Has anyone ever had a week where they feel like one or more incidents captured the depravity/ glory/ hilarity of the human condition? I had one of those weeks. It wasn’t bad necessarily, but it was definitely interesting. There are a few things you should know before we go forward
1. I vomit constantly. No idea why. If you say something mean about Britney Spears, I’m liable to hurl.
2. I faint often. I’m like those goats on Youtube. It makes people nervous and uncomfortable which is the only reason I haven’t sought medical attention for what I’m sure is a life threatening condition.
I should have added a subclause to #1 up there. If there is something, ANYTHING, floating in the air that will make a regular person vomit, it will absolutely, no questions asked, cause me to puke like a drunken sorority girl.
Early Tuesday morning, I woke up with a stomach flu. I do what any reasonable person would do in the case of alien-baby stomach cramps and ignore them. I may have even had a midmorning beer whilst cleaning the house. But I couldn’t escape. Come 1 pm, I sounded like myself after a magnum of Beringer at the Cheetah. I laid around and moaned for awhile, called my mom for pity, took unnecessary prescription drugs unrelated to my symptoms-- you know, typical sick person behavior. Then I got bored. I drove to Blockbuster to rent shit movies because shit movies are scientifically proven to cure the flu. (Seriously, I had dry sockets from smoking Camels after I got my wisdom teeth out and I took triple Percocets and watched Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion like 11 times and got well. True story.) I was selecting some hideous piece of Hollywood crap to cure me when ……………….. ***black***………………….
Yep. Fainted in the Blockbuster. Took some Romantic Comedies down with me too. There are a few pieces of information that I should share at this point. (Lots of lists in this entry. Sorry.)
1. I’m wearing a sundress.
2. I am NOT wearing a bra.
3. There is no reason that I should ever leave my house without a bra unless it is on fire. The house, not the bra. Not because my breasts are enormous and irresistible, but because they are practical joke big.
So I’m laying sort of ass-over-teacups on the floor of the Blockbuster holding a copy of The Women in my hands (the remake, not the original. It is a big, warm slice of fuck pie and I don’t have TV so I can’t gauge these things for myself. Shut up.) and the pale, anxious manager is standing in my right eye and a middle-aged Asian women is standing in my left. The Blockbuster employee is asking me rapid fire questions about my well being and the Asian lady is translating the questions into her native tongue for the concerned party on the other end of her cell phone. I’m really only worried that my panties are showing. After I do a cursory panty check, I start answering Blockbuster Employee’s questions. No, I did not hurt myself on any Blockbuster shelving or equipment. No, I did not hold Blockbuster or Blockbuster Inc. responsible for any of my injuries. Yes, I have a drinking problem. He then asks if I would like a Gatorade. No Thank You. I don’t care for any Gatorade. Are you sure??!! Yes. I’m certain. Thank you though.
Dude disappears. Also, the lady shouting into her cell phone has also left. Evidently, my not dying fucked up her afternoon.
When dude returns, he’s holding a large, cold bottle of what looks to me like Windex. He holds it out to me and I realize that despite my protest, he has fetched me a Gatorade. I guess Gatorade cures fainting in movie land. So as not to appear rude or ungrateful, I swallow a large mouthful of XTreme Razzleberry Fire Water and try to leave. He insists on CALLING A PARAMEDIC. I am standing in front of him, drinking a delicious beverage and CLEARLY do not need an ambulance. He explains that he is concerned that I am going to leave, further injure myself and SUE HIM. I explained that if I did pursue a lawsuit against him personally, everyone who had ever known me would come out of the woodwork to tell the lawyers “This one time she fainted and spilled mac and cheese all over herself, but then she ate it!! Hilarious!!” and that he was in no danger. Then I paused. Why? Why the fuck would I sue an hourly employee that works at 1pm on a Tuesday at Blockbuster? I explained that if anything, I would probably sue the corporate office and he would never feel any of it. His answer: “I would still feel more comfortable if you would allow me to call an ambulance.” Right. I said I was fine and took my shit movies out to my car where I looked over my receipt and noticed that my total was a titch higher than usual. Why? Because he charged me for my Gatorade. We’re going to give him this one.
The week progresses and I start to feel better. So much better in fact that I start to don appropriate undergarments when I leave the house. On Thursday night, I decide that I’m going to bebop my brassiered tush over to the Whole Foods to purchase some vegan cheese (yum) and while standing by the bakery my fanny is, as described by a friend a few seconds after the incident, “love punched” by a 40-some-odd-year old mentally handicapped gentleman. That is to say, I am shopping for preservative free oragnic wheat bread one second, and the next second, a grown man is knuckle rubbing my ass near the gelato. Before either of us know what to do, we both START at the sound of his name. His mother, **sidebar** who is bald and rich because she has an overflowing cart... at Whole Foods! Sister, I’m here to tell you: If you can afford $300 worth of almond milk, you can afford a wig. **end sidebar** SHOUTS HIS NAME AND GET AWAY FROM THAT YOUNG LADY AND NARROWED EYES AND I’M SO SORRY!! Is it legal to tell a bald woman that you were going to just let him have this one? Maybe not for more than a second, but come on! We have to humiliate the poor guy in front of a dozen people? No WE do not. What I really wanted to say was “Honey, you may have no hair, but this is NOT my first rodeo.” Really? We’re not going to give him this one?
You think I put on a bra because I DIDN’T want to get felt up by a retarded guy in the bakery?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
The fanged monkeys are just the beginning...
Forever and ever. Since before the beginning of me, all of the females in my family have learned, stored, and then retold “The Files.” The Files are semi-factually based records that have mutated in the mind of the re-teller to “The Most Absurd Shit You Have Ever Heard In Your Life.” The following are just a few examples:
1. Did you know that if you so much as swim near water where you can’t see your feet, there will be an alligator (Or crocodile. This detail is hazy) and that reptile will drag you under the water by your ankles and wait for you to drown? Then it will take you to its underground storage cellar (which is made of sticks and leaves. I asked) and it will “let your body rot and ripen to perfection before it rolls you and rolls you and then eats your perfectly rotten flesh.” SERIOUSLY.
2. Did you know that if you get anywhere near a pool drain with your anus or vagina, that pool drain will (intentionally) suck your intestines out through said anus or vagina and EVISCERATE YOU? Seriously. Show me a 6 year old that knows what it means to be eviscerated and I’ll show you myself. Or my brother. Or my sister.
3. Did you know that all exotic birds are flesh-eating monsters waiting for any opportunity to PECK YOUR EYES out? Also your vagina and anus. Just saying.
4. If you are a girl, any man- no matter who he is, no matter how long you have known him- is a bad dude. If you have a weapon. If you have a weapon and he is tied to a bed and you have given him gamma-hydroxybutyric acid and wine, AND he happens to be a homosexual, he is waiting for an opportunity to rape you. Seriously. You can’t be too careful.
5. If you are a man- any woman, no matter who she is, no matter how long you have known her- is a bad girl. If she has family money. If you work at a fucking Hardees and she is blowing you in the drive-thru whilst having you sign a pre-nup entitling you to half her stuff even if you DO cheat on her, she is waiting for an opportunity to rob you. Seriously. You can’t be too careful.
