Best Kept Secret

I'm sure anyone who has a dog is privy to the (not-so-new) trend of dog bakeries. These canine confectioners make intricate baked goods which resemble human desserts for animals who purportedly have a remarkably unrefined sense of taste.

Today I was in such a bakery shopping for biscuits for a third-party's pooch. You may have heard of it, it's called PetCo. Although there was a limited selection, consisting only of "chocolate chip" cookies and mock custard creams, they looked wonderfully delicious; like something you'd pick up from Keebler.

My curiosity rose as I pondered the idea of shaping dog biscuits like cookies if they all taste the same anyway. Why would a dog give a shit whether his snack is shaped like a tart or a danish? So I decided to do a little investigation and popped one (first a chocolate chip) into my mouth. And I'll be damned if it wasn't wonderful! Tasted just like a genuine cookie. Not too sweet and perfect texture. I had to have more. I reached for a custard cream next and delighted in its sweet cookie crunch. What is more, at four bucks a pound it's a steal! Not to mention they have digestive enzymes and will probably make my hair look fantastic.

So the next time you're out and about, stop into one of these joints and try a delicious dog biscuit for yourself. And no worries, as we were at the checkout counter I asked a professional, "Is it cool if humans eat these?" She gave a knowing nod.

Tales of the Riverbank

RUN-N-LATE 14TH CENTURY ITALIAN ALTARPIECES

Much to my pleasure, my masters education includes a practical workshop in reconstruction 14th century alterpiece panels, mirroring the "authentic" process (as specified, of course, by Cennino Cennini) as closely as possible; we cut a few corners though. As such, I have just returned from the studio having had the pleasure to work with glue made from rabbit skin! I wish to detail the process so that any of you can try this reconstruction at home.

First you must sand your wood panel smooth (although poplar is traditionally used, anything with a fine surface-i.e. oak, pine, mahogany, 2x4, etc-will work) and be sure to take ALL varnish off. Next, apply tree layers of rabbit skin glue (you can buy the resin boiled from the skin in pre-fabricated crystals to avoid having to kill and skin your own rabbit; just follow the directions for making on the stove), allowing each layer to dry before applying the next. Go over each very lightly with a dry brush as it is solidifying to get the air bubbles out.

Next you must mix up your gesso sottile for later. This is simply plaster of paris and can also be purchased at an art store. You must mix in proportions of 1 kilo to 10 litres of water. Add the gypsum to the water and stir slowly for about 75 minutes. You cannot stop or it will harden! After the mixture has thickened it will become thinner again, once it begins to thicken for the second time you will know you are about 75 in and can stop.

Now laddle about two cups of the mixture into a linen cloth and squeeze gently to extract the water. This will leave soft clumps of gesso sottile which should be formed into hamburgers and left to dry overnight on a rack. Repeat until all is used. We will return to this later

For the gesso grosso, mix plaster with the rabbit glue so it is fairly thin, then grind in a mortar and pestle until smooth. Apply a thin layer to your glue-panel. Allow to dry, and apply two more layers this way, preparing the gesso grosso each time so it doesn't harden.

After the three layers you are going to distill your gesso sottile in a bit of water to make it liquid again. Grind in mortar and pestle until quite smooth, and apply 7 layers to your panel, allowing each to dry of course.

Once the panel has been coated with the gessos, you must scrape it smooth with a blade, but careful not to gauge it! Now you are ready to paint!

*For instructions on preparing egg tempera or for guilding, contact me personally. Also, above instructions will cover about 8 small panels, so adjust your measurements accordingly.

Rob Goes International

As a friend recently told me, "going international is so hard." This is true. Aside from the emotionally destabilizing experience of being on "foreign" soil, there is a vast amount of nuances which separate life abroad from life in America. For example, I've never been in a situation before where I've had direct access to my power/electricity through a parking meter in my bedroom. Having to shove pound coins into it daily to keep my toaster working (especially considering that my diet consists mostly of breaden products) is unsettling. And using multiple appliances at once (i.e. toaster + kettle)? Forget it! I've never seen such a rapacious meter. What is this "power?" Who is putting it into this magical meter and why is it so expensive?

Perhaps of more concern is my inattention to these British subtleties, especially as they've affected my hygiene. I did not realize that there is a hot water switch in my kitchen which controls the flow throughout the flat. Until this point (and even still b/c of that damned meter) I figured that perhaps hot water didn't exist in my Victorian building and therefore didn't bother turning the shower on (I still can't figure out how to do that but the bath does work I imagine). Instead I adapted my bathing practice to standing in the shower and sponging my privates with a bowl of hot water boiled on the stove. I don't own a proper towel either so I'm usually quite cold even after I attempt to dry myself with a kitchen rag.

My British sup usually consists of sauteed potatoes and carrots, which I accompany with, you said it!: toast. And when I'm not trying to decipher mystery paintings from 16th century Flanders, I enjoy renting DVDs from the language center library. Although halfway through Kika I begin to have self-depricating thoughts about how poor my Spanish is and how lacking my academic interests are, only to feel worse from the bitter cold of my unheated tenement. I still cannot tell whether this condition is exacerbated or not by the tepid can of Tennent's lager in my clamy hands (I could be drinking piss and not know the difference).

I think perhaps what is most unsettling is that romanticized notion that going international is mystical in some way which, in me at least, remains unsatisfied. And what is the result of these international lessons, you may ask? I've still ended up at McDonalds after a night of drinking alone in a sad, sunken, overweight bar; just once though, just once.

MMMMMM

Yesterday. Mid-afternoon. Riding bike home. Sort of drunk. Cruising down hill.

I come to a street at the bottom of the decline, and some punk kid is standing there, in the street, on his bike, perpendicular to the sidewalk. He sees me coming. I know he does. He doesn't move.

I fly across the street and pass him, slightly banking the curb as I pass him. I keep riding. The result; bent wheel. What bothered me most was that I was drunk and didn't register what happened in a way that would have allowed me to do what I should have done (besides stop and go around him).

What I should have done is yelled, "Get the fuck out of the way! You and everyone like you should be murdered so I have less idiotic shit to deal with every day! Jackass!"

So for all of you bashful barrys out there: Give em' hell!

Monella

PARADE!

dear friends..

on my birth day

I caught a possum.

Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma: A film Review

Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom is a 1975 film by Italian director Pier Paolo Pasolini (his last) which applies Sade's aristocratic libertinage to Mussolini's Italian regime. The plot begins with small groups of impoverished young men and women being "abducted," so to speak, from their lives and taken to a country villa, awaited by a clan of four masters and four mistresses. While it is not precisely clear why these people have enlisted detainees, they begin an ever-escalating series of objectifying and degrading installments, attempting to push the prisoners to the brink of their sanity. Pasolini edited the film into four segments which resemble cantos of Dante's divine comedy, a fair touch.

