Bunny no go boom

This from the SFGate.com site today: Lucky Bunny Escapes Explosive Demise. Some asshole teenager (a lifeguard, no less) and his friends thought it was a good idea to strap dynamite to his pet bunny and throw her into a lake in Castro Valley. When the dynamite didn't explode, they fished her out because they didn't want her to drown (go figure), and contemplated lighting the fuse again. My favorite part is this quote from the owner/bastard: "I think that a lot of people are judging us without really knowing us at all. It's really bothering me." Dude. You strapped dynamite to your rabbit. I think I know everything I need to know about you. And stay the fuck away from my Vinny.

The best part? The only reason any of this even came to the attention of authorities is because one of the dumbasses took pictures and posted them on his blog! Mean and stupid. Maybe they'll eventually win themselves a Darwin award.

...Gotta have faith

Hee...I'm all goofy and stupid right now because Oprah made my day: she had George Michael on the show. Hee...heh. (I'm giggling to myself as I write this.) Yeah, so he's making his big comeback with a new album ("Patience") and everything, and I guess this was his first American interview. Um, so at the risk of sounding like a total geek, I think he's pretty cool. He was pretty endearing on the show, kind of shy and sweet, and I kept going "Awww..." out loud because every time he mentioned his boyfriend, Kenny (who was sitting in the front row), he'd look over at him and smile this dorky, goofy grin. He sang a song from his new album, as well as "Faith" and "Father Figure." The best part was when, during a musical interlude in "Father Figure," he started swaying his upraised arms from side to side, and said, "Let's get cheesy." (And yeah, I sang along. Heh.) He pretty much looks the same, except for the new salt and pepper in his beard, and he sounds great.

At a fade out into commercial, they played a snippet of his "I Want Your Sex" video, and I had a visceral flashback to those times one of my parents would walk into the room as the song was on the radio. I'd kind of freeze in embarassment, but try to remain outwardly casual, and just hope and pray they couldn't make out what the song was saying. I'd get all chatty and loud, trying to drown out the lyrics. Hee...junior high.

On peaches, pancetta, and professions of love

San Francisco is a city of unapologetic food snobs. Everyone has an opinion about which sushi restaurant has the freshest fish, which taqueria has the tastiest tacos al pastor, or which boulangerie has the best sourdough. And where do all these foodies congregate on the weekends? The Ferry Plaza Farmers' Market. I'd never been before, because the UN Plaza Farmers' Market is closer and often cheaper. Plus, the UN Plaza one caters more to the Asian and Latino population, with live poultry, whole fish on ice, and exotic vegetables like bitter melons and winter gourds. But the Ferry Plaza is something you have to experience in person, and Saturday morning seems to be the ideal time to do it. The entire Ferry Building was renovated while we were gone and now houses a variety of high-end, gourmet stalls, specializing in organic gardening, Asian teas, local cheeses, and artisinal breads. But it's the stalls outside that are the main attraction, for me at least. As it's summer right now, the stalls are literally bursting with all kinds of beautiful summer fruits and vegetables: tomatoes of all shapes, sizes, and colors; a wide variety of stone fruits (peaches, nectarines, apricots); juicy berries; lumpy, bumpy squashes; succulent corn still in their robes of silk and husks; fresh Mission figs (which I can't stop eating since last night's salad of arugula, figs, and chevre); and a profusion of flowers in a riot of colors. And being San Francisco, that's not enough. There are bread makers hawking their boules and baguettes, local meat producers roasting their organic, grass-fed steaks on the premises, and fishermen presenting their daily catches, including roasted oysters (yum!).

