Why aren’t daters better networkers?
I mean, for chrissakes, we’re all fundamentally looking for 1) more ways to meet interesting and potentially interested people and 2) more interesting and potentially interested people to meet. Well who better to compare notes with than someone else who is out and about on the scene?
Folks on dating sites and their ilk are always so goal-focused. All “are YOU my girlfriend???” And then if not, cutting all contact and ties and diving after the next possibility. Pu-leeze.
Don’t get me started about the artificial sense of competition. If two people are eventually going to hit it off in a really big, awesome, lifelong way, having someone “hotter” or “smarter” or whateverer around is not such a substantial impediment. Let’s team up here, people.
What we should do is, see every potential “date” as also a potential “colleague” in the whole meeting people effort. It takes the pressure off any 2 people having some kind of first date or meeting up. We should just all network with each other to “refer business” to each other, both in terms of cool people and in terms of cool things single people are doing.
RIP Benazir Bhutto.
What else is there to say, really?
When life hands you lemons, ask for tequila and salt and call me over!!
Dreamy Cajun Shrimp
Have the engineer swing the barbeque davit outboard, hang the grill from it, and start a big bed of coals going with that nifty charcoal chimney. Oh right, nevermind, just use your little cast iron stovetop grill.
Peel the shrimp and set them in a small bowl, just larger than the number of shrimp. Hey cool, it’s shrimp for one, not for 40!
Mash or mince to a pulp about a clove of garlic for every 7-12 shrimp. Or so. Really, it’s on you how much you like garlic you like, and how much of the heat you want to come from garlic. Rub the garlic into the shrimp so they are well coated and let sit.
Look for these in your spice cabinet:
- chili powder
- hot pepper flakes (or cayenne powder, just something for heat)
- peppermill (black pepper)
Thyme’s really important. Since you don’t have it this one time, pinch hit with basil & oregano and regret that — WAIT — there’s a pot of it growing out back!
- pick lots of the tiny little thyme leaves as many as you have the patience to
Spread the shrimp out in the bowl to something like a single layer. Sprinkle with chili powder until all are coated. Add the thyme, maybe 1/4-1/2 as much thyme as you just used chili powder. Be lavish with the black pepper. Now add heat (pepperflakes or cayenne powder) judiciously. You have to learn your limits here. Start with maybe a pinch and work up into it.
Add the tiniest bit of olive oil and stir well to make the spices a paste. Shrimp should be pretty well coated but not totally encrusted with spice. Add more thyme & chili powder to increase coverage if needed.
Grill on a wicked hot grill until shrimp are opaque & curled tight. Flip. Ok to blacken a little. If you’re going all-out, make some extra marinade that is runnier and hasn’t been in contact with the shrimp. Brush this over them while grilling.
Serve with rice, tropical fruit, Red Stripe, corona, rum punch, a margarita… Whatever it takes to bring on the memories!
I Want a Divorce.
I do love you, very much. It’s hard telling you this, though I know you don’t even realize how hard I tried to avoid it. I just can’t wait for you anymore. I gave you 8 years. I hoped you’d grow, mature, and eventually come around. I believed you could learn to listen. But now I just need to get on with my life.
I always swore I’d never start something new until the old was over and resolved, but I’m afraid there’s someone else. Turned my head in PA last month. Love at first sight. At least, enough to help me get over you. You deserve to know that yesterday he agreed to be mine. Soon.
Don’t think I forget the good times. Finding out about you was magic — in a magazine on a plane. I knew right away. You were the only one I could possibly want. You weren’t even available, but I fell hard.
A few months later my beloved Zeegey truck started to gasp for his last breaths. He kicked out on the road by my house, and I knew it was time. I pretended to look around at the other cars, compared stats, prices, features. But don’t you get it? I never test drove anything else.
I never even test drove you.
I didn’t have to. I searched everywhere for you, my yellow Nissan XTerra, and then I waited until you were mine. Call me a prude, I just knew.
We’ve been through a lot. You proudly wore your LEMONS license plate. In that small town you always ratted me out if I slept somewhere other than home. There was no pretending. But I always laughed.
We’d get cheery waves from other yellow X’s. Flashing headlights, shared chuckles. I searched the Internet (in vain) for a Yellow XTerra club. (You could’ve met my needs just by doing that.)
