1~Seriously, we’re all friends on Facebook. I know where you live, how many kids you have, how long you’ve been married, and what you do on a daily basis
2~I live exactly 1430.58 miles from the high school I graduated from. It is a $567.30 plane ticket. That is not including the ticket to the reunion or for the drinks that will be necessary to cope with the fact I am not 16 any more. It will cost me $310 to go see my boyfriend for his birthday in Chicago and I will have enough money left over to take him out for a nice birthday dinner and drinks and possibly jazz.
3~Yes, I am an actress in LA. Yes, I have done some film and TV. No, you probably have never seen me or heard of anything I have worked on. Yes, I would rather do theater. No, I don’t want to hear about you or someone you are related to’s secret desire to become and actor. I also don’t want your unsolicited advice on what I should do to become a famous Hollywood actress. I also don’t want to answer questions like :”Who is your favorite actor?” or “Do you understand David Lynch?” No one understands David Lynch. If they say they do they are either lying to you to look cool and superior or they looked the meaning up on the internet.
4~No, I don’t want kids. No, I don’t want to explain my reasons or listen to you tell me how I will change my mind when I get older and “settle down”. And I can guarantee you, if I have spent 6 years of my adult life as a nanny that looking at pictures of your precious little angels will not convince me to get off my birth control.
5~I like to think that I am a good actress but my acting skills tend to run out after 3 hours of pretending I care about other people, their jobs, meeting their spouses, how wonderful their children are, and their lives. This remains true whether or not I genuinely like you and with or without drinks.
6~I divorced my High School Sweetheart. I don’t want to answer the inevitably uncomfortable questions surrounding that part of my life. Considering everyone knew we were dating, since we dated for 4 years, and everyone knew we got married I would just rather avoid any questions on the subject
7~I don’t remember half the people that say they went to high school with me. Combine this with the fact that I am terrible at names and you have a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe it was all the drinking I did in “college” or maybe I just am really forgetful but I don’t want to spend the evening pretending to a) be sober and b) remember your name much less that hilarious thing that happened in 3rd hour English when we were Sophomores.
8~I did not finish college (apparently you can’t major in Jager shots). I don’t have a high powered, high paying job to compensate for this. Nor did I marry rich. I have done nothing incredibly meaningful in my life. I am 15lbs heavier than the day I graduated and look not at all different other than my hair is darker. I also am not good at pretending I am an astronaut or was in the peace corp. I don’t make enough money to say I am a full-time actress. I am simply an administrative assistant who does dinner theater on nights and weekends. I can feel your eyes judging me from here.
9~I have 2 cats. They are my world. I share pictures and talk about them constantly. They sleep with me every night and I talk to them on the phone if I have to be away from them. Yes, I am dangerously close to being a crazy cat lady at a very young age. I also realizes how that looks to those of you “dog people” who only have one pet and live “normal” lives that don’t involve calling your pets “children”.
10~Yes, I live in Southern California and work looking at mountains all day, across from Angels Stadium and spend every weekend working at the beach. The hottest it gets in the summer is 85 degrees and in the winter it once dropped to 50 degrees. No, you can not come visit or stay with me.
11~I was not nice in high school. I wasn’t a “Mean Girl” but I wan’t voted Miss Congeniality either. I was even meaner after high school then disappeared for several years. I am pretty sure there is someone out there I went to high school with that is hell-bent on getting a “Carrie”-like revenge on me. And frankly, I don’t look good in pink OR pig’s blood.
12~Along the same vein, there are people from high school I am avoiding for my own personal, selfish reasons. The last thing I want is to spend the night avoiding drunk people I don’t care to see or talk to. Besides, where DOES one get pig’s blood these days?