I could go on. But I won’t because I don’t think it’s fair that I show you my neuroses and not have anything to show for it. (Email me your dirty secrets and I’ll send a boatload more. Trust me. That is just the tip of the iceberg. ) I used to think it was a symptom of my crazy family. Anyone who sits back at this sentence and chuckles “Everyone’s family is crazy! Ho! Ho! Ho!” I dare you. Come to dinner. Do you have a weird mole? Do you end your sentences in prepositions? Do you read bestsellers? Does your accent indicate that you are from anywhere that is not Atlanta, Georgia? My husband thought my brother was from southern California for two years before he (my husband) found out that my brother thought that he (my husband) sounded like Keanu Reeves in "Point Break" and had been imitating him. For two years!! That’s almost 800 days of saying “I can’t describe how I’m feeling” to someone your sister is LITERALLY IN THE PROCESS OF MARRYING.
I always thought that it was just me—well, me and my sister and brother and all of our semi-orphaned friends, (my mother promised to love them forever as long as they helped keep us thin) but the longer I spend in a fully absorbed suburban state, I realize that everyone is batshit crazy. If you decorated your house like a Cracker Barrel lobby, I thought you were mentally impaired and had really poor taste. It turns out that you just got laid off at 28 and have been slowly going insane ever since. Maybe you never worked in the first place. Maybe you fully anticipated a life of glamour and privilege. Good for you! You’re the worst! You’re the craziest bitches in the world! You are the people that invented "dangerous vaccinations" and gluten allergies where there are none. (Your kids think you’re boring. That’s why they’re not responding. It’s not an allergy.) You are the people in my parents’ neighborhood who have invented a species of animal unique to the 5 acres of church-owned land behind their houses THAT WILL KILL AND MUTILATE AND EAT AND RAPE YOU ON SITE!!! Behold:
Yes. Yes I know. It looks like a cat. In fact, the email reads “Please share this with our R_______ neighbors!!! Well . . . now there's documentation. A__ took this picture this afternoon. The cat, which appears to me to be a full size bobcat, was in a tree near the pool parking lot. A____ took the picture from our deck. So, to appear this large, the cat had to be approximately the size of a mid-sized dog.”
Um…. I’m not trying to fight the theory that there is a rare flesh eating monster out there, but isn’t a “mid-sized dog” only slightly larger than your average cat? According to Wikipedia, “The Bobcat is able to go for long periods without food, but will eat heavily when prey is abundant. During lean periods, it will often prey on larger animals that it can kill and return to feed on later--” which clearly means that, not unlike its reptilian cohorts, “The Alligator/Crocodile,” it will wait for the perfect opportunity to kill you, AND it will wait for you to ripen to perfection before it eats you. And then it will rape you and take all of your money. Not to sound like a skeptic, (last week when my best friend didn’t answer the phone, I was certain that she was in the midst of being sexually assaulted by someone she knew and cared about, so I’m no better than “fake animal emailer”) but seriously. Get a job. Go volunteer.
Doctors Without Borders.
The Lost Boys of Sudan.
PETA
There is no bobcat. The real danger is outside your brain, your house, your neighborhood, your community. Go find it… and stop being full of shit. You’re starting to remind me of me.
This reminds me of the food my family cooked for me while permanently scarring me. It’s Italian food which makes no fucking sense at all, since we’re all Irish.
Vegan Stuffed Shells
Ingredients1 package jumbo stuffing shells (16 oz)
I could go on. But I won’t because I don’t think it’s fair that I show you my neuroses and not have anything to show for it. (Email me your dirty secrets and I’ll send a boatload more. Trust me. That is just the tip of the iceberg. ) I used to think it was a symptom of my crazy family. Anyone who sits back at this sentence and chuckles “Everyone’s family is crazy! Ho! Ho! Ho!” I dare you. Come to dinner. Do you have a weird mole? Do you end your sentences in prepositions? Do you read bestsellers? Does your accent indicate that you are from anywhere that is not Atlanta, Georgia? My husband thought my brother was from southern California for two years before he (my husband) found out that my brother thought that he (my husband) sounded like Keanu Reeves in "Point Break" and had been imitating him. For two years!! That’s almost 800 days of saying “I can’t describe how I’m feeling” to someone your sister is LITERALLY IN THE PROCESS OF MARRYING.
I always thought that it was just me—well, me and my sister and brother and all of our semi-orphaned friends, (my mother promised to love them forever as long as they helped keep us thin) but the longer I spend in a fully absorbed suburban state, I realize that everyone is batshit crazy. If you decorated your house like a Cracker Barrel lobby, I thought you were mentally impaired and had really poor taste. It turns out that you just got laid off at 28 and have been slowly going insane ever since. Maybe you never worked in the first place. Maybe you fully anticipated a life of glamour and privilege. Good for you! You’re the worst! You’re the craziest bitches in the world! You are the people that invented "dangerous vaccinations" and gluten allergies where there are none. (Your kids think you’re boring. That’s why they’re not responding. It’s not an allergy.) You are the people in my parents’ neighborhood who have invented a species of animal unique to the 5 acres of church-owned land behind their houses THAT WILL KILL AND MUTILATE AND EAT AND RAPE YOU ON SITE!!! Behold:
Yes. Yes I know. It looks like a cat. In fact, the email reads “Please share this with our R_______ neighbors!!! Well . . . now there's documentation. A__ took this picture this afternoon. The cat, which appears to me to be a full size bobcat, was in a tree near the pool parking lot. A____ took the picture from our deck. So, to appear this large, the cat had to be approximately the size of a mid-sized dog.”
Um…. I’m not trying to fight the theory that there is a rare flesh eating monster out there, but isn’t a “mid-sized dog” only slightly larger than your average cat? According to Wikipedia, “The Bobcat is able to go for long periods without food, but will eat heavily when prey is abundant. During lean periods, it will often prey on larger animals that it can kill and return to feed on later--” which clearly means that, not unlike its reptilian cohorts, “The Alligator/Crocodile,” it will wait for the perfect opportunity to kill you, AND it will wait for you to ripen to perfection before it eats you. And then it will rape you and take all of your money. Not to sound like a skeptic, (last week when my best friend didn’t answer the phone, I was certain that she was in the midst of being sexually assaulted by someone she knew and cared about, so I’m no better than “fake animal emailer”) but seriously. Get a job. Go volunteer.
Doctors Without Borders.
The Lost Boys of Sudan.
PETA
There is no bobcat. The real danger is outside your brain, your house, your neighborhood, your community. Go find it… and stop being full of shit. You’re starting to remind me of me.
This reminds me of the food my family cooked for me while permanently scarring me. It’s Italian food which makes no fucking sense at all, since we’re all Irish.
Vegan Stuffed Shells
Ingredients1 package jumbo stuffing shells (16 oz)
2 containers firm tofu
2 tbs extra virgin olive oil (or to taste… you’ll want more)
1 tsp salt
32 oz tomato sauce
½ block Follow Your Heart Vegan Mozz.