While the overall aim of the film, that which exposes humanity's perverse capacity for moral and physical corruption as a means to no particular end, is well justified, I was somehow dissatisfied with the cinematography or some such quality of the filming. This arose mainly from the detached way in which the scenes were shot. The vignettes were so stylized that one couldn't help but feel that they were watching a movie-within-a-movie as opposed to any literal transposition of events. It is however quite possible that the director intended this lack of "realism" to contribute to his purpose for making the film, but the only effect it had on me is that I became slightly bored.

I had wanted to see this film for sometime; I think I read about it a few years ago in an essay about Peter Weiss's play Marat/Sade (a decent play, but also lackluster for me). Thus, my review is as such: worth a view, if only to see a pivotal work by a great director, but certainly not as visceral as one would expect (or as I would appreciate).

Samosa Recipe

Samosas are one of my favorite snacks; great for vegetarian visitors too!

Filling
5 medium potatoes
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1/2 tsp cumin seed
1 tbs chopped fresh ginger
3/4 c frozen green peas
2 tsp salt
1 tbs coriander powder
1 hot green chile
1 tsp mango powder
1 tbs garam masala (equal parts cumin, black pepper, cardamom, a dash of cloves, cinnamon,
ginger powder and one bay leaf)
1/4 cup water

Dough
2 c flour
1/2 tsp salt
3 tbs vegetable oil
1/2 c water


Cook potatoes in boiling water until tender. Cut into 1/2 in pieces. Heat a little vegetable oil (1/4cup) in a frying pan over medium heat. Add cumin seeds (or cumin if you don't have seeds) and ginger for under one minute. Add potatoes and peas and stir.

Ad the salt, coriander, green chile, mango powder and garam masala. Mix and stir in water. Cover and cook for 2-3 min. Stir and let stand for 5 min. Let cool.

For dough
Mix flour, salt and oil. Add water gradually as you mix. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and knead until dough becomes smooth and soft. Divide into 10 balls.

Assembly
Roll each ball into a (fairly flat and large-6 in maybe) circle and cut each in half. Take one half circle, dip your finger in water and run it along the straight (cut) edge. Fold in half, joining the straight edges to make a cone. Seal edges tightly and then fill with filling. dip finger in water and run along the open edges and seal tightly.

Cooking
Heat oil in frying pan (about 1/3 c) on medium until hot. Fry until light golden brown; approximately 4 minutes on each side. Serve with cilantro chutney:
Chutney
1 small bunch cilantro
1/4 cup chopped onion
1/2 tsp cumin seeds
1 or 2 hot green chiles
1 tsp salt
3 tbs lemon juice
Cut majority of cilantro stems off. Place ingredients in food processor and grind into a smooth paste. If you don't have a processor, mince all until smooth.

*Recipe taken from "New Indian Home Cooking" by Madhu Gadia. These will not disappoint!

My Des Moines Commute

As I cannot drive (see Rob's OWI Weekend), I have been inclined to explore the public transportation system in Des Moines, IA. This issue (public transportation) has been on the political register hotlist for some time, yet it remains underdeveloped in most mid-sized American cities. Des Moines is not in any way a "walkable" city, thus most of its inhabitants use personal automobiles for transportation.

The bus system in Des Moines is not as comprehensive as bus systems in other cities, nor is service as frequent. However, I am impressed with the core bus lines which run through the city limits; suburbs are not legitimate communities so their access to public transportation is not important. My office at the Alliance for Retired Americans is 6.5 miles from my house, and the nearest bus stop is about 4 blocks from my house. I ride my bike to the bus stop, which takes approximately 3 minutes, and my arrival bus stop is equidistant from my workplace, requiring similar bike time.

Des Moines, following the model of many progressive public transportation systems, has bike racks on all of its buses, which makes it easy for me to utilize supplementary transportation (walking from bus stop to bus stop would perhaps double the commute). It's great; I ride-I get on-I get off. The total commute takes just under 40 minutes. This may seem like a lot of time since Des Moines is so small, but comparatively, it's great! To travel the same distance in the New York metro area would take over an hour. Bottom line- I encourage you, my fellow Americans, to utilize public transportation in your community. You will not only save on insurance/car payments but you will also reduce pollution and improve an incipient industry in your community. Now if only the Des Moines bus would run past 8:00 pm...

I LOVE HOOTIEVILLE

Hootieville is the greatest, best bluegrass festival in all of Rockbridge county, in the course of covering the weekends events, I got a couple gems, here's one.

touch my body

Nebelhöhle

i found this postcard the other day at a flea market, & being the curious girl that i am (as well as being bored & unemployed), decided to do a lil nick charlesing.

the nebelhole is a cave nestled in the hillsides of southwest germany.
i guess it was a relatively popular tourist destination around the turn of the century 'cause, aside from the fact that the card's from that period, the only writing i could really find on it was from a self published book on wurtemberg and bavaria from 1907.

(funfact: whit monday's on june 1st this year. WHOOPWHOOP!)

anywho, on my quest to uncover the true essence of the nebelhohle, i stumbled upon james & sarah. now these guys take travel video montages to another level. with an impassioned & apropos(see:dachau) soundtrack, they incorporate captivating photography, video (how did they get those sweeping aerial shots?), & even adorable flash animation. the nebelhohle make a brief albeit intriguing cameo about 3 mins from the end, but aside from that, these were some highlights for me:

cuckoo clocks
sarah drunk at oktoberfest
sarah holding hand of teeny snowman
sarah sitting on gigantic beds

HAPPY EASTER

Hope the bunny didn't visit you, too.

"Uniquely Created Needed"- Craigslist.org Jobs!

WANTED- Independent dealers that would like to be extremely over paid to help others quit smoking cigarettes or at the very least, smoke safely

Electronic Cigarettes


Select the Desired nicotine level- none, low, medium, high

• Patented
• Odorless- no more smoking outside!
• Safe- no carcinogens, tar or other chemicals
• Smoke turns into water vapor
• Smoke at the office- no problem
• No ash trays or lighters
• $3 a pack- 50% cheaper than brand name cigarettes
• Buy wholesale- sell retail
• Sell to nightclubs, bowling alleys, Tobacco Shops, Drive Thrus, Hospitals, etc.

Products like this only come along once or twice in a lifetime.

Review: Philadelphia

Overall Rating: 4.5 out 5 -- I would recommend this to all of my friends.