13~I have a really truly wonderful relationship with a wonderful man. I literally feel like this relationship made me think fairy tale endings really can happen to anyone. That being said I don’t want to have to spend an entire evening explaining a) that we have a long distance relationship for part of the year but it really does work and we both trust each other completely (imagine the looks I get on that one!) b) why he can’t be there with me (um…he is in school) c) why we have been together for almost 2 years and live together when we can and I am planning to eventually move to Chicago to be with him but we aren’t even talking about the M word d)the whole kids thing and e) He’s NOT Italian…he’s Sicilian
14~I’ve made up my own versions of what happened to me in High School and I honestly don’t want anyone to tell me the truth and ruin all the good memories I have
15~And finally the MAIN reason why I don’t want to go to my 10 year Reunion is…I couldn’t find a thing to wear
Family, Mac & Cheese, Afghans, Poetry, and Air Trumpets
If you are my friend on Facebook, you may have already read this, but I stumbled back across it ths week and wanted to make it my “Friday Food Rant”. Family and food are SO important to me and I just think this sums up everything:
As I was growing up my family moved a lot because of my dad’s job. Even after I “grew up” and moved out of my parent’s home I have continued to move to strange new cities where I don’t know anyone. But no matter how far from home I am I have discovered that nothing makes you feel more comforted, less lonely, and more at home than comfort food. For me personally it is a mixture of food cooked by my Southern momma, the occasional summer lunch cooked by my papa, but mostly a combination of whatever happened to be in the pantry. I grew up on casseroles, boxed dinners, canned food, and generous amounts of love. My family always sat down at the properly set dinner table with the television off for every meal from the time I was born until I moved out of the house. No matter how hectic my life got through the troublesome teenage years I was always at home for dinner sitting around the table with my Dad, Mom, brother, and sister. While biologically my family only numbered five there were frequently more people at our table. My momma and papa never hesitated to extend an invitation to someone who needed a hot meal or even just needed company for the evening even if the meal we served was the last meal we had in the house. I can remember one winter we were snowed into our giant 1920’s drafty house in Kentucky with 13 inches of snow on the ground when one of my brother’s friends and his mother walked through the snow to get to the grocery store only to discover it was closed. As they walked back by our house they were invited in to warm themselves with blankets and board games and homemade, from scratch, hot cocoa made by my momma. Some meals were only boxed macaroni and cheese but to us it was a feast. We never knew we were “poor”. Every meal was served on a table with silverware (not real silverware, but we never knew), cloth napkins (hand stitched by my momma), we had to ask to pass everything instead of just reaching for it, and we frequently used our “good plates” (which looking back were probably $20 for a set at Wal-Mart). Yet sitting at that humble hand me down table we never knew. We were taught never to talk with our mouths full, always to use our napkins, never to use our fingers to scrape up food from our plate, and to never put our elbows on the table. To us we lived in a giant palace full of nooks and crannies and love. Above all it was full of love. To us the kitchen and dining room were the heart of our family. Not just holidays but everyday. One of us kids would set the table while another one poured the iced tea and one of us helped momma and papa finish getting dinner together and onto the table. To anyone else we lived in a broken down brick house that was drafty and empty, and completely out of date. To us it was paradise.
Dinner at the Lindsey household was never a short event. Even if there were no guests we would sit around and talk about how good dinner was, what had happened at school or work that day, what we were going to do the next day, or even talk about the MacGyver episode that had been on earlier that day.
After dinner may have been my favorite time. We would play board games, watch Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett, a family movie, play cards, do cross-stitch, or my favorite nights, reading poetry aloud from my mother’s worn copy of ‘One Hundred and One Famous Poems’. I can still remember sitting in the living room with everyone stitching, writing, and relaxing listening as we each took turns reading these poems. Even to this day I can recall the sheer emotion I felt and the tears I shed every time we read ‘The Highway Man’ by Alfred Noyes. The day my mom gave me my own copy of that book I remember thinking that I couldn’t wait for it to be well worn and read nightly to my future family.
While we never had a great amount of spending money we always made do. We had each other and that was what we needed to get through the day. Our clothes may have been second hand, we may have eaten boxes upon boxes of discounted macaroni and cheese, but we were happy and care free. And that is all anyone can ask for. To this day I have met very few if any people and families who are lucky enough to have the full and rich life I was fortunate to experience growing up. My only hope and wish is that someday I will have a family, biological or not, that I can share the richness, happiness, values, lessons that built character, and most of all boundless love with.
Thanks Momma, Papa, Josh, & Abby. I am who I am and a much better person because of everything you shared with me. The unspoken lessons I was taught by all of you have made me feel tough as nails, prepared for anything, happy, and most of all, loved. Loved unconditionally and completely. And in this world that sets me far above anyone else. Thank you. I love you guys. I can’t wait to see you in October. I am lucky, fortunate, and blessed to have been allowed to have the family I have. I love you. I honestly do.
