1. There is a college English class somewhere that has I’m Not the New Me as this week’s assigned reading. The instructor is letting me read the student responses on their class blog, and let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a group of eighteen to twenty-two-year-olds discuss your love life from five years ago.
2. Chris and I saw a movie at the Music Box last week, and about an hour after we left I realized my wallet wasn’t in my purse, so we went back to the theatre to look for it where we’d been sitting. Which was a little hard since the next show had started already, and it was dark, and I had to guess which row we’d sat in and then crawl around patting the floor like Helen Keller, Custodian. And was it really so hard for you to comprehend that I was looking for something, O Thursday night Music Box patrons watching loudQUIETloud? Because it was pretty niceSHITTYnice how you couldn’t be bothered to reach down and check the floor around you for the thing I was looking for. I know it was asking a lot for you to miss five seconds of Pixies concert footage and all the highly important plot points and expository dialogue that came with it, but for fuck’s sake. I did manage to find my wallet, no thanks to the girl whose indifferent Fluevogs were resting against it the whole time.
3. This morning we had a substitute instructor for our fancy “Lifting Weights to the Beat of Hateful Pop Remixes” class. Usually I don’t care either way, but today I actually missed the squeaky and totally unintelligible instructions our regular instructor gives while doing the final abdominal exercises. She says, “Nggh hnn urnnnuh-nun errk! And errk! Nurr heen! Heen! Hnnrk errn grnt to four! Grnnk!” I know the routine, so it’s not a problem, but really, it’s like being drunk-dialed by a Fraggle.
4. Here is an informative letter from a very kind veterinarian named Bob Groskin in response to my last NY Times piece. He breaks my heart a little by pointing out that I might have been able to find a vet to save Bootsy. But then he helpfully suggests other humane ways I could have killed him. I did read about the clove oil in my research and in retrospect I wish I had looked a little harder to find it. LISTEN TO DR. BOB, PEOPLE.
5. Today is Day 36 of This Thing I’m Doing, and I’m still planning on writing more about it. We went to Michigan for the weekend, where I sullied my innocence with a few Swedish meatballs and some Chinese food, but somehow I managed not to return to my old life of crime and fried cheese.
6. I’m cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the first time ever, and despite all my quasi-vegan ambition, I am totally going to cook a turkey. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Heh. I go to a “Lifting Weights to the Beat of Hateful Pop Remixes†class a couple of times a week, too. Only my gym opted for the (I assume) cheaper version where the songs are not by the original artists. Not cool. Though I look forward to each new cycle to see what the new, butchered songs are! At least straining to hear the instructor can take your mind off the bad music.
Mandy,
I wonder if the three of us aren’t all in the same class! Do you have the class where some techno diva-bot, built to a vague Cher blueprint, randomly butchers a perfectly innocent late-period Roxy Music song that was just standing there and not causing anyone any harm? Save us, Brian Eno!
Honestly though, there is a small part of me that takes a perverse thrill from being involved with an activity that includes the words “GO DJ! GO DJ! GO DJ, C’MON GET THIS PARTY STARTED!!” at 5:45 a.m., and isn’t related to something I’m still doing from the night before.
I am doing That Thing You’re Doing as well, thanks to your recommendation, but I’m only on day five or so. Maybe six. I feel like a giant rabbit, but evidently giant rabbits feel pretty darn good.
Sounds right, except I’m in MN and would probably have a heart attack or do bodily harm to anyone urging me to get the party started if I went to a 5:45 am class.
My gym had the original brand, but switched, I think, after the song Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy was featured. The new brand promised inoffensive lyrics. One of the songs–If God Was One of Us. Another–Shook Me All Night Long (which is one of my all-time favorite songs, but inoffensive? Hee.) I laughed my ass off the first time each song was played. The worst part about Shook Me All Night Long was that it was almost unrecognizable. They could’ve found a better cover band at my local jr. high school.
Oh God. I read the good Dr.’s letter, and I’m sure he’s right, but the thought of doping, freezing, and beheading a pet, even if it is a fish, seems, I don’t know, mildly Jeffrey Dahmer-esque. But he’s right about the gin.
If you have never cooked a Turkey before, let me tell you, it’s kind of gross. I’ve done it once, and am glad to leave that to the professionals (Thanks Mom!)