All this brings me to a discovery that leads me to believe that if heaven exists, this is what angels eat: roasted pancetta-wrapped peaches. Let's dismantle this tasty concoction and consider each component separately. First off, peaches. Mmmm...what's more delicious or sensual than a ripe summer peach? Its soft color and fuzzy skin invite you to caress and admire it before devouring it. Then you go to take a bite, and the skin resists for just a moment before yielding the fruit's sweet fleshiness. That first splash of juice on your tongue is nearly orgasmic with its heady aroma. Then the juice goes dripping down your chin, forcing you to chase after it with your tongue, so that none of it is wasted. Clearly, there's nothing but good when it comes to peaches. Next, let's look at pancetta. Essentially, pancetta is salt-cured Italian bacon. I think I can stop there, because there's nothing bad to say about bacon. All the vegetarians I know love the smell of bacon frying and admit that it's the one meaty thing that tempts them. Now, and stay with me here, consider wrapping a ripe, juicy peach half--already delicious beyond reason in its own right--with a slice of pancetta, and then, and THEN, placing the wrapped peach on a hot wood-fire grill and roasting that morsel until the meat is crisp and the peach starts oozing its precious nectar. And here's the really crazy part: you eat it. And you weep tears of joy, for there must be some entity looking down and loving us, for what the hell have we done to deserve this kind of happiness? The salty meat perfectly complements the peach's sweetness, made all more complex and aromatic by its time on the grill. There are fruits that clearly should be eaten straight off the tree or vine, like cherries or sweet-tart apples or luscious melons. But some fruits benefit from a blast of heat, and peaches are one of them. The smoky fire works some sort of magical alchemy on the fruit's sugars, turning its sweetness into a succulence that defies description. I once believed that I'd found the ultimate grilled fruit: pineapple spears slathered in brown sugar, cooked on a hot grill, and accompanied by the best vanilla ice cream. Clearly, I was wrong. I'll never turn down grilled pineapple, but my heart and stomach now belong to another. I love you, grilled pancetta-wrapped peaches.

I started knitting again last night after a nearly two-year hiatus. I was afraid I had forgotten how, seeing as I couldn't recall how to cast on or knit in the round. But when I picked up the needles and yarn, it all came back to me. Muscle memory is a wonderful thing. Unfortunately, my muscles also remembered how to cramp after a few short rows. Boo. If you see me wandering around with gnarled claw-like stumps for hands, you'll know I've been knitting.

Okay, this is just gross. I now have a blister on the roof of my mouth from those goddamned refried beans!! Gr...

Boy, nothing burns the roof of your mouth like overheated refried beans. Ouch.

There's a real possibility that I could have a full-time job very soon. My interview went well despite my wardrobe disaster, the resultant running in heels, and a sweat-drenched first interview. I won't know until the end of this week or beginning of next week because one of the decision makers went on vacation the moment after I stepped out of her office (was my sweating really so offensive?). Despite my complaints about unemployment, the moment I realized I could be back in the 9-to-5 world, I panicked, thinking of all the things I hadn't gotten around to doing during my time off. Nothing makes you appreciate time like not having it.

But I am fundamentally a lazy person. I always try to do a good job at work, because I was brought up to believe that if you're going to bother to do something, you should do it well. And I don't want others to think I'm a lazy motherfucker. But if there's no job to be done? Well, you can find me on the couch, curled around the cat, watching bad daytime TV or Buffy DVDs. And honestly, I try to do that well, too. To the point of being in my pajamas with unbrushed hair and teeth at 2 in the afternoon. My only worry is that the UPS guy will ring the doorbell and have to deal with my dragon breath. How embarassing.

It's probably good that we don't have cable TV yet. Even I can stomach only so much Judge Judy and Family Feud, and am forced to pretend to do other things. Plus, it provides an incentive for me to go to the gym, because see, we belong to a fancy-pants gym. A gym that has a TV monitor attached to every cardio machine and fancy-pants cable channels. I've never had cable, except for a short time in college, when I had no time for television. So now, I go to get my daily fill of brainless TV, like VH1's "I Love the 90s," to which I am hopelessly addicted, and E!'s Britney Spears special. I am of two minds about watching such blatantly crappy material in public. On the one hand, it's kind of embarassing to be that girl, the one who watches celebrity fluff, the one whose brain is obviously the size of a pea because why waste your time when there's CNN! and CSPAN! and PBS!, the one who, on more than one occasion, has nearly fallen off the elliptical machine in an uncoordinated spasm of limbs and snorting laughter. On the other hand, I'm already embarassing myself by running in public, and anyway, I'm multitasking.