The Witch on the Outskirts of Town
You know that old abandoned house at the edge of town? The one with the tattered curtains and overgrown weeds? The one where the old lady lives who you’re pretty sure is a witch? Yeah…that is what my blog has become and I am the witch (but I think most of you were already aware of this) Remember last time I didn’t blog for a long time and I said it wouldn’t happen again? Well, apparently I am not a woman of my word. Every few days I think “Oh! I should write a blog about that!” Then inevitably I forget 3 seconds later and never write a blog about it. This doesn’t mean that I hate you, my faithful readers, it just means I am incredibly lazy. I mean, how hard is it to post pictures of bacon and write “Man! That looks good! I love bacon” then make an off-handed reference to Martha Stewart? The answer is incredibly hard when you are a first class procrastinator like me. (Which according to my mom I got from my dad, by the way) Nevertheless, here I am writing a boring blog with no point about how I left you once again to fend on your own. There are days I want to just close it down and avoid the “you haven’t written a blog” guilt (which despite what people say is a real guilt) but I have a mental block about abandoning this blog because I, like everyone else on the internet, think that my opinion is unique and important. Besides-in the 5 months since I wrote a blog I am averaging 4 views a day! I am pretty sure I only know 4 people so that is very encouraging. I refuse to move out of the haunted empty house my blog has become. As a matter of fact I am beginning to imagine my blog not unlike “The House on Haunted Hill”. The original, not the crappy remake. And I am pretty sure I may be Elenor, haunted by the ghost child of my blog. But I digress…
Why am I writing this blog? So far all I have done is ramble on about how important I am and that I am lazy. Well the reason for this particular blog is essentially to let you know I am still alive, I didn’t forget about my blog, my opinion is important and I am lazy. So there you have it. Will I write another blog before the apocalypse on 12/21/12? Who knows! I can’t see that far into the future. I can’t even tell you what I am doing tonight after work. (She’s writing this at work?! Won’t she get in trouble? The answer is no. I have an awesome boss who I am pretty sure will read this and laugh) The only thing I can tell you is eventually, someday, I will write a blog. It will be about bacon. And you will laugh.
Brunch. Or I How I Learned to Eat Two Meals in Public ft. Bacon Update
I have decided there is nothing better than brunch. I take that back. There is nothing better than a champagne brunch. There is something about sleeping in late, putting on a lot of makeup, not taking off your sunglasses, drinking mimosas, and eating two meals at once that just appeals to me. If I had my way every Saturday and Sunday would start with brunch, continue with a cookout and Samuel Adams Summer Ale, and end on the couch with snuggles and a good movie. I especially love outdoor brunches. Connie and I like this place in Long Beach called Schooner or Later. We get mimosas (which there is a large glass of orange juice and a bottle of champagne) while we’re waiting for our table and just sit in the sun overlooking the marina. We have waited up to 2 hours for a table before but it seems like no time at all in the cool ocean breeze. We get our eggs benedict (or my personal favorite bagels and lox) and we just relax. We turn ignore our phones, order bloody marys, and shake off the week (but not literally or we’d spill or drinks).
My sister and I have often discussed what will be in heaven and while many things are added or edited off our lists as time goes by and our lives change the two things that never leave the list are booze and a ‘make your own waffle’ bar. While not widely preached in organized churches I think we may be onto something. Hmmm…lake of fire, gnashing of teeth, unending thirst, OR mimosas and a make your own waffle bar. I think the choice is PRETTY obvious.
Bacon Update:
As much as I love bacon, somethings make me cringe. Like this for example: http://www.baconsaltblog.com/ Yep. Bacon flavored baby formula. My first thought was: “BACON FLAVORED FORMULA!!!! I NEED TO HAVE A BABY!!” Then I started thinking about it and realizing this could be a bad thing. Could this be the end of our bacon nation as we know it? If we start forcing bacon on children at a young age will it become the next brussel sprouts? My mom and dad used to always make us kids eat one spoonful of everything on the table at dinner whether we liked it or not. And we couldn’t leave the table or have seconds until our plate was cleared. As a result of this and frequent sales of 10 for $1, I HATE macaroni & cheese. I can not stand it. And don’t try to make me real macaroni & cheese instead of the powdered kind, I probably still won’t like it. Is this how our children and our children’s children will view bacon? As something forcefed to them as children and therefore they resent? I don’t want to live in that world. So parents, talk to your kids about bacon. Let them know the wonders and the beauty of it. This may be the most important talk you have with your children. They can find out the ways of the world from the older kids on the playground but if you don’t talk to your children about bacon, who will?