1 package frozen spinach or 1/2 lb fresh spinach
Pine nuts (optional)
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bring water to a boil (enough to cook entire package of shells). Cook shells al dente according to package directions. Drain and let cool.In food processor, crumble tofu. Add salt and olive oil. Blend to a smooth consistency. Throw in Pine nuts if you have them. You might want to add water,which is a pain in the ass because odds are that you just squeezed a bunch of water OUT of the tofu. Add it. Cook frozen spinach according to package directions or saute fresh spinach in olive oil. Add spinach to tofu mixture, making sure to thoroughly drain spinach, if necessary.Coat bottom of casserole pan with tomato sauce. Fill each jumbo shell with spinach tofu mixture. Place shells in casserole pan and cover with remaining sauce and a hefty layer of cheese.Cover with aluminum foil and bake 30 minutes. Then sit under the broiler until the cheese in melted and satisfactory.
Take a Lortab and try not to be scared of the birds. Not tonight anyway.
Take a Lortab and try not to be scared of the birds. Not tonight anyway.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
From the Girl-Woman who drank a bottle of $3 wine at a movie theatre at 3:30 on a Thursday...
Once upon a time there were some girls. These girls were very beautiful, of reasonable intelligence and they could drink like oil rig workers. They also swore constantly, took their clothes off (often) and had a bathroom decorated exclusively with vintage Playboy magazines (back when the boobs were real and the pubic hair was too.) By and by these girls grew older, graduated from various universities, some got married, one even had a child, but other than the aforementioned life changes, very little has changed. I mean nothing. Nothing has changed. The girls (who thanks in part to a rigorous work out regime (her) and biotoxin injections (me) look arguably better than they did a decade ago when the first part of this little fairy tale took place) frequently reminisce about the good old days, and since the better part those days took place during a 4 year blackout, they reminisce often because they can’t remember which night was which.
Lately this conversation segues into a new conversation about how, despite mortgages, marriages and our ever growing knowledge of flex-spending healthcare, we are more or less identical to our college aged selves. Blackouts and all.
I have started to wonder when exactly you grow up and turn into your parents. And by “your parents” I mean yours-- not mine. You know that thing in my “About Me,” the thing that says “I come from a family characterized by their social alcoholism and their flamboyant meanness?” Yeah… I’m not being colorful. There are exactly three pictures in existence of my mother without a drink in her hand. In two of them she is under the age of 6. In the other, she is actively giving birth. She’s well aware of photographic phenomenon and says that it used to bother her, but in her newly wizened state, she has decided that she doesn’t care because “I was drinking the drinks when my picture was taken, so I guess I have to deal with it. And really, if it bothers you, go fuck yourself.” I think it’s safe to say I come by it naturally. All of it.
Because of the, ahem, party centered lifestyle of my parents, for about the first fifteen years of my life, I was desperate to grow up. The grownups had the most fun! They had drinks and they knew all the words to "Talking Heads Stop Making Sense," and they shouted and said things I was certainly not allowed to say-- hell yeah I wanted to grow up. What did I have? Piano lessons and the “outdoors.” I was not interested even one iota in sports or in typical girl games. Unless Barbie was struggling with whether or not to keep an unwanted pregnancy or JEM was shooting heroin in her dressing room, I could not have cared less. I wanted to drink wine and have serious conversations about my ner do well husband! And the insurance company! So by and by, I did grow up, I grew and grew and then I stopped. Probably because I was too hungover and I forgot where I left my adulthood. It’s probably on the floor at The Local. So when? When is it time to actively stop being a trainwreck and embrace a life of solitude and remembering things? As long as you do what you’re supposed to do (go to school, go to work, not leave your baby at the supermarket) isn’t it technically okay to continue with the debauchery? And let’s be honest, no one can argue the healing powers of an entire bottle of wine. Whether it’s work or relationships or the fact that your dog ate your $500 throw pillows, WINE WILL MAKE IT BETTER. So maybe that’s the grownup part. As long as you don’t fall down in the street or have sex with a stranger or a person you hate, you’re golden.
Baby steps.
In the spirit of acting like an adult, the following is one of the most grownup things I make, and I can already hear you bitching about how much work it is. I don’t give a shit. It’s really fucking good, so just make it and trust me.
Ginger Glazed Tofu With Sriracha Mayonnaise, Sautéed Spinach, and Wasabi Mashed Potatoes
Ginger Glazed Tofu
2 blocks firm tofu
1/3 cup soy sauce
1 cup water
2 Tbsp. ginger, minced
1 Tbsp. garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. sesame oil
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Spray a baking sheet with cooking spray. Slice each tofu block into 4 large rectangular pieces, drain and press. (Lay your tofu on clean towels of some kind and use something heavy to smoosh the moisture out of the tofu. This helps it to be chewy and firm and not slimy and tofu-y) and lay in a single layer on the baking sheet. Whisk together the soy sauce, water, ginger, garlic, and sesame oil and pour over each piece of tofu. Let it marinate for at least an hour. Bake for 30 minutes, flip over and bake for 30 more minutes or as you see the tofu slurping up the sauce. Then turn on the broiler and make it extra chewy and yummy. Or walk away from it like I did the first time I made this recipe and go OUT to dinner. Seriously, you will burn the shit out of your food and you will have to go to Chipotle.
Sriracha Mayonnaise
While you’re baking your tofu make your sriracha mayo, which is literally vegenaise (ONLY Vegenaise. All other kinds of vegan mayo will make this sauce suck) and sriracha mixed together. That’s it. Use your discretion. If you’re not a big mayo person you can skip it entirely. If you like things to be really spicy you can omit the mayo and just fling sriracha on everything. Yum. I am a big fan of both, so I dump vegenaise into a measuring cup and then add sriracha until the mayo is bright orange and when I taste it, it’s spicy enough to say. “Yes. Spicy. Spicy and delicious.”
Wasabi Mashed Potatoes
See what I did here was give you a little treat. While you’re making your mashed potatoes-- which you should be doing right now-- you will have sriracha mayonnaise to dip things into while you finish cooking. Are we starting to figure out why the blog is called “bigfatvegan.com?” I just suggested that you snack on mayonnaise while you cook.
3 pounds russet potatoes, peeled, cut into 2-inch pieces
3/4 cup soy milk (or to taste)
1 tablespoon wasabi powder (or to taste, you know me. I like this shit to be institutional green its so laden with wasabi. But that’s me)
1/4 cup Earth Balance (or to taste)
¼ cup Tofutti Sour Cream (or to taste)
Place potatoes in large pot of cold salted water. Boil until tender, about 20 minutes. Drain. Return to pot; mash.
Combine soy milk and wasabi powder in small bowl. Stir to dissolve powder. Add milk mixture, Tofutti Sour Cream and Earth Balance to potatoes. Using electric mixer, beat potatoes until fluffy and smooth. Season potatoes to taste with salt and pepper. (Can be prepared 2 hours ahead. Cover and keep at room temperature. Rewarm mashed potatoes over low heat, stirring frequently.)
