In which I apparently do not know what bullets are for

You know how every now and then, Stefanie Says unofficially becomes a dating blog? I currently have ZERO interest whatsoever in seeking out dates (I have sort of decided I should perhaps go on a bit of a dating sabbatical until the universe kindly decides to stop fucking with me), and yet, I'm reminded, at times like this, that when I am actively dating, at least I have stories to tell.

Realizing that the bulk of my writing lately has concerned nothing more notable than my baking endeavors, the giant bug in my basement, and the mutant rhubarb in my backyard, I tried to compile a list of things I could perhaps tell you about tonight. Here is what I came up with.

• Wine on tap
• Facebook - lied to my mother
• Books & Bars sex book
• Digging
• 64 degrees in house
• Flickr freaks
• [Name] (redacted)

Tell me: which (if any) of those would you like to hear more about? What's that? I can't hear you. Pity you're not in my living room right now to weigh in. I guess I will just have to tell you about ALL of them. Lucky you.

• Wine on tap - For last weekend's camping trip, I decided to forgo the bulky, inconvenient glass bottles and bring a tasty and economical Black Box instead. For little more than the price of two bottles, I got four bottles' worth of wine, which I figured I would share with fellow campers and have little if any left over. As it turned out, my friend Amy had the same idea, and between her box of wine and the several bottles that other campers offered up on the picnic table at our camp site, I came home with my entire box minus only maybe a glass or three. I have often thought that boxed wine might be a good idea to keep on hand, that if I could pour just one glass from an air-tight vessel that stays fresh for a month or more, I could enjoy wine with dinner whenever the mood strikes, without being tempted to finish the whole bottle in a night or two to avoid waste. As it turns out, wine on tap is not the best idea after all. In fact, it makes it entirely too easy to say, "Hmm. A little wine might be nice right now. Oh look! I have some RIGHT HERE! I don't even have to open a new bottle!" And since the fill level is all neatly tucked away in a bag behind the cover of a cardboard box, I don't have a helpful visual aid to remind me when one glass has somehow become three. Note to self: Wine on tap = NOT such a brilliant plan after all, unless my brilliant plans also include becoming a full-fledged (rather than merely occasional, borderline) wino. (Secondary note: They do not.) Cue the "The more you know" jingle; that's one to grow on, folks.
  
  
• Facebook - lied to my mother - My mother has been on Facebook for over two weeks now, and still her only friends are my two sisters and me, which only serves to prove my theory that she joined for no other reason than to try to become closer to spy on the three of us. Today is her birthday, so I called her to say hello, and in the course of conversation, she said, "What I don't understand is, why, when I look at [younger sister]'s page, can I see the things her friends posted and the things she's posted, too, but when I look at your page or [older sister]'s, I can see only things your friends posted?" There are several correct answers to this question. "Because I have cruelly blocked you from viewing my status updates and links because I don't want you to know too much about my life or to leave mom-ish comments on my page" is one. "Because you weren't supposed to be smart enough to figure out that you saw anything different on my page vs. anyone else's" is another. Instead, I just said, "I don't know; different settings?" and then quickly changed the subject. Yes, I lied to my mother. On her birthday, no less. I'm sure it's not the first nor the last time Facebook will make me do something I'm not entirely proud of. Let's just move on, shall we?
  
  
• Books & Bars sex book - I have been meaning to check out the Twin Cities' most irreverent book club for over a year now, and last month, Carrie and I finally went. The book was the one that's been sitting in my sidebar for well over a month now, because despite my being a goody-goody, homework-is-not-optional girl all through my schooling, apparently I have few qualms about showing up for a book discussion only halfway through the assigned reading as an adult. I'm not doing much better this month, as the next event is on Tuesday and I still have well over a hundred pages of Bonk to read yet. I don't read a lot of nonfiction, and Bonk is a particularly unique brand of nonfiction. As I'm reading, I can't help thinking perhaps it's a strange form of erotica that works only on nerds. A science book wouldn't usually remind me that I'm not, shall we say, getting any, and yet last night, before I shut down my computer and went off to bed, I sent Carrie an email to say I was "off to read about sex for a bit and then go to sleep without any, as per usual." I'm more than a little curious to see what sort of discussion this book, um, arouses on Tuesday night. (Come on, I had to go there, right? Cheap joke or not, surely you understand.)
  
  
• Digging - Because every project I ever initiate inevitably takes at least three times longer than I originally estimated, I am still digging up the five feet or so of lawn in front of my house in preparation for my efforts to plant something more equity-enhancing there. I really don't have anything to say about this; frankly, it was on this list only because when I am fixated on a project, it seems entirely more important and interesting in my head than it is to anyone else. Moving on.
  
  
• 64 degrees in house - I am typing away in my hobo gloves again tonight, because although it is June, it is currently 64 degrees in my house, and because it is June, I refuse to turn on my furnace to do anything about that. I was irked about this for much of the day, until I remembered that I actually much prefer 64 degrees in my house to 94 degrees in here. Unseasonably cold days in so-called summer aren't all bad, I suppose.
  
  
• Flickr freaks - I've grown accustomed enough to living much of my life online that I don't typically think too much anymore about posting my personal photos to Flickr and leaving them public for the world to see. If strangers really want to view my boring, poorly executed photo sets from trips with my friends, so be it. But when a grown man with a mud-play obsession marks photos of my friend's daughter playing in a mudpit at a state park as a favorite, should I be a bit skeeved out? And when the admin for a "socks and sandals lovers" group asks that I add my "I rock the socks and sandals" pic to their pool, do I oblige and add the photo, or do I write back to explain that I do not, in fact, lack all fashion sense, and I photographed my feet in socks and sandals only because it was too cold that morning for sandals alone but I was too lazy to return to the tent for proper shoes before we commenced a post-breakfast walk? As with so many situations in my life, I have resolved both of these dilemmas by simply ignoring them. I have to say, though: it takes all kinds. Weirdos abound on the Internet, and Flickr is not exempt.
  
  
• [Name] (redacted) - The montage reel continues, but it's sped up to make a loop almost up to the present. At an event Thursday night, I ran into yet another one-date boy. This time, it was the guy I deemed my best date of '08. I actually sort of expected to run into that one again eventually. As I keep saying, the city is shrinking, and he and I have enough in common that we were bound to cross paths again. I did not expect to see him that night, though, and was inexplicably thrown enough that our polite, perfunctory conversation was definitely far from my best work, banter-wise. People, I feel I've lost my mojo. Or rather, what mojo I at one point had. I am reportedly bright and charming and by some accounts even hilarious when I am not trying. When it actually matters, I become that mousy girl from my graduating class who said probably fewer than 30 words all through high school. (Interesting sidenote: That girl is married. The world is a strange, baffling place sometimes.) I've been wondering if perhaps I should contact The Traffic Engineer again. Maybe another dinner with him would press the Reset button and restore my shaken confidence somehow. That's not particularly fair to The Traffic Engineer, however, and actually doesn't sound like a particularly good time to me, either. So instead I'll just hope, as seems likely, that all things are cyclical, and things will align and be set right again eventually. That or it's time to admit defeat and resign myself to a life of plucky hermitude--a life I actually embrace more often than may be normal.
  

All right. And I think that about proves why the bulleted post of randomness is not a post I should make a habit of writing. Tell me, what random thoughts would you care to write more about than is necessary today?

And now, for a total pick-me-up post...

First off, a public service message to my single friends out there. Have you ever had a Catch.mom subscription, but let it lapse (or set up a user name and password, but didn't actually pay for membership, thinking, "I'm just going to lurk and check things out for a little while first")? During that period of non-payment, have you gotten messages from Catch.mom excitedly telling you that someone winked at you(!), and encouraging you to pony up for membership to find out who? In case you have wondered if perhaps Catch.mom is messing with you, if perhaps NO ONE has winked at you, and these mysterious emails are just a way of suckering you over to the signup screen, YOU WOULD BE CORRECT! Do not fall for this trap, my friends.

