Where do you like to eat out and what do you usually order?
One of my favorite restaurants is Ruby Tuesday's. If you dine in on a Tuesday, you can get two entrees for the price of two! And, if your first name is Ruby, then you are only expected to leave a 15% tip! Well, I'm not about to change my name to Ruby, so eating out there on a Tuesday is my best bet for a deal.
I usually order the London Broil Salisbury Steak. It is a Ruby Tuesday's specialty, as the restaurant's founder, Dr. Amethyst Thursday, was from somewhere in or around London. No one really knows for sure, though, as Dr. Thursday didn't have a birth certificate, and he, or she, was really sort of an enigma.
For dessert I usually get the Mt. Krakatoa Chocolate Lava cake. It is one square kilogram of fudge delight!! The cake is actually shaped like a cone volcano, and thick rivers of fudge ooze out of the top. I don't actually eat it, of course. I only order it to watch the effects. (At twelve calories per spoonful, who can afford such indulgence?)
You probably thought that my favorite restaurant would be Professor P.J. Cornucopia's Fantastic Foodmagorium and Great American Steakery. Nah, insufficient parking.
12.01.2007
10.26.2007
Writer's Lab #4
What do you remember about shopping with your mother? Any particular stores? What was your favorite store?
Ahh, Family Dollar. Or was it Dollar Tree? Or the 99 Cent Crap-Shack? I don't remember the exact name of the place, but man, what bargains!! When I was 17, Mom gave me one dollar every week for my allowance. Mom would hand over one crisp, new dollar bill every Saturday morning, then preach on and on about how I should save that dollar. Invest in IBM, Walgreen's, dotnet.com, or at least bury the dollar in the backyard. But no way! I earned that dollar cleaning out the rabbit pens and re-tarring the roof. It was off to Dollar Town City!
Of course, I had no way to get there on my own. Mom would make her own trip down there on Saturday afternoons and I would tag along. Ironic that she didn't want me to spend the money I earned, but drove me to the store where I had the chance to spend it.
I remember some of the favorite toys I would buy. Super balls, plastic spider rings, cap swords. And snacks. I could buy six ounces of Naugahyde jerky. One could chew on that stuff for hours and hours and it wouldn't dissolve. It would just turn into a big, white mass of some chemical by-product. But who cares? That was cheap jerky!
This store even sold DVDs for one dollar (plus embargo tax). I picked up some great films there, which I still own to this day. Casper the Friendly Ghost meets the Wolf-Man. Mitchell, the Grumpy Ghost meets Buck Rogers. The Planet from Outer Space. Good times.
So, to answer the original question, no, I really did not actually shop with my mother. I just tagged along on her shopping trips. I wasn't too interested in following her around the store, looking a hair braids and light bulbs.
Ahh, Family Dollar. Or was it Dollar Tree? Or the 99 Cent Crap-Shack? I don't remember the exact name of the place, but man, what bargains!! When I was 17, Mom gave me one dollar every week for my allowance. Mom would hand over one crisp, new dollar bill every Saturday morning, then preach on and on about how I should save that dollar. Invest in IBM, Walgreen's, dotnet.com, or at least bury the dollar in the backyard. But no way! I earned that dollar cleaning out the rabbit pens and re-tarring the roof. It was off to Dollar Town City!
Of course, I had no way to get there on my own. Mom would make her own trip down there on Saturday afternoons and I would tag along. Ironic that she didn't want me to spend the money I earned, but drove me to the store where I had the chance to spend it.
I remember some of the favorite toys I would buy. Super balls, plastic spider rings, cap swords. And snacks. I could buy six ounces of Naugahyde jerky. One could chew on that stuff for hours and hours and it wouldn't dissolve. It would just turn into a big, white mass of some chemical by-product. But who cares? That was cheap jerky!
This store even sold DVDs for one dollar (plus embargo tax). I picked up some great films there, which I still own to this day. Casper the Friendly Ghost meets the Wolf-Man. Mitchell, the Grumpy Ghost meets Buck Rogers. The Planet from Outer Space. Good times.
So, to answer the original question, no, I really did not actually shop with my mother. I just tagged along on her shopping trips. I wasn't too interested in following her around the store, looking a hair braids and light bulbs.