Sautéed Spinach
Minced garlic to taste
Sesame or olive oil to taste (about a tablespoon otherwise your spinach will be… oily)
Several large handfuls of raw spinach
I know. Could I be more vague? That’s seriously it. Get a pan. Over medium heat, cook your garlic—and when I say “to taste” I mean it. I love garlic and think there should be garlic breakfast cereal. Whomp it up if you want to. When it starts to brown a little bit, throw your handfuls of spinach in there. Cover and then stir. Re cover, then stir. It will cook down to nothing, so you might want to add more. I always end up adding more. It’s done when it’s wilty and garlicky and juicy.
Get a plate.
Put the mashed potatoes in the center, and make a teepee out of tofu on top of that. Smoosh some spinach onto one side of your mashed potato/tofu sculpture and then drizzle the teepee with the sriracha mayonnaise. Then I add avocado slices and pepitas, (toasted pumpkin seeds) and then I give it all to someone else to eat because I have a belly full of sriracha mayonnaise and need to go take a nap.
It will look something like this:
Which is a picture taken with a camera phone and it STILL looks awesome.
Lately this conversation segues into a new conversation about how, despite mortgages, marriages and our ever growing knowledge of flex-spending healthcare, we are more or less identical to our college aged selves. Blackouts and all.
I have started to wonder when exactly you grow up and turn into your parents. And by “your parents” I mean yours-- not mine. You know that thing in my “About Me,” the thing that says “I come from a family characterized by their social alcoholism and their flamboyant meanness?” Yeah… I’m not being colorful. There are exactly three pictures in existence of my mother without a drink in her hand. In two of them she is under the age of 6. In the other, she is actively giving birth. She’s well aware of photographic phenomenon and says that it used to bother her, but in her newly wizened state, she has decided that she doesn’t care because “I was drinking the drinks when my picture was taken, so I guess I have to deal with it. And really, if it bothers you, go fuck yourself.” I think it’s safe to say I come by it naturally. All of it.
Because of the, ahem, party centered lifestyle of my parents, for about the first fifteen years of my life, I was desperate to grow up. The grownups had the most fun! They had drinks and they knew all the words to "Talking Heads Stop Making Sense," and they shouted and said things I was certainly not allowed to say-- hell yeah I wanted to grow up. What did I have? Piano lessons and the “outdoors.” I was not interested even one iota in sports or in typical girl games. Unless Barbie was struggling with whether or not to keep an unwanted pregnancy or JEM was shooting heroin in her dressing room, I could not have cared less. I wanted to drink wine and have serious conversations about my ner do well husband! And the insurance company! So by and by, I did grow up, I grew and grew and then I stopped. Probably because I was too hungover and I forgot where I left my adulthood. It’s probably on the floor at The Local. So when? When is it time to actively stop being a trainwreck and embrace a life of solitude and remembering things? As long as you do what you’re supposed to do (go to school, go to work, not leave your baby at the supermarket) isn’t it technically okay to continue with the debauchery? And let’s be honest, no one can argue the healing powers of an entire bottle of wine. Whether it’s work or relationships or the fact that your dog ate your $500 throw pillows, WINE WILL MAKE IT BETTER. So maybe that’s the grownup part. As long as you don’t fall down in the street or have sex with a stranger or a person you hate, you’re golden.
Baby steps.
In the spirit of acting like an adult, the following is one of the most grownup things I make, and I can already hear you bitching about how much work it is. I don’t give a shit. It’s really fucking good, so just make it and trust me.
Ginger Glazed Tofu With Sriracha Mayonnaise, Sautéed Spinach, and Wasabi Mashed Potatoes
Ginger Glazed Tofu
2 blocks firm tofu
1/3 cup soy sauce
1 cup water
2 Tbsp. ginger, minced
1 Tbsp. garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. sesame oil
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Spray a baking sheet with cooking spray. Slice each tofu block into 4 large rectangular pieces, drain and press. (Lay your tofu on clean towels of some kind and use something heavy to smoosh the moisture out of the tofu. This helps it to be chewy and firm and not slimy and tofu-y) and lay in a single layer on the baking sheet. Whisk together the soy sauce, water, ginger, garlic, and sesame oil and pour over each piece of tofu. Let it marinate for at least an hour. Bake for 30 minutes, flip over and bake for 30 more minutes or as you see the tofu slurping up the sauce. Then turn on the broiler and make it extra chewy and yummy. Or walk away from it like I did the first time I made this recipe and go OUT to dinner. Seriously, you will burn the shit out of your food and you will have to go to Chipotle.
Sriracha Mayonnaise
While you’re baking your tofu make your sriracha mayo, which is literally vegenaise (ONLY Vegenaise. All other kinds of vegan mayo will make this sauce suck) and sriracha mixed together. That’s it. Use your discretion. If you’re not a big mayo person you can skip it entirely. If you like things to be really spicy you can omit the mayo and just fling sriracha on everything. Yum. I am a big fan of both, so I dump vegenaise into a measuring cup and then add sriracha until the mayo is bright orange and when I taste it, it’s spicy enough to say. “Yes. Spicy. Spicy and delicious.”
Wasabi Mashed Potatoes
See what I did here was give you a little treat. While you’re making your mashed potatoes-- which you should be doing right now-- you will have sriracha mayonnaise to dip things into while you finish cooking. Are we starting to figure out why the blog is called “bigfatvegan.com?” I just suggested that you snack on mayonnaise while you cook.
3 pounds russet potatoes, peeled, cut into 2-inch pieces
3/4 cup soy milk (or to taste)
1 tablespoon wasabi powder (or to taste, you know me. I like this shit to be institutional green its so laden with wasabi. But that’s me)
1/4 cup Earth Balance (or to taste)
¼ cup Tofutti Sour Cream (or to taste)
Place potatoes in large pot of cold salted water. Boil until tender, about 20 minutes. Drain. Return to pot; mash.
Combine soy milk and wasabi powder in small bowl. Stir to dissolve powder. Add milk mixture, Tofutti Sour Cream and Earth Balance to potatoes. Using electric mixer, beat potatoes until fluffy and smooth. Season potatoes to taste with salt and pepper. (Can be prepared 2 hours ahead. Cover and keep at room temperature. Rewarm mashed potatoes over low heat, stirring frequently.)
Sautéed Spinach
Minced garlic to taste
Sesame or olive oil to taste (about a tablespoon otherwise your spinach will be… oily)
Several large handfuls of raw spinach
I know. Could I be more vague? That’s seriously it. Get a pan. Over medium heat, cook your garlic—and when I say “to taste” I mean it. I love garlic and think there should be garlic breakfast cereal. Whomp it up if you want to. When it starts to brown a little bit, throw your handfuls of spinach in there. Cover and then stir. Re cover, then stir. It will cook down to nothing, so you might want to add more. I always end up adding more. It’s done when it’s wilty and garlicky and juicy.
Get a plate.
Put the mashed potatoes in the center, and make a teepee out of tofu on top of that. Smoosh some spinach onto one side of your mashed potato/tofu sculpture and then drizzle the teepee with the sriracha mayonnaise. Then I add avocado slices and pepitas, (toasted pumpkin seeds) and then I give it all to someone else to eat because I have a belly full of sriracha mayonnaise and need to go take a nap.