On licking feet

Tonight Chris stated, "I don't understand Vinny's relationship with your feet." It's true. The cat is somewhat obsessed with my feet. Every time I get out of the shower, Vinny comes running over from wherever, his eyes all bugged out like a crack fiend jonesing for a fix, and frantically sniffs and licks my feet and lower legs. He then proceeds to rub his face all over the tops of my feet and eventually flops sidelong on top of them, writhing around in the throes of what I can only surmise is feline podiatric passion. This morning, he was going through his usual routine, when I had the nerve to lift my foot to step into my pants, and he grabbed my foot with his paw and pushed it back to the ground (!) so he could make mad, mad kitty love to it.

His other obsession is the catnip cigar his aunt Hannah gave him for Christmas. I wish I could say my cat is clever or cool enough to know how to light that baby up and smoke it, all dapper-like in his little silky smoking jacket, but no. No. He just licks it. Madly. And methodically. He licks it until its entire felt surface is soaked through with his fishy cat spit. And then he licks it some more.

Freud would have a field day with this pussy.

Holy shit!

I was browsing at the video store today when I came across this: Hell House (2001). Chris looked it up at ReligiousTolerance.org and found not only hell houses, but judgement houses and revelation walks as well. Maybe it's because I've hidden away in this happy liberal enclave, but I had no clue these things existed. And yet, I'm not entirely surprised. I didn't end up renting the film, and not because the movie itself seemed scary (I'm such a wuss when it comes to scary movies), but because real live people who do shit like this? Scare me even more.

Observations from the weekend

I had a fun- and friend-filled weekend. Annie and Scott were in town from Austin, Paul was in town from Portland, and John had Part I of his birthday celebration. The weekend was full of lessons and/or realizations. Such as:

1. I really really really like people who have a scatological sense of humor. If you can talk about poo without embarassment, you get a thumbs-up from me. Good choice in husbands, Annie!
2. The waitstaff at La Rondalla seem to be unclear about the "service" part of "service industry." Making people wait nearly an hour after telling them 20 minutes, and then saying, "Oh, I forgot about you!" is not a good way to make friends. Or good tippers.
3. People who go to really really tasty Mexican restaurants and order salads for dinner? Should be shot.
4. I wouldn't necessarily advise downing a couple of strong margaritas with salt after a hearty workout and before rehydrating, but it can be a good time.
5. Pubic afros are fall-to-the-ground funny.
6. The cat is, um...stupid. After spending the enTIRE weekend in an ongoing state of cardiac arrest because of Paul's presence, Vinny decides, on the night before Paul leaves, that he's not such a bad guy after all. To the point of flopping on his back and offering his soft fluffy belly for caresses. Of course, the very next morning, Vinny has forgotten his newfound love for Paul and nearly brains himself in his mad dash for under-bed safety.
7. The cat is a sweetie. He snuggled between me and Chris for an afternoon nap today, his furry back against my belly and his paws against Chris's belly...and proceeded to stink up the bed with his assy cat farts.
8. Lemon cake with lemon curd makes the hurt go away.
9. The Amazing Race also makes the hurt go away. Sort of. Actually, it makes me want to hurt certain people. A lot.
10. I've received confirmation that wedding planning is, indeed, a freakin' nightmare. But that I should enjoy it, too!

Oh, almost forgot: the interview went well, though that, too, has a story. I'll save that for another time.

Brain candy

Y'all, I just had to come to a screeching halt in the middle of my busy day to post this: the Jelly Belly company individually wraps their jelly beans. Who knew? And why?! Chris just got a huge FedEx package that I felt I had to open because the box was stamped all over with "Perishable." (Is it odd that my first thought was, "Did they send us a kitten?") His soon-to-be employer sent a "good luck on the bar exam" gift basket with cheese, crackers, Snapple iced tea, candy, candy, more candy (are you getting the caffeine and sugar theme?) and of all things, INDIVIDUALLY WRAPPED JELLY BELLIES. This forces me to wonder if it's someone's job (or many someones' jobs) to hand wrap the tiny treat? Or did some genius decide that what the candy technology industry needs is a machine that is capable of the delicate work required to wrap a wee sheet of plastic around a wee piece of candy without crushing it? And really, who eats ONE Jelly Belly? Who? Is there even a need for the separation of jelly beans? Does anyone carry around a single jelly bean in her purse for those sugar emergencies? "Whoo! All this shopping is really exhausting. I need to carbo-load. Good thing I have this ONE. FREAKIN'. JELLY BEAN." Pictures later...I have stuff to do and this candy phenomenon has driven my train right off its tracks.