I am feeling more than a bit jaded and beaten down at the moment, so before my account could auto-renew recently, I clicked through the four pages of hoops they make you jump through ("Are you SURE you want to cancel? No, are you really, REALLY sure you want to cancel? Perhaps you didn't understand the question. Do you really, really, REALLY want to cancel? You must be joking, right? Because NO ONE could possibly EVER want to leave..."), and I stopped my membership. But because I didn't want Mr. Perfect-for-Me stumbling across my profile immediately thereafter and sending me an impossibly clever, well-crafted message that I would actually never see, I also hid my profile so that no one browsing through the listings would be able to view me. And yet, THREE TIMES since I did this, I have gotten messages from Catch.mom, assuring me that Mr. Right is out there, and he's winked at and is waiting for me. Obviously I am unconvinced. If Mr. Perfect-for-Me has the techno-skills to find and view my invisible-to-him profile and discern a way to wink at me, then he should have the skills to locate me in person and woo me in real life, possibly plying me with free drinks. Until that happens, I'm just going to assume Catch.mom takes me for a sucker, and frankly I won't have some silly web site do that to me.

All this is a roundabout lead-in to the question I have been dodging for a while now. I have been vague-blogging recently, and I do apologize for that, mentioning a stupid boy and a metaphorical stomach ache, but not elaborating beyond that at all. I've talked about only one prospect recently, and hence, the question could of course be distilled simply to, "Hey Stef. What ever happened to The Buddhist?"

What ever happened to The Buddhist indeed. Unfortunately, I can distill it to an equally simple answer. I have no fucking idea, to be frank. The Buddhist has, as far as I can tell, completely vanished on me.

I could tell you the long version or the short version of this story. The long version is fraught with idle details and personal commentary, so perhaps the short, "just the facts" version is the one you'd rather hear from me. The facts are thus. I had my doubts. I knew The Buddhist was in a not-so-great place personally and professionally right now. He lost his job the week we reconnected. His finances are a mess. But I honestly thought he had grown up a lot emotionally since we'd last met. I wanted to believe our paths crossed again for a reason. I wanted to believe maybe it was supposed to work this time. There were red flags just like there were eight years ago. But along with those red flags, there were compliments and glimmers of hope. He used the words "relationship" and "girlfriend" in near-direct allusion to me. He gave me the key-code to his house. He told me to remember what kind of cake I baked for his birthday, because he'd want the same cake again next year. We talked about how the last time we dated, he didn't break up with me when he started feeling freaked out about the status of us; he just grew more distant and flakey until it forced me to break up with him. We talked about that, and he looked me in the eyes and said, in all earnestness, "I promise I won't do that this time. I promise that if this isn't working for me, I will tell you it's not working for me. I promise I won't do that to you again." He told me that, and I followed it, of course, by asking, "So... is this working for you?" and he answered, "Absolutely." And a week later, he vanished with no explanation or warning. And I remain hurt and baffled by it.

Without going into too much detail, I can think of at least two semi-valid (in his mind) reasons he might have completely shut down and shut me out. Because I have an overactive imagination, I can think of at least 11 additional, near-ludicrous reasons he disappeared with no notice. But none of those reasons justify the complete and total vanishing act. None of those reasons keep me from wanting to punch him in the stomach should I ever see him again. I say this, and yet, I know this idiot has some hold on me. I am a smart girl, and yet, I still want to hear from him. I want an explanation. And somewhere, in some shameful, Jerry Springer Guest Candidate part of me that I wouldn't admit if I hadn't just finished off the rest of the sangria I made for a friend's brunch yesterday, I actually want to believe we still have a chance.

What that is about I have no idea. When did I become an "I sure know how to pick 'em" kind of girl? Did I tell you that The Traffic Engineer contacted me yet again not so long ago? The Traffic Engineer, who is a perfectly nice man who unfortunately does nothing for me. A man who I had a completely filters-off dinner with two months ago, in which I sighed about my recent (at the time) "best date of '08" disappointment and he gingerly countered by asking if perhaps I'd considered the possibility that I might be too picky. I was not in top form on that non-date. I didn't care what he thought of me, because nice as he is, I thought little of him. And yet, a month and a half later, in comes another message from the man, asking if I'd perhaps like to see another movie together. Maybe The Traffic Engineer is a prideless loser. The more time passes, the more I think that's probably the case. Or maybe he's just a nice guy beaten down by dating just like I am. It's unfortunate I can't muster any interest in him whatsoever. No, instead I'm crying over some apparently fake Buddhist who should be concerned about karmic consequences and yet who's treated me with more disregard than any idiot since my 25 and clueless days. Perhaps you have some insight on that, because I really can't explain it myself.

Maybe I'm supposed to meet The Buddhist again in another eight years. Maybe the third time is a charm. Wouldn't that be an even better Lifetime movie? Or maybe, as is more likely, I need to admit that I was wrong about him, that all that wondering over the years was for nothing and he has never particularly been worth my time. It'd be easier if it really were just that simple, wouldn't it?

Here I go again (on my own?)

OK, so tell me exactly why I thought signing on for NaBloPoMo again this year was a good idea? Lofty goals? Creature of habit? Sad lemming? Delusions that, where prizes are concerned, third time's a charm? I'm not sure, really, but the fact that I'm beginning my very first post of NaBlo '08 nearly 22 hours into the day indicates a bit of a dubious start.

Never mind that, though. I've got a theme to begin! I took a poll in which several of you voted, and as of right now, 69.05% of you said I should talk about dates for the next month. And really, who better to rattle on about dating than the girl who is home alone at 9:30 on a Saturday, drinking Malbec in her yoga pants instead of being out on an actual date? Seriously, WHO? I am totally qualified to elaborate on this theme, seriously.

Did I mention I have had the better part of a bottle of Malbec tonight? Um, yeah. I have. First post of NaBloPoMo and it's a drunk post at that. Whoo.

So before I begin, a bit of old business. I am no longer juggling two men. I decided Thursday evening that if I hadn't given Bachelor #2 more than a passing thought since our fifth date last Sunday, it was probably a fairly clear indication that I was just not that into him, so I released him via email yesterday. How'd he take it? Not so well, actually. It turns out, no matter how nicely I let a guy down, he takes it personally and lashes back in defensiveness. Seriously, people--I do not know my own power. The fact that any male would be hurt that I don't want to touch him is beyond perplexing to the memory of 18-year-old me. Seriously, where WERE all you men who think I'm so fantastic now when I was in high school and college?? I should just enjoy the moment in some strange, unsatisfying way, but instead, I can't help but cry "No fair!" All of life is a Seinfeld episode, and I'm totally in Bizarro World.

Bachelor #1 is still in the picture, incidentally, though I remain in "keeping my options open" mode. He is the aforenicknamed "Arty-looking IT guy" who made me pony up for membership in my last round of e-dating in the first place. I never did come up with a better blog alias for the guy, so perhaps we should just use initials and call him AW. I like AW quite a lot, and yet, something is holding me back. Any number of psychologists might call out my fear of commitment or some other interpersonal issue requiring therapy. My friends, on the other hand, dismiss the dilemma more simply and quickly by saying, "It sounds like you're done with him." Who is right? Time will tell. Meanwhile I'm still in Wait and See mode.

All right then. That catches you up on new business (which I think I actually referred to as old business... Robert's Rules, anyone? I've said before that I'm not much of a club-joiner, so it should be no surprise that I don't know how these things work). ANYWAY, on to NaBloPoMo. I promised you stories of 30 dates in 30 days, and where better to start than my very FIRST date? Seems a logical jumping-off point, doesn't it?

As I'm sure I've said before (like, in paragraph 4 of this very post, actually), I'm a bit of a late bloomer. Hence, I didn't date much in my formative years. There was a guy in 10th grade whom I consider "my first pseudo-boyfriend" (perhaps I'll write about him next), but my first formal "I'd like to take you on something we'll formally call a DATE" invitation didn't come until senior year of high school. True to the ridiculousness that is high school, the invitation came in hand-written note form, passed from the asker to my friend Cary and then on to me. Strangely, it wasn't even a guy I saw regularly or had any sort of spark of chemistry with prior. But for some reason, he decided "Stefanie! I should ask Stefanie out." Hence, the note relayed to me in 2nd hour Physics class.