10.05.2007
Book Review - "Nickel and Dimed"
Author: Barbara Ehrenreich
The author is a journalist who goes "undercover" as a low wage worker to see how the lower class gets through life on a limited paycheck. Wondering how people can survive on only six or seven dollars an hour, she takes on that role herself for a few weeks at a time in different parts of the country to see if she herself can survive on a low wage.
Disguising herself as a long-time homemaker, returning to the workforce after 20 years, Barbara hunts out for a job among the low-wage service class. She allows herself some start up funds (to pay for an initial deposit on an apartment) and a small reserve for emergencies only. But other than that, she must find a job, a place to live and pay for all housing, transportation and food with what ever her wages bring in.
First, she stays close to home in Florida and gets a job as a waitress at a hotel restaurant. That one job is just not enough, however, and Barbara takes on a part-time housekeeping job at the hotel.
Next, she travels to Maine (to paraphrase: "Everyone here is so polite. This must be how white people really treat each other when they get a whole state to themselves.") In Maine, Barbara works at "The Maids," a housecleaning service. Once again, to make ends meet, she must work part-time on weekends as a "dietary technician" (essentially, a waitress) at a nursing home.
Finally, Barbara moves to Minneapolis and works in the ladies' department at Wal-Mart. During her time there, she starts to rile up her co-workers to create a union. She thinks she could have made a lot happen had she stuck around long enough.
This was actually my second time reading it. Maybe I'll read it again in a few years. This book was very fascinating. One of the author's main conclusions is that these low-wage jobs, although they are often referred to as "unskilled labor" are anything but. Each job was physically demanding and required her to learn many new skills very quickly. A Ph.D and an established, professional journalist still had to learn how to fold a shirt the Wal-Mart way, how to clean a house The Maid's way, and all new diner lingo.
Along the way, Barbara learns how her co-workers actually do survive on their low wages. Many have two jobs, or have a working spouse or significant other. Many, though, have spent time living in their car, skipping meals, and going without medical treatments.
Reading this book made me feel very fortunate and grateful for the hand I've been dealt. I have a great job, own a home, two cars, and all kinds of junk. I never have to worry about getting the mortgage paid. I never have to choose between medicine and groceries. I can afford to visit the dentist. This book might just have turned me into a more generous tipper.
The author is a journalist who goes "undercover" as a low wage worker to see how the lower class gets through life on a limited paycheck. Wondering how people can survive on only six or seven dollars an hour, she takes on that role herself for a few weeks at a time in different parts of the country to see if she herself can survive on a low wage.
Disguising herself as a long-time homemaker, returning to the workforce after 20 years, Barbara hunts out for a job among the low-wage service class. She allows herself some start up funds (to pay for an initial deposit on an apartment) and a small reserve for emergencies only. But other than that, she must find a job, a place to live and pay for all housing, transportation and food with what ever her wages bring in.
First, she stays close to home in Florida and gets a job as a waitress at a hotel restaurant. That one job is just not enough, however, and Barbara takes on a part-time housekeeping job at the hotel.
Next, she travels to Maine (to paraphrase: "Everyone here is so polite. This must be how white people really treat each other when they get a whole state to themselves.") In Maine, Barbara works at "The Maids," a housecleaning service. Once again, to make ends meet, she must work part-time on weekends as a "dietary technician" (essentially, a waitress) at a nursing home.
Finally, Barbara moves to Minneapolis and works in the ladies' department at Wal-Mart. During her time there, she starts to rile up her co-workers to create a union. She thinks she could have made a lot happen had she stuck around long enough.
This was actually my second time reading it. Maybe I'll read it again in a few years. This book was very fascinating. One of the author's main conclusions is that these low-wage jobs, although they are often referred to as "unskilled labor" are anything but. Each job was physically demanding and required her to learn many new skills very quickly. A Ph.D and an established, professional journalist still had to learn how to fold a shirt the Wal-Mart way, how to clean a house The Maid's way, and all new diner lingo.
Along the way, Barbara learns how her co-workers actually do survive on their low wages. Many have two jobs, or have a working spouse or significant other. Many, though, have spent time living in their car, skipping meals, and going without medical treatments.
Reading this book made me feel very fortunate and grateful for the hand I've been dealt. I have a great job, own a home, two cars, and all kinds of junk. I never have to worry about getting the mortgage paid. I never have to choose between medicine and groceries. I can afford to visit the dentist. This book might just have turned me into a more generous tipper.
