queer in the kitchen

You've probably been asking yourself what happened to me. No? Ok. Fair enough.

I haven't been posting in a while, because as you may know, I am in hair school. It's basically EXACTLY women's prison. It's underground, I'm surrounded by females, and I don't get great cell service. So, every time I sit down to write a post, it's just me complaining about how terrible school is.

Luckily, my friend and I had a great idea: start a food blog.

It's original or completely cited recipes and a lot of fun gay humor.

Check out queerinthekitchen, y'all! And I promise to start blogging once I have a life again!

nice guys finish... the same time as EVERYONE ELSE!

This isn't a funny post. It isn't sentimental. This is a pure, adulterated (that's worse than unadulterated, right? I mean I've only seen The Ten Commandments a few times, but adultery is bad and that saying should change) rage-filled rant.

I'm more mad than the time some twisted, Godless manufacturer shipped products with pop-less bubble wrap.

If you want to feel warm and fuzzy and happy today, please close this window now and open up Google and search for pictures of cute cats like I do the 3 out of the 5 times I open the Google daily.

Those of you who have kept up with my multiple obnoxious social networks know of my life changing decision and continued complaints about the terrible hours and people at hair school and the fact that I find it infuriating I have yet to find a box wine with more than 6 bottles. For the rest of you, I quit a terrible 9-5 job at a broker-dealer in January, started cosmetology school and everything about it (other than actually getting to cut and color real people's hair) is the worst. And it's about to get a lot worse...

I work part time to support myself while in school and took out a loan to pay for about 85% of my tuition and paid the rest out of pocket. I received absolutely no government assistance and while I debated on using a chunk of my IRA I've kept since I was 22 to fund school, I remembered something I heard about the value of money over time, the importance of retirement, social security something, and random cat pictures I saw on the Internet.

This is the first form of debt I've ever had in my entire life. It sucks, but a small price to pay for rebooting my once sad cubicle life. Plus it's an educational loan! It's not like I went out and bought a herd of mini-horses and fleet of J. Lo-tastic FIATs. OMG! Can you imagine?!?!?!

Anyway, to be a licensed cosmetologist in the State of Texas, you must complete 1,500 hours in the classroom and clinic floor. From DAY ONE of school, we were told that by participating in the school's uber-lame special events, clocking in early in the mornings and from lunch, and not missing a single tortuous 10-hour day of school, you can rack up extra hours and graduate before your contracted graduation date. It's exactly like being released from prison due to good behavior... but without all the rapes!

I have been doing that. I've doing the shit out of that. Since the beginning of the year, I have not missed a day of school or work for any reason whatsoever. Working 60 hours a week with only Sundays to rest means I am more exhausted than I have ever been in my life, sporadically question the 'big change' decision in moments of weakness, and hope and pray that this will all be worth it when I graduate.

So, of course I have been amassing all the extra seconds, minutes, and hours I possibly can to graduate early and move on with my life. My last progress report showed I am officially already set to graduate ONE MONTH EARLY!!!

Go me!!! No more racist manicures!

Stereotypes are real, y'all.

But... wait...

According to the school, because I took a loan out, the government insists I complete the FULL 12 month program, cannot graduate early, and will be forced to miss school days throughout the year so I will not get too many hours too soon... The nice lady in financial aid went on to further say that even if I were paying completely out of pocket, I would not be allowed to graduate early.

THE FUCK?!?!

Are you kidding me?!?!

So, the 'government' doesn't want me to 1) apply myself, be responsible, punctual, and over achieve? 2) complete my education as soon as possible to return to the full time workforce? and 3) BEGIN PAYING BACK MY FUCKING LOAN!!!

I'm no economist and know pretty much nothing about how financial aid works, but this all seems like the most fucked up episode of Punk'd and/or Blossom EVER!

Is this why we're in a recession and mortgaging the future of straight people's children and grandchildren to China?! Again, I know less about the economy than a Tickle-Me-Elmo, but I think I heard someone say 'mortgage futures' on a TV show and thought it sounded like something I could regurgitate later to sound intelligent. Plus, I'm full of sociopolitical controversy. Kony! Taxes! OBAMACARE! Pizza!

I mean, I'm not asking to reduce the amount of my tuition/loan so, either way, won't I still be paying this debt in full as well as rejoin the tax-paying work force (hopefully in a higher bracket than the pauper one I am currently in)?! The fact that I can make this happen two months earlier is just more high fives for me, right?!

I don't mind tooting my own horn here, because I have an IMPECCABLE work ethic. Ask everyone, but my previous employer I despised! I graduated from a Big XII university with two degrees in three years. I know how to fucking apply myself. I work as hard as I can to please my current employer in the hopes that when I graduate I'll work at this amazing salon under the title of "Stylist" instead of "Front Desk Bitch." And, aside form the eye-rolling and audible scoffs ay my classmates' stupidity, I have applied all of myself to this ridiculous cosmetology curriculum.

But apparently, in the world of my disgustingly unorganized and administratively fucked-up 'institute', whether or not I follow all the rules, still show up despite the fact that I cried the entire drive to school, and sacrifice time with friends, family, and any sort of vacation whatsoever, I'm still 'contracted' to graduate the EXACT same time as the over-bleached, white trash, soon to be working at Knock Outs bimbos that skip school, show up late, and make me hate my life 30 hours a week.

I was told I would be forced to take time off and/or just be sent home on certain days if I continue to work at this pace. That moves my graduation date from the end of the year to a guaranteed, same as everyone else, February date.

Yeah, it's only two months, but I'm so incredibly unhappy with all of my sacrifices, the only thing getting me through it a lot of the time was knowing that if I applied myself, I would be free and this terrible year would be over that much sooner.

So, I'm going to accept this as just one more sacrifice, bend over and take it like the prisoner I'm being treated as, despise EVERY SINGLE THING about this company and/or this nonsensical 'government' rule, and go Google cute pictures of cats.