The guy's name was Steve, and while he was perfectly nice, I had no interest in him beyond "friend of a friend" status. One of those "friend of a friend"s was my friend Rick (who, as a sidenote, recently Facebook-friended me but has yet to send a message or comment of any sort to make the re-connection any less false or awkward-like). It was Rick who said, "Well, obviously you two aren't going to 'go' together, but you should say yes anyway. I mean, if nothing else, Free Movie! Just go. It'll make him happy."

So we went. As I recall, we went with Rick and one of my best female friends, and she and Rick for some reason sat behind us at the theater, as if they were in chaperone mode. I don't even remember what the movie was, which is strange because I'm sure I knew last year and even last week. (Malbec? Can we blame the Malbec? Does wine temporarily erase memories that have been fixed in place for 15 years or more?) [UPDATE: Addams Family! It was The Addams Family. No idea why I forgot that for a couple of hours...] And while I remember driving to the movie as a foursome, I know it was Steve and Steve alone who dropped me off at my parents' house that night. And as he idled in the driveway, our family dog barking at the unfamiliar car suspiciously, he turned to me and said, "So! We do this again sometime?" Given that I was just as nervous and in just as uncharted territory as he apparently was, I didn't question his foreign exchange student-like sentence structure. With my hand on the door release, I just said, "Um, how about I get back to you on that?" and then I quickly dashed out of the car and into the house.

Strangely, he never asked me out again. Stranger still, it never became any sort of awkward sticking point. My graduating class was a class of merely 100, and yet, as far as I know, no one knew we went out, and as far as I know, he gave it no more than a second thought after that night.

Sometimes I long for the simplicity of youth. Where anonymity and moving on briskly is concerned, high school is not generally a time I think back on fondly. That said, if I could channel the Me who successfully dodged another date way back so long ago, I would. Somehow, that clueless and inexperience self mastered something I can't seem to accomplish today.

Stuff and whatnot 2? I really need a better title for the posts of no import.

So we all have someone in our life for whom e-mail is apparently still a novel phenomenon and from whom we can therefore expect no fewer than 18 pointless e-mail forwards a week, right? What's that? No? It's not 1998, and you have somehow managed to put an end to that nonsense? How, pray tell... HOW??

Actually, I suppose I don't have nearly the string of offenders for this that I used to, but I still find myself somewhat routinely visiting Snopes.com to dispel some myth or absurdity that my mother received and thereafter forwarded to everyone in her address book. Yes, that's right, I said my mother. And in case you are wondering, no, she does not read my blog. At least, not that I know of. Um, hi Mom?

I bring up my mother and her forwards not because I want to talk about the ridiculous message she forwarded implying that my choice for our next president attempted to assume the highest office in our land with only 143 days of experience under his belt, nor to ponder the egregious pandering to the right wing in the absurd "let's blame Obama for botched late-term abortions" YouTube video she sent recently. No, the e-mail I'm referring to was decidedly less controversial but no less questionable. It was a message titled "The most dangerous chocolate cake in the world," and it claimed that one could, in fact, bake a legitimately tasty single-serving cake in the microwave in three minutes flat from ingredients I might actually have in my kitchen right now.

People, I was skeptical. I thought this would be a fun experiment, my own Snopes.com-esque research task. I expected to report back on the disastrous results and confidently steer you away from absurd three-minute e-mail cake. But you know what? It was delicious. Granted, I have had three glasses of wine tonight, for no better reason than it sounded like a tasty accompaniment to my dinner salad, and perhaps my currently a wee bit tipsy state might make any chocolate cake taste divine, but I'm pretty sure that's not fully the case. One can make chocolate cake in three minutes by stirring up a few tablespoons of ingredients in a coffee cup. Who knew?

Speaking of food (nice segue, Stef), you know how some of us occasionally introduce some new link by saying, "A friend of mine just started a blog, and you should check it out"? Yeah, I haven't done a whole lot of that here, mainly because none of my real-life friends have blogs, and now that one of them does, I feel compelled to tell you about it, even though it is a blog with a decidedly specific niche, and it's a niche that I can only imagine isn't necessarily useful or compelling to those of you outside the greater Twin Cities metropolitan area. (By my unscientific calculation, I'd say that's, oh, roughly 95% of you. Oh well.) In any case, my friend Carrie (she of the highbrow guilty pleasures and my partner in crime for infiltrating the RNC) is exercising her writing muscles by reporting on her dining experiences around the city, and if that sounds interesting to you (and why wouldn't it?), you should check it out. (Um, hi, Carrie. Should I have waited until you had more than three posts up before I linked to you? Perhaps. I guess this just means you have to go out to dinner with me to gather up some more new material. Deal?)

Next? Let's see. What old business did I have to attend to? Well, there is the fact that I had dinner with -R- last night, and although I did not bring a camera to document it, I can confidently assure the Internet that our pal -R- is, in fact, pregnant, and not merely telling "pregnancy card" stories just for fun. Mind you, the pregnancy card is not necessary. -R- was just as cheery and delightful as usual (well, cheery and delightful with the twinge of deviance and subdued rage that I so appreciate in her), and she looked just as adorable as you'd expect an eight-months-pregnant -R- to be. (Again, I can provide no photographic evidence, but you'll just have to take my word on this.)

Oh. Also, I neglected to comment back to comments on that last post, so to sum up and fill you in, 1. No, I have not gone on my second date with the yet-to-be-Internet-aliased prospect yet, but I will keep you updated once I do; 2. Sauntering Soul, yes, your next house should have a garage, but you should make sure it has no-maintenance siding; and 3. the Little House musical was good but not phenomenal; had the series and books not held a fond place in my heart, I can't say Melissa Gilbert's performance would have moved me much nor that more than two of the songs in the score would be anything more than forgettable. As Little House does hold a fond place in my heart, however, I fully enjoyed the experience anyway. Do with that conflicting review what you will.

Hmm. I also had a Facebook story I was going to share with you, but first of all it is past my bed time yet again and secondly I fear mentioning Facebook in three out of five consecutive posts is overstating its importance in an unsettling way. So we'll table that one for later, shall we? I promise you, however, it is absurd, and it proves I am not the only one among my blood relatives for whom a sitcom titled [insert name here]'s awkward life could be in the works. Really.

Mission accomplished (if our mission was "drink and heckle")

Well, we did it. Last night, two friends and I ventured past the first tier of security guards and made our way within steps of the Xcel. And as much as I would love to tell you all about it with the level of detail and amusement you deserve, I stayed out entirely too late infiltrating the Republicans and hence, a list of highlights is all you're gonna get before my tired head falls flat against my keyboard with an unmomentous thud.

So then. The highlights, as I recall them, in traditionally lazy list form, but this time with NUMBERS instead of bullets, in an effort to prove that this isn't just like Tuesday's post; I'm totally shaking things up here.

1. Absurd things I cannot believe I saw while pacing the stretch of street just outside the security fence:
   
   a. A 20-something man wearing a button that said, "I'm Pro-Hot VP." (I have typed three different sentences trying to sum up my reaction to this, but I've deleted all of them and instead just have to shake my head and say "No comment.")
   
   b. An international antiques shop window filled at all angles with rows of elephants.
   
   c. The divey bar where I once saw a college kid vomit on the floor five feet away from me, temporarily(?) converted into a much flashier establishment labeled in superfluous neon as "The CNN Grill."
   
   
2. Me, at the Liffey, shortly before Palin's speech: "Let's turn it into a drinking game!" Unfortunately, none of us knew enough about her to predict any repetitive phrases or talking points. "Do you think she'll say 'terrorists' a lot? What about 'hockey mom'? Oh! Moose! Do you think she'll mention moose more than once??"
   
   
3. Me, once our new friend (who is visiting the Twin Cities from San Francisco) began openly and loudly heckling the TV screen: "Are we going to get kicked out??" Answer: No. However at one point, someone not amused by his comments shouted back in our direction, "She can't hear you, you know!" To which our new friend immediately quipped, "Yeah, but YOU GUYS can!" It may have been my favorite moment of the night.
   
   
4. Except wait. Maybe my favorite point was when the attractive guy Carrie and I had both been eyeing made his way over to our table and let us know that despite the fact that he was in a suit, he was not ONE OF THEM. "I'm here to infiltrate!" he said. "That's what WE'RE doing!" I replied.
   