That scare in 2002 was bad though. You stranded me. At a gas station in Ohio. The garage thought you needed a whole new fuel pump until they found the failed wiring harness days later. You were still so new, I couldn’t help but wonder. So I went online again. And yes, I wasn’t the only one. A lot of XTerras were dying like that.
It wasn’t me, it was you.
I stood up for myself. I told you about the others online who’d had the same problem. I insisted you get treatment. You had stranded me hundreds of miles from home in February, so I insisted they return you to me. As soon as I checked the web I knew there would be a recall. You tried to ignore me. (Did you even try searching the web to see if I was right? Think how much sooner you could have known!)
If only you were willing to listen to those who know and love you. You could even reach out and ask others how they’re feeling about you, and what they’re experiencing. The web offers you so many ways to do this. But, no.
But the reason for our divorce is that you just couldn’t face the reality of my needs. Gas is expensive. I want a hybrid. In fact, I want no car more in the world than a yellow XTerra hybrid. I mean, the other guys like you went hybrid years ago. But you see, I don’t love them. I love you. So I waited and waited. I even emailed about it and got boilerplate kissoffs.
It was so obvious. How could the car that was made for funky outdoorsy enthusiasts not come out in a hybrid? I mean c’mon, the Ford Escape? Have you seen what a bad kockoff of you that thing is? He frigging stole your exact yellow paint color. I always hated him for that.
It’s true I don’t haul sheep, grain and hay regularly anymore. Gas is expensive. I live near a city now. But if you’d only listened, I would have stayed with the new, hybrid you.
If you have to know, it’s the Honda Fit that caught my eye, as the roomiest & safest of the fuel efficient little cars. Its no hybrid but it gets twice your fuel economy while still managing carseats, hockey bags and gigantic hairy dogs. It breaks my heart I can’t get it in yellow, but I’ll learn to love it. I’ll learn to love orange. And no, I haven’t taken a test drive with him either. I’m at least that loyal.
But I’m not leaving you because of the Fit, I’m leaving you because of you. It’ll be hard to move on. I wish you’d learned to listen. I also (god, I’m pathetic) want you to know there’s help for you. It’s called social media and conversations with your customers. Please try it. I’d come back in a heartbeat, I really would.
The world needs a hybrid XTerra. And I need you.
O Girl, O Beautiful, O Photoshopped Covers?
Reflecting again on the whole Jezebel/Faith Hill/Redbook thing yesterday got me thinking about…
Oprah on the cover of every single issue of O Magazine. Always looking pretty fine. Always. (I’m jes sayin.)
And then, I couldn’t help but notice, and love, O Girl, O Beautiful. The Revolution. Yeah! BRING it. It IS time for:
girls around the globe to realize how beautiful they really are… inside and out!
Only, you know what? I changed my mind. I’m NOT jes sayin’, I’m ASKING. POINT BLANK. Oprah, show us your before & afters.
Because, you have this big thing going on about girls’ self-esteem and self-love, and making the world a better place for them. And now I REALLY just want to know. Could you/would you on the cover? Are those images, or are they photos? Have you routinely been photoshopped within inches of your life? AND if you have in the past, would you take a stand against this and stop?
UPDATE: Penelope Trunk recalls seeing an issue of O Magazine “where [Oprah] devoted an issue of her magazine to talking about her befores and afters and showing them, and showing the process she goes through to look like that on the cover. She specifically did it because she said she didn’t want people to thinks he actually looks that good in real life.”
There is a back issue of O Magazine where Oprah shows start-to finish what goes on to make the glamorous cover shots the public sees.
Anyone know which one and if it is online? We found these links at the O Magazine website, but they don’t give us much.
“Blowing Our Cover: Behind the Scenes of an O, Oprah Magazine Cover Shoot” ; “Behind the Cover”
In the meanwhile, we actually missed this somewhat related rant on Jezebel last week RE: Oprah in 1998 on Vogue cover
Frankly, I’m still concerned about the message it sends to women. Oprah has a tremendous opportunity here to change something in media for real and for the better… So why not?
Nasty rotting food Postscript
Wherein we learn to read our Twitter @s and realize we’ve neglected our esteemed readers. Sorry!
