STILL ALIVE!!!!!!!!!

Howdy, my long-lost pals.

So, how do I explain my abandonment of all my (nonexistant) fans out there in blogdom? Well, I don't. I don't have to justify myself to you bastards. Just kidding. I've just been insanely busy this semester. Averaging about four hours of sleep a night is not exactly conducive to engrossing online witticism.

The good news? I got the internship I've been lusting after. It's as a cook at this upscale restaurant that two of my instructors used to work at. So congratulate my soon-t0-be minimum wage ass.

I get to find an apartment. In the next five weeks. Finally, my own place! (And yet another facet to my poverty. But soo worth it.) So the line forms here, fellas!

Thats the abridged version, folks. Work and school, school, school. OH, and also nursing myself through falling in love with a married man. (Rest assured that nothing's actually happened. I do have scruples.) I'm just shamelessly self-destructive, is all. I do occasionally have fantasies of connecting with some funny, cute, smart, kind man who's actually available, but those moments are fleeting.

any advice from the formerly love-lorn? I could use some.

Till next time, my lovelies.

hypersensitivity... Yep, i'm a genius.

Once again the world cowers before the awesome might of my spelling abilities. Or, at least, the twelve-year-old kid who just asked me how to spell it cowers before the awesome might of my spelling abilities. Which I'll take. I'm not proud. (Painfully obvious, I know.)

Last week was my birthday. I'm now 25. Officially a quarter of a century old. Everyone's been asking me how it feels to be 25. Well, after they ask me how old I am and then say "Are you serious?!" in a mildly offensive manner. I'm one of those people in that odd blessing/curse situation of looking much younger than I am. Most people think I'm 19. You'd think my bile-laced view of the world would somehow render me older than my years, but apparently acerbic cynicism and trust issues are a great preservative. (Try some today, ladies!)

I can't complain too much, though. I'm certainly much happier than I've been for the past several birthdays. Everyone is simply agog at the amount of effort I'm pumping into my studies. I can say with all certainty I've found my comfy little niche.

Anyhow, back to being 25. Feels a lot like 24, only more so. Yep. Moving on....

I faced down the dreaded individual black-box last week in my intro to cookery class and emerged, uh, less than victorious. For all of you poor, ignorant, non-cooky types out there, a black-box consists of getting a tray of surprise ingredients from which you must produce a soup and an entree in 3 hours. Yeah, 3 hours sounds like a long time, doesn't it?

My tray included a small pork loin, asparagus, broccoli and potatoes. Not too bad. I came up with a menu lickety-split. Behold, my gastronomic masterpiece:

Pureed Broccoli Soup with Garlic and Olive Oil
Mustard-Fennel Roasted Pork loin with Port-Red Current Sauce (aka Cumberland Pan Sauce)
Chive and Brown Butter Mashed Potatoes
Sauteed Asparagus with Orange Butter

Sounds tasty, right? All went well with the soup, I presented it on time and got great scores on it. (Scoring includes marks for taste, presentation, portioning, quality of work, and, uh.. some other thing.) After that, things started to unravel. Despite all my careful mise en place ('things in place'.. Learn it. Live it. Love it.) I got behind and found myself scrambling to plate everything. Not to mention I'd looked at the wrong list and thought my presentation time was 15 minutes later than it actually was.

And then, my sauce happened. Right, so you take varying amounts of port wine, orange juice, lemon juice and red currant jelly in a pan and reduce. Then you thicken with corn starch. Simple enough. Except when I added the corn starch it turned this toxic, Dr. Seuss-ish shade of green. I'm not kidding, this crap looked like Nyquil. Without time to start over, I had no choice but to serve my bile, uh, I mean sauce, and take the consequences. It actually didn't taste too terrible, it was a little to sweet and kind of bland. By this time I was 25 minutes over my scheduled presentation time.