This picture is basically my new God.

Side note: Do NOT attend this school, y'all. In the last 7 months, the director quit for a much better job, no new director has been hired, the 'acting' director is about as intelligent as the aforementioned Tickle-Me-Elmo, the 'Lead Educator' had a breakdown and quit, and the rest of the administrative staff is about as professional and helpful as a nightstand full of busted condoms. 

PS - This whole rant and absolute disdain for everything about cosmetology school by no means serves an indicator of a poor career choice. I absolutely love everything about the salon where I currently work. I love cutting and coloring people's hair, and am very good at it. Just ask ANY hairstylist you know, and they will tell you that hair school was the darkest, worst time of their life.

PPS - Sorry, Dad. Profanity necessary.

PPPS - I'm directing all of this anger at the government, because the school idiots say it is their rule... But then I don't understand why I was also told that students paying out of pocket can't graduate early either... If I ever learn this is some bass ackwards school rule, mark my words, I will burn that hellhole down and shit on the ashes.

UPDATE: ready, set, die awkwardly

Yesterday, I was got my nose waxed! 

If you have never done it, you're missing out. It is basically the most amazing thing you can do to your face. You don't have to worry about little hairs peeking out when you're talking to someone cute that you may want to see naked at some point in the future and afterwards you feel like this is how God truly intended you breathe. 

Also, you don't have to worry about stabbing yourself in the brain with a small pair of scissors when you're almost murdered in your bathroom.

Yeah.... that last part... I may or may not be absolutely terrified of the bathroom. Or more accurately, what can happen to you while you're in the bathroom.

Sure, most people see it as a place to do your 'business', clean yourself, purchase low-grade tampons, text your friends, and, quite possibly, read this blog, but I see it as basically a death trap. A very awkward death trap. Which is why I try to spend as little time as possible in the bathroom. Each trip is like a race against death. So, yeah, sometimes I DON'T wash my hands when it's just #1. Sue me! I'm sorry I want to meet my grandchildren 10th generation litter of hoarders cats!

Ever since I was a child and involuntarily saw selected scenes of Stephen King's It, that other guy's Psycho, and pretty much any movie where people are in the bathroom, I have been wary of it.

For starters, it is usually a very small space. There is no where to run, and your best means of self defense would be giving your would-be axe murderer or face rapist a swirlie. And, being a private, personal place, when there, you are 7 times out of 10 completely alone. The other 3 out of 10 being taking recreational drugs, telling secrets, or some weird toilet fetish stuff that I'm sure exists because if you can imagine it, there is porn for it. I mean, that's like the Law of the Internet.

The biggest thing that makes the bathroom terrifying is that you are ALWAYS naked or semi-naked.  There are few fears in this world that parallel the anxiety I feel when pooping. I mean, could you be in a more awkward position?! Pants around your ankles, iPhone in hand, and in no position to mount a defense of any kind. I mean, I guess if the person who busted into the room was a rapist, he would be sorely disappointed and so turned off I probably saved myself from that assault. But even a non-threatening intruder is terrible. If you've ever almost or completely walked in on someone actively pooping, you've heard the fear.

"SOMEONE'S IN HERE!!!" 

"JUST A SECOND!" 

"OOHMMYYYGAAAWD CLOSE THE DOOR!"

Then there's the shower. If you've never imagined a snake, blood, or Crypt Keeper hand coming from your shower drain, you clearly need a lot less therapy than me. Feel proud! For as long as I can remember, I have never allowed my back to face the shower drain. You know when you're in bed and you don't let a limb hang off the edge because that's exactly the moment a monster will see it and drag you under the bed to be his underworld queen!

Yeah, thanks for those nightmares, Fred Savage.

It's the same principle. The moment I turn my back to that drain is the same moment my fate is sealed and then the coroner's report will detail my untimely death's half shaven legs, cheap bathroom products, and 'Maybe' from the Annie Soundtrack on repeat blasting in the background.

Much to my roommate's chagrin, this is the primary reason I listen to music in the shower. 1) Singing along to the best of Kelly Clarkson, the SMASH soundtrack, and/or Taylor Swift, distracts me just enough to actually take a shower, and 2) I feel like it serves as a warning. I mean, clearly a murder/rapist/Jehovah's Witness, would turn off 'Since U Been Gone' before assaulting me with a knife or pamphlet. I mean, you just can't strangle someone to death with America's pop/rock princess hitting high notes in the background!

My final point more closely relates to my initial thought of nose-waxing. It is very dangerous to be  scared when there is some sort of foreign object inside one or more of your orifices! Not in a dirty way. Honestly! I mean 'a toothbrush here a tweezer there' sort of situation. 

Before I discovered nose waxing, I would either pluck stray hairs or stand scared in the corner of my bathroom with a small pair of scissor shoved halfway up my nostrils. I scare easily, and being in a vulnerable place, the bathroom, I feel like the LAST thing I need to do is overreact while something that sharp is inside my face. The same principle applies to tweezing of eyebrows, Q-tipping of ear wax, and brushing my teeth. Which is why either brush my teeth in the shower or whilst walking around the parts of my house that are far less rapey. Like the kitchen. Who gets raped in the kitchen!? 

All in all, I try to spend as little time as possible in the bathroom. And basically this blog is my justification for why I shampoo/condition, shave, brush my teeth, and pee in the shower ALL THE TIME. It's personal survival.

It's downright Darwinian dammit!

UPDATE: Yesterday's nose waxing was more intense than many previous ones. Most likely, because the esthetician was Asian this time and not one of the white instructors at hair school. Anyway, my now bare nose had an unforeseen side-effect.

Remember in Thor when Chris Hemsworth finally gets his hammer back? Well the removal of almost all of my nose hairs and my sense of smell was a lot like that! While one may be excited to smell fresh cut summer grass or the rain that Dallas is expecting today, one might also smell disgusting people at the gym in the early morning hours.

