Wow, Jenn and I had the most disgustingly smelly old rotten blue cheese tonight. It was literally brown. And of course, SO GOOD. Even though we were at a French restaurant, we somehow went down the road of Italian descriptions.
Last night I ran into a guy who happens to know the web address of this humble web log. And he says to me (I’m paraphrasing here but pretty close): “Honey, I love your blog but you date the wrong men.”
Well, first off, who the fuck asked you? I pretty much put it all out there. If you have a problem with it, too damn bad. Tell somebody who cares.
And then as if that’s not enough he launches into: “Well, if I were dating you…”
I mean not even “If you were dating me.” If HE was dating me. Yeah, whatever. As Mom used to say: “I wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole.” Or as I like to say: “I wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot fucking pole.” (Mom was more ladylike.)
I’m not giving out my url anymore.
I was at the Embarcadero and decided that I wanted to go to that sandwich place that I went to once a long time ago. I wasn’t sure if it was still there, so I asked someone and they pointed the way.
I got there during lunch hour and there were several other people ordering sandwiches. The menu was very confusing. I couldn’t understand it. I decided to order turkey with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and mustard because that’s what I always get.
The woman taking the orders was confused because she didn’t know me. She knew everyone else because, as she explained, they were regulars. I apologized for not being a regular. She called everyone else by name. I think she called me Carla or something like that because she didn’t know my name.
I can’t remember whether the sandwich was good or not.
I woke up with a horribly swollen left lower eyelid. I can’t remember whether this was before or after my car was stolen. I think it was before. My face felt funny and when I looked in the mirror the entire left side of my face was swollen around my eye. My lower eyelid was sort of turned down and swollen. It looked like my lower lip. I had a turned up nose that looked very tiny because my face was so swollen.
I looked squished. I was upset about this, so I decided to ask my mom what she thought. She wasn’t concerned.
Then I remembered that I worked for a doctor and it’s very convenient to work for a doctor because they can give you medical advice. I’m not sure what my job was but I worked for a doctor. I decided to ask his opinion so I went to the sandwich place. He was at the sandwich place.
The lady who had made my sandwich was throwing up. I thought to myself that this was not a good thing.
I saw the doctor and asked him about my eyelid. He said that it was just my normal dry eye problem. He wasn’t concerned.
I slept in my car in front of the building. This didn’t seem to bother me even though I have only a two-seater so the seats do not recline.
In the morning I went into the building very briefly. When I came out, my car had been stolen. I realized it was not stolen during the night because I had been there sleeping in it. It was stolen in the few moments I was in the building.
This was not a good thing. I lease my car and I don’t know what happens with the insurance when you lease a car. Would I lose my down payment? This would be bad because I don’t have any money for a new down payment and I really love the car. I don’t want to have to drive a crappy used car.
I decided to go to the phone. I started to go there but it was a long ways away. So I went back. Then I was driving my car to the phone. But my car couldn’t have been stolen if I was driving it. Yay! My car was not stolen!
Perhaps I need to drink less.
Oh come on. It’s been at least 3 months since I’ve posted this.
Never fails to crack me up.
Be yourself. Quit trying to be “one of the cool kids.” It never works out.
Oh, was that out loud?
You can tell this because I: drive a Toyota Camry, Nissan Maxima, or cheap SUV (i.e., Honda CRV or some such).
And because: I insist on driving like a total fucking asshole on the freeway after the sun has gone down.
Well, know what? You go right ahead! Me love you looooooooong time, in fact! You’ll be the one getting pulled over while I’m going “five over” in the cool sports car.
Thanks!
Fi-dollah!!
I stole this. So sue me.
Take the below list of books, bold the ones you’ve read, underline the ones you read for school, italicize the ones you started but didn’t finish. (If you read it for school, do you bold and underline? I’m not clear on this. I’m just going with underdline.) This list is purportly the top 106 books most often marked as “unread” by LibraryThing’s users. (I have no idea what LibraryThing is nor who its users are.) These are the books that sit on the shelf to make you look smart or well-rounded.
I’m not sure I can recall exactly what I read in school. I’m old and that was a long time ago.
Oh well. Here’s my best shot:
Read on my own and finished: 30
Read in school: 18
Started but didn’t finish: 5
Never read: 53 (half)
Is that good?
Now that I have your attention: Ever since reading some of the comments to my last post, I’ve been doing a lot of musing on food.
RW wrote: “As much as I like it I’d still like to see the first person who looked at the original pig wallowing around in the scum and the muck and went “Mmmmm, THAT’ll taste good!” Who the hell WAS that guy??”
And Earl said: “Who was the first person to figure out that oysters or lobsters tasted good?”
Which reminded me that I’ve wondered for years about the egg. Who decided that we should eat this thing that shoots out of a chicken’s butt?? And not only eat it in it’s pure-egg form (scrambled, fried, hard boiled, whatever) but also that we should put it in stuff. I mean there would be no quiche nor frittata nor miracle hang over cure without the egg! (OK, I realize that eggs don’t really come out of the butt. So do they have vaginas???)