It will look something like this:
Which is a picture taken with a camera phone and it STILL looks awesome.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Well, if You won't talk to me, I'll just go eat an entire Squash Casserole
The fabulous thing about having a blog is that you always have a place where you can talk about yourself and even if no one is reading, it is at least out of your brain. That is never something I would have wanted or needed before a week ago. Well, with the exception of the intensive psycho-analysis that I have been attending (do you attend? Do you participate? Not sure) off and on since baby doll dresses and Pearl Jam. The frightening thing about running out of things to do is you run out of things to talk about AND you run out of people to talk to about the things you aren’t doing. Today I had the following conversations with myself.
1. I was taking my dogs to the woods for a run and I went to Starbucks. (A recessionista has no place at Starbucks. I know. Judge quietly.) I carried all of my stuff—wallet, keys, Ipod (?) Blackberry, (??) into the Starbucks order my order and go back out to the car. Which I had locked. I now have I six items in my hand--all of the aforementioned shit and then also a Ginormous Coffee and a banana. And I say to myself “Why would I lock the car? I CLEARLY (call if you need me to clarify how I say this word) didn’t need to do that, what with that fact that I took everything of any value into the fucking Starbucks WITH me. Did I think someone was going to steal the dogs?” The word “dogs” snaps me back to reality wherein I realize that I am having a substantial-ish conversation with myself. I try and play it off and start talking to the dogs. Because THAT’S better. I say (in baby talk) “Remember when Grandma Laura (my mother) thought that we couldn’t live in Decatur because ‘They steal dogs there?’ She’s crazy!” You’re having a conversation with two canines through the window of a Land Rover whilst holding a banana, a giant coffee, an Ipod, a Blackberry, a set of keys and a wallet and Grandma Laura is the crazy one? Yeah… my dogs judged me.
2. I have finished my run, now on my way to Bloomingdale’s to help my mother pick out a “backup dress” for my brother’s upcoming wedding. (A backup dress is the inexplicably more expensive contingency dress in case there is something wrong with “The Perfect Dress” that you ordered off the interweb. The B.U.D. ensures further perfection and is something with that people with OCD do before events. Not like me-type people who get the dress in the mail, realize that it makes them look like Solange Knowles in her never-ending battle to upstage Beyonce without ever demonstrating that she actually deserves recognition for anything other than wearing be-Maribou feathered shoes and nothing else to the Teen Choice awards, and then go out and spend $400 on a dress that is fabulous but that you spill red wine on while taking shots with your Uncle Bill and his 4 year-old. But then I talk to my dogs, so don’t do what I do.) So right. Backup dress. So my mom strolls into The Big B and she’s yanking Vera and Calvin from the racks like it’s her job and I’m all “hello, where have you been? Ever?” and I helpfully grab an 8. She says “Mm. I’m probably a 4 or 6.” I say “Oh, wow! Go Mom!” Read: OHMYFUCKINGGODYOURMOMISASIZE4ANDYOUAREASIZE6! ISITLEGALTOSELLYOURORGANSTOLOSEWEIGHT??????”
I had to tee-tee from my 7 gallon coffee, and as I’m sitting in the ladies room, I say, out loud, “She looks fabulous. You are just being crazy because you feel inactive. Stop being a psycho.”
I’m sure it made the lady in the stall next to me feel MUCH better.
3. I’d say that’s enough.
The most discouraging thing about it is that at least the conversations I have with myself are funny and make for interesting conversation-- provided I ever talk to anyone besides myself again. It’s the conversations with other people that are so frustratingly banal that I realize why I’m turning to myself in the first place. There are really excellent conversations which include: “People We Hate and Why we Hate Them,” “High Fructose Corn Syrup: Subconv. Parents of Fat Children should be Fed to Alligators On Air During a Commercial Break for ‘Dancing with the Stars’” and my favorite “Our Crazy Families/Ex Boyfriends and why they are Drunk/In Prison/Cannibals” but evidently “Unemployed Liz” is different than “Regular Liz” and needs to talk about things like “staying positive” and “how I’m doing” and “Jesus.” Worse than that are the “Helpful Suggestions” that people feel inclined to share with me since The Big Day. “Helpful Suggestions” are different than helpful suggestions. For example, a “Helpful Suggestion” while trying to loosen a screw might be “you have to turn it harder.” Thank you! If you’re making a dish that you’ve made, oh, a thousand times, and someone walks in and “helpfully suggests” that you add salt, that would be an EXCELLENT example. Thank You! Today it was helpfully suggested to me that I might consider being an elementary school teacher. For starters, I don’t think that you can walk up to Suburban Elementary School and say “Yes, hello. I would love to teach kindergarten. I have no references and no experience and I smell like stale wine, but I purely love patterns and sitting Indian style, so I think I would be a kickass choice.” Furthermore, really? Have you met me? Elementary school? I would better suited to teach grammar to convicted felons. Mean ones. With poor grammar. And tattoos of petite blondes impaled on sharpened pencils. Blondes that tried to teach them about comma splices!
I have to go tell my dogs this story before I forget.
Also, I have been eating comfort food like it’s my job. (Which would explain why Laura is rocking Calvin Klein and I’m rocking http://www.thedailyplate.com/) The following is the most comforting food I make. And by “comforting” I mean it will kill you. Faster than a convict with a thirst for grammar blood.
Squash Casserole
Ingredients (use vegan versions. CLEARLY):
1 lb. squash (a mixture of squash and zucchini is good also)
1 large sweet onion
egg substitute equivalent to 1 egg (Ener-C is the only thing I’ve tried. Available in the health food section)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 - 3/4 cup vegan mayo (Vegenaise ONLY. Spectrum has one and Trader Joe’s has one and they both suck. Hard.)
1/2 - 3/4 cup tofu parmesan cheese (Be careful. There are Soy Parmesans everywhere. Most of them have casein (a milk derivative that helps with melting))
A few slices of Sourdough or Italian bread. OR crackers. Who doesn’t have bread laying around though?
1/3 cup margarine, melted (Earth Balance. Don’t be cute with land O’ lakes or some shit)
Directions:Slice squash and dice onion. Boil or steam together until just soft (5-8 minutes). Meanwhile, mix egg substitute, vegan mayo, tofu parmesan, salt and pepper in a bowl until well-blended. Pour cooked onion and squash into a casserole dish and pour parmesan mixture on top. Stir gently to cover vegetables. Toast the bread and then food process it. I personally think all casseroles are improved greatly by a thick layer of Fat made solely of bread and butter so don’t scrimp on the breadcrumb topping. This thing already has enough calories to put Burger King to shame, why stop now? Sprinkle with enough bread or cracker crumbs to cover the mixture and then sprinkle all over with melted margarine. Bake, uncovered, at 350 F for 30 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly.
Eat it until you feel less like talking to yourself.