First, you get the Turkey far enough in advance to ensure it will thaw before the big day. There’s some complicated formula for body weight and such and you can either let it thaw in the fridge or in a cooler with water. I was dating a muslim who kept hallal at the time, so I was able to go with the easiest option, buy it fresh.
Then, the morning of, you ‘prepare’ the turkey. First, you have to do a body cavity search to get the giblets and such out. Then you need to rinse it, because sometimes there can be feathers left on it. This was hard for me, because even though I’d cleaned my sink, I didn’t want to set my food in the same place my dirty dishes go. And I had a big ass (24lb) turkey.
After it’s washed and drained, a nice butter rub will give it a yummy flavor. The only thing I can liken this to is rubbing crisco on your grandmother’s large, celluite covered legs. Squishy, yet firm.
Now, it’s time to stuff the sucker. There’s this whole thing with samonella, and don’t eat the stuffing that cooks in the turkey unless it’s hot enough, and we like stove top at my house, so I just did veggies to enhance the flavor.
At this point, you have two options. One, place in the oven for like 6 hours and baste like a madwoman, or get those reynolds oven bags, pop that puppy in one and bake for like 2 hours, with minimal basting. And yummier turkey. Which, after all that prep, will never taste the same again.
Dr. Bob,
Why do you have to decapitate the fish? Couldn’t you just pull off its fins and remove its eyeballs and shred it with a grater instead?
Respectfully,
Little Nemo
The phrase “like being drunk-dialed by a Fraggle” made me laugh out loud. It also made me want to seek out this person for entertainment’s sake. Or maybe I should just wait until an actual Fraggle drunk-dials me, which I guess means I need to date a Fraggle and break his heart.
Kat’s right; the turkey prep is gross. Having a trusty cocktail near the sink really helps. To help ensure a bird that doesn’t have the texture of shredded tennis shoes, take an extra half a day and BRINE the sucker before it goes in the oven. The Alton Brown turkey recipe over at the Food Network site is wonderful, and outlines the (very simple) brining process. The bird turns out incredibly moist and dee-licious.
One word of warning, if you’re gonna brine: if you’re making gravy (and, really, why would you not?), don’t use a lot of salt in it — if you normally use chicken broth, opt for the low-sodium variety, or maybe veggie broth. Somehow the bird doesn’t taste all that salty, but the drippings pick up a lot of the salt…
In any case, good luck. Let us know how the dinner goes. And for godsakes, if you’re doing all the cooking, make someone else do the dishes.
My folks brine their turkey, so I’ve been planning on using their method. I did come across the Alton Brown recipe, which looks awesome, too.
I hadn’t meant to solicit advice, but how long in advance can you buy a fresh turkey? Anyone know?
She’s not doing all the cooking. And I’m not doing all the dishes!
I cackled so hard during your description of your weightlifting class – it reminded me of my favorite teacher where I couldn’t tell you what she was saying, but I always knew what to do. To the new students messing up near me I must have looked psychic.
My worst teacher has a piercing car alarm of a voice and wants to have dialogue during class, which doesn’t work since she’s amplified and we’re not, I have ear plugs in, and I don’t want to have a discussion while hoisting a bar.
blah blah blah AND FOUR! Have a great holiday!
Hi–love the blog.
Does anyone else miss good old dance aerobics? I don’t want to Spin or torture myself with Pilates, and I’m not sure what a “body bar” is, but I’m afraid to find out. Doesn’t it seem wrong that one must buy DVDs in order to “cardio salsa”?
Karen: YES. And I hated watching step classes take over at my old gym.
This new gym has a couple of dance classes, including one salsa and I hear they’re jam-packed because they don’t have them as often as the other classes…
Step! Whose knees can handle this?
Step sucks.
Pilates actually isn’t as much torture as you might think. If you do some reading first, and then drop a little dough to get a private lesson (just one or two!, depending on your “movement history” :D), then you can get a routine that’s PERSONALLY ADAPTED to you.
Wish I had discovered it sooner (I got a DVD once, but it didn’t explain what a “powerhouse” was and so it didn’t take that time) — my stomach is almost flat for the first time since I was, like, 12.
“… but really, it’s like being drunk-dialed by a Fraggle”
*dissolves in laughter*