And what about cake? How can there be cake without aborted chickens? And then you need butter for the cake. And butter comes from milk that comes from um like the inside of a cow! Who decided to try milk? Who decided to turn it into so many wonderful products such as butter and the god of all foods: CHEESE?
I think perhaps I’d like to write a book on the history of cake. I don’t usually read non-fiction because most of it is a major snooze fest (with the exceptions of Freakanomics and The Tipping Point both of which I loved because they are entertaining) but I think perhaps I could pull this off. I mean, I already have the snappy title: “Does a Chicken Have a Vagina?” I could have gone with “The History of Cake” (very dry, and no one wants a dry book about cake), “Let Them Eat Cake” (been done before), “My Chapeau for Your Gateau” (too French).
Do you think I could deduct my cake bills as work-related expenses?? (Or perhaps my Weight Watchers bills?)
Do you ever have one of those evenings you enjoy so much that you can’t wait to do it again but inevitably the second time is a disappointment? Were your expectations too high because of the initial experience? Or if the first experience had been more like the second, would you not have been dying to repeat it?
Saturday Felony Joyride and I decided to go back to Perbacco. We died and went to pig heaven after our first Perbacco experience. I couldn’t wait to go back. As FJ said, he never wanted to leave. We used going to see Sam Shepard’s “Curse of the Starving Class” at A.C.T. as our excuse to go back. It was really just an excuse. I declared in the car that if Perbacco were open during the day, we would drive straight there and skip the play. FJ concurred.
It turned out to be a play not to be skipped. Talk about dysfunctional family.
But back to the pig. We arrived at Perbacco promptly when the door opened and immediately ordered martinis with these fabulous olives that the restaurant makes in-house. I don’t know what they’re called, but they’re a very vibrant green color and aren’t briney. Instead they’re buttery. A perfect compliment to Tanqueray 10. (I usually have a twist rather than olives because your standard olives just ruin the taste of good gin.)
We were ecstatic to see Pig Boy still doing his salumi magic behind the bar but a bit disappointed that our bartender from last time no longer works there. The new bartender was nice enough (he gave me extra olives for my ‘tini) but the service was less than stellar. Inattentive is more like it.
We started with the salumi sampler platter which was just as fabulous as we’d remembered. And the always-awesome Pig Boy had some “face meat” waiting for us. We didn’t even have to ask. He remembered! We were also given a very generous ahi appetizer on-the-house. Next we did a squid salad. It was OK. Squid is always, well, chewy, and this was no exception. Then we had a wonderful agnolotti filled with roasted veal.
Then it was time for entrees. The quail that we went crazy over last time was no longer on the menu which we thought was a good thing because we wanted to try new dishes. Boy was that a mistake. Both of our entrees were supremely disappointing. In fact, if I was basing my opinion of the restaurant solely on those two dishes, I would never go back. I had lamb chops with braised chard and some sort of large beans. I asked for the lamb medium-rare. It was overcooked. There were only about 5 beans on my plate. Granted they were large beans, but come on, I love beans! And then there was a giant pile of chard. Chard is good but shouldn’t be the focal point of a dish which this clearly became since a) there was so much of it and b) the lamb was overcooked and disappointing.
FJ’s entree was not any better - big-eyed tuna. Granted I have zero experience with big-eyed tuna but isn’t all tuna supposed to be rare? Perhaps I’m just used to seared ahi. This was more like medium-well big-eye. It was also seriously lacking in salt. I honestly cannot even remember what else came with the dish.
The great thing about San Francisco being a city of restaurants is that if you are having a bad experience at one, you can get up and go to another. This is exactly what we did. We left Perbacco and went over to Cafe Majestic (scene of the dinner for the most recent anniversary of my 27th birthday) and had the cheese course followed by foie gras ice cream! Oh, and plenty of wine. As we sat down, they were just starting to play “All About Eve.” (They always show old movies in the bar.) FJ declared that we wouldn’t be there until the end of the movie. Next thing we knew, Phoebe was taking a bow in front of Eve’s bedroom mirror.
Moral of the story: go to Perbacco for martinis, salumi, and pasta. Skip the entrees. (Oh, and don’t let a bad experience ruin your night. Get up and go somewhere else!)
Easy: email his father.
Yep, that’s right: tell his daddy on him. Send his father all the details and then say, “I’m calling the Police.” Don’t threaten to ruin his career or get him deported. Simply state, “I’m calling the Police.” Daddy is smart enough to figure it out.
Thank god Al Gore invented the internet. You can find all sorts of information utilizing that wonderful series of tubes!
A note to all you would-be psychos out there: it is particularly easy to find information if you have an uncommon name and if you diviluge certain details about yourself. Case in point: you told me that your mother is a science professor at XYZ college. Now, I happen to know that XYZ is a very small school. I also happen to know that your mother is Russian, so even though she does not use the same name as your father, I found her on the second hit on gawgle. She’s one of only two Russian science professors at XYZ. According to her online bio, she received her PhD at Vanderbilt. Hmmm….I seem to recall you telling me that you spent some time in Tennessee… Oh, and guess what: there was a picture of her and you look just like her!
I elected not to send Mommy the same email. This time.
Peace at last.