There was an older-ish man had the WORST body odor ever. I mean, I know it is a gym and people are working out and therefore sweating. But most of the time the worst BO I catch involuntary whiffs of smell more like a moderately obese child just came in from recess in May. This guy smelled like he was smuggling feta stuffed weasel corpses in his underwear.

This guy seriously needed some Axe or pre-shower in a bad way. Kind of like when you go to a public pool and pre-shower... Or is it after?! I have no idea, because I always skipped that step. Because, 1) getting wet before you're about to get wet is a ridiculous notion (and kind of dirty sounding) and 2) being murdered in a public shower is definitely not how I want my obituary to read.

perm-a-doodle

These are some of the things I hear on a semi-regular basis:

'Oh, somebody went to the club last night!'

'Did you get bored and doodle on yourself?'

'OMG, do you bathe? That thing has been on your arm for a week!'

'Did you get that in prison!?!?'

'You paid for that???'

'No. Really?'

And with great shock (and an unusual amount of rage): 'WHAT THE F**K?!??!'

Unfortunately all of these exclamations aren't in response to some sort of awesome battle scar from a meth-ed out bar fight, a respectably butch wound from a sports related injury, or even a disgusting birth mark. It's in response to my "tattoo." After you see the picture, you'll understand why I used the air-quotes. Only someone with a very low IQ or the worst taste ever would actually call this a tattoo. 


Here it is:

My best friend's sister calls it my 'Perm-A-Doodle.'

Feel instantly better about yourself and your life decisions thus far? You should. Other than getting knocked up by an unemployed, "DJ", with jacked up teeth and credit, I think it is one of the worst permanent thing that can happen to a impressionable young college student.

It was one of best friend's 21st birthdays, but unfortunately the big day fell during my university's spring break. My friend worked and I had a short vacation that year. Being a college town through and through, my friend and I were basically alone.

To help her ring in her special day, we went to a basically empty bar on a street usually bustling with young co-eds just getting their starter-DUIs. We drank a lot and somewhere around last call we decided it would be awesome to get matching tattoos!

This was pre-iPhone, so we actually had to call 4-1-1 for the numbers of any and all tattoo shops that were still open. Turns out, lucky #5 proved the winner open. Red Flag #1 + 2: it was after 2 AM and the "shop" was located on 34th Street and Hepatitis Avenue.

We loaded up our loaded selves into a Honda Element and drove over with dreams of beautiful B.F.F. tattoos! Red Flag #3: Us: "Hi, we want matching tattoos!" Scary looking tattoo shop worker: "I normally only do piercings." Us: "That's OK!"

He reluctantly agreed (probably Red Flag #4) and began to scribble the most pathetic looking peace sign I've ever barely remember seeing. We signed no waivers and proceeded to the back.

She went first. When the piercing guy was done I saw it. (Red Flag #5). It was too late for me though... We had made a drunken pact, her tattoo was done, and she was also my ride home. And, frankly, getting raped and/or offered some very low quality crack in one of the seedier parts of Lubbock, Texas didn't seem like acceptable alternatives.

As we drove home, we convinced each other it was the right thing to do. "Oh, I kind of like that it is imperfect. I mean no peace isn't perfect." I was a philosophy major at the time, and it felt like the perfect intellectual bulls**t to console a forever scarred idiot.

Nowadays, I hardly notice it until someone asks me if I get bored a lot and draw on myself. But I kind of like it, because it reminds me of my dear friend, and it is a constant reminder not to do something stupid like sign up to do a mud-run, turn down any venue that offers any sort of 'all-you-can-eat' or leave home without my phone.  

To be filed under things my tattoo reminder has NOT stopped me from doing: texting after 2 AM and/or 2 bottles of wine, continuously watching all three of the Transformers films (or any other film by Michael Bay for that matter), emotionally substituting take-out Pei Wei and hoarded Girl Scout cookies for a Friday night social life or boyfriend, and listening to that 'Call Me Maybe' song.

PS - My friend is working on starting her second successful business and just married a great guy. The most exciting or 'successful' thing I have done of late is see the Avengers. She must take this stupid reminder a lot more seriously than me...

good luck, errebody else!

So, I had a first this past Monday: my first car wreck.

I was within 100 yards of my apartment building and was hit by a silver Corvette. This offended me on so many levels. Fortunately, it was the other driver’s fault, and he was nice, apologetic, and surprisingly not wearing a single article of Ed Hardy clothing.

Contrary to the belief/mostly true reality that most Asians drive like this:

I’m actually an impeccable driver. I have zero violations on my record, and as previously stated, have never been involved in an accident… unless you count barfing Red Bull vodkas out the passenger side of a Jeep Grand Cherokee while being driven home, then I retract that last statement.

So, my car’s a pretty big deal. It’s a 2001 Toyota Camry. It was my mom’s, and I still remember the day my parents brought it home. It was the first brand new car my family had ever owned, and it had power windows and keyless entry! I felt like the pretty Kardashian sister!

At fifteen, I felt like a real bad ass. When my parents were out of town, I would be out on the town driving between the two Sonics, aggressively jamming to Jessica Simpson’s “Irresistible”, and chain-smoking Kamel Red Lights with my girlfriends (meaning “HAAAY GIIIIRLFRIEND!”, not “let’s drink a 6-pack of Zima and explore each others' bodies” kind of girlfriend… just in case my listening to Jessica Simpson didn't already make that perfectly clear).

Little did I know, a decade and almost 180,000 miles later, I would still be doing this. As you can imagine, it is slightly less bad ass nowadays.

However, there are some HUGE benefits to driving a crappy car in a town like Dallas.