It’s Really More of a Supper Club
Things I learned this week: Buffalo and Wild Boar are delicious, three desserts in one night are NOT too much, all martinis taste better with blue cheese stuffed olives, and I am too white trash to eat at five star restaurants. How did I learn these life changing tidbits? My Steve is home for Spring Break this week so we went out to a fancy dinner for my belated birthday since he wasn’t able to come home in February. We got dressed up and went to the Manhattan Steak & Seafood restaurant (it’s really more of a supper club) in Orange. Oh. My. God. Sometimes when I think about heaven it’s crystal chandeliers and leather upholstered booths. We of course made a great impression by changing our reservation time 3 times then arriving with our own bottle of wine. It was a good bottle of wine and there was no corkage fee but we still came in with it. We started with a split of champagne and an appetizer of scallops. The scallops arrived and it was two. Two scallops. They cost $9. I have to say though, they were worth every single penny. They were the best scallops I have ever had in my entire life. They were creamy and buttery and perfectly cooked. They practically melted in your mouth. Once we were finished with the appetizer we ordered our entrees and a drink each. Steve ordered the Wild Boar and a Manhattan while I ordered the Buffalo Filet and a 007 Martini. When the waiter asked how I wanted the filet cooked I said ‘medium well’ (as I always do) and the waiter said “the chef prefers to cook it medium rare. I suggest you try that.” Yeah it was that kind of place. (I hear Chef Francois’ voice in the back of my head: “In ordering something “special”, I only assume that a. you are profoundly ignorant and I pity you or b. you mock me…in which case I must fight you in a duel!”) The martini’s came out and the glasses were intricately carved crystal martini glasses whose stem had to be at least a foot tall and the glasses alone had to weigh 1lb each. And my martini had blue cheese stuffed olives in it. They were divine. SOOO good. When the entree arrived it was the most beautifully decorated plates I have ever seen. The buffalo was like an extra delicious filet mignon. It had a little game taste to it but was like butter. Smooth and flavorful. It was like eating the best steak you have ever had in your life and as a life long carnivore who LOVES steak that’s saying a lot. Even the mashed potatoes (which were served in little florets around the plate) were good and I HATE mashed potatoes. The meal was so good not only did I eat every bite but I, Beth, mixed my food. There was food everywhere and I did not care! Steve graciously let me try his herb encrusted wild boar. It was fantastic! The sage-y goodness was, as Steve described it, “like a pork chop on steroids”. And of course since it was my “birthday” we HAD to get dessert. Warm bread pudding and two glasses of port was ordered while I tried very hard to look sophisticated while licking my plate clean. You need to understand I am from the south and I LOVE bread pudding and this was AMAZING bread pudding that was devoured in approximately 3 seconds flat. Then the waiter came out and since it was my birthday they gave me a complimentary tiramisu with Happy Birthday written in chocolate and a little candle. So of course we ate that. We wouldn’t want to offend the chef…again. Then it was time for the check. Which came with two cinnamon sugar biscotti to soften the $200 blow but luckily the port had already done that. So we paid the bill, took our unopened bottle of wine, and walked merrily out convinced that we had fooled everyone into thinking we belonged there. Of course I’m pretty sure they just laughed at ‘those white trash people who ordered their steak medium well and wore clothes from Sears’.