Death by bread

I am awash in bread products right now. No, really. They're taking over my kitchen. I don't know what happened. It all started innocently enough...I thought it would be nice to bake some bread. Now look what's happened. I've got a challah loaf that's threatening to eat my cat for dinner and the two baguettes teamed up to stage a coup. Their first order of business was to abandon their baguette-y shapes and morph into some monstrous Frankenloaf, all the better to consume the cat, my kitchen, and me. Then an army of chocolate chip meringues set up base camp on my countertop and cleverly used today's humidity to torture me by becoming soft and squishy. Egads! Save yourselves. It's too late for me.

(And I just noticed that in two of the pictures, you can see the meringue troops lurking in the corners. That's how they did it! They ambushed me with their non-crispiness! Damn sneaky egg whites. (Everett...we been bush-wacked!))

Cower before...CHALLAH-ZILLA. 

Moments after I took this picture, the bread swallowed the cat whole and burped up fur and whiskers. It was awful.  

I caught the former baguettes in mid-morph. I know it looks like they're engaged in mitosis, but actually, they're becoming a single entity in some sick recombinant DNA rite. A blast of heat finalized the process and now they rule this apartment with iron heels. 

Um, so apparently, my worries were unfounded because I just got an e-mail saying I did great on the edit test and I have an in-person interview this Friday!! Woo!

And I just really got how appropriate my dating metaphor is. Do you know what I just did? Do you? I'm so embarassed. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I just analyzed the e-mails I got from the hiring editor, to see if he liked me, or if he really liked me. Did he really think I did a great job, or is he just saying that? What does it mean that his last e-mail was so short? Is he talking to another candidate right now? How about now? I picked it apart, examining the tone, his salutation, his sign-off... I'm a sick sick girl. It's a good thing I've duped Chris into marrying me. My head would explode if I had to pick apart a new relationship. And dude, don't shake your head at me like that. You know you do it too.

Oh my god, it's true.

Big Internet Company hates me, I know it. I sent in the completed editing test late Monday night, and I have yet to hear from them. They're doing that thing where they're pretending not to see me at the party because they don't want to have the awkward conversation where they have to say, "It's not you, it's me. I think we're just looking for different things." Even though it's clearly me. And now I'm doing that thing where I'm pretending I don't see them either, or if I do, I don't care. Which is clearly not the case, but I have my fucking pride, y'know. So I'll laugh a little louder, toss my hair, and flirt with all the other companies in the room, so Big Internet Company will look at me and see that I've moved on. Which I haven't.

Return of Philimination!!

WOO! and HOO!! I'm so excited! Amazing Race 5 started tonight and I'm already jazzed about having an hour of television to yell at every week! If you've never seen this show, you have my sympathies, because WOO! and HOO!! Short version: 11 teams of two race around the world, finding clues, doing odd tasks, and trying not to come in last at the end of each leg, because if you do, you're eliminated! The winning team walks (limps, crawls, whatever) away with $1 million. This description doesn't even begin to do justice to the concept. First, there's the host, Phil Keoghan, the improbably sexy New Zealander who explains all the rules and eliminates people at the end. (Is it just me, or has Phil lost his accent?) Then there's the crazy running around the globe, the bickering and name calling, the strategizing and back-firing, the butt-biting karma, the judgement passing, the hypocrite being, and my favorite? Oooh, my absolute favorite part of the show--the "brilliant" self-examination and commentary by the players. I love it when people are idiots on TV.