   
5. Also of note: the very drunk, late-middle aged east coast delegate with seven houses (he assured me he had counted them) who slurred to me that if I want to live a happy life, I should never get married and--oh yeah--also that the reason I'm not a fan of Sarah Palin must be that I'm gay. Gay. Because that makes sense. Stellar reasoning from the drunk Republican. Maybe that's why he was only an alternate delegate. Incidentally, I tried to take a picture of this charming man, but he ran from my camera as though he thought I was going to post his picture on the Internet. Which, you know, I would never do. Not me. No how. Nope.
   
   
   
   I had no idea the quickest way to make an unwanted Republican go away was to threaten to photograph him. My friend Carrie suggested that perhaps he's a vampire. A Republican vampire. And cameras are to Republican vampires what garlic and crosses are to regular ones. (It's a theory.)
   
   
6. Oh, and I was also told three times in the same evening that I "kinda look like [Palin]." You know, because just like Asians and black men, all brown-haired women with glasses look alike. Or so it would seem.
   

And with that, I believe I am officially DONE talking about the visiting blowhards and we can get back to our regularly scheduled frivolity about bad dates and misadventures and the absurd ways I routinely injure myself. 3Carnations? Are you still here? I promise it's safe to come out now (for a while, anyway).

More rambling about what my house looks like, plus a fun experiment to try at your next party

In case any of you are curious what I did about my very important whisk(e)y dilemma, I took the advice of the Internets (as per usual) and bought a bottle of Maker's Mark. And I would like to say that move made all the difference and my Manhattans and Old Fashioneds were suddenly tasty enough to make me the kind of classy, refined girl who says, "Barkeep, I'll have a Manhattan, please," but in reality, between the Sidecar and the Tom Collins and the White Russian and whatever I poured myself afterwards that put me entirely and unexpectedly over the edge, I never did try a Manhattan at my basement christening event. About 1/4 of the bottle was gone, however, so someone must have sampled the Maker's Mark. When I can look at alcohol again without having flashbacks to my entire day spent horizontal on my couch, perhaps I'll give the Maker's Mark a try.

That said, I think with that little party, my basement rec room has successfully been reclaimed. The bar was fully stocked and surrounded by friends for presumably the first time since the Ford administration, and after spending so many hours getting the space into party-presentable form, I hope it's safe to say it was only the first of many gathering in the newly refurbished rumpus room. 'Twould be a damn shame to do all that work just to gaze at it on my way to do my laundry. Toga party next fall, perhaps?

Incidentally, since I've not yet posted a recent "After" picture, perhaps I should do so now. Again, this is what my basement looked like before I decided it was time to use that space for something other than storage of old lopsided Christmas trees, moving boxes, and furniture and workout equipment the previous owners left behind...





And here's what it looks like now.





Unfortunately, while the mess in my basement is gone, the duct tape in my shower is not. No, the shower is still more ghetto-tastic than it's ever been, but my concern about party guests snooping behind the curtain and being horrified by the sight turned out to be an interesting social experiment. I decided to address the dilemma with a note after all, but I thought that as long as I was doing so, I might as well have a little fun with it.







As it turns out, it was a good move, as I am $22 richer as a result.



$22! I still can't believe someone gave me a twenty. I am trying to decide if one of my friends with more expendable income than I decided to take pity on my obviously sad, slum-living self, or if one of my friends was so fuzzy-eyed from the Manhattans that he or she thought she was giving me a five and dropped in a twenty instead. My guess is that if the anonymous benefactor was focused and lucid enough to snoop behind my shower and find and read the note, he or she was with-it enough to read the number on a bill, but I'll admit I feel a bit strange about keeping that generous donation anyway.

In absolutely unrelated news, my date last week was a bit of a bust. He was perfectly nice, but it felt a bit like having drinks with a work-related acquaintance: we had polite conversation, but the wall of formality never fell down, and while we had plenty of on-the-surface things in common, I realized when we parted ways that I did not care if I ever saw the man again. I already have friends to go to concerts with and friends to swap book recommendations between. A mutual appreciation for The Current is lovely, but it's not enough to build a relationship upon.

Speaking of dating, I'm amused by a recent crop of singles-related spam to arrive in my Junk Mail folder with the subject line "Professional Singles." Not "Single Professionals," mind you, but "Professional Singles." I don't know that I actually consider myself a Professional Single just yet. I mean, sure, I'm pretty good at this being single thing. I get search engine hits every week from people looking for reasons to enjoy being single, so apparently I'm an Internet authority of sorts on the topic. But Professional? I'm not so sure I want that title. I was sort of planning on maintaining my amateur status so I can date in the Olympics.

In my car on the way to my date the other night, I momentarily forgot the name of the guy I was meeting there. For a full thirty seconds, I blanked on it. Jeff? Joe? John? I knew it was a common "J" name, but for more than a moment, I forgot just which name. Is this a rookie mistake that confirms I'm an amateur, or does the casual way I stepped out the door without even stopping to think much about where I was going just confirm I've been doing this too damn long?

Not even Whiskeymarie uses the word "whiskey" this many times in a single post.

I had a Friday Five in mind for today, but if you'll forgive me, I have more pressing matters on my mind. Namely, whisky (or whiskey). I do not drink whisky (or whiskey). I do not buy whisky (or whiskey). So when I needed to acquire whisky (or whiskey) for my retro cocktail party, I stood staring at the row of whiskys and whiskeys in the liquor store near my house and ended up choosing Dewar's, solely because I remembered it's what Meg Ryan drank in Prelude to a Kiss, and I figured if it was good enough for Meg Ryan circa 1992, it was good enough for me.

Yesterday I found myself chatting with a coworker about this retro cocktail party scheme of mine, explaining my dilemma with the whisky/ey and relaying the very sophisticated and sound decision-making method behind my purchase.

His reply? "But Dewar's is Scotch, isn't it?" And I replied, all smug and confident, "No, it said 'blended whisky,' and that's what I need: blended whisky." He shrugged, trying to be agreeable even though he was clearly suspicious and knew I was wrong.

I just looked at that label again. It does indeed say "blended whisky," but in between those words is one other word: Scotch. Blended Scotch Whisky. Dammit.

You'd think I just started drinking (or hell, reading) yesterday. What is wrong with me? But moreover, is that what was wrong with my drinks? Is that why the prototype Manhattan I made the other night tasted like battery acid? Or is a Manhattan supposed to taste like battery acid, no matter what type of whisky is involved? People, I need help on this. Do I have to go out and buy more liquor, or is shopping for whisky like shopping for so many other things, and the multiple choices for seemingly identical products are just meant to overwhelm and incapacitate us and really it's all a big conspiracy to deaden our senses so that the government can keep us from rising up?

Ahem. I may be getting away from the point. Back to it. Can I make retro drinks with Scotch whisky, or will I be mocked mercilessly by my guests if I don't remedy this? As usual, I'm sure the Internet has the answer for me.

On an unrelated note, I just whacked my skull full force into my kitchen cabinet while cleaning. First the bathroom incident and now this. Clearly I should have been born with some sort of warning label. Ouch. There is no hope for me.

If there's carrot cake and stroganoff in hell, it can't be all bad, I guess.

Well, crap. Is it Sunday night already? How on earth did that happen? I think we're all in agreement that time speeds up as we get older, so I suppose the weekends flying by in a blip should be no great surprise, but it annoys me anyway. I dream of a world with inverse weekends--two days of work followed by five days to spend as I see fit. Unfortunately, I have a friend who's living that dream right now, and it seems monetarily that plan is lacking just a bit. So it's off to work again tomorrow for me. Those of you with a four-day weekend due to that whole Easter thing? You can kindly bite me, OK? Thank you.

That said, I do have only a three-day work week in front of me, and for that, I rejoice with glee. Yes, Internets, I haven't yet shared this publicly, but I'm heading out of town again this weekend, bound for the east coast this time. I'm taking care of #4 on my list of New Year's resolutions and finally meeting my Internet BFF, Lara, in real life. And I'm managing a few other blogger meet-ups in the process. Full details later (with pictures, I'm sure). And it's good that that resolution is finally panning out, because the rest of them? Not so much, it seems. I'm actually doing pretty well on the vitamin one (and the calcium supplement, too). It seems marking myself accountable on my kitchen calendar was the key I needed to make that one stick. And the "get fucking organized" goal? I'm working on it. One problem area's been taken care of, and a remedy for the mess in the basement is in progress. Really. Unfortunately, the closest I've come to fixing the budget crisis was finally paying off my credit card with a disappointingly large portion of my tax refund today, and as for the getting to bed at a reasonable hour on week nights one? Well, it's currently 11:25 on a Sunday night and I'm still on my computer, so I guess you be the judge of my success on that one.