Bacon. God’s Most Perfect Food
Bacon. Where do I begin? The full smoky flavor? The delicious texture? The saltiness that tastes good with everything? I love bacon so much I get it as gifts for my birthday and Christmas. Yep, I have gotten bacon candy bars (9 for Christmas alone this year), a bacon Christmas card, bacon flavored jelly beans, bacon salt, and even bacon scented soap. When any of my friends hear the word ‘bacon’ I immediately get a text that they are thinking about me. My Friend Meredith has even said I can cook bacon for Passover with her family as long as I cook it on a Kosher George Foreman grill in the garage because they know I love it so much. I have dreams about eating bacon (of course I also have dreams about watching an episode of “Family Guy” that turns into “The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahogonny”…). I put bacon in everything I cook and have even eaten it with ice cream. I love bacon so much I belong to The Holy Church of Bacon on Facebook. How did this obsession begin? I came by it honestly. My mom is Southern. My mom would cook bacon on weekend mornings then drain the grease into a coffee tin that she kept in the refrigerator to cook with. So naturally I grew up tasting bacon in one way or another everyday. I am forever indebted to my mother for that. Fo those of you who love bacon ALMOST as much as me (no one can love it quite as much as me)I give you a few of my favorite bacon links:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1257171/Holy-smoke-Bank-worker-saved-divine-intervention-finds-Jesus-frying-pan.html (Kris gave me this one)
So this is St. Patrick’s Day and what have you done?
St. Patrick’s Day. It’s supposed to be a day of drinking and eating things that turn your tongue green. But what does it really mean? Torture. It always lands during Lent. Every year right around the end of February I start thinking about what I am giving up for Lent forgetting I have to also give it up for St. Patrick’s Day. I should take a brief moment and explain while I am not Catholic I have given something up for Lent every year since High School. I figure it’s the least I can do. (I mean Jesus DID die for us so the least I can do is not watch Toddlers and Tiaras for 40 days.) This year I actually thought ahead and gave up nothing. Yep. Nothing. Before I upset or offend anyone I want to again state that I am not Catholic and I don’t believe that observing or not observing Lent gets you into heaven. (I believe that is something between you and your God not for me, anyone else, or religion to judge) The way I see it the act of sacrificing something for Lent is to remind us of the temptation of Christ in the desert not SPECIFICALLY that we have to do it from Ash Wednesday to Easter. I am pretty sure God will appreciate my sacrifice from National Rice Pudding Day to Scooby Doo’s Birthday instead. So other than offending everyone I didn’t already offend by ripping on ‘Mary, Did You Know” what exactly is the point of this blog? Beer. I love beer. And the color green. And it’s St. Patrick’s Day. And I’m part Irish. I can’t even FATHOM the hangover I will be experiencing tomorrow morning. Also, interesting fact, Did you know St Patrick’s say is celebrated in Korea? True story. So have fun celebrating this holiday based on a Catholic feast celebrating the life of a saint who made the shamrock well known. Have a green beer for me.
Awwwwww….
While the idea of ‘Meebs Monday’ has crossed my mind more than once, I would assume my loyal readers would Shakespeare (that means barf…long story) all over themselves reading about Steve and I’s relationship. But when I sat down to write today this poured out of me. I am truly a lucky woman who feels happy every day. To quote Charlotte York when she was asked if she was happy in her relationship: “Not all day every day. But, yes, every day”. Thank you baby for making me happy every day. I love you. Annnnnnnddddddddddd… *SHAKESPEARE*
In December 2008 I met the man of my dreams. I walked in to perform a private show with the theater company I am in and there he was. I immediately knew I was in trouble. He was everything I could have wanted. And he didn’t even notice I had walked in. The first words he ever said to me were ‘Don’t touch my nipples. Don’t ever touch my nipples.’ I was smitten from that moment on. I spent the next two days practically throwing myself at him. I started with casual flirting and that didn’t work so I asked him to be my lunch date. When that didn’t work I started just complementing everything he said and laughing super loud at all his jokes. When that didn’t work I conveniently ended up sitting next to him for everything. I walked next to him to get coffee (running to keep up), I told him how great I thought he looked when he told me how much weight he had recently lost. When that didn’t work I started asking everyone in the company if he was gay because, in my mind, that was the only reasonable explanation for his aloof behavior. After being reassured that No, he was NOT gay and No, he was NOT dating the blond girl he kept joking with I decided to step up my game for Day 2. I woke up that morning, did my hair, put on my sluttiest-but-not-TOO-slutty dress, my tallest heels, put on my makeup, and drove with my best friend to the last private show of the weekend. This was my last chance to get him before he went back to his home in Orange County and forgot all about that girl he met doing the show that had the TERRIBLE French accent. I played his girlfriend in the show and I very firmly put the ball in his court. I grabbed his hand, kissed his cheek, and was generally mushy. We walked offstage and the conversation turned to kissing and relationships and he said something to the effect of: ’A guy like me couldn’t get with a girl like you’. Frustrated and suddenly aware that he had not caught on to two days of me practically begging him to go out with me I turned to him and said: ’If you played your cards right you could’ and walked back onstage convinced I had completely bumbled everything. The next thing I noticed, he comes back onstage and grabbed my hand. While the rest of the night was sitcom worthy material involving trucks, lemon peels, lost Jews, valet boys, butt grabbing, elevators, lipstick smudges, BJ’s (the restaurant! this is a family blog!…maybe I should take out the word slutty…), and fake trips to the bathroom it was that one moment that I knew everything was going to work out. It was my moment of realizing the glass slipper fit.
