Eyeball jigga what?

I'm good at a few things in life: babysitting, lying, never getting a speeding ticket, folding towels...but there's one thing I'll never be able to do: "Eyeball."

When a recipe tells me to chop something in 1/2 inch slices, I'm likely to get out a ruler. Because I can't just eyeball things and trust it'll be right! My 1/2-inch chunks will much more likely resemble 3-inch rhombuses (rhombi?) or 1/8-millimeter slivers of slices than the ideal chunk. It's like the episode of Full House where Aunt Becky and Michelle are making a family-secret meat dish, and the recipe calls for a smidgeon of something. Neither of them knows what is is (seriously though, Aunt Becky? She was 8, she had an excuse...) so Aunt Becky goes, "I guess...like the size of a pigeon?" And that is how I, too, cook and live my life.

Seriously, at my old job my editor was giving me a quick tutorial in how to mail out our monthly statements, and a big part of this tutorial was teaching me how to fold everything to get it correctly in the envelope. Some had multiple invoices, ok, and we had those envelopes with very specific locations of the clear window so everything had to be folded right, OK?! Anyway, I was making my neat tri-fold and Jessica said, "eh, go about half an inch higher" and it was literally like she had asked me to diffuse a nuclear bomb in just 30 seconds or all of San Diego would be destroyed. I tried to casually glance at the flat surface between my finger joints, because isn't that an inch? And then cut that distance in half, all the while stalling by making really idiotic jokes about paper cuts and I'm sure at this point she's wondering if hiring me was a crucial mistake because seriously WHO CANNOT ESTIMATE HALF AN INCH?!

Me. That is who. Anyway, all this talk about eyeballing makes me giggle as it's now starting to sound like a sex act. "Oh yeah, she eyeballed me. I got eyeballed. It was hot." Commenter with the best description of what eyeballing would mean in a sexual context gets a bag of almond M&Ms. Go to it Maddie.

Haikus: Winter Weather Edition

Full-time all wheel drive
Subaru I love you so
I no be in ditch

Branches on the road
Careful you don't hit one now!
...Unless I hate you

Thirst for winter drinks
Where the F is Kahlua?
Chambord NOT the same

Power comes and goes
What the hell does family do?
We all want to die

Dodger loves the snow
Comes up to his fat belly
WE CANT ALL BE DOGS

In other news...you know how sometimes, you go out, have a kind of unfulfilling, crappy bar dinner, then you come home and there is a 2-gallon tub of lentil soup in the fridge? And you're like "Well, so what if Mom's in the doldrums and dad yells and I have so much revisited teen angst? I is NEVER moving out!"?? Yeaaah.

Gosh my feelings are tasty!

I got a not-so-good grade on a paper and yesterday a fat kid called my presentation lame and pointless and I have a zit on the underside of my chin just about where it meets neck so every time I scrunch up my face to make a double chin it hurts- you may ask yourself, then why do you continue to scrunch up your face to make a double chin? Because I am a masochist, that is why- and my supervisor is mad at me and I can't do origami. So I eat.

Anyhoo, in an effort to make myself feel a little less pathetic, I thought I'd take a moment here to list all my hair-brained moneymaking schemes, because with the exception of Scraps, they're not half bad. Maybe someone will find this entry and pay me millions for my brilliant ideas. OR steal them and never show me a cent. The chances I take to entertain my reader. That's not a typo.

Scraps: My first idea, from high school, is a restaurant called Scraps. The main area is a typical Fridays/Applebees type of restaurant, but then there's a secondary section where people can eat the leftovers from the main section at a drastically reduced price. So if Jen in the main dining room leaves half her chicken club on the plate, she can then essentially 'sell it back' and get a buck or two off her check, and then the restaurant can then put that half sandwich on the buffet on the scraps side and sell it for like, 2 bucks. Reduces waste, right!! Scrap side patrons would understand that the restaurant holds no liability for what could have happened to the food between its exit from the kitchen to its place on the buffet line. YES I now see this as completely ridiculous. BUT I came up with this idea late in high school when the dream was to have some place to go when drunk where you could eat incredibly cheaply and still enjoy the ambiance of a fine dining establishment such as one T.G.I. Fridays. Also good for families on a budget and those with exceptional immune response.

The Cleaner Weiner: Women have a plethora of products to choose from to help cleanse if they're not feeling "so fresh." Men got nada. And if all that 'adjusting' means anything, things get moist and funky down there. So I invented the Cleaner Weiner, scent-free, discreet wipes that get the job done just for men who want to feel their best. They can also come in scents like Rugged Outdoors or Extreme Glacier or whatever sells for men.

