping of a shuffle-ball-change, using a broomstick or some other kind of hand-held implement to bang up on the ceiling.

No way!

I tried it again. This time with a shuffle heel heel, shuffle heel heel.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

“This is awesome!” I thought. Who’d have guessed that of all people to be my downstairs neighbor, I’d be living above a tap dancing enthusiast?

After a few more exchanges, I realized that I needed to get back to my studies. I guess my neighbor had other plans for the rest of the night too. I said my farewells with a big finish of two Shirley Temples into a series of shuffle-ball-change-hop-shuffle-steps. I heard him yell something from below but it was too muffled to comprehend. I imagine it to be a parting remark of “till we tap again, my friend” or something of the sort.

The back of your head looks a lot better than the front of it and I take issue with that.

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Like eating a really delicious chicken pot pie only to find a curly-haired foe in the last bite of it, I hate this. It’s a taint on an otherwise pleasant experience.

It frequently happens standing in line at the grocery store. It sometimes happens just walking down the street behind someone. A scenic view abruptly spoiled by a dilapidated outhouse or power plant siting on the horizon. (And yes, I am metaphoricalizing the face of an ugly girl to be on par with a dilapidated outhouse.)

The experience begins with the optical illusion of a finally shaped female rump, tight pants revealing the underwear-line free descent from her waist down to her feet. Up top, the finely maintained hair suggests a precision and attention to detail that only a true beauty would possess. All combining to lure me in for what I expect to be a pants-tightening payoff.

But it’s not. My pants remain relaxed fit, and I am left cheated, feeling tricked. Like Hansel, or to a lesser extent Gretel, coerced into an unmentionables-covered house under the guise of g-strings, bosoms and beauty only to find a wrinkly, hairy-moled bat of a woman buying hemorrhoid cream at the Foodland late on a Friday Night.

In essence, it goes back to the old cliche (side note: aren’t all cliches inherently old? So is saying “old cliche” redundant?) ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’. Of course, in this situation, it’s more like the back cover I am judging, and while I don’t read/own many books, I believe these includes numerous quotations by people who have read the book and find it enjoyable. There is also, on occasion, the creepy photo of the person who wrote the book looking perplexed in a garden or against a brick wall or something. (another side note: it is probably more so the person in the photo that is creepy, not the photo itself, so I am making the assumption that a creepy subject make a whole photo creepy). Back covers typically aren’t that interesting.

After further contemplation, it would appear I am the one at fault since I am judging a front cover by a back cover, which, following the book cliche, doesn’t carry much weight at all.

Still yet, what promise but unrealized potential these situations evoke; another string of shattered dreams.