All of that said, I hope everyone had a lovely Easter, if you celebrate it, and a fine, old-timey, no-stores-open-today Sunday if you don't. My friends and I had a tasty brunch this morning at a restaurant we really should visit more often, if for no other reason than the free brunch on a return visit that we earned by our purchase today and for their eight-glasses-for-$25 wine club, which is a club I really ought to join, I think (despite my fear-of-commitment aversion to organized memberships of any sort). Next time, however, we need to shoot for later in the day. I bragged that skipping church makes for an easier reservation, but the diners who arrived after church got the better brunch, I fear. As we divvied up our bill, we glanced at the dessert table and saw a cheesecake being brought out that wasn't there before. I mean, sure, my peanut butter bar, mini cream puff, and carrot cake were tasty, but cheesecake? The ultimate in desserts? I feel cheated. We saw that, and I said, "I bet if we wait long enough, they'll bring mashed potatoes out, too." And for some reason, just before we paid, I said it again, such is my love of mashed potatoes (even in a big silver bin on a buffet). And wouldn't you know it? With our coats on, heading out the door, a man in a white apron brushed right passed us, giant tray of mashed potatoes in his sweaty little hands. Seriously: the Christians got a better brunch for their $12. Our risen savior rewards his followers with cheesecake and mashed potatoes. The lazy heathens get carrot cake and stroganoff (which, granted, was still not a bad deal, mind you, but obviously my love of mashed potatoes is strong).

All right. I thought I had more inconsequential nonsense to ramble on about, but this late Sunday night is quickly growing even later, and dead tired on a Monday is my least favorite (even if seemingly unavoidable) way to start the week. So perhaps later I will bore you with my questions about just why the slow and disturbing No Country for Old Men was such a shoe-in
for Best Damn Picture of the Whole Damn Year, or why mixing up a glass or two of Instant Ghetto Sangria is both a good and a terrible idea on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, how was your weekend? Good? Good. Do tell.

I am so smart. S-M-R-T.

People! I fucking WON the first-ever Minneapolis Drunken Spelling Bee. Can you even believe it?? I still pretty much can't. More details later, when it's not 3:10 in the morning and when the alcohol level in my bloodstream isn't such that I'm bound to mistype some very simple word and effectively negate my victory.

Seriously though. I WON. Did you honestly see that coming?? I sure didn't. Wow.


P.S. My defeat in the 1986 Sheboygan County Regional Spelling Bee is officially redeemed. Thank you, and good night.

Democrats and garlic and tequila (oh my)

So remember when I used to post a list of five things every single Friday, and those five things actually had some sort of unifying theme to them? Yeah, I remember that, too. This is not one of those unified sort of lists, by the way. Randomness is the only theme today.

1. With Edwards out of the race, it occurs to me that the dumbest man I have ever wasted two hours of my life with was actually right: the next president is going to be a woman or a black man! (Or, I sure hope is it, anyway.) I wonder if Mr. Nonfiction-Means-Not-True finally knows that particular black man's name by now. I sure hope so.
   
   
2. On a related note, can I just say how very happy I am to have nerdy and civic-minded friends who actually think watching the Democratic presidential candidate debate is a valid excuse for a get-together? I am tired and groggy and nursing a food and wine hangover today (Helpful tip: garlic in the pasta, garlic in the hummus, and garlic in the guacamole is a little too much garlic for one night, unless you really still want to taste garlic in your throat 14 hours and two teeth brushings later), but for once, the grogginess and hangover isn't due to staying out well past my bedtime at a noisy concert or crowded bar. No, it's from hanging out in my living room, striving to be an informed participant in the political process. Oh, and also from hours of post-debate chatting about books and gyms and boys (OK, mostly boys). But still! Nerdy friends! I love you guys.
   
   
3. Speaking of nerdery (Hey! Maybe there is a theme to this list after all!), I am very much looking forward to the Drunken Spelling Bee tomorrow night. I don't know that I'll actually be playing, as pre-registration was already full when I tried to sign up, but I'm preparing for the possible spell-off anyway. Also, nervous about what "dirty words" they might ask me to spell, I actually found myself looking up a few words that I haven't tried to locate in a dictionary since I was twelve years old. That four-syllable word that starts with "c" and ends with "gus"? I know how to spell it. I wasn't positive before, but I'm sure of it now. And the related one that starts with "f" and ends with "tio"? Yep; I've got that one covered, too. Because I'm extra awesome and professional, I even looked them up at work. And now I feel all dirty and wrong. (Hi, company IT manager! Have fun perusing my web use logs this week!)
   
   
4. Just as I was starting to remember to check my blood pressure (like my new geriatric doctor recommended) every time I go to Target, it appears Target has decided not to provide free blood pressure screening machines any longer. This means I may have to visit the potentially hot and helpful firefighters for this service after all. I'll keep you posted if I do so, of course.
   
   
5. And finally, although I may have slightly high blood pressure, my muscles are obviously still super-strong and healthy... Seeing as it has been colder than any other place on earth here lately (or so said a woman at my gym, who swears she heard it on the news), and seeing as I had some leftover limes in my kitchen that I felt the need to use, I decided a random sub-zero Wednesday was as good a night as any to pretend I was someplace tropical and mix up a margarita in my kitchen. On my first squeeze of the lime with my handy citrus squeezer, however, the handle snapped right off the cup and pinched my poor unprepared palm. Mind you, this was a metal handle fused with a metal cup. Clearly I don't know my own strength. (Shoddy workmanship could not possibly be a factor here.)

(Note: Right here is where I was going to insert a picture of the poor useless bits of broken metal as evidence of my alarming hand strength, but alas, I neglected to pull them off my camera and upload them to the Web. You'll just have to take my word for it on this.)

By the way, should you want to have a tropical margarita night yourself sometime (with or without the help of a metal citrus smasher), I have an excellent recipe for you. It is tasty and strong and sure to obliterate your unsuspecting friends, but if you're willing to take that risk, here's what you'll need:

• Lime juice (fresh-squeezed is best)


• Triple sec


• Tequila


• Margarita salt for the rim

Ratio those liquids thusly: one part lime juice, two parts triple sec, and three parts tequila. (Yes, three parts tequila. Do it!) Shake it all up in a cocktail shaker and pour in a salt-rimmed glass filled with ice. Enjoy while thinking of warm sand beaches, and don't drive anywhere for a good long while. (Safety first, safety always, my friends.)

'Tis the season

Tonight is the night I swore I was absolutely, positively, definitely going to write my Christmas cards (as opposed to the last two nights, when I was probably or certainly going to write my Christmas cards). I really need to write those damn Christmas cards. So of course, I am writing a blog entry instead.

It's not even the cards themselves I am so unmotivated to do. Scrawl a "happy holidays" message, sign my name, stamp and address it? Not a problem. I could casually get that done while simultaneously enjoying the second season of Weeds on DVD. It's the damn letter that needs to accompany several of those cards that's the problem.

Yes, I am writing a Christmas card letter. Yes, I realize that might be an unforgivably self-absorbed and lazy thing for a single person with no children or even pets to do. I do not care. I am all about granting Singletons the same rights enjoyed by Marrieds, and it starts with the Christmas letter, I say. As a matter of fact, I made that same very bold declaration in the Christmas letter I sent out last year. I know this because I just opened up last year's letter on my computer in the hopes that it might spark some ideas for this year's letter, and I saw it right there in the first paragraph.

As it turns out, I could probably recycle the same damn letter, as not a lot in my life has changed in the past year. Replace Jamaica and New York with Austin, Columbus, and Seattle in the paragraph about my travels for the year; up the ridiculous number of years I have been with the same company by one more digit... that about covers it, I guess. Still single. Still in Minneapolis. Still sending my Christmas cards mere days before the holiday with not a single present wrapped yet. Do you think anybody would actually notice if I simply sent the same letter again this year? I'd best not dwell on that idea too long. It's entirely too tempting, I think.