Bibs that tie at the neck AND waist: The 9-month-old I babysit for has this frustrating habit of lifting up his bib to gnaw on it in the micro-second breaks I take putting the spoon back into the food to give him more. So since he's a baby and literally can't breathe without spitting up/drooling/pooping on me, naturally his bib is a mess, and it smears all over his face and neck when he goes to chew on it. My invention is a bib that fastens around the neck like traditional bibs, but also tight around the waist so he can't lift it out of position. I think my original idea- strapping babies' arms in a device slightly resembling stocks to keep them from touching anything- might be considered abusive.

A bar that serves healthy 'bar' food: Why is it that sports bars have an impressive selection of wings, greasy chili, cheese fries, greasy chili cheese fries, chicken fingers, jalapeno poppers, etc. but the only remotely healthy option is something like "grilled seasonal vegetable platter," and we all know that's just two strips of sad-looking zucchini and a defrosted eggplant segment, and you just look ridiculous ordering that in a sports bar. You're now the "watching her weight" girl who can't "loosen up" at a sports bar and you look like the most unfun person ever and your friends resent you for bringing down the fun/festive/bingey mood. So my dream sports bar has stuff like this on the menu: mini pizzas with veggies and not a lot of cheese; grilled buffalo chicken tenders; baked fries and onion rings, etc. Because you want to look like you fit in at this kind of place, while not totally obliterating your diet goals.

The baby food diet: I feed Luke (and his nose, eyeballs, hairline...see above) Earth's Best organic baby food. I sometimes snag a bite. Because it's delicious. A whole jar of that mush is like, 70 calories. They sell for around 50-75 cents a pop. They are filled with nutrients, vitamins, and no artificial flavors or preservatives. You know, filled with the ideal stuff to take babies through the most important developmental stages of their lives. So let's put this together. Here we have a self-contained, CHEAP, organic snack that's tasty, healthy, and portable. This new diet will be called The Marko Method and I will get rich.

Le end.

Dear Zeus and Other Weather Gods,

please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day please make it this warm on my wedding day
oh and please ensure that I get my 10-piece OXO snapware set I registered for. And bless Mom, Dad, Meghan, Jeff, Lynnie, and even Buzz.

Thanks, grad school

So in order to graduate, I had to take a wee little research methods class. Groooan. Well I learned a lot, and I know this because I am seeing problems with EVERYTHING. Case in point: Charmin.

The new commercial for Charmin Ultra Soft claims that in studies, people "got the job done" in 7 sheets of Charmin versus 24 of that "other" brand. But where's the scientific rigor? For one, was there any way to verify that the poops were of equal status? You'd need identical poops to really be able to substantiate that- obviously if one is messier, more sheets will need to be used. And what about the wiping tendencies of the subjects? Maybe the one in the control group was normally a toilet paper waster, while the one in the Charmin group was an eco-conscious clean pooper? WHERE is the note on internal validity, Charmin? And are the results generalizable? What's this population like? White women? Latino men? Details, Charmin, mama needs details about your poop study! If I've never outted myself as a) a huge dork and b) disgusting, I think this did the trick.

I'm doing this in the den watching the Olympics with my family. My mom just asked if I was really typing this fast, which is a PERFECT SEGUE into my next topic. "People Over Age 35 Really Bother Me When They Use Computers." Have you ever watched a 50-year-old try to type? They go sooo slowly and deliberately, it just drives me mad. In the time it takes them to type w w w . y a h o o . c o m I have already checked my email, updated my facebook status, checked the weather, caught up on celebrity news via Perez Hilton, bought a new bathing suit, drooled over 5 restaurant brunch menus, Hopstopped my way through seven errands in Queens and figured out my BMI on Self.com. There's really just some invisible dividing line between "Adept with computers" and "I'm pulling out my hair watching you try to Google the nearest Applebees" and I think it's around 37. And then there's my mom. She types fast enough, but she gets very confused by the Internet. She doesn't understand that the Internet is the same, no matter where you are. For instance, she came downstairs today while I was on the elliptical to check her email. I was logged on, and she got really frustrated trying to find "Switch User" so she could log on and get on "her" Internet. She didn't even want to use one of her bookmarks or anything; just go to Hotmail! I had to explain that the Internet is the same on every computer, every time you cue it up, and she could go to Hotmail under my username. It was a revelation. And she works in IT!!! Gaaah old people/people who aren't me and hence are frustrating and slow.