GOOD: People. I just can't get over how great some of them are. There are a few who live there, a few who visit, and a few I don't really know about. This makes it a great town to get wrecked in, stumble about, make a scene, then order a cheese steak at 3 in the morning (long lines not withstanding). Always Comix. I really enjoy parties, especially when they provide food and drink. The company here was good, despite latent trendy-ness on the part of many guests. Despite this handicap, which in some cases was taken to silly extremes (hipster glasses no frames? but she was so nice), the guests were mostly really nice. Usually trendy people aren't that friendly to me, which I understand and would never hold against them. Music. Of the two shows I've been to in Philadelphia, one ended with a transexual cabaret after an otherwise inauspicious start (Martha Graham Cracker, who would have thought). The other ended with an uninspired cover of a cover of the recently popularized song Wagon Wheel. Both were really enjoyable. Food. Especially Vietnamese. PHO HA, great noodles. Alex always gets the sliced beef-ball raw on the side because he likes it rare. BA LE, great sandwiches. I recommend #11, but the tongue, stomach, and ear salad looked pretty good too. Both at 6th & Washington. Traffic Patterns. An abundance of four-way stop signs make this city a joy to bike in.

BAD: Smells. Walking around it seemed like I was confronted by a terrible odor at every turn. These smells ranged from tolerable (dog poop sweating in the sun -- this happened a lot) to really nasty (no longer "fresh" rabbit festering in a trash can outside a butcher shop). Cultural Insensitivity. I wouldn't say it's exactly "cool" to sell paper suits to two white kids who obviously have no idea that they are part of a sacred ritual -- meant to be burned following the death of a loved one. ("How do we know if they fit?" "You know they paper, right?" "Yeah, but will they fit or do we just put them on a wall?" "You put them on your wall." -- they didn't fit, the pant's inseam was like 12) No worries, the waiter at the Pho shop next door cleared things up for us when he pulled me aside to explain the significance. He saw that we couldn't stop giggling about them, although for her part, Erin was characteristically unimpressed. This was after he was clearly offended by our irreverent handling of the ritualistic paper clothing, but before he served us our food. Whoops!

FLIPPER LOVE

Everyone loves the king of the sea,
Ever so kind and gentle is he,
Tricks he will do when children appear,
And how they laugh when he's near!

Good Grief: Taking the Obsession to New Heights

Rob discovers the dirty little secret of MGD's new flagship product.


















In a recent attempt to further understand and indulge in the American saga of lite beers (as opposed to light beers in places like Australia, which tend to have lower alcohol content as opposed to lower calories as their motivation) I convinced some friends of mine to try MGD 64 with me. While I initially intended this experiment to be part of a lite beer comparison of all the old favorites, I have become too engulfed in the nature of this particular beer to continue my study which, lets face it, is a nuanced feat as all of our lite beers are poorly made and taste similarly.

The first thing that I noticed about MGD 64 is the vulcanized rubber smell which emanates from the bottle as you crack it open. I've been sensitive to this scent for as long as I can remember and this always garners an adverse reaction. After a few sips (perhaps stemming from our spring plan to "get hot," and therefore limit our bodily intake to boot) we made a consensus about MGD 64: "I don't mind it." This is not a surprising reaction considering that we've all been conditioned, not as Midwesterners but as Americans, to salute Coors (Light) as the pinnacle of American brewing.

Although MGD 64 tastes like beer flavored water (and hey, what the hell doesn't as far as most American lagers are concerned) I figured, "I can make this sacrifice in support of my 'hot body' pursuits;" especially at $5.00 a six-pack. Anyway, when I was doing a little research to vamp up the lite beer comparison (my vote was for Miller Lite by the way-I think of it as sort of the girl-next-door of lite beer) I discovered the unthinkable...and the obvious.

MD 64 has a 2.8% alcohol content by volume! I wanted to spit it out upon reading this, but we had already finished the case. Seriously, I could piss 2.8%. But this foul excuse for beer, especially when one expects Miller to uphold its title as "Champagne of Beers," has lead me to consider what may be an effective therapeutic tool: Alcoholics, you may simply consider switching to MGD 64 before reaching for that case of O'Douls. I mean it's only 64 calories and relatively alcohol free. Best yet, after drinking it more than once you may be inclined to swear off all beer for quite some time (I thought adding salt had made it taste better for a while, but I was probably just kidding myself).

As for the rest of us America, If you're going to be drinking domestic lite beer, you should probably just be drinking Fosters. Cheers

RIP American Goddess

(Disclaimer-The worst has happened folks. Now I know that our economy will never recover and the world will become a dark, desolate wasteland.)

Since the end of the 19th century, Majestic America has graced the American people with Mississippi Riverboat cruises which epitomize absolutely the height of luxury.

I have for years dreamed of taking one of these glorious 3-4 day cruises, exploring the majesty of the Mississippi and her charming towns from St. Louis, homestead of Tennessee Williams, down to New Orleans, playground of Louis Armstrong. Along the way one is made privy to the ruins of the old south, including antebellum mansions, grand oaks and and an abundance of fried food, all the while relaxing in Victorian staterooms or sultry saloons or casinos aboard one of the fleet of three paddle boat liners.

This was the summer that I was going to start thinking about planning a mass-party-cruise with as many lucky people as possible. With the affordable rates, unbelievable accommodations and romantic ports of call, I really thought that the time of my life was just a phone call and a short drive to the river away. Now I, and so many unfortunate others, will never experience the majesty, and I am left truly heartbroken at this news.

For information about saving Majestic America line: http://www.majesticamericaline.com (except for the Delta Queen, which has already been modified into a floating hotel in Chattanooga, TN. Good riddance)

Painting

I couldn't help but to post this.






Thank's Greta face, this shit is great.

In other news, I've been juicing the staff at the local stop-in food stores for trends and gossip and came up with some half decent tips for playing scratch tickets. Look for that later this weekend, depending on my level of sobriety.

Bike Porn: Addendum

HEH?

Bike Porn: Save Us

I would like to join Rebecca in a last ditch effort to pull the blog out of a downward spiral. I present you with this assortment of bike porn, featuring varying degrees of plausibility.

I'm working on an expose that should come out (with my shame) later this week (month). Until I or another writer manages to squeeze one out, we'll be sure to keep our eyes peeled for pleasing media to shamefully steal. (The above images were complied by a frequent poster on the [shudder] craigslist bicycle forum.) If your're interested in more sordid cycle shots check out this mocking this

HEY THERE EVERYBODY

BACK IN THE HIGH LIFE AGAIN

UNSOLICITED ADVICE FROM LAUREN based on her recent dating experiences.