On the up side, I do believe I have all of my Christmas shopping done, and thanks to a desperate email to Amazon customer service, I may even actually receive all of my purchases on time. (I've often heard that sometimes it helps to complain, but rarely has it actually panned out for me. This time it did. Yay!) Of course, I do not have any of said purchases wrapped yet, but surely that will take just a moment or three, right? (File "wrapping Christmas gifts" under that list of things I always remember as being far less time consuming than it actually is. Whoops.)

Also on my list for this week was to find some holiday flair to wear to my friend Lisa's party on Friday night. It turns out my local Goodwill had a "Tacky Sweater Event" two weekends ago, so their inventory was decidedly lacking in festive Christmas apparel when I stopped in tonight. Consequently, I did not find the appliquéd vest and the turtleneck printed with tiny candy canes or gingerbread men that I'd so hoped to find there. I was more than a bit disappointed, but I think I've assembled some pieces that will give me a sure-fire shot at the prize anyway. The items I purchased were not overtly Christmasy on their own, but the cashier who rung them up actually raised her eyebrows when she saw them together on the counter and said, "Well, you're just going to be the happiest elf at the party, aren't you?" Indeed, I am, miss. Thanks for noticing.

In other good news, I survived my company's holiday party Saturday, thanks at least in part to the male friend who was kind enough to accompany me even though I am no longer dating him. (Hey! The invitation said "Stefanie and Guest"; it did not say "Stefanie and Boyfriend, if You Have One." Everybody likes a free meal and free drinks, right?) It was a mostly uneventful event; for all my sublimated worrying about it, I barely even made eye contact with my ex-boyfriend coworker and his new wife. And while I did get a bit unexpectedly drunk and subsequently found myself nursing a nearly two-day hangover, at least I had the good sense to do most of my drinking after the party, with some friends at a bar in an entirely different city, rather than with my coworkers. When I walked into work Monday morning, I felt that hazy cloud of shamefulness shadowing my thoughts, but thankfully no one in that building is any the wiser about it. Whew.

And with that, I really, really must get to that Christmas letter. Tell me, what holiday-related chores are you procrastinating on as you're reading this?

Is this why people thought prohibition was a good idea?

Remember a couple months ago when I talked about having an absinthe party? (What do you mean, "No"? You expect me to believe you have better things to do than retain everything I ever say? Impossible.) Anyway, my friend Carrie and I co-hosted that event last night, and though I spent most of today feeling as sodden and benumbed as the tortured artists who made the Green Fairy legendary in its day, I would venture to say that the party was a success and a good time was had by nearly all.

I am feeling rather foggy headed, not so much from absinthe specifically but from absinthe and vodka and champagne and wine, not to mention a 6:00 a.m. bedtime. People, I am too old for this. I know this, and yet I continue to pretend I can party like a rock star. Or, in the case of an absinthe-centered event, party like Hemingway. And when it comes to indulging in absinthe, Hemingway was just a damn fool. I mean, the man mixed his absinthe with champagne. I am no expert on the substance, but I can say that of all the concoctions I sampled last night, that one was, hands-down, the most vile.

I was going to proceed with a list of other absinthe-related lessons I learned, but frankly, I am too damn tired at the moment for even a bullet-point post of laziness. So how about a photo essay instead? Work for you? Oh good. Here we go.

Me pouring my first absinthe of the night


Michael demonstrating the ritual as well


Carrie demonstrating for another absinthe apprentice


Look! Even -R- came. If only I could drink with all my blog friends... Incidentally, -H- still thinks we look like sisters. I don't see it; do you?


Carrie and the Green Fairy (I suppose they were my TWO co-hosts for the night)



Full set is on Flickr if you're interested. And now I'm off to bed.

Or-e-GAH-no? What the hell?

First off, I should warn you that I have been scrawling many assorted thoughts on Post-it notes for the past several days and have not elaborated in text on any of them. I have several ideas of equally inconsequential things to ramble on about, and I can't predict where this post will go and which ones I will share, nor can I promise your life will be changed for the better by knowing about any of them.

Secondly, I should tell you that I have had wine. An inordinate amount of wine for a Monday night, actually. But I consumed this wine in a classroom-type setting (well, banquet room of an area restaurant/bar/bowling alley setting, anyway), with pen and photocopied handout in hand, all in the name of culture and learning! And that makes it entirely OK, does it not? Plus, red wine wards off scurvy. Or so I keep telling myself, anyway. Our instructor in tonight's Introduction to Wine class sponsored by Surdyk's didn't actually say that was a valid reason to consume wine, but I'm going to keep believing it anyway.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly (and definitely most timely), I have to say that The Naughty Monkey rocks like the proverbial hurricane (if in fact, the Scorpions can be considered penners of any actual and recognized proverbs). I didn't really know what to expect when I responded "Prize me!" to her "Pay it Forward" post last week. Monkey promised a prize that would not suck, but I didn't know exactly just what that might mean. Well, in my case, what it meant was a box with the ever-exciting word "Sephora" on it waiting for me on my doorstep when I got home tonight.

I'm not necessarily an enthused member of the Sephora camp. Other people may have sold me on its intrigue, but for me, a trip to Sephora means a trip to a place I would rather poke myself in the eyeball than visit regularly, so I'm actually more of an Ulta and Target girl, I guess. Easy in, easy out. That's what it's all about. (Yes, -R-, I am still going with you to that awful place for Crazy Aunt Purl's reading later this week. Yes, the rest of you, I do realize I should stop linking like mad and move along already by now.)

Anyway, Monkey knows me better than I thought she did, because (A. she went to the magical wonderland of Sephora for me (well, "virtually," anyway), and (B. she sent me four (four!) brand-new lip balms! Apparently she read somewhere that I'm a bit of an addict. Not only did she send me lip balm, however, but she actually sent me two lip balms that I've been meaning to buy anyway. Several months ago, my pal Metalia emailed me with the express purpose of telling me about this lip balm that she insisted I simply must try, and were it not for the arduous journey in getting to my aforementioned evil closest Sephora, I'm sure I would have purchased it long ago. (Thank you, Monkey, most sincerely, for saving me the trouble.) Also, she sent me the Buzz Latte stick that the Bare Escentuals cult masters have prompted me pick up (and then put back reluctantly because hello, do I really need to spend eight dollars on yet another lip product??) at least four times in the past several months. How did Monkey know that I wanted that? I don't know, but I'm simultaneously thrilled and a little creeped out that she did. And finally, she sent me two other lip balms that I know nothing about but I'm sure are delightful anyway: Sephora's lip butter in Bananas Foster and Coconut Nectar. Yay!

In return for these lovely gifts, I need to pay it forward in some way. I don't think it needs to have anything to do with Sephora (or with Kevin Spacey or Haley Joel Osment, either), but I need to do something nice for someone in my life. I'm not sure that letting someone cut in front of me in the parking ramp last week counts, nor does spontaneously reattaching the wayward-hanging for-sale sign that I saw flapping in the wind outside a condo on my walk the other day, so I'll have to think on this and get back to you, I guess. Need a favor? Let me know. Asking me for it betrays the point, perhaps, but I thought I'd put it out there anyway.

This is not the first time I've gotten presents in the mail from a near-stranger from the Internet, and it still sort of blows my mind a little bit. I started a blog to get myself to write non-technically more often. I had no idea new friends and impromptu gifts might come along with the territory as well. And yet, I've gotten all sorts of unexpected benefits from living part of my life online in this weird yet warm little realm.

What I'm trying to segue over to (slowly and unsuccessfully, I might add... wine, remember? Blame it all on the wine, I say!) is recipes. Like I said, I started a blog to get myself to write; I didn't expect to get myself to cook. My culinary ineptitude is well known and well documented, and I wasn't particularly looking to change it in any way. And yet, I post a little resolution, put out a little call for easy recipes, and suddenly I've got people emailing me easy dinner suggestions they think I should try. And since I hate for anyone to go through any trouble for no good reason, I feel compelled to try at least a few of them.