What I Do On Friday Nights

So Lauren had a nightmare about my wedding last night. She wore the wrong dress- a fuschia number with sleeve puffs that could detach to be worn lower on the arm (exhibit 1), a skirt pleated like, and I quote, "When Jessie on Saved By The Bell designed those really long skirts as the cheerleading uniform" (here is where I burst in with "Oh weee are the ladies of Baaayside") (exhibit 2), unshaved legs (exhibit 3) so she had to wear pink sweatpants underneath the dress, and finally schlopped-up messy hair (exhibit 4). I found this so entertaining I needed to mock up a visual to show the world. So there you have it. After I organized my room, thought of witty facebook statuses about the Olympic opening ceremonies that I promptly forgot 10 minutes after, cleaned the kitchen and made my sister's bed, I clicked on "Accessories," found "Paint" and had myself a time.

Adventures in Babysitting: 343542

People with "real" jobs always have fun work stories to tell. Mine are rarely fun. They are sometimes cute, sometimes disgusting, but mostly awkward. I thought I'd share an awkward one now. Flash back to a month ago. I'm babysitting two houses down for the Kids Who Are Too Old To Need A Sitter who are the children of Mom Whose Picture Is Next to the Dictionary Entry For Narcissism. Seriously, all she does is talk about the kids and ask leading questions that I'm supposed to answer to prove how brilliant/special her children are. "Was ___ reading three grade levels above where she's supposed to be again? Oh, that girl of mine!" Well, she now knows I work with high schoolers doing sex ed. Where do you think this is going?

She started talking about how her son is mature emotionally (of course) but more obviously, he's quite physically mature. I respond with stoicism- an encouraging squint of the eye, perhaps. She continues, "I mean, he looks so old, older than 15 even!" Now pause. What do I say to this? I immediately think that agreeing with her, that he looks older, implies that I look at him like he's older, and that's...ick. But if I disagree, then I'm denying her the smug satisfaction of her child once again being ahead of the curve. So I decided to be non-committal and say "mmm" as in, "yep, sure, whatever." But it came out more like "mmMMmm," as in "this dinner is sensual" or "yeaaah, feel that knot in my back? That's the spot..." so basically now I'm the creepy sitter who isn't just looking at him and thinking he looks way older than his age (TWELVE), I'm the creepy sitter looking at him, thinking he looks way older than his age, and...taking pleasure in it. I mean she hired me again for a million more dates the next day, so I guess now she's the woman who takes pride in a creepy sitter implying that she finds her very-underage son "mmMMmm"-worthy.

In not-as-creepy news, I spend a lot of time with my family in the next neighborhood over. I believe I've mentioned Henry once, twice, 8,000 times because he's adorable. But he often brings up his old babysitter...Joani (you have to say it the way Seinfeld says "Newman," for dramatic effect). In ways of longing: Joani did this, he misses Joani, Joani let him finger paint, etc etc. So naturally, since I have what one might call a "competitive spark" (read: ridiculous "am I good enough?" issues), I have begun to try to constantly one-up Joani. And I'm doing well. We recently finger painted and there was snow on the ground, so on our way inside we grabbed patches of snow with our painty hands to "turn snow different colors" and the idea was a huge hit and duh now I'm clearly his favorite babysitter. But she's got me beat: in his room there's a picture of him sitting on her lap, giggling in favorite babysitter glee. To confirm my suspicions, I asked, in a manner I deemed non-chalantly enough (he's a perceptive 2-year-old, you know), "So bud, who's that lady in the picture?" "Oh, that's Joani" he said, adding after a moment, "And Henry." Hmm. "Oh...Joooaani," I said, drawing out her name for dramatic flair. "She's...pretty." Indeed she is. But dammit, I want a cuddle picture on his dresser! I'M the one changing poop diapers and making up songs! Stealing his snacks and letting him have one (4) more show. NOT Joani. JOANI had the audacity to return to college in September. And what do I get for my utter devotion? NOT a picture on the dresser. So I amend the first sentence of this paragraph completely, as this is beyond awkward and I need new life aspirations.

Allie is Sad

I have had no invitations to hang out for a million years* and I haven't socialized with anyone under 50 in what feels like a jillion and it feels like no one likes me and my fiance is a million (or at least a few thousand) miles away and incommunicado and my parents are tense and my dog ate the Greek salad dressing and I AM SAD AND WANT GOOSE ISLAND SEASONAL BREW but it is not to be found at any local liquor proprieter and whine whine whine small problems but whatever I feel bad about myself and I am wearing a mismatched sweat suit with no bra which means I have given up on any hope of ever leaving my house this weekend.