Serves: 6-8 (If you’re smart, you’ll make it more like 10-12)
Preparation time: 45 minutes
1. I was taking my dogs to the woods for a run and I went to Starbucks. (A recessionista has no place at Starbucks. I know. Judge quietly.) I carried all of my stuff—wallet, keys, Ipod (?) Blackberry, (??) into the Starbucks order my order and go back out to the car. Which I had locked. I now have I six items in my hand--all of the aforementioned shit and then also a Ginormous Coffee and a banana. And I say to myself “Why would I lock the car? I CLEARLY (call if you need me to clarify how I say this word) didn’t need to do that, what with that fact that I took everything of any value into the fucking Starbucks WITH me. Did I think someone was going to steal the dogs?” The word “dogs” snaps me back to reality wherein I realize that I am having a substantial-ish conversation with myself. I try and play it off and start talking to the dogs. Because THAT’S better. I say (in baby talk) “Remember when Grandma Laura (my mother) thought that we couldn’t live in Decatur because ‘They steal dogs there?’ She’s crazy!” You’re having a conversation with two canines through the window of a Land Rover whilst holding a banana, a giant coffee, an Ipod, a Blackberry, a set of keys and a wallet and Grandma Laura is the crazy one? Yeah… my dogs judged me.
2. I have finished my run, now on my way to Bloomingdale’s to help my mother pick out a “backup dress” for my brother’s upcoming wedding. (A backup dress is the inexplicably more expensive contingency dress in case there is something wrong with “The Perfect Dress” that you ordered off the interweb. The B.U.D. ensures further perfection and is something with that people with OCD do before events. Not like me-type people who get the dress in the mail, realize that it makes them look like Solange Knowles in her never-ending battle to upstage Beyonce without ever demonstrating that she actually deserves recognition for anything other than wearing be-Maribou feathered shoes and nothing else to the Teen Choice awards, and then go out and spend $400 on a dress that is fabulous but that you spill red wine on while taking shots with your Uncle Bill and his 4 year-old. But then I talk to my dogs, so don’t do what I do.) So right. Backup dress. So my mom strolls into The Big B and she’s yanking Vera and Calvin from the racks like it’s her job and I’m all “hello, where have you been? Ever?” and I helpfully grab an 8. She says “Mm. I’m probably a 4 or 6.” I say “Oh, wow! Go Mom!” Read: OHMYFUCKINGGODYOURMOMISASIZE4ANDYOUAREASIZE6! ISITLEGALTOSELLYOURORGANSTOLOSEWEIGHT??????”
I had to tee-tee from my 7 gallon coffee, and as I’m sitting in the ladies room, I say, out loud, “She looks fabulous. You are just being crazy because you feel inactive. Stop being a psycho.”
I’m sure it made the lady in the stall next to me feel MUCH better.
3. I’d say that’s enough.
The most discouraging thing about it is that at least the conversations I have with myself are funny and make for interesting conversation-- provided I ever talk to anyone besides myself again. It’s the conversations with other people that are so frustratingly banal that I realize why I’m turning to myself in the first place. There are really excellent conversations which include: “People We Hate and Why we Hate Them,” “High Fructose Corn Syrup: Subconv. Parents of Fat Children should be Fed to Alligators On Air During a Commercial Break for ‘Dancing with the Stars’” and my favorite “Our Crazy Families/Ex Boyfriends and why they are Drunk/In Prison/Cannibals” but evidently “Unemployed Liz” is different than “Regular Liz” and needs to talk about things like “staying positive” and “how I’m doing” and “Jesus.” Worse than that are the “Helpful Suggestions” that people feel inclined to share with me since The Big Day. “Helpful Suggestions” are different than helpful suggestions. For example, a “Helpful Suggestion” while trying to loosen a screw might be “you have to turn it harder.” Thank you! If you’re making a dish that you’ve made, oh, a thousand times, and someone walks in and “helpfully suggests” that you add salt, that would be an EXCELLENT example. Thank You! Today it was helpfully suggested to me that I might consider being an elementary school teacher. For starters, I don’t think that you can walk up to Suburban Elementary School and say “Yes, hello. I would love to teach kindergarten. I have no references and no experience and I smell like stale wine, but I purely love patterns and sitting Indian style, so I think I would be a kickass choice.” Furthermore, really? Have you met me? Elementary school? I would better suited to teach grammar to convicted felons. Mean ones. With poor grammar. And tattoos of petite blondes impaled on sharpened pencils. Blondes that tried to teach them about comma splices!
I have to go tell my dogs this story before I forget.
Also, I have been eating comfort food like it’s my job. (Which would explain why Laura is rocking Calvin Klein and I’m rocking http://www.thedailyplate.com/) The following is the most comforting food I make. And by “comforting” I mean it will kill you. Faster than a convict with a thirst for grammar blood.
Squash Casserole
Ingredients (use vegan versions. CLEARLY):
1 lb. squash (a mixture of squash and zucchini is good also)
1 large sweet onion
egg substitute equivalent to 1 egg (Ener-C is the only thing I’ve tried. Available in the health food section)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
1/2 - 3/4 cup vegan mayo (Vegenaise ONLY. Spectrum has one and Trader Joe’s has one and they both suck. Hard.)
1/2 - 3/4 cup tofu parmesan cheese (Be careful. There are Soy Parmesans everywhere. Most of them have casein (a milk derivative that helps with melting))
A few slices of Sourdough or Italian bread. OR crackers. Who doesn’t have bread laying around though?
1/3 cup margarine, melted (Earth Balance. Don’t be cute with land O’ lakes or some shit)
Directions:Slice squash and dice onion. Boil or steam together until just soft (5-8 minutes). Meanwhile, mix egg substitute, vegan mayo, tofu parmesan, salt and pepper in a bowl until well-blended. Pour cooked onion and squash into a casserole dish and pour parmesan mixture on top. Stir gently to cover vegetables. Toast the bread and then food process it. I personally think all casseroles are improved greatly by a thick layer of Fat made solely of bread and butter so don’t scrimp on the breadcrumb topping. This thing already has enough calories to put Burger King to shame, why stop now? Sprinkle with enough bread or cracker crumbs to cover the mixture and then sprinkle all over with melted margarine. Bake, uncovered, at 350 F for 30 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly.
Eat it until you feel less like talking to yourself.
Serves: 6-8 (If you’re smart, you’ll make it more like 10-12)
Preparation time: 45 minutes
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Cookie Recipe with Added Wisdom
Also, since this blog is supposed to be about food, I am going to post the recipe for the extra yummy Chocolate- Chocolate chip cookies that I made 30 of last night and managed to end up with 0. Which I'm pretty sure is the sign of a good cookie. The foundations for this cookie are taken from a recipe in "Veganomicon" that I wiggled around. Mostly I added fat and made them ginormous because I think if you're going to eat a cookie it should be about the size of your face.
2 Cups of flour
2/3 Cup unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1 teaspoon of baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
an overflowing 2/3 cup canola oil
1 1/2 Cups granulated sugar
4 tsp ground flax seeds ( don't get all twisted up about this ingredient-- you can get it at the Kroger in the health food section)
1/2 Cup soy milk (I like to dribble a little extra)
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
3/4 Cup vegan chocolate chips (Ghiradelli semi-sweet chocolate chips are vegan. Quit being a baby)
3/4 Cup walnuts (optional-- I usually cook about half the batter and then dump in the walnuts. That way you get two kinds of cookies and people who don't like nuts will think you're a wonderful, accommodating person.)