1)    I hate driving around the city. One way streets, slow-moving ethnic pedestrians, and the iPhone’s Maps app that is always out to get me face-raped in shady parts of town. But when you drive a vehicle that is basically being held together by dust and my nightly prayers, no one wants to take your car anywhere. EVER. Advantage: John.

2)    The few times I venture out in my car to meet friends for dinner, day drinking, or a good knitting marathon, inevitably there is always a “valet only” situation. Words cannot express how much I hate valet only establishments. But, when this happens, I like to think I’m giving the kind car runners a mild self-esteem boost. Instead of the usual black BMW 3 series or other typical fancy "status" car like a Kia Sorento, they get to judge me and the awesomeness of my 4-cylinder import. They’re all like, ‘I may park cars for meth money, but this car has one axle in the grave.’

3)    I usually almost always have the right of way. Not because I actually have it or know exactly what that means for that matter, but when you see a car with a dent or scratch of some kind on almost every panel, you assume they do NOT have insurance and usually avoid swapping paint with such a car. I should just slap a Piolín sticker on the bumper and really just lean into it.

This might be slightly racist, but if you've seen some of the rides
that sport this, you would agree they are not 'in good hands.'

4)    Also, being older and having its share of wear and tear, I don’t care (mainly because I don’t notice) if there is a door ding here or, you know, a missing panel there. Literally, the moment the car hit me, my first thought was about the eggs in my grocery sack in the back seat. For the record, three of them were broken. FML.

5)  Finally, have no car payment is the BEST thing of ever. So...

And, when you drive around in a car with a dent on the trunk where your mom backed into a tree branch, but looks like someone went Tonya Harding on, this sort of thing is really a non-event.

At least now most of the panels match.

PS - If you are reading this and are wealthy and don't want any sort of weird sex stuff in return, please buy me a new car or an ice cream attachment for my Kitchen-Aid mixer.

PPS - Let's be real, the weird sex stuff clause might be rescinded for the ice cream attachment alone!

Do want.

ladies' brunch

Last week I posted about being too hungover to cook Indian food... After three long days of working answering phones and watching other people drink wine at the salon and three 10-hour days of being trapped in women's prison (aka cosmetology school), I decided to spend my Saturday night in.

A friend came over and we drank wine, wore Snuggies, ate the world's most legit jelly beans ever created, watched the Taylor Swift Speak Now World Tour DVD, and sat around until we both got our periods. I went to bed at a respectable time and was so excited to sleep in and tackle a day of productivity sans hangover.

Turns out, my body needs the hangover to feel alive...

I rolled around my bed bouncing between my issues of Bon Appétit, my personal collection of my favorites recipes, and the interweb's best food bloggers. 

Yes, this is where the magic happens. And by 'magic', I mean
"the consumption of A LOT of Salt & Vinegar potato chips."

Still, I was helpless to decide what I wanted to make for my lunches for the week. My mind was completely foggy and my usual Sunday morning hungover stomach was craving nothing instead of its usual anything fried in mass quantities with a side of gravy the size of Carnie Wilson's pre-op stomach.

While I danced around to Florence + The Machine's 'Shake It Out' in an over-sized (and probably women's) t-shirt/concubine's dashiki, I was still torn on what to make. 

Then, out of nowhere a blessing came from above. Literally, as I decided to hang up my poly-blend gown, I looked up... From weeks ago, beautiful, delicious Girl Scout Cookies. I 'hid' these from myself to avoid going to bed with a box and waking up with peanut butter and chocolate all over my sheets. I then lounged around in my sleepies eating Tagalongs and waiting for culinary inspiration to strike.

Then another blessing came (via Twitter): an invitation for a lovely Sunday ladies' brunch from my friend/neighbor/occasional hair crash test dummy, Rebecca. Instantly, all of my ideas of cooking and being productive flew out the window.

We started the day at Dream Cafe. It's cute, simple, and there were one or two DILFs that caught our eye. In between Bloody Marys and people watching, we basically sent no fewer than a dozen tweets to one another over the course of the meal. Seriously, we could have eaten at separate restaurants and had the same experience.

Some legit chicken & waffles.

Luck should have it, I didn't need to be hungover to enjoyed this deliciously fried, gravy covered meal and a fun day of no responsibilites and the spending of the little expendable income I take home these days.

Here are just a few highlights of the day and more reasons why I love this girl.

Upon settling the bill for our hot homo mess of a waiter, I calculated what would be a little more than a 20% tip. Rebecca replied: "Was he/she that good?"

While driving to a do little shopping we saw this on the highway:

Rebecca: "I mean how you buy a yellow Scion with a straight face?"

While fighting with her GPS and my useless Siri to find a Sonic for the world's most legit Route 44 Powerade Slush (which she assures me is healthy 'because of all the electrolytes'), a number of amazing songs came on that we jammed out to.

Rebecca: "God! Why isn't this song cooler?!"

When the late Whitney Houston's 'I Wanna Dance With Somebody' came on, Rebecca formulated a Halloween costume she probably considers a tribute... that others might consider borderline racist. "I would have the curly hair, big bow, the tight dress, some dark make up, and a good spray tan!"

So as I finish this post, I am 1) back in my dashiki, 2) only planning on going to the store later for wine, and 3) still clueless on what I want to eat for lunches this week.

Mission: accomplished!

lessons not learned

If you were hungover and thought cooking Indian food would make you feel better, you would be wrong...

24 hours earlier...

Yesterday was one of the most time honored traditions for all: St. Patrick's Day. My friend's and I have titled this "the Happiest Day in Dallas." Because for a few glorious hours, open container laws are thrown out the window and thousands of people flood the sidewalks of Greenville Avenue, watch a pretty lame parade, down green jello shots, and do awesome stuff like this:

St. Patrick's Day 2011

Since I attend a Nazi-run cosmetology school, missing a Saturday is out of the question. In fact, if you miss more than three in a year, you are dropped from the program completely. Therefore, I had to miss out on this year's festivities. To add insult to injury, in the Ugly Smoker's area where I take breaks to chain smoke Marlboro Lights to dull the pain of hearing my fellow students ask their millionth stupid question of the morning, I could HEAR the festivities!