So if you're as blind-dating challenged as I am, and likely to fall all over yourself, or literally trip over your own feet, constantly say all the wrong things or rudely point out some poppy seeds you can see in your significant other's teeth, here are a few tips and tricks of possibly avoiding a catastrophic date and possibly even ensuring a good one!

DO:

-Dress nicely but not too over the top. If you're life me and find yourself incorporating every possible pattern and color into your usual outfits, tone it down a little and try wearing something classic but not boring. If you're the type to stick to blacks or greys, try to spruce it up a little with a little accessorizing. For example, I kept my clothing pretty simple but I wore a pocket watch locket that actually turned into a brief topic of conversation.

-Keep your cool in conversation. While it's always nice to be complimented, don't scare your date away with flattery. Say one or two things to make them smile, but don't bombard them with niceties. For instance, "It's been really great talking to you" is an effective way of saying you're really glad that you're out together and likely want to do it again. Taking too much note of the physical traits of the person you're with: "Wow, you have great eyes, hair, bone structure, etc." could lead your date to believe you're only after one thing. Also, constant flattery is a bona fide way to convince your date that you're unsure about yourself and don't feel worthy to be out with him/her.

-In the same vein, it's always a good idea to keep the momentum of conversation going with relevant yet interesting questions. This is a great way to let your date know that you're interested in who they are and aren't obsessed with yourself. This is also the best way to keep you from talking too much about yourself. On the other hand, too many standard questions might get boring after a while, so make sure you're creative. Questions like, "Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What are your hobbies?" get old fast. Stick to questions that are specific to the person you're with. For example, if your date has an interesting job or project underway, use that as a segue to find out what they're passionate about or motivated by.

-Tell them you had a great time and hope to see them again (if you're being honest!) If you can tell by the end of your date that it's not going to work out, don't promise to call soon. Just say "see you around" and hope your subtlety was a nice enough hint that you're "just not that into her/him". In my opinion, if you're still strangers, a hug is the best way to depart. Don't necessarily go for the kiss right away because it might seem too sudden. Watch body language, if your date can't keep their eyes off you and is constantly drawing attention to his/herself, it might be appropriate. But I find that a hug is a nice way to end things and much more effective than a handshake. If you're head over heels by the end of the evening, wait a few days! Don't call the next night or even the night after that. Give your date the sufficient time to think it over, and if you're positive that they had as great a time as you did, time enough to miss you! If you're one of those people that obsesses over not being the first to call, get over it. Just don't seem too eager when you do decide to call, and same goes if they call you first. If it works out, plan a second date, but don't keep your schedule totally open just because you think they might call you. Besides, having a life is sexy.

DONT'S:

-INTERRUPT! There is nothing that bothers me more on a date (or in life, really) than a person who is constantly interrupting me to relate my story to themselves. If your date is saying something along the lines of "And then when I lost my job I decided to..." and you interrupt them by saying, "Oh yeah that reminds me of this one time when I..." take note of how he/she might politely smile but then take note of the big sigh they're sure to let out while you're going on about yourself. Be patient. You're date wants to know about you too, but being a good listener is just as important as being a good conversationalist.

-TALK ABOUT YOUR EX'S. This is #2 on the list of my pet peeves. You're not on a date with your therapist and it's likely that they don't care about who you dated last. Even if they know your ex, talking about them is not going to get you anywhere. If nothing else, they'll assume you're not over them and take it to heart. Same goes for talking about other people that you're date doesn't know. Saying things like, "Yeah and then when I went hiking with Pete and Lola in California and then Pete got angry and Lola and I went swimming...." yeah, DON'T CARE. Don't constantly be referring to other times, places, people in your life. Especially on the first few dates, conversations should employ the both of you. Let your date know that you're living in the present and not for a time that didn't involve him/her.

-Get drunk. If you're having wine with dinner or even meeting for a few beers, that's fine and might loosen things up. But if you know you're a cheap date, moderate. You don't want you're date to think you're a lush who can't hold your sauce. Also, duh, booze is likely to to unhinge your social anxiety, but it might do it a little too well. You might say or do something that you can't take back later and that's not likely the best way to go about getting a second date.

-Seem desperate. I know it's a cliche, but confidence really is the most attractive thing in a person, for both sexes. Don't self deprecate or appear grateful that your date is out with you. Definitely don't tell them it's been six months since you've last had sex or call your parents while you're out to tell them you found the one. Even if you're a total dating moron, this is common sense. Talk about the things in your life you're proud of, not the things you wish you could change or can't control.

Things not looking too good for Valentine's Day?

There may still be hope
Lauren explores the sordid world of blind-dating.

As anyone new to a small town will understand, getting "out there" to meet people and socialize can always be a difficult task, especially if you're in the middle of a brutal winter with a daily average temperature of about 12 degrees.

Also, as you might remember from my last post, Northampton, MA (the home of Smith College) is widely renowned for its gay/lesbian/trans population; if you don't necessarily fall under one of those categories but find that the majority of your friends do, you may, like me, find yourself in the position of weighing your possibilities and coming to the uncomfortable realization of "naw, this just isn't happening" after dancing to Beyonce's "Single Ladies" at a local bar after having four whiskey sours and your roommate tells you to "just go for it."

Well needless to say it's been a little difficult meeting single people of similar-mindset in my most recent endeavors and I've gotten to the point where a "getting to know you" conversation has become crippling. My idea of flirtation has transformed into going to the public library, spotting someone attractive in the stacks or reading at a table and then staring at them from across the room. If they make eye contact, I leave feeling as though it "went well".

Since moving to the area in September I've gone on a couple dates: The first guy was really nice--we met at a local pub where we were both doing open mic. After exchanging numbers, he would call me about three times a week, but only to invite me to similar events. Not once in the period that we were seeing each other was the date not for the purpose of some open-mic/lecture event. Also, any time we spent alone was ridden with awkward silences and sentences like, "Did you wanna do something else?" or "What would you rather be doing..." and "Did you say something?"

The next guy was one of those persistent flatterers who has to convince you all the time that he's so glad you're going out together and he thinks you're so totally worth his time. Puke.

Aaaaaanyway, I recently took up a part time job working as a grant writer for a local holistic institute. My boss--a well-intentioned mad Russian who loves to plug her colonic (ha) regimen as a way to alienate the possibility of cancer--after having a few conversations has taken a special interest in my personal life. Not long after hiring a second developmenter, she implored me to meet with him and discuss our plans and see if we were "compatible". That should have been my first tip off.