Tonight's highlights:
* The Dad of the Dad/Daughter team stumbling and gashing open his knee at the very start of the race. He tries to dismiss it with his military swagger, but ends up getting 25 stitches at LAX! Always choose lockjaw over losing!
* The Model team: "We need to trust that the Lord has our best interests in mind." Seriously, people are starving to death all over the world, and you think God is putting air in your sails?
* The Asshole, I mean, Brothers team snickering about women drivers and blah blah blah shut up. I hate them already. Die.
* The Cousin team: the not-a-dwarf half of the team bitching and moaning about carrying 50lbs of beef while her is-a-dwarf teammate carries both their backpacks, despite the fact that each one is nearly as big as she is. And she's constantly ahead of her teammate! Shut up, not-a-dwarf.

Oh, heaven! And if you do get into it, check out Television Without Pity's recaps. It's like watching the show with your favorite snarky friend, Shannon.

Oh. My. Gah.

So my phone interview with Big Internet Company went well enough that they gave me an editing test, which I just finished. I feel stupid. It's been a while since I've had to edit anything for content and clarity and organization. Most of my freelance work of late has been copyediting and proofreading, the kind of stuff I can do with half my brain focused on "The Amazing Race" (more on that later). Doing this test dredged up all my insecurities about my work. There's this nagging feeling that I'll be found out! Someone will know--somehow--that I don't know the Chicago Manual or the AP Styleguide by heart! Good god, she's looking stuff up! And she calls herself an editor?! I think a lot of this stems from the fact that, unlike many of my editor friends, I don't have a degree in journalism. I discovered too late in college that I really enjoyed this kind of work, and by then, I was settled enough into my college life that I didn't want to leave Houston for a journalism program elsewhere. So, I winged it by working on the school newspaper, where we didn't even have a staff advisor. It was just a bunch of high school newspaper editors and English majors cobbling together a weekly paper, using their suspect collective knowledge. Libel? Slander? Whaa?? (Appropriately enough, I just found this interesting article about the legal risks of online publishing.)

Despite this less than stellar academic background, I was hired out of college by a magazine, which allowed me to call myself an editor, though I often still felt like an imposter. Thing is, I interview well. I'm fairly good at making people believe that I know more than I do. (I must get this from my dad, who apparently lied his ass off to get his first job in the U.S.) So now, I've got this gnawing worm in my head that's chanting, "They'll know...they'll know. They'll take one look at your editing test and they'll knooooooow. Sucka."

I wish I had a profound conclusion about my psyche or at least some thoughts about my next career move to wrap up this entry, but no. It's late, I'm tired, and I've already sent off the completed test, so it's out of my hands for now. I'm tempted to shut up the voice in my head with a generous swig of Jameson's (how I love the Irish), but now I'm remembering what it did to my stomach the last time. Oh, and I guess I lied about thoughts on TAR. Except that CBS had better come in on my half-ass antenna tomorrow, or I'm going to be one pissed off non-editor.

A loyal reader gently brought it to my attention that I don't post nearly often enough to allow her to fully flex her procrastination muscles. What, like she doesn't have the fuckin' environment to save, or something?! Hi Mae!

Nothing much has been happening around here. On Tuesday, Hannah came over and we made pizza! My cooking obsessions come in waves. For a while, it was rice-based dishes from around the world, then seafood stews, and then there was the fascination with single-servings of anything: individual chicken pot pies and creme brulee. That last one saddled me with 15 small ramekins (which, goddammit! are sooo different from bowls!). The latest has been homemade bread, and I'm not talking about those silly bread machine shortcuts. Nope, I'm talking hand-mixing, proofing, yeasty smells, flour on the floor, flour on the cat (just for laughs, he doesn't go in the oven)...so wonderful. I even bought a pizza stone for my oven, which the guy at Home Chef was so excited about!! Genuinely, too! I half-expected him to offer to come home with me to break in the stone...I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say to that. He was so nice, after all. Anyway, the pizzas turned out very nicely, and Hannah and I got to catch up, which was even nicer than the pizzas. I started to document the project with Chris's digital camera, but that fell by the wayside as the pizzas started coming out of the oven. Yum!

And other good news! I have a phone interview with an editor at Big Internet Company today. I'm not going to get my hopes too far up, but yay! Wish me luck...

On a final note:
Dear Old Lady on the Bus Who Rudely Elbowed Me in the Back to "Help" Me Step Aside Yesterday,
You suck.
love,
Felisa