I hadn't even planned on going out after school because all of my friends would be intoxicated to the point of being unrecognizable. However, my friend who worked that day wanted to go out and I knew he wouldn't be a slobbery, Bell's Palsy victim looking, drunken mess. So, I decided to go with him, have a few drinks, and not waste a Saturday night in the years of my life when Botox isn't necessary.

Well those 'few drinks' quickly escalated into a number of beers, a couple tequila shots, and me pouring myself into my bed like a puddle of dirty backwash at 3 AM. 

Now, I usually reserve my Sundays for recovery. And by 'recovery,' I mean I going to the grocery and preparing my meals for the week. I grew up in a family who considered cold cut sandwiches a primary food group, so I'm no stranger to leftovers. When I started working, I learned that my lunch hour was better served eating leftover, home-cooked meals and chain-smoking than driving around eating the same four fast food restaurants around my office five days a week.

This past week I broke my cardinal rule of break room etiquette and reheated some bomb ass shrimp and crab at school. Seriously, it smelled like a wet dog walked in on Oscar the Grouch making out with a dead manatee.

Yes, I am terrible person and don't deserve to have any of my dreams come true, but in my defense, the food was a gift from a friend's sweetheart mother who was visiting town and wanted me to have a really fancy lunch at school. Since it was school that had me missing a Ladies' Lunch she wanted to take me out on the night before.

Anyway, some of the more crass and idiotic students in the break room got all upset and catty looks and mean comments were exchanged between my friends and a table of queens and overweight girls at an adjacent table.

Naturally I had to brand myself a repeat offender. So, I decided to make one of my favorite dishes: chicken tikka masala. 

A previous successful execution of the aforementioned dish.

In my endeavor for culinary revenge, I was the one with the proverbial Band-Aid in my burrito. Halfway into the chicken, I felt the sudden urge to choke to death on my own vomit. I couldn't handle the spicy and usually delicious aromas. 

Also, my head couldn't much handle the mechanics of a recipe I have made tons of times before. I basically got into a screaming match with a bag of Mahatma Basamati rice. 

I have purchased and prepared this brand before, and was 1,000% certain something was off. The preparation called for 8 cups of water for 1 cup of rice AND the same amount for 2 cups of rice. I mean, that just can't be right. Surely I was victim of improper packaging instructions, but their website said the same thing... 

I still suspected foul play and decided to do it my way. Needless to say I ended up ruining A LOT of rice. This was also impacted by my inability to decipher the difference between the sentences: "reduce cooking TO 10 minutes" and "reduce cooking time BY 10 minutes." A subtle misread, and again, I'm glad rice is cheap.

I was in no state of mind to be near a stove, so I finished what I could and cracked open a can of this:

I then proceeded to meet my friends for a patio margaritas, because I am me, and learning from my mistakes is something I'll do around the time I start needing that Botox.

Yesterday.

a good old fashioned rant

People as a thing are getting dumber and dumber by the day. While I worked with a number of douche canoes in my previous career, my new life of hair whipping ponytails and unlocking the secrets of beauty at school, is showing me a new darker side of dumb.

The other day during my lunch break I took a quick trip to the Happiest Place on Earth: Sonic. I ordered my usual:

A lot of people find / are accidently directed to my
blog by googling 'Sonic hot dogs.' John FTW!

Anyway, like I tell the homeless people of Dallas who do NOT take Visa, "I never carry cash." I find I spend it too quickly and can't wrap my mind around the fact that my singles may or may not have touched the loins of a girl with a deadbeat dad and very few computer skills.

So, I almost always pay for my meals and Route 44s with the handy car-side credit card machine! This system is a great but it doesn't allow you to add in a tip! Insert obvious, cheap and dirty joke: here ___. Sometimes if I a scraggily George Washington sitting in my console, I'll kindly give it to the car hop. And today I happened to have a few!

The car hop came out and was kind enough. She even went back in to get me extra ketchup! As I reached for my cash this chick says 'where's my tip?' I was so shocked I couldn't come up with a clever retort until I was halfway into my Chicago Dog. It would have been: "Here's a tip, don't ask for tips!" Yeah, and then she would have been all "Oh, I guess the customers aren't the only ones who get SERVED here!" And then there probably would have been some sort of break-dance off...

This happened during a lunch break from my new Thursday through Saturday adventure in hair school... I was prepared to be surrounded by individuals of varying levels of intelligence and sanity, but nothing on Earth could prepare for how stupid some of the people are. Stupidity is their Olympics, and they are in it to win it.

For starters, the most offensive girl wears these:

1) These aren't even REAL Uggs. I mean, that's like buying generic meth. If you're gonna do something wrong, do it RIGHT.

2) The bedazzling? In keeping with my analogy, that's like shouting at the top of your cracked out lungs, 'Hey, y'all. Look at me doing a lot of this generic meth!'

3) She is the kind of girl who is totally wearing these to be cute... Like tooth loss is just a fun bonus to her faux-meth addiction.

Unfortunately her stupidity doesn't end with just her terrible fashion choices, which also include: tacky leather studded bracelets, men's ties, and t-shirt dresses under a t-shirt and over black pants. I'm sorry, but even Avril Lavigne and all the guys on American Idol think you look like a jacka**.

She asks stupid questions and never pays attention. So a majority of my classroom 'learning' is waiting for my equally inept teacher try and re-explain simple concepts like brushing and curling hair to someone who still isn't paying attention. It's like watching Paris Hilton try and teach Kim Kardashian quantum physics.