After having a conversation with him through g-chat, I reported back to my boss that he seemed like a nice enough guy. She then hinted at the fact that he lived close to my home and even mentioned to me that he was a "beeeeg sterrongggg maaang" and wasn't I interested in meeting him for coffee at a local cafe? Sure, what the hell? After receiving a call the night before with instructions to wear that blue scarf I wore to the office last Thursday cause it brought out my eyes, my boss wished me good luck. I couldn't believe that I had stooped to the dismal point in my life where my boss was setting me up on dates and telling me what to wear.

Then the moment came to go meet--for all intents and purposes, let's call him Ralphie--the man of my dreams. With an intention to just walk to the cafe, I left my house only five minutes before I was supposed to meet him and had to drive.

I arrived with a minute to spare and even got there before he did! Beforehand we told each other what we'd be be wearing so I knew right away when the curly-haired guy in brown carharts came into the place looking confused and holding his phone. My reaction was to immediately hide behind a big painting and pretend like I didn't see him, so I avoided him at all costs until he came up to me and physically tapped me on the shoulder to make sure I was the one he was looking for. Right... thaaaat's me.

The cafe was so crowded by the time we met up, that after waiting for a while and not getting a table, we decided to try somewhere else. We went to three other places with no luck and then finally settled on sitting at a plastic table with accompanied lawn chairs in the middle of an indoor shopping galleria.

Ralphie went to a really good school in D.C., now attends a local university and is working on his PhD. He's been doing non-profit work for five years now and loves hiking, cliff-diving, traveling to the west coast. Lauren went to a liberal arts college in the middle of no where that no one's ever heard of, is working on creating a successful alter ego, loves David Duchovny, and is interested in putting her cat in different hats and seeing which ones he likes best... mutual interests include bbqing, photography, comic book superheroes, and adventures in the woods. Basically we spoke for about an hour and upon leaving found out that we only lived about three blocks away from each other.

It was around that time that Ralphie offered to walk me home, and for one reason or another, I couldn't bring myself to tell him that I had driven myself to town so I accepted his invitation. That being said, we walked back to my house where he promised to call but preemptively warned me that he's a "standoffish kind of guy" but reassured me that he had a really great time and hoped to see me again. I then hid out on my porch and waited until I could no longer see him and then set out to walk back into town and retrieve my car. I made a point to dodge behind landmarks on my way back, just in case we ran into each other.

All in all, I had a good time with Ralphie. He was a nice guy with a pleasant gap between his front teeth and a good sense of humor. He didn't have any noticeable isms that I could pinpoint nor did he say anything really out of line or tasteless (neither did I, I don't think!!!!). After getting back to my house and telling my roommates how it went and sadly admitting that no, he wasn't a vampire nor was he a viking (is it weird those are the sort of things I look for?) I collapsed onto my papasan chair, promptly ate two garlic dill pickles and watched a marathon of Ramsey's Kitchen Disasters.

It is now Tuesday and I haven't heard from Ralphie. Am I bummed that I didn't meet the man I'm likely to spend the rest of my life with? Nah. Do I have hopes for the future of my ability to date people I don't already know? Yeah, I guess I do. I learned that you can be a crude, shy and somewhat inept girl and still meet people. They may not find you the end all of their romantic problems, but hey, you might get to take an unnecessary walk through the neighborhood and receive a one-armed hug from a perfect stranger who finds your idiosyncratic clumsiness at least somewhat charming.

I hope that this little anecdote has been somewhat helpful in light of Valentine's Day and that you're feeling like you might even expand your horizons and try to get yourself out there. I know it's a pain in the ass to go and "meet people" but if you're lonely, blue, or even bored, nothing spices up a bland day like a chance encounter with a perfect stranger. Even if you don't find the one, you can put your single status to good use and create a marketing strategy that will likely prove successful in the future. Happy hunting and happy Valentine's Day!

Blogging Through the Recession: Tough-Times and making the Money

Sorry to get all bleak on you, but even my local paper --which normally fills its pages with heartwarming tales of grade-schoolers singing songs-- is starting to print terrible stories about factories closing, unemployment, and foreclosures. This article explores how people are coping with Tough-Times.


As the depression sinks in, people across the country are getting a little more desperate. Unemployment is rising, money to fund unemployment benefits is drying up, and even more joblessness is no doubt on the horizon.

As times get tougher, people often look for creative ways to make money amid rampant job-loss and pay-cuts. In times past, I understand that this was done in useful ways. For example, a family would plant a big vegetable garden. One older woman I spoke to recently said that her great great grandmother saved her farm by making and selling whiskey. Brilliant.

Sadly, today people are being far less useful in their creative money making schemes. Lets take a look.

CRAFTING The online market for hand crafted goods has no doubt seen a surge in supply recently. Sites like Etsy specialize in showcasing the goods produced by an army of stay at home mothers and hipsters who just learned to sew. It remains the place to go if you're in search of a "unique" gift, or if you just want to pamper yourself with a $195 pair of custom high-waisted panties.

Etsy didn't return any of my phone calls (not many people do), so I don't know exactly how much of a "surge" in supply they have seen. I assume that they are so busy dealing with said "surge" that they took their phone off the hook. Or they just laid off that department. In either case, they do have a prepared statement about the recession on their website.

"With the global economic crisis putting finances in a squeeze, Etsy is a great way to maximize a budget."

Probably not, but Etsy is clearly an untapped resource for amateur lingerie models.

USING THE INTERNET or worse, BLOGGING Not good with your hands? Mom never had a sewing machine to give you? That's no reason to give up on alternative money making schemes.

I hate to get into this because it hits a little close to home, but seriously. The internet is obviously not a place anyone makes money. Look at the music industry. Even newspapers are going out of business because online ads don't bring in as much revenue as print. Worse yet, there are fewer people advertising because the usual advertisers are hemorrhaging money too.

Still, Craigslist is awash with people seeking talent for their sweet new blog. Take this recent post on the NYC page:

We are a growing web blog in Hollywood and in need of good writers to submit daily posts. If you like to write and want to get your point of view published, this is a perfect outlet. Please send your resume and writing sample of a current event to iwant2write@me.com. There will be further information on the job if your material is selected. Snarky is a plus!

Right, In Touch magazine is struggling to pay their rent, But YOU, a snarky armchair Hollywood gossip monger in Queens, you are going to make the big bucks. You'd probably have better luck selling goji-juice door to door.

Speaking of Goji-juice, there are other sordid internet schemes you could get involved in. Take this guy, Sean Flynn. Self proclaimed Top Internet Marketing Coach. Look at this kid! Love the self portrait. And what a sharp dresser. I bet he makes A/B honor roll almost every time.