It was only later, as I drove home wreathed in a cloud of despair and self-pity, that I realized what went wrong. I added baking soda instead of corn starch. Freakin' baking soda.
Yes, I started the day ready to kick ass and take names, and ended with adventures in chemistry. as my dad would say, J for genius.

So that was my great triumph. Somewhat disappointing. Don't feel too sorry for me, since I'm still getting a B in the class. And, as everyone tells me, I will never again confuse baking soda and corn starch.

Finals are over and I've ended my first semester well, with a tentative A and two B's. Not too shabby. I had hoped to end with a 4.0 GPA, but I'll take it. I'm considering this a dress rehearsal, and next semester I shall really bring the house down.

I also got a new job, and have put notice in at the library. I'll be working with the head of purchasing at the culinary institute, which I'm looking forward to. The library hasn't been bad. It beats the heck out of, say, mining coal or turning tricks, but it's pretty tedious stuff. And this new job will be chock full of useful experience for my future career. Fare thee well, library.

Now I can relax and enjoy my holiday break. Sleep has been a favorite pastime since Friday. Ahh... glorious sleep. I will never understand morning people.

A Happy Holiday to you all.

Happy Halloween to you all. I am currently sitting behind the circulation desk at work wearing a black cape and witches hat. And being particularly non-productive (or is it unproductive? For some reason me and the words ain't so goodly these days.). Oh well. Everyone deserves a little slack-a-thon every once in awhile, right? (Notice that my witchy superpowers include the ability to justify laziness to myself.)

On tonight's Mystery Halloween Library Theatre: The Case of the Wayward Panties:

the reference librarian has just found a pair of black underwear on the floor in front of my desk. Since I had no idea they were there, apparently they belong to a very absent-minded ninja.

Hmm... about that great big update I promised. It's sitting prudishly on my computer refusing to give up the funny. So I won't torture you all with my tedious 'Dear Diaries'. Needless to say, I've been pretty busy with school. Which I don't actually mind. This is the first time I can remember starting the year and not counting the weeks until the end of the semester. I'm going to be kind of sad when it's over, since I really like the people in my lab class.

So what have I been doing in my state of academic bliss? Well, working my tail off, (actually reading my textbooks!) staying after class to put in extra time in the kitchen, thus ingratiating myself to my instructors forever. (You can call me Captain Keen). Oh, and developing a shamefully school-girlish crush on one of my teachers. This seems exceedingly ridiculous in a 24-year-old. What is it with me and older men who teach me things? (Please control your gag reflex, by older I mean 35 or so.) The other day he spent about 45 minutes after class asking me about my internship plans and giving me advice about the industry based on his own experiences. How amazing is that? I'll move on before this really deteriorates into out-and-out hero worship. It's just cool to have a mentor, is all I'm saying.

That's about the whole ball of wax, unless you count me indulging in the Alfred Hitchcock marathon that's been on Turner Classic Movies the past week. Caught most of my favorites. In my opinion, the best Hitchcock movies are as follows (and they all have Cary Grant in them. Coincidence? I think not.):

1. To Catch a Thief Hilarious. Cary Grant is a retired cat burglar who gets drawn back into the game with a mysterious femme fatale, played by Grace Kelly.

2. Notorious. Cary Grant as a government agent sent to persuade a traitor's daughter (Ingrid Bergman) to go undercover. Ineivitable love affair and danger ensues.

3. North by Northwest Cary Grant is a millionaire playboy drawn against his will into a government investigation. Along the way he is seduced and betrayed by Eva Marie Saint.

There you go. Three brilliant who-dunnits to fill your next idle weekend.

Oh, and I had an awesome time at my best friend's wedding reception this weekend. Costume ball + great food + open bar= fun for Lisa. Isn't it funny how much easier dancing gets the more you drink? We ended the night on the dance floor, completely pissed, pledging our eternal devotion to eachother between old Violent Femmes songs. My friends and I get rather sentimental when drunk. So if any of you end up indulging in a gin and ginger with me some evening, don't be surprised to leave with a bolstered sense of self-esteem, or the vague inkling that I might be lookin' to sink your battleship. (I just made that up. Today's game has been to come up with progressively more ridiculous euphemisms for sex. I'm quite proud of that one.)