I mean, she is a girl. I would assume she would have a grasp on these basic things, because she's been doing them since she was a child or sluttly teenager. Yeah, she is totally THAT girl who has no other friends who are girls. Anyway, her hair is TERRIBLE. It looks like it is made of straw, she has outdated highlights, and basically looks like Ke$ha stood on a tarmac for 11 hours.

In efforts of full disclosure, I must include in this rant a confession... The stupid is rubbing off...

The other morning, I spent about 8 minutes in the shower debating with myself and counting on my fingers and toes whether or not I was 26 or 27. While debating on drowning myself because nothing that stupid deserves to live, I thought of these two young women. If they can get up day after day and boldly say and do idiotic things with dedication that borderlines pure passion, then I can forget how old I am. I had to get on facebook and look at the photo album from my last birthday party to confirm I almost aged myself a whole year in the shower!

PS - how awesome is this?

all white, i say!

I have an intense and extreme love/hate relationship with one Ina Garten.

For starters, I absolutely love everything about her to the point of Biblical coveting of her life. Although I have zero prior experience in a leisurly life in the Hamptons, I feel like I would be awesome at it. The riches and hot gay BFFs aside, I mostly adore her ALL WHITE kitchen. ALL WHITE, I SAY!

I would literally run around that beautiful, giant island in sensible pumps, a poofy dress with matching apron, and a Donna Reed wig til my knee caps fell off.

Also, she's SO graceful and well spoken. If you've ever heard me tell a story in person after three glasses of wine or laugh at something unfortunate happening to an obese person on YouTube, you can attest to the fact that my voice sounds something like a dying cat being forced to mate with an asthmatic Fran Drescher. A lot of Ina's charm could be for the camera, and she could swear like an Italian mob wife in real life, but in my heart of hearts she is her TV personality through and through.

Finally, the thing I'm the MOST jealous of Ina is her relationship. I mean I want a nice, loving guy that is almost NEVER around. That way I can cook and bake all day while getting drunk with my gay friends. It's nice that every once and a while she cooks a nice meal for her man or he makes a cameo appearance at the end of the episode just to remind all the viewers that she does in fact have the perfect life.

Now on to the stuff I hate...

Ina, as I have already mentioned, I don't live a fabulous life in the Hamptons. I do get a lot of joy out of cooking, but it started and continues to be a way to save money. Would I like to eat out at fabulous restaurants every night drinking wine served out of glass bottles? Of course I would! But the kids need new shoes and my car is being held together by the hopes and dreams of a boy who would rather eat a box of nails than have a car payment.

Furthermore, take it easy on the bougie ingredients. We don't all have a pirvate duck butcher or our own organic gardens we can just go grab shallots out of. If I can't find it at my local and super disgusting, yet convenient, Kroger, I'M NOT COOKING IT.

She's always like "Really any mild cheese will do in this recipe. But I prefer a nice locally raised, free-range virgin goat cheese. Oh, look, a goat! I'll be right back."

All that being said, almost all of my most favorite things that have come out of my kitchen came from Ina. I would add links to the recipes, but that's A LOT of button pushing, y'all.

Restaurant style filet mignon.

French apple tart.

And my most favorite thing of ever: boeuf bourguignon.

20%

Photo via The Bloggess. Profanity neccessary.

This picture so appropriately sums up how I've been feeling. Except I'm not baking souffles...

I've identified probably 80% of what is bothering me. There is no way around it, and I don't feel much like explaining the why portion of it. This week will simply have just have to come and go, and I'll hopefully be 80% better next week. Maybe it's one of those things that just acknowledging it's pressence is enough to avert disaster. Like quietly giggling when you have broken wind in a public place.

Anyway, the other 20% is a bit of mystery to even me. I mean, surely other perfectly 'normal' people go through these funks. Even Beyonce must have times where she doesn't feel like throwing on a leotard and running the world...
Funk or not, luckily, these greeted me this morning when I got to work.

That possibly lesbian or at least bi-curious Asian girl has been on the
Tagalongs box as long as I can remember. This permanence makes me happy.

Other than the cookies themselves, this is exactly what I LOVE about the Girl Scouts. Think about it, one day, I impulse purchase diebetic bliss when approached by some mom doing her daughter's dirty work and weeks later out of nowhere there they are, and on a day where fat girl food therapy is just what I needed.

It's like pre-ordering yourself a deep dish meat lovers pizza at 1 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon for delivery at 3 A.M. when you know your future drunk self will need it and want it the most.

Speaking from personal experience, ordering a pizza drunk is probably the hardest thing you will ever have to do. 1) you want EVERYTHING, 2) the waiting is the closest thing to torture an average middle-class person will experience in his/her life, and 3) the lady at Pizza Hut taking your order at this very late hour is wishing you would fall off a very tall balcony as you slur your credit card number on your dying iPhone.

Finally, I would like to apologize for the vague 20% sadness/weirdness/funk mentioned before my paragraphs detailing the joy of cookies and pizza. It's like that facebook status that is just a sad face or 'everything's the worst' sort of bulls**t that I try to almost always 'like.' I am actively hating myself for being that brand of Internet pitiful today. Later I might even have a tweet like 'get these cookies away from me, my pizza will be here in 20 minutes. #emotionallyeating.'

But for real, I'm gonna so legitly get down with those Tagalongs later, one of us should probably take a pregnancy test the next day...

PS - I know things will get better, because we live in a world where some whimsical genius named a box of childhood obesity causing cookies 'Thank You Berry Much.' (This is the ONLY reason I bought them. You win this round, puns.)

puberty, we meet again.

So, I'm just two weeks into what shall henceforth be referred to as "Operation: your life used to suck and you weren't doing anything about it but drinking a lot of cheap wine and now you're finally getting your s**t together and working towards a change and still drinking a lot of cheap wine." I was going to name it 'Blue Ivy,' but Beyonce stole that right from under me.