Anyway, after no doubt falling victim to the very scheme he is now trying to perpetrate on others, he is claiming to offer a "lucrative recession-proof business that can explode your bank account over night." Despite a complete absence of information on his completely useless and alienating web Site, I gather that he is trying to sell you an "Ebook," full of ultra-secret internet money getting "tips." Meaning, you are going to try and sell the same useless "Ebook" that you just bought, to people even stupider than you. Good Luck!

So against all these odds, what's a body to do? Well, there has been a lot of talk recently about recession proof jobs. Like, be a teacher or a police officer, stuff like that. That's all good and well for some people, but for the power-players among us, I'll tell you.

(1)Make Babies. The most capable among us have turned to farming out their bodies for baby production. This shocking practice encourages "experienced carriers" to pump out little bratts for sale to the rich and childless. Though, as deplorable as the practice may seem, at least these surrogate mothers are producing a (potentially) useful and unique product. Once the kid reaches working age, he's like a little pot of gold.

(2) Make whiskey or grow weed(the new making whiskey). Sell it locally. OR if you don't know many people locally, you could always steal stuff from peoples homes and sell it on Ebay. Police departments are under funded now too, maybe.

What A Mess: Rob Tries Grad-School

EDITORS NOTE: In this adventure, Rob decides on a whim to go to graduate school. A few weeks of poor-itude and homelessness later, and after an awkward "casual" encounter that was never meant to be, he gives up. Here is his story. (If you have any advice for Rob please post it here so everyone can read it.)

Being a liberal arts major has many advantages and many downfalls, perhaps the most pressing of which (given our recess/depression) is the difficulty in finding a suitable job. As I was reading an article about this struggle the other day, I was disappointed that no one had shown it to me last month, that is, before the tale I am about to recount occurred. Because of this very problem, and in hopes of falling upon a Mecca of success and happiness, I hastily enrolled into the Philisophy & Psychoanalysis MA program at the New School For Social Research.

I had applied to this particular school quite haphazardly last October. The school, as it is known to do, "lost" several of my forms and finally accepted me two weeks before classes were to start; in an email-my physical letter arrived last week while I was already on the east coast.

When I arrived in New York and realized that I was poor, jobless and living on my friends' brother's futon, my spirit began to sink. The plan was to take out a student loan and use some of the money for a deposit on an apartment, or, in other words, "making New York work." Quick-fix Buzz and I resolved to find sweet jobs to secure an apartment. I figured that this would enable me to forget the fact that I was about to acrue more debt that I could swallow (as undergrad put me into a tight hole) but I assumed that I would be able to make it up in no time. Probably the biggest ego-boost was getting a call back from New York Actors Rep after I auditioned to be an extra for a Red Lobster commercial. 

I quickly realized after the first week of classes that my my jaunt into the New School had been predicated on my previous love of school, but that I in no way, shape or form ever wanted to obtain a MA in philosophy. It wasn't just that however, being in school was the "easy way" out of my joblessness and working through this economic shitstorm.

The bottom line is that graduate school should never be forced as it is NOT the answer to self-esteem problems. It is something that should be done out of genuine interest or a desire for career advancement, not out of desperation. After realizing that I had done just that and put myself into a situation of helplessness, if nothing else, I got drunk at a friend's one night and answered a casual encounter on craigslist that led me to the apartment of a haggard Brazilian located here:

It was 1:00 am, I was drunk, confused and feeling desparate; but not that desparate. When I saw this person's face through the glass door of the building, I bolted and hid in a dentist's office parking lot around the block for about ten minutes. I don't know what I was expecting but I certainly was not sleeping with what I got. The dude looked like Celia Cruz and Marc Anthony's love child. I didn't know what to do! I was alone in the middle of nowhere, it was late and I actually felt like I had nowhere to go. I slipped into a nearby bar for a whiskey while I thought. Luckily for me, none of these impositions were a problem becaue none of my friends in the New York area were answering their phones. I got into the first cab I saw, and they took me about a mile out of the way to switch taxi drivers before bringing me to Red Hook to shamefully sleep on the futon once again. If I wasn't broke before that night I certainly was now.

I woke up the next morning feeling filthy and guilty, more down on my luck than ever. So Buzz and I arrived at a simple solution; we fled back to Woodstock, for we both knew that another weekend of good times was the cure to our lament. And with that bus ride went my dreams of big-city success, education and dolla' dolla' bills. I'm currently in beautiful Delmar, NY, writing on the very computer that fell six feet to the pavement a few weeks before. I had been scared to turn it on because it's new and I thought I had fucked up royally, but it's working fine. This cheers me up a little, because I literally have no money and I don't want to go home. I guess what's next in the cards for little Robbie has yet to be dealt.

I dare you to watch all of this

Advice, State of the Blog Address, ETC.

I am excited to report that we -- as a blogging unit -- are closing in on Launch Time (LT).

As LT nears, Rob and I (and probably to a lesser extent Lauren, and to maybe no extent at all Jackie--who has yet to publish anything and hasn't even been approved by Rob anyway), ahem, Rob and I realize that we have no idea how to execute said LT.

We plan on changing the name to provide for a more inclusive future. Likely candidates include PREMIUMLIFESTYLEBLOG.BLOGSPOT.COM .
We are welcome for suggestion.

As we creep along with around 6 visitors a day (give or take), and as our 1 cent of ad revenue accrues interests somewhere deep in the vast coffers of google, it's hard not to wonder where we are going to find people who want to read crap like we blog.

What I'm saying is, we're a little short of ideas (personalized-matches?). But if you have a great idea about how we should execute LT, let us know by leaving a comment. Please be detailed and send diagrams if possible.

ALSO ADVICE I've recently come into an exciting new concept for a monthly advice column. Now that I have the formula for sure-fire success, all I need is advice seekers. Please submit your quandaries in the form of a comment and prepare to be amazed by the wisdom I'm about to tap into for y'all.

Now, for my finale, behold the P-FARR dude in period dress/facial hair surrounded by dirty hipster girls!@ Penny farthings are clearly hussy magnates, too bad they're so damn expensive. You'd have to ride in like every parade ever to afford to pay one off, leaving no time with the ladies.

OWI Weekend, ec cet'ra

Rob goes to court-ordered overnight alcohol counseling.

The Polk County OWI Weekend was designed more than twenty years ago so that Iowa could free-up its jails, and make a few bucks on the side. I arrived Friday afternoon at the Bavarian Inn to begin my 48 hour incarceration, remarking that I'd never seen such a classy jail site. I had, however, seen such a collection of corn-pone bumpkins many times before. The fashionable ones wore NorthFace fleeces, and I think everyone thought I was poor because I wore my grandfather's hopelessly moth-eaten cardigan all weekend.