Take it easy

Alrighty, I'll just rattle off something quick while I'm on break. Just a brief preview of the extravaganza to come. A lick of the lolly, you might say.

Culinary school is amazing. Yep, you read that right. AMAZING!!! Admittedly, I walked in the first day with that terribly helpful, bowel-knotting terror you (or most often, I) get whenever I know I'm in way over my head and am destined to fuck up. Thus proving once and for all that I am completely without talents of any kind and might as well ready myself for a lifetime of fast food while my brilliant, more accomplished friends happily start rewarding careers. (Yeah, sometimes I really need to just eat a twinkie and stop thinking so much.) I promise, the inside of my head doesn't always resemble a Munch painting.

Anyhow, to make a less-than-skillfully-woven tale short, I've gotten into the swing of things and am now basking in the warm glow of being right where I'm supposed to be at this particular moment. I have wonderful, enthusiastic classmates and an incredible teacher. So everything's sound as the proverbial pound. And certain ambitions I've harbored for a few years are becoming more and more plausible by the week. Is there a word for when everything you've wanted for a long time suddenly becomes tangible again? There should be.

That's all for now. Just thought I'd rain a little joy down on everyone. Hope all your dreams are coming true as well. (Jesus, get off now, ya sappy schmuck.)

Something characteristically long-winded and self-centered coming soon, I promise. Will post as soon as I can hop off that crazy academic merry-go-round for a second. (Have spent past few weeks confronting the inevitable fact that my usual study method of 'wait until the last minute and crank it out the night before' isn't going to cut the mustard (no pun intended) in culinary school. How depressing when you actually have to work at it.) Your heartfelt sympathy would be most welcome.


Random Factoid #2:

Did you know the human eyeball is 3.5% salt?

I had rather a bizarre moment during an outing last weekend. I was at an art festival with Deb in Suttons Bay. Arguably the most gorgeous place in Michigan, it sits on the northwestern shore of the lower peninsula. It’s one of those slightly yuppy, extremely white, semi-seasonal towns where the population triples in the summertime. Despite the WASP infestation, I love the place. It’s worth going there simply because the drive is so beautiful. Tracy and I have decided that someday, when we’re 40-something, we, and anyone else who’s game for the hippie-commune life, will invest all our savings in a large, bay-side estate there and start a goat farm. We’ll get by selling organic cheese, Tracy’s paintings, and my delicious jams and jellies. Maybe I’ll start a small printing company and sell my books if I can’t find anyone else to publish them. We’ll buy a sailboat and name it ‘The Sea Pickle’ in honor of our friend Stephanie...... What? Oh! Sorry, I was daydreaming there. Back to the point.

Bizarre moment: Well, I was in line for the bathroom at this festival, and there was this little girl in front of me; she’s maybe 10 or 11 or... something. How the hell should I know? She was a human of the childish persuasion. Anyway, she makes some comment about how hot it is, and I concede that, yes, indeedy, it sure was hot out. She then says that if I’m interested, her brother will be by shortly selling bottled water for charity. "Okay, thanks.", say I.. Then, she turns to me and says, "I just want to let you know that God loves you." This completely dumbfounds me, and I can only manage a weak, "Why, thank you." That’s all I could think of. But then I felt like an asshole, because she looked slightly crestfallen that I wasn’t falling all over myself in gratitude for her concern for my immortal soul. Well, at least I resisted my first impulse to put on my best French Resistance accent and mutter "God is the biggest bitch of them all." So that’s got to count for something, right?