I've been at the the new job a while and have two days of hair school orientation under my belt, and I have NEVER in my life been more exhausted. No one ever told me that working an almost 60 hour a week DIDN'T involve creating the perfect ass indention in my office chair while dominationg facebook and blogging. Now, my actual job duties aren't particularly taxing, but 1) for the first time in 3 years, I'm actually learning something I have to give a s**t about, and 2) I'm on my feet. And at my old job, the only time I was on my feet was to walk to the handicapped stall for some serious John time.

Along with all of these professional changes, this past weekend has brought about some other interesting changes. Apparently I'm going through puberty again... or some sort of pre-menopause.

Remember when you were in 6th grade and all the boys and the girls went to little 'your body is changing' meetings? That might of been just at my middle school, but it was basically an hour of holding in giggles at the crudely drawn penises in the demonstrational pamplets and you got a free deodorant sample.

To this day, I still laugh at crudely drawn penises and do not use deodorant. For some reason I just don't smell or sweat that much. That being said, if you EVER smell a hint of B.O. coming from me, please inform me immediately and I will buy deodorant. Until then, it is one less thing for TSA agents to give me a 'random / you are not white' screenings about.

So, yesterday I was watching TV with my roommate and he turned to me and asked me if I smelled 'that.' I acknowledged it and was immediately offended and curious of the smell's origin. Turns out, my feet are starting to smell like a pile of dying zombie corpses were thrown into a dumpster behind an Indian restaurant adjacent to a hot dog factory.

Now, as I type this I can tell my feet smell once again. I mean, really?
Luckily, there are a lot of beauty products at the salon I'm working at that should mask the stench of the rotting undead, and I get a discount. And speaking of new job perks, the other day, I got over $100 of skin care crap from a sales rep for free! This is infinitely better than the crap the wholesalers used to give out. I mean they're useful and all, but a MetLife mouse pad or Oppenheimer coffee mug can't make you pretty!!!

I'll blog about beauty school sometime soon. Believe me, I have a lot to say. I'm basically in a sea of single mothers, a bored housewife, and surprisingly, only one straight off the trailer girl with terrible highlights! Sadly, there is only one sassy gay guy and one guy who may or may not be into other dudes.

'you look ridiculous'

This is NOT my normal brand of bitchy, gay, off-handed meth reference blog post. This is real. This is the hardest post I've ever had to write. And this is where I am and where I'm going nowadays.

This is me and my mom.

I was adopted, and this is one of our first pictures together.

Look at that picture. Look at that face. That, my friends, is completely unadulterated, pure joy. This was a special day, but ask anyone who knew her, this type of joy emanated from her almost always. Today I realized, this is what I deserve. It is what everyone deserves.

Honestly, I don't like talking about my mom. She passed away over two years ago, and they were the hardest moments of my life. But today I was able to realize one of the best lessons she ever taught me.

My mom worked her @#$&^#%&* off. She had one of the hardest jobs I could ever imagine having: a hospice nurse. She guided patients and their families with poise, empathy, and grace through some of the hardest moments in their lives. I can't imagine how hard it would be. But she not only did it well, she got so much joy from her work.

For the last three years, I have been depriving myself of joy. Out of fear and what I perceived as society's expectations of what a normal life/career should be, I let myself continually do something that brought me ZERO joy.

Note: Although this job brought me no joy, it did bring me close to people I never would have met had I not worked for the company I worked for. I met the best, most reliable friend I will EVER have at this job. He is basically the gay brother I never had. I also met my 'work wife' who will never hesitate to slap me when I'm being an inappropriate child and call me out on my crap. I also had the pleasure for having the best managers ever who put up with me on a regular basis. Do I regret working there? No. My life would have never been the same without this job.

Anyway, I learned I DESERVE to live a life that brings me joy. Although I have amazing friends and family, I can no longer accept working Monday through Friday 8 AM to 5 PM doing something I hate.

Most people close to me know this, but I'm officially announcing it here. I quit my financial industry, cubicle, collared shirt job. I am now enrolled in cosmetology school at the Aveda Institute.

Do I think I am changing people's lives with an over-priced hair cut is the equivalent of being a hospice nurse? Absolutely not. But, no matter what I do, like my mother, I will (hopefully) get real joy from it.

I am absolutely terrified of what lies before me. But I am LESS terrified of the idea of living a joyless life.

The last big moment in my life was when I graduated college early and left all my friends for my move to Dallas. Out of nowhere, my iPod (on complete, random shuffle) played Kelly Clarkson's 'Breakaway'. I immediately had to pull my heavily packed down Jeep Cherokee over because my eyes were swollen with tears.

That day of my moving, I happened to have picked my mother up from a doctor's visit where she was discussing her cancer. Here I am bawling my eyes out about moving a whopping 5 hours away, and she's facing a life-threatening disease. How small is my world! Now, this is the woman who would throw herself on the ground in a fake temper tantrum in the middle of a Walmart to show an 8-year-old John how ridiculous he looked. At this moment, I probably had never looked more ridiculous. But instead of pointing it out, she held me and said 'oh, you're moving. We are NOT unpacking your stuff.'

As I drove away from my office to my farewell happy hour last night, the iPod once again randomly played 'Breakaway.' I immediately started crying. It reminded me of that moment leaving Texas Tech University, and it also set in the reality of how much my life was about to change. For the next year, I'm goodbye to vacations, expendable income, and my 401k and, hello to 60 hour work weeks, 10 hour days at hair school, and a start to a whole new life.

Do I know 100% that this new path will bring me joy? Absolutely not. But I am sure that walking around my offices with an unhappy scowl 8 hours a day makes me look extremely ridiculous. Am I scared? Completely.  Change is terrifying. But, it's now or never.

I've worked myself into respectable panic tears MANY times over the past few months in deciding this change. But, I'm seeking my joy. I'm trying to think of some fitting philosopher's words, a poignant message from the Bible, or even a Carrie Bradshaw pun to end this, but unfortunately, I'm at a loss.