PREHEAT THE oven to 350
Large bowl: Flour, Salt, Baking soda, Cocoa, sift
2nd large bowl: everything else. Mix until its.... mixed.
Slowly add the dry stuff to the wet stuff. You can mix it with a spoon for a while, but the batter will eventually become too stiff and you'll have to mix it with your hands. (Take your jewelry off! Otherwise, you might find yourself sitting in front of your computer trying to lick chocolate out from under the diamond in your engagement ring. If you happen to be an exceptionally nasty person.) When everything is mixed, find the biggest cookie sheets you own and line them with parchment paper. Then roll two inch balls of dough and squish them onto the cookie sheet. You will only be able to fit about six cookies on each sheet. That is the point. You want them giant because that way, when you make yourself sick from eating them, you can take consolation in the fact that you only ate one or two cookies instead of ten or eleven.
Bake for 10 minutes. Remove promptly. Let them cool on the sheet for 4 minutes and then transfer to a wire rack. This timing ensures what I consider optimum chewiness.
Eat with soy milk. Or cheap wine. Either way.
2 Cups of flour
2/3 Cup unsweetened Dutch-processed cocoa powder
1 teaspoon of baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
an overflowing 2/3 cup canola oil
1 1/2 Cups granulated sugar
4 tsp ground flax seeds ( don't get all twisted up about this ingredient-- you can get it at the Kroger in the health food section)
1/2 Cup soy milk (I like to dribble a little extra)
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
3/4 Cup vegan chocolate chips (Ghiradelli semi-sweet chocolate chips are vegan. Quit being a baby)
3/4 Cup walnuts (optional-- I usually cook about half the batter and then dump in the walnuts. That way you get two kinds of cookies and people who don't like nuts will think you're a wonderful, accommodating person.)
PREHEAT THE oven to 350
Large bowl: Flour, Salt, Baking soda, Cocoa, sift
2nd large bowl: everything else. Mix until its.... mixed.
Slowly add the dry stuff to the wet stuff. You can mix it with a spoon for a while, but the batter will eventually become too stiff and you'll have to mix it with your hands. (Take your jewelry off! Otherwise, you might find yourself sitting in front of your computer trying to lick chocolate out from under the diamond in your engagement ring. If you happen to be an exceptionally nasty person.) When everything is mixed, find the biggest cookie sheets you own and line them with parchment paper. Then roll two inch balls of dough and squish them onto the cookie sheet. You will only be able to fit about six cookies on each sheet. That is the point. You want them giant because that way, when you make yourself sick from eating them, you can take consolation in the fact that you only ate one or two cookies instead of ten or eleven.
Bake for 10 minutes. Remove promptly. Let them cool on the sheet for 4 minutes and then transfer to a wire rack. This timing ensures what I consider optimum chewiness.
Eat with soy milk. Or cheap wine. Either way.
Stripper Dreams
I am now 4 days into unemployment, and the most striking thing about it has been the way solitude has allowed the rampant psychotic musings to creep in with such a vengeance that I have, on more than one occasion, forgotten what I was doing. Yesterday I was driving to Publix, (To buy two things. This is my new favorite activity: getting up off the sofa, putting on shoes, getting in my car and driving somewhere. To buy two things) and I drove past some less-than-mediocre suburban pizza chain and I thought to myself. “I could totally make pizza. Sure! It offends most of my ideals, some of my politics and all of my delicate sensibilities, but why not?” Thoughts like those—I could work at XYZ random establishment because “I’ve always wanted to sell steel” or “I bet I’m qualified to work at a Laundromat!” are monopolizing most of my waking hours. The one I entertained the longest was when I drove by The Oasis Club last night. The Oasis Club is a slightly better than average gentleman’s club. Located in a strip mall. So you can go to Home Depot AND a get a lap dance. I drove by and thought “I could TOTALLY be a stripper!” and contrary to my thoughts about making pizza (I would have to touch cheese and sausage. Um, no thank you) or working in a Laundromat (Those change belts look heavy,) I struggled to find a reason why I wouldn’t purely love taking my clothes off for a room full of strangers.
To be fair, this is not the first time I considered being A Lady of the Night-Lite. Back when I was employed, a coworker of mine and I read a study that showed that exotic dancers made significantly more money on the nights when they happened to be ovulating. Something about their fertility pheromones made the gentlemen positively wild with dancer fever. Or maybe it just made the strippers more agile. Over coffee, we discussed how wonderful it would be to work 3 nights a month and rake in an additional $1200 --this is assuming that we were alluring enough to make any money at all-- and I started to get genuinely into the idea-- to the point where I was mulling over the logistics within my real-life scenario. If I worked all night, I couldn’t possibly come in and be a good salesperson the next day, right? So it would maybe not be worth it, right? Then my coworker drops this bomb “also it’s so nasty and degrading to women.” I had actually not taken that into consideration at all. In fact, I was still reflecting on how to moonlight as a stripper and hide those unsightly under eye bags the next day at work. And this was when I was gainfully employed and making grownup money at a grown up job. I thought about it off and on all day and even brought it up to my husband later that night. He frowned and said “you fall off your shoes when you’re not trying to dance on a stage. You would like… die.” But yesterday, I started thinking about it again- this time unencumbered by the inconvenience of a day job—and I realized that it is the perfect job for me. I know that most people would be hesitant because it would compromise their sense of pride and dignity, leaving them feeling lost and empty inside. This is a bonus for me because I have neither pride nor dignity--illustrated by the New Year’s Eve Bikini-Gate.
For the holidays, my friends and I rented a cabin in the woods. And there was a hot tub. Let me emphasize that: Hot Tub. I wanted to break up the impromptu Michael Jackson kitchen dance party so other people would come with me to get into the Hot Tub. I shouted. I pleaded. I shot reproachful looks to my fully clothed, still dry friends. No one was budging, so I did what any logical 28 year-old adult would do. I went downstairs and put on my bathing suit, because goddammit, I was going to go by myself. I don’t care if you don’t want to go dehydrate yourself in a giant steaming vat of chlorinated water, I’ll go alone. But maybe I’ll just check one more time. Just to see if anyone… Is that? Is that Billie Jean? Maybe I’ll just dance for a minute… but not without this cowboy hat! Of course, hilarity and grinding ensued and where there is hilarity and grinding there is also some asshole with a camera. That asshole almost always has a facebook page. Almost immediately following the posting of these photos was a line of questioning from various people. It starts small “Y’all look like you’re having fun!!!!” or “Y’all are hilarious!!!!” but it almost always segues into “Liz… why are you wearing a bikini in December?” and “Liz, why are you the only one in a bathing suit?” Because there was a fucking hot tub!
Are we caught up?