That is all.


*Except Maddie, but mom's fragile state means I can't venture too far or overnight, ie anywhere outside of town. Thanks Maddie! Your desire to spend time with me makes me happy :)

Fun Fact

I recently came across a food review that involved the term "head cheese (testa)." I had a vomit-worthy field day in my head imagining just what it could be. Thanks, Wikipedia!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Head_cheese

Because now I know it isn't actually a cheese made from brains/smegma with the consistency of chocolate mousse.

You're welcome.

Things I Hate #357983: Throats

What a weird thing to hate, you might be saying to yourself out loud, at your job, because you have nothing else to do but read my sad sad little bloggy on a Tuesday morn. But I hate throats and all things associated with them, minus their part in eating and speaking. Here is why:

1. I hate when people clear their throats, pretty much more than anything. I hate when men do it and it's this loud, open-mouthed roar, almost a territorial noise. Or the noise of people clearing their throats but you don't hear any mucus shifting and it just sounds like the throat is getting more irritated. Like a nervous throat clear. That's not to say I don't cringe at hearing a much-needed throat clear, when phlegm shakes up somethin' fierce. I hate when people snarf up their snot instead of blowing their nose (in a room with tissue boxes a'plenty!), then immediately have to clear their throat when the snot drips down. Thanks gravity. I hate when people do it so loud it interrupts a conversation. I mean, how is it NOT considered rude to clear your throat at a maximum decibel level in the middle of a lecture, disrupting the professor, or during a test, breaking peoples' concentration? (I'm not saying don't do it if you feel the urgent need, but didn't parents ever teach their kids to accomplish necessary bodily functions discreetly? At least the voluntary ones- I'm a loud sneezer and as much as I've tried, I can't change that) I am not perfect; I too sometimes need to clear my throat. But first I try to swallow the scratchiness away, or drink water to clear things up, to avoid causing a disturbance/drawing attention to myself. If that doesn't work, a quiet and swift "mm MM"* will do the trick. There is NO NEED to "EEUUUUEEEUHH" so loudly I actually jump up in alarm.

2. I think the marker of old age is the complaint of something "caught in my throat." Seriously, spend 20 minutes with a person over 70 and you'll hear them reference their venus fly trap of a throat at least once. I highly doubt the esophagus constricts and declines in function over time, like bladder control or gum health, making swallowing a game of chance. Do the elderly just walk around coal mines with their mouths agape? Oh, and just for kicks, February's meeting of I'm A Proud Ageist will meet at 4:30 pm at Denny's tomorrow.

3. It drives me nuts when people have a cough or sore throat and hence vigorously rub the front of their necks. That is your larynx. Your voice box. But really it makes me cringe because a) I HATE the way that area feels, it actually makes me nauseated to think about it and b) I have a huge and slightly ridiculous fear of someone rubbing their throat and knocking their neck junk out of place then having it pop out all weird under the neck skin. Yep. I said it. Almost as irrational as my fear of Ronald McDonald watching me sleep if I don't have the covers over my head.

4. Somewhat unrelated, but I have pretty much come to the decision that spitters are the scum of the earth. When did anyone ever get the impression that it's appropriate to just expectorate on the sidewalk when one feels like it? HOW MUCH EXCESS SALIVA DO YOU HAVE? But the worst, WORST, is when I hear someone hock up a huge wad of it, THEN spit. TWO heinous noises combining to form Allie's Worst Auditory Nightmare (coming to theaters February 12, sneak previews this Wednesday). But beyond the fact that I'm incredibly sensitive to bodily function sounds, it's just unsanitary! You are spewing your germs! It's like when you cough and sneeze you (in a perfect world) cover your mouth to avoid getting your germs in the air, then there are people just spitting theirs out freely. There's a guy who takes the train with my on Thursdays, and I've seen him park his car at the station, which means he has a Manor sticker, which means he lives in an affluent area. Which implies he has a fairly good job, which would potentially imply being educated and possessing enough social graces to climb the corporate ladder. And he spits. CONSTANTLY. Onto the train platform, apparently HIS personal train platform. Usually I see young guys spitting, but he's a well-dressed middle-aged man and GAH I just hate it.

Ok, that's enough I guess. I'll be waiting by the door for the padded truck to come get me and take me to my Cave of Seclusion, where I will live out the rest of my life alone and in peace.

*Rachel Green on Friends has the perfect throat clear. It's succinct, volume-appropriate and never misused (ie only happens before she's about to talk. Then again, Friends isn't known for its scenes of all the gang quietly reading together in a group at the library.)