For our class sessions, I sat at a table in the corner next to a young man who I thought was a little autistic and an older man who was easily 100 pounds overweight and, to my knowledge, drank nothing but Coca-cola all weekend. I quickly discovered that my roomate snored like a cement mixer full of bottle rockets, and although I had fantasies of blugeoning him in the night so that I could maybe get an hour of sleep, I knew if would get me sent home-no refund.

I learned quickly that staying away for fifteen hours of "class" was going to be no easy task. The first day we killed 45 minutes while all of the offenders put on different levels of beer goggles and tried to walk heel-to-toe along a taped line. I refused. Then, during the instructional video's examples of "songs about preoccupation with alcohol," several people brought up someone named Brad Paisley and agreed what a good show he put on. I guess I just didn't fit in with my fellow offenders.

As contradictory as it seems, I was the only one who could stomach the food without complaining, and the only one who wasn't concerned enough with the motel's hygiene to put on shoes or even socks when coming down to the lobby for the morning breathalizer.

Class consisted of lectures from our overly-enthusiastic instructor, who I call Chief John because he exclaimed that "The native populations in America hoot and holler because alcohol goes into their systems faster." You see, he liked to interject many anecdotes and tidbits with his lectures. He even introduced several terms that I had never heard and was therefore forced to invent definitions for, including: "acid reflex"-the inherent reaction one has when another throws acid in the face and "battered women syndrome"-a condition in which one experiences digestive discomfort from eating too many battered womens, often leading to acid reflex. He was also prone to using the phrases "ec cet'ra" and "Does that make sense?" I wasn't comfortable enough with him or my classmates to point out that no, it usually did not.

Instead I admired the paintings around the motel, including two identical likenesses of Neuschwanstein Castle, both taller and wider than my body lenth, which hung in the conference room. Lunch both days consisted of mystery meat sandwiches that tasted like they had been dropped on the floor and stepped on with a bare foot. Even this decrepid escape from class was ruined by my overhearing Chief John in the background, "You know if a horse died and you weren't going to eat it, you'd send it down river to the next people. Pretty soon the pilgrims realized that it was better to live upstream."

The whole thing was almost surreal, and I knew that I would just have to keep quiet and wait it out until freedom rang Sunday afternoon. So that's exactly what I did, amidst the conversation which exhibited a lot of double negatives and not pronouncing the -g- at the end of words. In fact, most of my new friends seemed to have rarely, if ever, ventured outside of their social trailer park to consider any social phenomena beyond the fact that men play sports and women make scrapbooks. By the time 5:00 Sunday afternoon rolled around, I was delirious. I still didn't know where I was and it felt odd to speak from my lack of doing so for 48 hours. But I had survived, and I couldn't have felt more ready to go home for a night of scrapbooking.

Reaching for the stars OR How I baked my first Hardee's Style Biscuit. Bitch

I've tried to bake biscuits a few time, but never with good results. I've used various recipes from well respected culinary gurus, but the end product never lives up to my standards for a really good biscuit. It has always been a dream of mine to make a biscuit that meets the standard set by Hardee's, an industry leader in biscuit manufacture.

For those of you who don't know, not only do Hardee's biscuits represent the best we could hope for in a fast food biscuit, but they are probably the best biscuit makers ever. There are some biscuit only franchises in places like West Virginia, and these may even rival the quality that is consistently offered by Hardee's, but I maintain that no one offers such a good product on a large scale.

The secret to Hardee's biscuits is always said to be in the Biscuit Makers that they hire. Biscuit Makers are the old ladies that dress in all white and wear a white plastic apron. They come to all Hardee's restaurants way early in the morning, just to practice their sacred craft. Observe the following video...



I have a more cynical view about what makes a Hardee's biscuit great, my guess being that it has something to do with the ultra-secret recipe they use. Without access to which, we may never really know what the perfect ratio of shortening to salt is.

But there are recipes abound on the internet for "Hardee's Style Biscuits." Mostly, from untrustworthy recipe web Sites, that are stuffed with notoriously unreliable user generated content. More disturbing and confusing, is that there are always multiple, conflicting recipes for the same style biscuit on the same web Site. What a mess!

So, finally, I overcame the discouraging recipe web Sites, waded through the filth, and came up with, what I guessed was the most reasonable one to start with.

The recipe I chose claimed to offer Hardee's style biscuits. It didn't include any questionable ingredients, like yeast (in a quick-bread?!), and it was simple and easy to believe. So I rushed to the store and gathered the necessary ingredients. I also enlisted the help of a friend to insure I didn't get bored and quit before I finished.

INGREDIENTS::
4 cups "self-rising flour"

NOTE: I had never heard of this magical "self-rising" flour, so I did a little research. It's just regular flour with, go figure, baking powder, and a healthy shot of salt. But, not wanting to foul things up already, I purchased the best "self-rising" flour available in my state.

1 tbsp. baking powder
1 tbsp. sugar
2/3 cups Crisco
2 cups buttermilk

NOTE: You may have noticed that there is a tall boy of Coors in the above photo. While not absolutely necessary, it has certainly been said that happiness on the part of the cook is crucial to ultimate success. I couldn't think of anything that would make anyone happier than a tall boy of Coors, and I definitely attribute the modest success achieved to it's presence.

Whip the Crisco.

Mix in the dry ingredients

Mix in the buttermilk.

At this point you should have a glob of Dough. Taste it, it's salty and good. If it is unmanageably sticky, add a little more flour.

Sprinkle some flour on a counter top, and plop your hunk-o-biscuit on it.

Roll it out to a thickness of about an Inch.

Use a biscuit cutter (or just an empty glass) to cut out your biscuits, and put them on a greased pan.

Brush the top's of the biscuits Lightly with buttermilk. (avoid getting any on the pan because it will burn and smell bad)

When you've cut all the biscuits you can from your initial blob, ball it up, roll it out again, repeat.

BAKE them for as long as takes them to become goldeny brown on top (around 10-15 minutes) @ a temperature of 400 degrees.

For the most authentic Hardee's replica, it may be advisable to brush the tops of the biscuits with melted butter (salted) in the final hour (minute) of baking. We didn't do this, but wish we had.



While our end-product was by no means a passable forgery, it was a decent representation of the good that can be contained in the humble Hardee's biscuit. It was certainly the best biscuit I have made to date.