So I'm revising that New Year's resolution. Forget about that damn Pillsbury Fast and Healthy Cookbook. I've got the Blog-friends of Stefanie Domestification Project Cookbook to get through instead. My goal was five recipes out of the Pillsbury book this year... I think I've made at least five from the former impromptu cookbook in recent months. Let's count, shall we? I've made...

1. Metalia's Pesto Chicken Rollup
2. Metalia's Honey Mustard and French's Onion Rings coated chicken
3. Giada's Chicken Cacciatore (passed along from Nabbalicious and Darren)
4. Scalped Pumpkin and Spinach Casserole (lifted from Cooking Light by Noelle)
5. Penne-Wise Pumpkin Pasta (passed along by BeingMcCrary)

Look at that! That's five already! And all thumbs-ups, no less! And yet, most recently, I also made...

6. Poppy's vegetarian chili (with potatoes... because damn-near everything's better with potatoes, I say)
and
7. Paisley's contribution from the Five-Ingredient Cookbook--a simple yet unexpectedly tasty combination of avocado, tomato, pinto beans, cilantro, and Italian dressing in a tortilla. Seriously, so easy (aside from the chopping), but you must make this.

-----------------------------------
Note: Recipes for any of those to which I haven't provided a link above are in the comments to this post, where you'll find several other inevitably tasty recipes as well.
-----------------------------------

I still sort of can't believe I made chili. Yes, yes, I know people make chili all the time, but you can buy chili in stores and fast food restaurants. I don't generally spend the time making something that is easily available in ready-to-eat form. Spend four hours making dinner? An hour of chopping and mixing and then three hours of a stir-and-wait routine? I want to eat before 11:00 p.m., thank you, so this is not the norm for me. It was pretty tasty, though, and as it made far more chili than I could ever eat in a week, over half of it went directly to the freezer, so I can enjoy it on future cold winter nights.

As for Paisley's recipe, what struck me about that one is that it's simple enough that certain people I know would have instinctively just thrown it together with no instruction or guidance whatsoever. I'm always marveling at the salads my friends Carrie, Aaron, and Angela spontaneously concoct seemingly effortlessly. I'm determined to get an Iron Chef: Minneapolis competition organized to pit their skills against each other. They bring lovely and tasty things to gatherings, and I say, "But how did you know to put fig with cous cous and pine nuts??" They act like it's innate knowledge. I keep assuring them it is not.

Incidentally, in case you don't know just how far my culinary skills have come, perhaps I should remind you that it was only about five years ago that I finally bought salt and pepper to have in my home. Before that, I either felt no need for extra seasoning (most things that come from a box aren't intended to be doctored in any way, after all), or I'd just use a little Mrs. Dash. In order to make Poppy's chili the other night, though, I had to buy a couple things to add to my growing spice collection. And when I added the newly acquired chili powder and cumin to the spice shelf above my stove, I actually counted the bottles quickly and said, in the Marge Simpson voice inside my head, "Eight spices?! Some of them must be doubles."

Check it out:



In the interest of full disclosure, I actually have more than eight bottles of flavorings and such, but I'm not sure if salt, pepper, garlic salt, and the aforementioned Mrs. Dash count, and they're on the other side of the stove anyway. And I actually do have one double--an extra bottle of what Marge called Or-e-GAH-no that I must have purchased when I assumed I couldn't possibly have owned some already.

So I've come a long way, I guess, is all I'm trying to say. Well, I'm trying to say that, as well as thanks for the lip balm, as well as Hi, did I mention I went to a wine class tonight? I'd best sign off before I start telling you about my adventures in yard work this weekend. Maybe I should sign on for NaBloPoMo after all. Clearly profuse rambling isn't near as daunting as I sometimes think.

Quick question

Does the fact that I go through more wine than milk mean I'm drinking too much wine or too little milk?

If you'll excuse me, while you consider your answer, I'm just going to pop a calcium supplement or two, m'kay?

Five reasons I am so groggy-foggy-headed today

1. Gin and tonic
2. Mandarin and tonic
3. Margarita
4. Kamikaze
5. More Mandarin, more gin, more tonic

Apparently this week I have forgotten I am not a rock star (or at least, forgotten I am not a college student), and I have been staying up too late, eating too much bad-for-me food, and giving my liver the sort of workout it hasn't been subjected to in years. A night at the pizza farm, a wine tasting, and a birthday party that went into the wee hours have all kept me very busy of late.

Hope all of you are sucking as much fun as possible out of the last remnants of summer. I'll try to return to some sort of more regular posting schedule come September.

Happy long weekend, all.

Red red whine*

When I returned from the movie in Loring Park last night, the thermostat in my house read 88; the faulty breathalyzer read .05, and the clock read close to midnight. Anyone wanna take a guess at how I feel today?

On top of that, the movie was entirely uninteresting, and my handy camp seat was temporarily stolen by a cognitively challenged woman who had earlier been rooting around freely in her nostrils and absentmindedly playing with her spit. To make that last part even better, in my wine-fueled annoyance, I actually thought it was a logical idea to reason with the woman. She clearly had no inkling that she'd done anything wrong, and yet I apparently felt the need to look at her sternly and ask, "Why did you take that?" Considering the way my friends often like to distort this sort of thing for amusement in later retellings, I imagine that simple question will eventually be distilled down to "Stefanie yells at the mentally handicapped," much the same way an incident in a hotel hot tub years ago is now retold as "Stefanie swears in front of small children" and the way our friend Greg's simple complaint to a restaurant server has long been relayed as "Greg once beat up a Denny's waitress." Ah, good times.

Anyway, all circumstances and after-effects aside, it was still a fine summer evening in the city. There was good conversation with friends, a lovely cheese-heavy picnic spread, and wine (oh my yes, so much wine). Still, foggy-headed and crabby is no way to start the week. I may need to take another hobo nap on my lunch break.

-----------------------------
* A shout-out to my dear friend GG on that stolen title, of course. I'm at a loss for anything more appropriate right now.

All your base are belong to us

Something very frightening and unfortunate happened to a friend of mine a few weeks ago. On her way home from a club after a Thursday night out, she was pulled over on suspicion of DUI. I say "suspicion of" because she did not actually take a breathalyzer test that evening, so I have no idea how inebriated (if at all) she really was. I won't go into the details (because I'm not entirely clear on them myself and also because it's not my story to tell), but I will say that she ended up missing that party I hosted recently not because she flaked out, fell asleep, or got a better offer, but because while I was mixing mojitos with my new muddler, she was bonding with prostitutes and drunkards in a city jail. Good times.

Hearing that my friend, a respectable, responsible, home-owning, proper job-holding grown-up with her head screwed on mostly straight was suddenly draining her savings to cover bail money and lawyer fees and having to get up at 5:00 a.m. to catch the first of her three-leg bus journey to work instilled a bit of fear in me. And in light of that fear, I did what any sensible girl (read: huge nerd with an Internet connection) would do: I ordered a personal breathalyzer.

You didn't even know you could buy such a thing, did you? Well, you can. And you can spend anywhere from $20 to $120 (or more) on it. I opted for a lower-end model, and I am quickly coming to realize that perhaps, as with so many things in life, you get what you pay for. More on that in a minute. First, I want to clarify something. I feel a wave of backlash brewing, and I would like to stop for a moment to explain that I did not buy a personal breathalyzer because I routinely get myself all liquored up and then casually slide behind the wheel hoping for the best. I did it because frankly, I have no idea what .08 feels like. I suspect most of you don't, either. Clearly this would be useful information to have in mind. If nothing else, I figured it might make a fun party game. You know, in a bizarre frat house sort of way.

I've tried out my little white breathalyzer a few times now, and each time it has met with mixed results. So I thought tonight I might do a sort of hour-by-hour study to see just how well this new toy works. (I'm here to help, people. It's all in the name of science and public service.) I opened a bottle of Riesling as I made my dinner*, and I've been taking periodic swigs and readings ever since. At last check, I had about 3/4 of the bottle downed and was feeling a wee bit wobbly, and yet, this is what my ever-so-helpful Safe Mate(R) personal breathalyzer had to say.