Now, my question is: does the fact that I found this whole exchange profoundly creepy make me a horrible person? I mean, it all seemed quite innocent at first, but the more I thought about it, I realized that someone had so heavily indoctrinated this child that she’s out working a used-car-salesman routine for Jesus. You know, she starts in with the small, seemingly benign chitchat, and just when your guard is down, she swoops in with the full-on dog-and-pony show. Or, maybe she’s just a sincere little kid who wants to spread the warm, fuzzy euphoria of blind, unquestioning faith and my rampant paranoia is reaching pharmaceutically-treatable proportions. It’s six in one hand and half a dozen in the other, as my mom would say.


This weekend I’ll be making the four hour drive to Detroit for my best friends bachelorette party. I have certain misgivings about the whole ritual, but she’s pretty awesome, so I can’t imagine it’ll be anything too cheesy. I hope. At least there’ll be free liquor.

Well, an event like this begets certain preparations, so I thought I would share my newly-acquired wisdom in case any of you find yourselves in the same situation.


Lisa’s Simple, 5-Step Shopping Guide for your Best Friends Bachelorette Party


1. Receive phone call from mutual friend/organizer of said party to confirm that you will be attending. After a firm ‘aye’, she informs you that everyone is to wear a black shirt and bring an unusual pair of women’s underwear for the game portion of the evening. Slightly disconcerted, you resolve that the second anyone brings out a goat and/or wooden paddle, you’re splitsville. Well, provided this occurs after the bar-hopping boozathon leg of this shindig.

2. Take third sudafed of the day as part of your losing battle against the allergies that have been kicking your ass all week. Nose running, eyes streaming, and brain feeling as if it’s made of cotton balls, you make the hour drive to the mall to procure some wacky underpants.

3. After dragging your histamine-ravaged carcass into the department store, you decide you might as well see if you can find a snazzy new black shirt to wear on Saturday, in the hopes of quelling your irrational, insecure certainty that you will be the least attractive girl there.

4. Not finding anything on the sale rack that coincides with your apparently archaic idea of ‘sale’, you decide that you’ll French it up and get the most seductive, screen siren-red lip color you can find to wear with the simple black button-down in your closet. You aimlessly wander around the cosmetic counters for a while, mostly to indulge your sick delight in driving sales women crazy, until you see a few likely candidates. The Lancome lady helps you find one to try, and bam!, you’re Grace Kelly. Well, not quite, but it looks pretty good and it’s a long-lasting formula that should soldier on through the obscene number of martinis you intend to drink this weekend. You make your purchase, shelling out 25 bucks, and ignore the strange sensation that your colon has just been violated..

5.Self-esteem newly reinforced, you mosey on into the lingerie department. Every so often you stop mid-browse to sneak a surreptitious glance at your new lipstick in a mirror. It’s growing on you, and you decide that maybe you’ll do a whole Gwen Stefani, 40's glamour-puss with punk-rock flavor look for this party. While toying with the idea of bleaching your hair platinum, you zero in on an absurd pair of yellow mesh underwear with florescent orange lace trim and hot pink, green, and orange polka dots. These look like something a transvestite clown would wear. Perfect. You gratefully snatch them up and then realize that you get to carry said ‘perfect’ underwear across the entire store to the checkout counter. You start to ball them up in your fist, scurrying through the gauntlet of middle-aged yuppies that have inexplicably populated the store while you weren’t paying attention. But then, suddenly, you realize, "Hey! You have kick-ass red lipstick on! You are invincible! Fuck them all and their bourgeois decadence!" You walk on with head held high, schizophrenic knickers swinging from your arm. You while away 20 minutes in the checkout line, then speed home in time to throw a roast in the oven and take a nap.

Obviously, this particular method works best for those, like me, who have a long list of weird, yet endearing neuroses. I'll let you know how the rest of the weekend pans out. ( I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TRACY!!!!!!!!

Hope you have lots of fun with your little nerdily-nerd library friends on the mean streets of Lexington. Maybe you'll scare up a tractor pull or something. As the dad-man always says, "Don't call me from jail."

I look forward to many more years of your sage wisdom. ("I remember when frankfurters were just a nickel....")

Love you!