10.02.2007
Writer's Lab #3
Q: What kinds of foods do you consider "picnic food" and where do you like to go eat them?
That is a question with an obvious answer. Anybody who knows me well, knows that my favorite picnic foods include shredded wheat, steamed toast, and so-called "iced-cream". There are other foods, of course.
Often, (as often as I can get away from my job as a shooting range target-holder), I take the family out for a picnic on the steps of Town Hall. We will pack a few pillows of shredded wheat, perhaps a small handful of chocolate-covered yogurt beans, and some clam juice, then spread out our blanket right there on the front porch of the Municipal Civic Administration and Waste Water Management Building. (That was the original name, but since the sign painter charged by the letter, the town council decided to name the building the more traditional "Town Hall".)
Now, you may think that this is a rather meager picnic. So what! This is my picnic, not yours. If you want to have your fancy picnic of duck foie gras, black truffles, and merlot that's fine with me! Just don't crowd out my space in front of the mayor's office.
I also enjoy personal picnics during important staff meetings at work. But no one seems to mind, except for my boss and most of my co-workers. But, hey, the security guard couldn't give a rat's fanny that I eat in the conference rooms. In fact, the security guard doesn't even know my name. He is not even invited to read my posts.
Oh, wait. I forgot. I'm not a conference calling, e-solutions, glass ceiling, corporate climbing, cubicle drone kind of guy. I hold up the targets at the shooting range. It's the only job that allows me to sneak away to have picnics on the steps of Town Hall. I tell them that I have to go to the hospital to remove shrapnel from my eyes. Ha! Joke's on them.
That is a question with an obvious answer. Anybody who knows me well, knows that my favorite picnic foods include shredded wheat, steamed toast, and so-called "iced-cream". There are other foods, of course.
Often, (as often as I can get away from my job as a shooting range target-holder), I take the family out for a picnic on the steps of Town Hall. We will pack a few pillows of shredded wheat, perhaps a small handful of chocolate-covered yogurt beans, and some clam juice, then spread out our blanket right there on the front porch of the Municipal Civic Administration and Waste Water Management Building. (That was the original name, but since the sign painter charged by the letter, the town council decided to name the building the more traditional "Town Hall".)
Now, you may think that this is a rather meager picnic. So what! This is my picnic, not yours. If you want to have your fancy picnic of duck foie gras, black truffles, and merlot that's fine with me! Just don't crowd out my space in front of the mayor's office.
I also enjoy personal picnics during important staff meetings at work. But no one seems to mind, except for my boss and most of my co-workers. But, hey, the security guard couldn't give a rat's fanny that I eat in the conference rooms. In fact, the security guard doesn't even know my name. He is not even invited to read my posts.
Oh, wait. I forgot. I'm not a conference calling, e-solutions, glass ceiling, corporate climbing, cubicle drone kind of guy. I hold up the targets at the shooting range. It's the only job that allows me to sneak away to have picnics on the steps of Town Hall. I tell them that I have to go to the hospital to remove shrapnel from my eyes. Ha! Joke's on them.
9.14.2007
Writer's Lab #2
Tell about home cures for hiccups, warts, toothaches, colds, earaches, etc.
Once I got a horrendous bowel obstruction. I was playing a game where I pretended that I was a hen and sat on golf balls hoping they would "hatch". Come to think of it, it was a pretty stupid game. There was no structure to it. There were no rules. No one kept score. In fact, there was no "we". Just me, alone, on a very boring Wednesday afternoon when I should have been at work.
I must have sat the wrong way on one of these golf balls, because I could definitely feel a foreign object where the sun don't shine. I waddled into the kitchen where April, fortunately for me, was brewing a home-made colonic. She was tenderly stirring a ghoul-green mixture on the stove. I told her emphatically, "I need 200 cc's of whatever that is, STAT!"
(Although I don't know what a "cc" is, nor do I know what "stat" means, it must be important, for I heard those words used in a similar sentence on "Doogie Howser".)
Before April could answer, I grabbed the pot by both hands and gulped down the brew. In spite of it being incredibly hot, and permanently burning off 2/3's of my taste buds, my grievous bowel obstruction instantly popped out and gave me tremendous relief.