.02! After 3+ glasses of wine! Either I am obese and a lush and my blood is impervious to the effects of alcohol or this little tool is a tiny piece of crap. I am well aware that my weight is running a bit heavier these days, but I'm still going to go with the latter.

Of course, there's always the possibility of operator error. The instructions weren't terribly thorough, after all. Sure, my hairdryer came with detailed and careful instructions documenting each step of use and care. But my personal breathalyzer? Never mind that it's not the sort of gadget most of us have used a thousand times; apparently "you'll figure it out" is good enough in this case.

The instructions aren't just unclear and incomplete, however. They're also poorly translated. This is the silver lining in a possibly pointless purchase, of course. I love an amusingly bad translation. Just check out the features of the Safe Mate Personal Alcohol Tester, as listed in my tiny and near-useless owner's manual...

• This unit is designed to detect the percentage of the alcohol in your breath, so you may know how much you are drunken!
  
  
• Although tiny in size, it has the feature of much larger (and more expensive) unit. You can also use the unit as a gas leakage tester.
  

Note that the manual doesn't tell me how to use the unit as a gas leakage tester. Nor does it explain the cryptic string of letters that often scroll across the screen when I try to get a reading. Apparently these aren't details worth mentioning. Hmm.

So. Twenty-four bucks and a bottle of wine later, and I still don't know just how "drunken" I am. Perhaps I should stroll down Central Avenue and seek out a police officer willing to help me with a comparison study? Somehow I doubt Minneapolis's finest would be amused by that proposition. Some other time, maybe.




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* Honey mustard chicken (recipe courtesy of Metalia) and parmesan mashed potatoes (like Nabbalicious made). Yum.

Yes, I am writing this on Thursday night, but let's call it my Friday Five anyway

One of the very cool benefits of living in a relatively large metropolitan area is the veritable plethora of activities I can partake in during any given evening. I can go to the theater. I can see an orchestra. I can go roller-skating. I can take tap-dancing lessons. I can learn to cook*. I can slide a stone with a handle on it down an alley of ice and call it a sport. Really, the opportunities are endless. I rarely take advantage of most of these, however. So when I got an e-mail from the Guthrie Theater announcing various adult classes on their schedule, I thought, "I should really do something like that sometime."

Hence, tonight I attended Mixology 101, a "hands-on exploration of the elements and techniques that help create the perfect cocktail." The description for this 90-minute class was as follows:

SPIRITS OF CUE!

Preparing the perfect cocktail requires not only the perfect spirits and ratios, but also the proper build technique and the finest quality ingredients. We'll show you how to dazzle your guests with innovative and flavorful cocktails, and teach you basics of the culinary art that is mixology.

The class will provide a brief overview of each of the world's spirits, including production methods, origin, and flavor profiles. We'll discuss how to heighten these basic flavor components into complex and explosively flavorful cocktails. Yes! You can drink your homework.

A hands-on exploration of the elements and techniques that help create the perfect cocktail.

Thursday, April 12, 7:30 p.m. - 9:00 p.m.

Instructor: [Name deleted because I decided I don't really want him Googling his way here]. General Manager of Cue at the Guthrie; Experience: General Manager and Sommelier for restaurants in Colorado and California (Monterey Peninsula) earning numerous "best of" awards; Education: Sommelier certification from the Court of Master Sommeliers and the International Wine Guild.

Well, I wouldn't say I got a particularly detailed education on the production methods, origin, and flavor profiles of various spirits, but I did indeed drink my homework (and I did take home a rather detailed multi-page handout containing plenty of information on said production methods, origins, and flavor profiles should I decide to learn more about these things at my leisure). I also had a fine time chatting with the diverse group of fellow students seated at adjacent barstools. Even if I hadn't learned much about liquor, I did at least learn that I can still converse relatively comfortably with strangers when forced (even strangers with "mom-hair," wearing corduroy appliquéd jackets and little wooden reindeer decorative pins), something I find myself generally rather averse to these days (even when I do have alcohol as a social lubricant).

So. I am not socially incompetent after all. That is one thing I learned tonight. Here are five other things I learned as well.

1. What bitters and simple syrup are! I have seen these ingredients in many a drink recipe before but never had any idea what either was. Bitters are made from the pith of an orange or other fruit and provide a bittersweet flavor to a drink (particularly useful in a before-dinner drink or apertif, to kick the salivary glands into action and make you hungrier for your meal). Simple syrup is, simply enough, one part sugar dissolved in one part water. Let it simmer for about five minutes to completely dissolve; store any leftovers in the fridge for up to a month.
   
   
2. The guy at the Guthrie whose job it is to be an expert about liquor buys the same vodka as I do for my own home. In other words, Absolut, Grey Goose, and the like have simply spent more money on marketing than the cheaper guys have. In our Sommelier's opinion, the $10 Smirnoff I have in my freezer is just fine. "Vodka is meant to be neutral, tasteless, and flavorless," he said. It's meant to enhance the flavors of the things with which it's mixed. "If you need a vodka you can drink straight," our expert said, "then ask yourself why you're drinking vodka at all."
   
   
3. If you want the worst hangover you can get, Scotch is the drink for you. It isn't distilled as many times as other liquors, which means it still has more of the impurities that make you sick. Also, 20-year Scotch apparently isn't any better than newer Scotch; it just costs more because the makers have to pay for storage space for 20 years and because 20% of it evaporates through the porous wood barrels it's aged in over time.
   
   
4. Grenadine is named for the French word for pomegranate. Hence, Grenadine should taste like pomegranate, not like cherry or like high-fructose corn syrup mixed with artificial fruit flavors and colorings. To make the best Grenadine you have ever tasted, mix four cups pure pomegranate juice with a half cup of sugar and the juice of half a lemon. Then use that for a blood orange Tequila Sunrise. I am telling you, that drink was damn tasty. This is good advice.
   
   
5. If there is a balding, middle-aged man in the house, he is going to ask me out. Actually, this I already knew, so I shouldn't include it in a list of things I learned. Still, I can't help feeling surprised that this particular balding, middle-aged man heard me tell the Sommelier, "I go on lots of bad dates," and he subsequently took that as an opportunity to slide me his card with the comment, "Well, if you ever want to go on another one..." Way to sell yourself, buddy. Way to set the bar entirely low.**
   

One more thing I learned at this class? You really can make a career out of a love of alcohol. I actually have a few friends in mind who I think would love our instructor's job. Let this be a lesson to all of you out there still searching for your path in life.



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* Ha. Obviously I am not partaking in this opportunity.

** I actually feel a little bad writing this, because in truth, Mr. Low-Bar seemed perfectly nice, and maybe I'll email him after all, because, hell, you never know. I go on plenty of dates, after all; really, what is the risk with one more?

Me + wine + complicated electronics. No good can come of this.

Translation? The box in which my much-mentioned birthday printer/scanner thingie came is now open. It has yet to leap out on its own, however, to connect and install itself. I can only assume this is because it is a refurbished model rather than a brand new one, since surely science and technology has advanced in this direction by now; has it not?

Incidentally, I have not told you this, Internets, but in the past month, I have gone on approximately eight dates with the same person. I know! Shocking, right? Unfortunately, when he asked what I was doing this weekend, I explained my plans for last night and then fabricated some imaginary plans for tonight.* In other words, I decided I would rather drink Cotes du Rhone alone in my yoga pants and gray hoodie and work on my instruction manual-reading skills than spend another evening with this man. That's not good, right? That's probably a clear-cut sign that I'm not feelin' it? I have problems, people. I just need to better pinpoint what they are.

[Note to any would-be helpful advice-givers out there: You really don't need to tell me what my problems are. Trust me; I have a rather lengthy list going on my own.]

OK, there is really no particular point to this post other than to procrastinate even longer on this likely very simple task--a task I should actually want to complete, as it benefits only me. Well, me and anyone just dying to see the much-hyped artist's rendering of my unfortunate blue satin discount prom dress from Deb. I will really have to find some excuse to visit my parents sometime before Thanksgiving. I highly doubt I can do justice to such things on my own.

Who was it who said staying in on Saturday night is the new Going Out? I'm so all over that, obviously.

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* In truth, I had some tentative maybe-plans for this evening, but rainy weather and my sporadically antisocial nature made me decide to skip out on those.