Food Rant Friday
So I am trying something new: Food Rant Friday. On Fridays I am going to talk about food. Whatever strikes my fancy. Talk about Food TV shows, food I’ve eaten, food that angers me, whatever gross things I ate that week. Pretty much I will rant and it will be about food and you will love it and tell all your friends. I will still be blogging intermittently so don’t worry, this won’t become a pure foodie blog. Of course, like everything I try I will probably forget next week then revisit it in several months. Remember when I learned how to knit….
After that brief introduction we return to this week’s regularly scheduled rant, already in progress:
I pay $3.85 every day for a skinny latte every day I work. Three dollars and eight five cents a DAY. That’s $19.25 a week. $1001 a year. On coffee. Why? I have fallen into the convenience of Starbucks. I have always been a staunch advocate against the impersonal mega power that is Starbucks. But it’s SO convenient. I discovered that I would rather go to Coinstar and get cash so I can pay ridiculous amounts of cash for something I can make at home instead and sleep an extra 10 minutes. I know 10 minutes seems like a long time to make a latte but you obviously haven’t seen me in the morning without my coffee. As a matter of fact, the first time Steve’s mom saw me in the morning without me making myself presentable, she laughed. Didn’t say a word. I walked in with my hair and makeup still done from the night before in Steve’s t-shirt and a pair of green shorts with shamrocks all over them. She looked at me and laughed. I literally look like I am doing the ‘Walk of Shame’ every day until I get that latte. Then suddenly I have the energy to brush my hair, take off my makeup from last night and put more on. Of course the humor in all of this is I am work by the time I finish the latte and have the energy to do these things. Maybe I should just buy an espresso machine to keep on my desk. I wonder if that can be considered a write-off?
Every Rose Has it’s Thorn
I have been receiving a number of requests to write a blog about gardening and house plants. Here’s the problem: I inherited my dad’s black thumb. My mom can grow any type of plant in any climate. I’m pretty sure she has a rubber tree that she has kept alive for 20 years and has moved cross country in the back of a U-Haul in 100 degree weather. You give me one day with that thing and it will be dead. I have even killed a cactus. My mom’s favorite story is she took a large African Violet she had been growing and split it into three plants (insert technical term for that here). One to keep, one for my sister, and one for me. That night she was talking to the plants, as she does, and told them where they were going while giving them a drink of water. She woke up the next morning to find the one she has re-potted for me was dead. It died of fear. That is how bad I am at growing things.
The only thing I have ever been successful at growing is those little kits that come out every December. You know the ones, you buy them at WalMart and they come with the potting stuff already included, fool proof instructions, and the bulb already has the flower stem sticking out of it by the time you get it home. Recently I grew one such plants. While our affair was brief it was a glimmer of hope for someone like me. I took that genetically modified plant bred to make people like me feel better and I raised it from a misshapen little bulb into a beautiful flower. Of course I forgot about it in the pantry until it was already half grown and the only reason it was ever watered was because it was an unusually rainy season in Southern California and I had put it outside so the cats didn’t eat it. It bloomed delicate little flowers that I completely took all the credit for until I moved to my new home in Orange County and abandoned it. My mind often wanders back to those few happy days we spent together, blissfully unaware of how abruptly it would end. The days I would stumble home drunk and accidentally bump into it. The days the wind would knock it over. The day I accidentally dropped a sock in it while carrying my laundry in the apartment. I wonder what my life would be like today if I still had that plant. I wonder if it remembers me. I wonder if someone else is taking the credit for those little white specks of joy I so lovingly nurtured. While it’s hard, I must move on. I must not dwell on the past, no matter how wonderful it was…
Neen