Except for the taste in my mouth. I was able to taste the mystery concoction before it burned off my buds.
"What was in that?!?" I quizzed, slurredly and with a disgusted look permanently ingrained on my face.
"Well, let's see." April responded. "One cup of eye-of-newt, two cups of foot-of-newt. Some ginseng, some tonicseng. A pinch of nutmeg, a dash of culpepper. Horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, Devonshire sauce, and vanilla extract for flavor."
"Nasty!" I resounded. "But in a delicious sort of way."
Once I got a horrendous bowel obstruction. I was playing a game where I pretended that I was a hen and sat on golf balls hoping they would "hatch". Come to think of it, it was a pretty stupid game. There was no structure to it. There were no rules. No one kept score. In fact, there was no "we". Just me, alone, on a very boring Wednesday afternoon when I should have been at work.
I must have sat the wrong way on one of these golf balls, because I could definitely feel a foreign object where the sun don't shine. I waddled into the kitchen where April, fortunately for me, was brewing a home-made colonic. She was tenderly stirring a ghoul-green mixture on the stove. I told her emphatically, "I need 200 cc's of whatever that is, STAT!"
(Although I don't know what a "cc" is, nor do I know what "stat" means, it must be important, for I heard those words used in a similar sentence on "Doogie Howser".)
Before April could answer, I grabbed the pot by both hands and gulped down the brew. In spite of it being incredibly hot, and permanently burning off 2/3's of my taste buds, my grievous bowel obstruction instantly popped out and gave me tremendous relief.
Except for the taste in my mouth. I was able to taste the mystery concoction before it burned off my buds.
"What was in that?!?" I quizzed, slurredly and with a disgusted look permanently ingrained on my face.
"Well, let's see." April responded. "One cup of eye-of-newt, two cups of foot-of-newt. Some ginseng, some tonicseng. A pinch of nutmeg, a dash of culpepper. Horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, Devonshire sauce, and vanilla extract for flavor."
"Nasty!" I resounded. "But in a delicious sort of way."
9.09.2007
Crazy Dream
April and I were at the movie theater. It was a small one, with only three or four screens. At this particular theater, the price to see a just-released movie was $13.00. (Not too far off the reality price here in the Northeast for a weekend-night.) Movies that had been out for at least a couple of weeks were only $5.25.
Well, I wanted to see "Stardust." Now, this movie has been out for about three weeks, so I expected to pay $5.25 each. So when the cashier told me that would be $26, I was mad. I refused to pay that much to see that (or any) movie, and suggested to April that instead we go rent one.
April wasn't too happy with that, but didn't protest. She waited out in front of the theater while I brought the car around. In my car (a crazy car for a crazy dream) I had to pay money to activate the passenger-side air bag. That's right, I had to insert bills just like a vending machine. The bill taker was inside the glove box. Since the movie theater was only a couple of blocks from our house, I didn't activate the airbag on our trip there. But since the rental store was much further away, I felt that it was prudent to activate the air bag this time. So, I opened the glove box and inserted fifteen dollars to activate the passenger air bag. That's right, fifteen bucks just so it would work if necessary.
As I was driving through the parking lot to pick up April, I realized that was a ridiculous sum. It would almost be just as much to stay and watch the movie. Then I thought, hey, this is my car! Where does that money go? Can't I retrieve my money somehow? It's like owning your own coin-operated gumball machine. You get your own money back.
(April got a kick out of this one. Even in my dreams I squabble about high prices.)
Well, I wanted to see "Stardust." Now, this movie has been out for about three weeks, so I expected to pay $5.25 each. So when the cashier told me that would be $26, I was mad. I refused to pay that much to see that (or any) movie, and suggested to April that instead we go rent one.
April wasn't too happy with that, but didn't protest. She waited out in front of the theater while I brought the car around. In my car (a crazy car for a crazy dream) I had to pay money to activate the passenger-side air bag. That's right, I had to insert bills just like a vending machine. The bill taker was inside the glove box. Since the movie theater was only a couple of blocks from our house, I didn't activate the airbag on our trip there. But since the rental store was much further away, I felt that it was prudent to activate the air bag this time. So, I opened the glove box and inserted fifteen dollars to activate the passenger air bag. That's right, fifteen bucks just so it would work if necessary.