Shouts out to @FoulBastard for: “Ew, keep the foul rotting meat away from me. I’ve had enough back in the day.”
and to Jeff Nolan (!!! THE Jeff Nolan — of Venture Chronicles — reads LGYL? OMG. Reader braincrush. Thanks Jeff, you’re another of our heroes!)
definitely any fish that has been “preserved”. The Scandinavians have a particularly foul example called lutfisk.
Ew, good point, preserved fish that only TASTES rotten! And he adds…
corked wine, damn shame and makes me cry every time. Guess that’s neither food nor rotting, but I just had to get that off my chest.
We could not agree more, Jeff, and if you’re ever in Boston that’s an excellent, and not corked, bottle of wine on us!
Nasty rotting food Friday
So how can rotting potatoes be worse than, well, these things?
Potatoes are harmless. Fried, baked, boiled, mashed, sauteed, stewed, roasted. Plain white paper. Canvas. Backdrop. A little starchy for your girlish figure, but nightmare-inducing?
They shrivel and grow shoots. You’ve seen that.
But they can also melt. Turn soupy anaerobic decay brown. Go undead.
Happened again recently. Smelled too foul to describe or even properly remember. Digging them out I retched uncontrollably. Retched as in falling down on the floor, amazed I didn’t pee myself, full-on, retching. Abs sore the next day retching. Veins in my head popping out and things thudding in there, retching. Took a while to breathe normally again.
Kinda got me thinking, “I’ve seen a lot of things rot…”
Nasty rotting food Thursday
Tonight the gig’s up. You’ll know which is the foulest of eggs, tomatoes, carrots, ground turkey and potatoes.
I’ve really avoided sitting down to write this. But, it’s time for the ground turkey story.
We’d buy ground turkey in frozen 5 pound white plastic wrapped torpedoes. Thawed, the pink, pulpy mush wasn’t too bad in recipes. The tubes needed to thaw a few days in the refrigerator, but were otherwise pretty easy to use.
I should mention, the cook & engineer on a ship are bound to butt heads. Electricity, fresh water, refrigeration & cooking fuel are scarce. The engineer gets PO’d if, say, the cook blows the power system with a coffeepot, starts a grease fire, clogs the drain or stresses the delicate heating and cooling systems at her disposal. The cook’s never thrilled when stuff breaks, especially should the engineer not believe her. If the engineer was a fussy eater to boot, look out.
So this one engineer and I did. not. play. well. together. Irish guy, mid-40s. Nothing worked right that trip, and I blamed him. No meal was quite to his taste, and he pestered me for extras. Always at the moment I was exhausted and hiding behind the counter, having just birthed yet another sitting’s (there were 6 a day) worth of food. For 40. I managed to make crepes (for 40!) one time? He wanted lemon wedges and powdered sugar. Yeeeeah.
For all our mutual animosity, there was one night in St. George’s Bermuda, after a lot of Dark & Stormys, when he wanted to dance to a roaring Irish waltz. Nobody was up for the ‘old fashioned’ dance or the rapid pace. He conceded to ask me largely due to a new dress and cutoff cowboy boots. The band was great, and I wasn’t about to miss the chance. Laughter at the unlikely pairing snuffed out fast as we got going. I floated. I flew. I thrilled. We danced too fast and wild to remain upright, but somehow didn’t fall. I had no clue what I was doing and I didn’t have to. He danced for me. If waltzing always feels like that I’m a damn fool not to have dedicated my life to it.
Shortly after, the ground turkey exploded.
The refer had run warm for days. I thought the system was failing but couldn’t convince anyone. The engineer was in twice a day rolling his eyes and blaming the temps on overcrowding, warmth from leftovers, too much opening the lid and everything else but the basic problem that it was no longer cooling down.
Predictably, a tube of ground turkey set in there just to thaw quickly rotted, swelled, and popped its white plastic skin. I slid from surprise to horror to fury when I saw what had happened. The smell left little doubt what that gunk was. Greenish pink tufts of wet mush clung to everything. There was smelly pulp on every food item and surface inside the refer, even clogging the drain at the far end. I called in the engineer, demanded to know if he believed me now, and then threw everyone out of the galley.
No clue what we ate next or how. It felt like it took hours to unload, wipe down, sanitize and dispose of all the rotting meat. That the bulk of it could go overboard was a small blessing, but I was traumatized, mean, and thoroughly pissed.
It was pretty bad.
But, it was not THE nastiest rotting food experience I ever had…