Clearly, I take no issue with dancing mostly naked in front of a room full of people that I not only know, but also care for and respect. Obviously, strolling around on a raised platform all-the-way-naked in a darkened room surrounded by people I don’t know is going to be a no-brainer. Not only would the pride/dignity conundrum not affect me, I am SUPER into the stripper aesthetic. I have no idea why, but I constantly have to fight to not succumb to Pamela Anderson chic. If I became an exotic dancer, that battle would be over. Bring on the tanning bed! Acrylic nails for days! I would bleach my hair every 8 days to keep it looking perfect. In terms of the skill set required, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have to worry about the dancing, because strippers mostly just bend over and whip their hair around. It is entirely possible that I would still fall down or injure a customer with these simple maneuvers, but I’m sure everyone has to practice. The biggest problem I foresee is the pole dancing—I would slide right off that thing and put an eye out. But, what I lack in basic hand-eye coordination, I could make up for with my witty banter. Because that’s what men wearing sunglasses at night are looking for: ironic conversation with a naked girl. Imagine their faces though when they earnestly ask me how I got into the business. Instead of a replying with “I’m paying for college” or “I’m supporting some wayward child,” I could say fun stuff like “I’m trying to earn money for comics” or “I thought this was a Laundromat when I applied.”
Basically, I can find not one single reason why this would be a poor career choice. My parents would maybe regret sending me to college for 7 years, but all that book learning just made me crazy anyway, and I never really used my brain in interior design, so how is this any different? I would get exercise, meet interesting people, AND I would never have to see daylight again. Unless the tanning bed counts as daylight. The only reason I hesitated is because of the conversation I had with my husband the first time I told him I wanted to take my clothes off for money. After he pointed out that I would die from falling off my shoes, he sighed and said “you’re actually a little serious, aren’t you?” Hell yeah, I was serious. He rattled off a bunch of reasons as to why it would be a bad idea, and when he could see that I wasn’t convinced he asked “well, could I at least come and watch you, stripper-wife?” Um, ew. Which I guess is why people like me marry people like him: you can always count on them to be creepy and talk you out of your dream of becoming a stripper.
To be fair, this is not the first time I considered being A Lady of the Night-Lite. Back when I was employed, a coworker of mine and I read a study that showed that exotic dancers made significantly more money on the nights when they happened to be ovulating. Something about their fertility pheromones made the gentlemen positively wild with dancer fever. Or maybe it just made the strippers more agile. Over coffee, we discussed how wonderful it would be to work 3 nights a month and rake in an additional $1200 --this is assuming that we were alluring enough to make any money at all-- and I started to get genuinely into the idea-- to the point where I was mulling over the logistics within my real-life scenario. If I worked all night, I couldn’t possibly come in and be a good salesperson the next day, right? So it would maybe not be worth it, right? Then my coworker drops this bomb “also it’s so nasty and degrading to women.” I had actually not taken that into consideration at all. In fact, I was still reflecting on how to moonlight as a stripper and hide those unsightly under eye bags the next day at work. And this was when I was gainfully employed and making grownup money at a grown up job. I thought about it off and on all day and even brought it up to my husband later that night. He frowned and said “you fall off your shoes when you’re not trying to dance on a stage. You would like… die.” But yesterday, I started thinking about it again- this time unencumbered by the inconvenience of a day job—and I realized that it is the perfect job for me. I know that most people would be hesitant because it would compromise their sense of pride and dignity, leaving them feeling lost and empty inside. This is a bonus for me because I have neither pride nor dignity--illustrated by the New Year’s Eve Bikini-Gate.
For the holidays, my friends and I rented a cabin in the woods. And there was a hot tub. Let me emphasize that: Hot Tub. I wanted to break up the impromptu Michael Jackson kitchen dance party so other people would come with me to get into the Hot Tub. I shouted. I pleaded. I shot reproachful looks to my fully clothed, still dry friends. No one was budging, so I did what any logical 28 year-old adult would do. I went downstairs and put on my bathing suit, because goddammit, I was going to go by myself. I don’t care if you don’t want to go dehydrate yourself in a giant steaming vat of chlorinated water, I’ll go alone. But maybe I’ll just check one more time. Just to see if anyone… Is that? Is that Billie Jean? Maybe I’ll just dance for a minute… but not without this cowboy hat! Of course, hilarity and grinding ensued and where there is hilarity and grinding there is also some asshole with a camera. That asshole almost always has a facebook page. Almost immediately following the posting of these photos was a line of questioning from various people. It starts small “Y’all look like you’re having fun!!!!” or “Y’all are hilarious!!!!” but it almost always segues into “Liz… why are you wearing a bikini in December?” and “Liz, why are you the only one in a bathing suit?” Because there was a fucking hot tub!
Are we caught up?
Clearly, I take no issue with dancing mostly naked in front of a room full of people that I not only know, but also care for and respect. Obviously, strolling around on a raised platform all-the-way-naked in a darkened room surrounded by people I don’t know is going to be a no-brainer. Not only would the pride/dignity conundrum not affect me, I am SUPER into the stripper aesthetic. I have no idea why, but I constantly have to fight to not succumb to Pamela Anderson chic. If I became an exotic dancer, that battle would be over. Bring on the tanning bed! Acrylic nails for days! I would bleach my hair every 8 days to keep it looking perfect. In terms of the skill set required, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have to worry about the dancing, because strippers mostly just bend over and whip their hair around. It is entirely possible that I would still fall down or injure a customer with these simple maneuvers, but I’m sure everyone has to practice. The biggest problem I foresee is the pole dancing—I would slide right off that thing and put an eye out. But, what I lack in basic hand-eye coordination, I could make up for with my witty banter. Because that’s what men wearing sunglasses at night are looking for: ironic conversation with a naked girl. Imagine their faces though when they earnestly ask me how I got into the business. Instead of a replying with “I’m paying for college” or “I’m supporting some wayward child,” I could say fun stuff like “I’m trying to earn money for comics” or “I thought this was a Laundromat when I applied.”
Basically, I can find not one single reason why this would be a poor career choice. My parents would maybe regret sending me to college for 7 years, but all that book learning just made me crazy anyway, and I never really used my brain in interior design, so how is this any different? I would get exercise, meet interesting people, AND I would never have to see daylight again. Unless the tanning bed counts as daylight. The only reason I hesitated is because of the conversation I had with my husband the first time I told him I wanted to take my clothes off for money. After he pointed out that I would die from falling off my shoes, he sighed and said “you’re actually a little serious, aren’t you?” Hell yeah, I was serious. He rattled off a bunch of reasons as to why it would be a bad idea, and when he could see that I wasn’t convinced he asked “well, could I at least come and watch you, stripper-wife?” Um, ew. Which I guess is why people like me marry people like him: you can always count on them to be creepy and talk you out of your dream of becoming a stripper.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Entry Level Self Absorption
Clearly I am no stranger to self absorption in a purer sense, but I've never put it anywhere where the internet could see it before. Well except for Myspace. And Facebook. This space will be used predominately for conversations about vegan cooking and vegan eating. I excel at both activities equally, though if someone makes a vegan mac and cheese that doesn't taste like someone came into your house, kicked your ass and dumped an economy sized jar of tumeric in, the eating wins.
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