As I was driving through the parking lot to pick up April, I realized that was a ridiculous sum. It would almost be just as much to stay and watch the movie. Then I thought, hey, this is my car! Where does that money go? Can't I retrieve my money somehow? It's like owning your own coin-operated gumball machine. You get your own money back.
(April got a kick out of this one. Even in my dreams I squabble about high prices.)
9.07.2007
Writer's Lab #1
Q: Describe getting a Christmas tree with your family as a child. How did you decorate it, when did you put it up, take it down, etc.
A: Well, this one is hard to answer. In my family, we didn't celebrate Christmas very often. Only about once a year, or so. We didn't have any special, traditional means in selecting a tree. We'd usually just go to the temporary tree store in the K-Mart parking lot.
I did enjoy decorating the tree. I remember using those lights with the big bulbs. Do they sell those anymore? Those kind of lights are probably a major fire hazard. That's probably why we stopped using them after burning down the tree twice in three years.
Every year Mom would buy a new set of ornaments to add to the collection. I never quite understood the severed Santa Claus heads, but, hey, we all have different tastes.
One year, I think, we tried to use the fake snow out of a can on the tree. Now, if those bulgy lights aren't a fire hazard, then fake snow is DEFINITELY sort of a fire hazard. And it most assuredly was fake snow. It didn't even sound or smell like real snow.
I enjoyed sitting alone in the living room, with all the lights out except those from the tree. It always reminded me of the year before, sitting alone, with all the lights out except those from the tree.
The tree came down on New Year's Day. Just like the wall came down on New Year's Day. That must have been one happy day for East Germans. Like ten years of Christmases all wrapped into one. Wait, I was talking about New Year's. No, wait, I was talking about trees. Wait! I wasn't talking at all. This word processor is not voice activated.
A: Well, this one is hard to answer. In my family, we didn't celebrate Christmas very often. Only about once a year, or so. We didn't have any special, traditional means in selecting a tree. We'd usually just go to the temporary tree store in the K-Mart parking lot.
I did enjoy decorating the tree. I remember using those lights with the big bulbs. Do they sell those anymore? Those kind of lights are probably a major fire hazard. That's probably why we stopped using them after burning down the tree twice in three years.
Every year Mom would buy a new set of ornaments to add to the collection. I never quite understood the severed Santa Claus heads, but, hey, we all have different tastes.
One year, I think, we tried to use the fake snow out of a can on the tree. Now, if those bulgy lights aren't a fire hazard, then fake snow is DEFINITELY sort of a fire hazard. And it most assuredly was fake snow. It didn't even sound or smell like real snow.
I enjoyed sitting alone in the living room, with all the lights out except those from the tree. It always reminded me of the year before, sitting alone, with all the lights out except those from the tree.
The tree came down on New Year's Day. Just like the wall came down on New Year's Day. That must have been one happy day for East Germans. Like ten years of Christmases all wrapped into one. Wait, I was talking about New Year's. No, wait, I was talking about trees. Wait! I wasn't talking at all. This word processor is not voice activated.
Writer's Lab Intro
I am currently taking a writing course. The focus is on children's books and magazines. The goal at the end of the course it to submit a story or article to an editor to get published.
To be a good writer, you must write a lot. At this point, work, exam study, family, and fixing up the house demand much of my time. There is still time to write, I just have to do it. While we were in Utah this summer, April discovered at her parent's house a "thought jar". It's a ceramic jar that she made filled with little strips of paper containing a question to answer or thought to elaborate on. I thought this would be a great way for me to have some good, short, writing exercizes. So, we smuggled the jar home, and as of right now, I haven't started.
Thus, I will use my new blogging powers as a means to move forward with my writer's ambitions. And all can share in the goodness. (All three of you who read this.)
To be a good writer, you must write a lot. At this point, work, exam study, family, and fixing up the house demand much of my time. There is still time to write, I just have to do it. While we were in Utah this summer, April discovered at her parent's house a "thought jar". It's a ceramic jar that she made filled with little strips of paper containing a question to answer or thought to elaborate on. I thought this would be a great way for me to have some good, short, writing exercizes. So, we smuggled the jar home, and as of right now, I haven't started.
Thus, I will use my new blogging powers as a means to move forward with my writer's ambitions. And all can share in the goodness. (All three of you who read this.)
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