So, for all my readers, the five of you, like I learned from my mother, learn from me: if you are not doing something that brings you joy, you look ridiculous and should STOP DOING IT! Also, listen to 'Breakaway.' That song is legit.

how to speak Mandarin with Charlie Brown's ASL teacher

I am continually surrounded by so many legitimately beautiful people that I've realized this upper echelon of hotness is my Everest, and I'm forever stuck at base camp trying to get my backpack on.

I mean in the grand scheme of the world, I'm usually confident drunk enough to believe that I can be classified as 'attractive.' Going out on a limb, I could be labeled with 'above average attractiveness.' That is, if the person judging me was stoned and/or just left a Denny's, Toby Keith concert, or any form of public transportation.

This is me on a typical knuckle-dragging day:

This is me at my best: 

Note: This picture has been heavily, professionally photo-shopped so don't feel inadequate:

Honestly, I'm not fishing for compliments or trying to be annoyingly self-deprecating, I just realistically believe this is where I am. You know, generously above the middle but definitely out of arm's reach of the top, like Michelle Kwan. I'm more comfortable with that than anywhere else on the 'do-you-wanna-do-me' spectrum.

If you're too close to the middle, you're easily forgettable. But insanely attractive people are like velociraptors. Hard to approach, usually travel in packs, and were once birds.

When I talk to these people, I may as well be speaking Mandarin with Charlie Brown's ASL teacher. Much like Moses and the burning bush, I'm so in awe with what is before me, real communication becomes nearly impossible. While they may be asking me about what I do for a living or where I got my jacket or if I normally drool this much, I'm constantly either searching for a flaw or resisting the urge to smell their hair.

Then I have to remind myself something that might be the best advice I've ever given myself. And by 'given myself' I mean 'probably heard somewhere but don't remember and changed it just enough to convince myself it was an original idea of my very own.' 

Anyway, here it is: when you meet someone and are filled with the sense that the world is so unfair to let so much beauty be obscenely localized in one person,  remember this, they too at one point or other in their life have had diarrhea. 

In my mind, it totally levels the playing field. When I am about to swallow my own tongue out of fear of saying something embarrassing in front of a guy that looks like he's Jon Hamm's younger brother with a Superman chest and no beneficiaries to his 401K, I just picture him in child's pose on a dingy bath mat jointly cursing the good people at Taco Bell and the inventor of malt liquor while simultaneously making a deal with the Devil to avoid a 'both ends' situation.

It's almost EXACTLY like when you are in public speaking and they tell you to imagine everyone in their underwear...

YOU'RE STILL NOT DOING IT RIGHT.

First of all, let's just get this out of the way:

Picture c/o one of my most bad ass friends.

Yeah, the new Timeline is all kinds of awesome it hurts my heart. Wait, that pain might just be from the bar I found in Dallas that has a BACON HAPPY HOUR... But, I'm fairly certain it is from the ultimate neat factor of the new facebook.

However, with all the innovations, changes, improvements, etc. facebook still has one major problem: the user. Other posts about how much people suck at facebook can be found here, here, and even here. 

First of all, the couple's shared facebook account. What is wrong with you?!? I don't want to sound like a bitter, forever-single, will-probably-die-alone-and-be-eaten-by-his-pet-wallaby-(yeah, I'll be single, but still too bad ass for cats)-kind of person, but are you serious? This is the dumbest thing ever!

And look, proof that this isn't just coming solely from bitterness, jealousy and my crippling loneliness that drives me to drinking and attention whoring:

PS - You should totally follow her. She's a close friend,
and when she's in the right mood, she gives GREAT tweet.

Another offense near and dear to my high blood pressure is the mundane status update. I mean if you said 'I'm at Taco Bell', 1) get me a Crunch Wrap Supreme, 2) there is a REALLY lame app for that kind of information sharing, and 3) I don't really get anything from that other than the fact that you have great taste in terrible fast food. Statuses should be hilarious, contain interesting information about yourself, or just be complete nonsense. That type of noise is none of the above.

Now, if you were to say "I just s**t my pants at Taco Bell." I would very much like to see that. I would like the #$%& out of it. I mean, seriously, just tag me in any and all updates like that.

Yet another feature on facebook so many people misuse is the much aggravating 'People You May Know.' It has devolved into a cluster of people that your only mutual friend is someone you barely know, people you have unfriended years ago, and people you actually know in real life but consciously refuse to add.

I mean it is fun to browse through them and see who got fat, ugly, or is with child, but no person in their right mind adds most of these people. The exception being someone that is cute, you slightly know, and definitely know you might want to make out with at some point in the near future.

And as a note, if I wasn't ever real friends with you in the real world (probably because you suck), why do you think, years later, I would EVER want to be fake friends with you on a website?! Yeah, I'm talking to people from my high school that don't understand how social networks are supposed to work and are probably accessing the Internet from a trailer... with dial-up.

Finally (and this is so going to piss off a lot of lame people) I am friends with YOU on facebook. NOT your child.*  It might be adorable as a box of miniature bunnies on a meth binge, but your profile picture should contain YOU somewhere in it (not just half of your genetic material).

I mean congratulations on keeping the human population going (it was really touch and go there for a minute) but you are still you, and I want to see your face. Mainly, because when I'm drunk facebooking I get really confused since my ability to comprehend words has been severely compromised and I need to discern friends based solely on their pictures.

Also, if I'm trying to leave an inappropriate comment on something of yours, how weird do I feel when I'm laughing about 'duty' and 'balls' with a baby staring at me?!

*Certain people are completely exempt from this because their babies are ridiculously and insanely adorable. To avoid being offended you should probably just assume I am referring to you and your child. However, this is most likely NOT the case. I have very high cute-baby standards.