The most obvious difference between this and a Hardee's was in the texture of the outside, hence the butter suggestion. The inside was a near perfect replica.

I assure you that I will continue my quest for a perfect reproduction, even if it means eventually taking a job at Hardee's.

Rob vs. The United States Postal Service (Test Center)

What can I say? Times are hard, joblessness is roaring through the nation, IHOP is suffering massive cutbacks, yet the government is still finding new ways to take advantage of us all.

Now I have never been a level-headed or rational person. In times of desperation I'm often at a loss, which is probably why I signed up to take the test to become a United States postal worker. Now the test center is not to my knowledge affiliated with the post office; it's actually an agency comprised of incompetent, scripted automatons who couldn't find work anywhere else.

Last month I called in to sign up for the postal worker test, and at the end of the session after I had given all of my information I was asked how I was going to pay the test preparation packet fee, which totaled over $100. I didn't know what to say, I felt abused, confused and blind-sighted. So I paid it.

I received the packet about six days later, after a failed attempt to contact the testing service center for cancellation. In fact, during the next few weeks, I tried to call about five times to cancel, each time getting no answer from the helpline. I was stuck. I didn't actually think I had it in me to work for the post office (after one week of employment, the test registration fee is refunded), and I wasn't getting any assistance from the "help center." Even more irritated, I finally connected with the sons-a-bitches today. After speaking to an agent, who was brash and unhelpful, I asked to speak with the supervisor, who repeated the same script which I had just heard.

"No cancellations, that's our policy." I was not informed of this when I registered, so I tried to make a legal point that they had to take back my packet and give me a refund because it was never made clear to me that that was not an option. They weren't having it. I was outraged and shaking in my chair. Who the hell were these people to deny an American their right to return an item? I argued and bickered for over ten minutes with the supervisor at this obscure USPS testing office, which I imagine is attached to a Chick-fil-a somewhere in the Cincinnati metropolitan area.

Finally, this man was so fed up with me and my OUTRAGEOUS request to return the god damn package (unopened, mind you) that he cut me off. He proceeded with the script, "Alright sir, is there anything else I can assist you with today?" This came off as the most smug thing that anyone has ever said to me. Not only had he refused to help me with my small request, he knew damn well that he wasn't going to be giving me any (additional) assistance. So I replied, "YEA, YOU CAN SHOVE A POLE UP YOUR ASS AND GO FUCK YOUR MOTHER!", and with that the call had ended. I hung up the phone, on the verge of tears, and thought of how I could remedy the situation and make ammends for the $100 that I had never needed more.

After bashing the test packet against my bedpost, I took it in my hands, walked calmly to the garage, doused the packet in gasoline and set the fucking curse on fire. As I watched the flames my nerves calmed and I knew that I would be able to live once again.

Taking my IBS to Orlando

I haven't been to Orlando for over five years, but I've had IBS (irritable bowel syndrome for those of you who know nothing about the latest "trend" in health anomolies) since I was about 12 years old. It has never been an easy condition to handle, let alone one to add to the anxieties of puberty, i.e. feeling that one's body seems a bit nubile or that one will never look like this:

All jest aside, IBS is no easy thing to live with. The condition is characterized by mild to extreme discomfort in any or all parts of the digestive tract, including constipation, diarrhea, or both. The precise cause is unknown, which makes treatment fairly hit-or-miss. I've been prescribed some of the strongest pharmaceuticals on the market, and none of them did anything to help me. In my experience, homeopathic remedies work the best. A friend's mother once concocted a mix of oat straw, nettle leaves and red clover into a tea which I drank one quart of every day; that helped moderately. I feel that if I were to combine that with my current supplement, acidophilus, it could do real wonders.

Not to beleave my current reactions to this beast which kept me running to the locker room every day after Mrs. Reed's science class in sixth grade, I will turn my attention to my recent trip to Orlando. It was a last minute family vacation that I was not in any condition to attend, seeing that I am unemployed, $80,000 in debt, single and living with my parents. I'm also going to be incarcerated this weekend, Jan 16-18, at the Bavarian Inn in Ankeny, Iowa to attend a court-mandated alcohol counseling session.

I arrived at Orlando International Airport on wednesday evening before setting my appetite on a sushi (chain) restaurant next to the DoubleTree, feasting on a meal of goons (*see recipe section), eggrolls, sushi and beer. Usually, I get constipated when I travel, so I did not incur any discomfort from the abundance of raw fish that I typically experience. But my luck was about to change.

After finishing off the leftover sushi for breakfast around 9 the next morning, the family and I begain our trip to the all-ages appropriate, family-friendly cluster fuck that is Orlando at Islands of Adventure. I recommend the rollercoaster "dueling dragons" and the loony toons log ride; although I did feel a bit strange walking around dripping wet in early January, especially because my white shorts had become see-through and eventually black-bottomed from sitting on the pavement.

For lunch, we strolled down an elaborate life-size replica of an avenue that looked as if it had been ripped right out of solid city. Opting for a diner that made its employees wear mock 1950s garb, I decided to wet my whistle with a chocolate shake and get an order of chili cheese fries- Mistake #1, no person suffering from IBS should ever eat chili cheese fries. Ever. But after this indulgence, I didn't think anything of the chicken strips I subsequently ordered. It was smooth sailing until we were standing in line for the ET ride when, suddenly, it hit. That's the thing about IBS, sometimes you think you're fine and then, like a bullet ripping off a deer's head, it strikes.

I felt bubbling in my stomach and beads of sweat roll down my already gaping pores. Knowing that this meant the worst, I headed for the nearest bathroom. I was in there for about 15 minutes before I realized that I was going to live, and that I should never eat chili cheese fries again. The rest of the day went smoothly, including an unexpected highlight on "The Mummy" ride, which is just awesome.

Surprisingly, the rest of the trip I felt in decent gastrointestinal standing, and the only other time I thought about my IBS was when I made my parents take us to Cocoa Beach so I could jump into the ocean in January. I was diving into waves and floating in the surf when I had to pee. Naturally, I just took down my swim trunks a little and took care of this in the water, and I wondered to myself what it would be like to have a poo in the ocean. Would it be difficult to get away with? Would there be remnants left behind on the body of the offender? I considered trying it for half a second and then I realized that I needed to get out of the water because people like me probably shouldn't be allowed on public beaches.

Back in Orlando, I concluded the trip with a trip to Downtown Disney at night (talk about a shitstorm) and a dinner at Chevy's delicious mexican food. I ate crab and shrimp enchiladas and washed them down with scotch on the rocks. I also finished off my family's various dishes because I have a compulsive fear of leaving food to waste. Some of us never learn.