Spare Me Your Oral Recipes

Another item to add to my growing list of pet peeves?  People who tell you how to make their favorite recipe.  Do you really think anyone will remember whether to add one or two eggs to the moussaka or  how much cinnamon goes into those breakfast rolls? 

Do I stir?  Blend?  Whip?  Are we baking and if so how high and for how long? 

I have difficulty remembering my phone number and I have to start from the beginning when the credit card company wants only the last four digits of my social security number.  I need what little room is left in my aging brain cells for important information.  There's no freakin' way I'm going to store your gramma's recipe for snicker doodles.

And the worst thing is that I pretend I'm getting it all.  Seemingly taking mental notes, nodding my head, muttering words of understanding and feigning interest.  Waiting for them to finish so I can add my "sounds yummy" comment.

Tweet it. Post it on your social network page. Text it. E-mail it.  Copy the recipe and send it. All of the above.  Just don't narrate it. 

The Saga of the Bamboo Socks

Having been in advertising for some twenty years, I'm pretty savvy about claims made in commercials and print ads.  Madison Avenue wants you to think you'll look ten years younger by slathering anti-aging cream on those crows feet or that you'll get the job by having whiter teeth or achieve nirvana by driving a hybrid.

So while I'm usually skeptical about far-fetched promises,  I do have a blind spot for products that say they're good for the environment, unscented, biodegradable or eco-anything.   This is my excuse for buying ten pairs of socks made from bamboo.  The package featured bamboo shoots and Chinese-style lettering that touted the processing from plant to sock was eco-friendly --- my personal kryptonite.  Luckily pandas were neither mentioned nor pictured or I would have bought twenty pairs.

They were soft, fun colors and designs and eco-friendly.  You'd think I'd be in sock heaven.  Here's the downside.  Every one of the socks sported a hole in the toe after only one day.  Same shoes I always wear, same toes I've always had.  Time to go back to the bamboo sock drawing board for a brainstorming session about  reinforcement. 

Now back in the day our mothers and grandmothers would have darned the hole and breathe new life into the sock.  If you can find me a modern woman --- not Martha Stewart -- who can do the same I will bow down before her --- and send her ten pairs of bamboo socks to mend.

The Most Inappropriate of Greetings

Happy Birthday.  Happy St. Patrick's Day. Happy Valentine's Day.  "Happy" is our go-to word  when we greet someone on these special days.  It implies some type of celebration, perhaps a Hallmark moment, at least a glass of green beer.  It's acceptable social behavior to wish someone a Happy (fill in your holiday here). 

Although I must admit that Happy Labor Day never quite hit the mark. What do we do on Labor Day?  Since most of us don't actually work, we spend the day mulling over how we've frittered away the summer, that fall is coming and what will I dress up as for Halloween which, as we all know, is right around the corner.

So with this cultural norm in mind, I was taken aback when someone wished me a Happy September 11th.  I honestly didn't know how to respond.  I couldn't say "same to you" knowing that the original greeting was totally inappropriate. I couldn't say "thank you" knowing that the person obviously had the social skills of a yak. I said nothing -- unusual for me -- but it seemed right.

Does anyone ever say Happy Pearl Harbor Day or Happy Start of the Civil War Day or Happy Anniversary of the Day President Kennedy was Assassinated?  

If so, give them an "F" in sensitivity and another one for truly bad taste.  These are the same morons who talk about plane crashes when you're waiting for a flight and the time they got stuck in the elevator when you're temporarily stuck on the 15th floor.   A pox of laryngitis on them all.

Since When is a Twelve a Plus Size?

It's Fashion Week again in New York.  Time to watch locust-like women strut down the catwalk wearing clothes we know we can't afford and, even worse, won't fit.  Some of them look downright angry.  Perhaps it's because they haven't eaten anything but lettuce leaves for days.  Feed them a cheeseburger and see if they don't brighten up a tad.

We all know these models don't represent real women.  We who have eaten a burger or two or three don't wear a size zero.  If you use that as the norm, does wearing a 12 make you plus-size? 

Apparently so, according to a reporter on one of the early morning shows who interviewed a gorgeous Amazonian model -- 6' 2", size 12 -- and kept calling her a plus-size.  This woman was curvy, all legs and
she smiled while telling her story about how she became a cover girl. 

Hurrah for her for breaking the bony barrier in fashion mags. Shame on whoever labels her plus-size. Twelve is the size of the average American woman and I doubt that we consider ourselves in the "plus" category.

The problem is that a 12 by one designer isn't the same as a 12 by another.  If only there was a standardization of sizes.  Right up there in the "best thing since sliced bread" category for me.  That way if I order a 12 on-line I know it is indeed a 12 and I won't be schlepping the box to the post office as a return.

It may sound shallow, but size does matter.  Probably lots of psychological and body issues involved there, but it does.  That's why I love shopping at Chico's where I wear a size 2.  Of course, I know that translates to a 12 but let me have my moment.

Cursive & Math -- So Yesterday

So let's amble down memory lane for a sec, if that's alright with you.  Think back to your early school days. Try to skip over the images of the towering nuns wielding rulers or the many hours post 3PM that you were punished for some academic misdemeanor.

Instead think about your penmanship class.  Our nuns swore by the Palmer Method complete with all the swirls and flourishes on the upper case letters, ascenders going just so high, descenders just so low.  Personally I had a difficult time with penmanship due to what was then thought to be a minor handicap -- I'm left-handed.  The nuns insisted I use my right hand to no avail.  Well, then at least hold the paper properly as though you were right-handed.  Also to no avail.  Thus I am one of those lefties who writes upside-down, curling my wrist above the emerging text.  (Watch President Obama next time he signs something. You'll get the picture.)

Penmanship was thought so important we had a line for it on our report cards.

Now, however, a growing number of school districts plan to eliminate cursive instruction while opting for keyboarding classes.  I'm all for progress and being a whiz on the keyboard is a needed skill but not in lieu of actually being able to physically write a sentence OR read one.

Memorizing multiplication tables is also on the chopping block.  The thinking is that since kids have access to electronic calculators why teach them their numbers.  Why?!  Why?!

What if you accidentally hit the wrong button on that handy dandy calculator and suddenly 7x7 comes out to be 46 or 51?   Without having the multiplication tables drilled into your brain how will you know you made a mistake. 

Technology can get a tad testy at times.  It likes to crash or freeze or forget that its user-friendly personality.  Then what?   All writing and calculating comes to a grinding halt?

Let me think for a sec -- 1x3=3.  Okay. Got it.  Three cheers for the abolition of cursive and basic math.   

Another Birthday for Moi

Here we go again -- yet another birthday.  No need to regale me with the usual platitudes:  consider the alternative (yes, I could be residing in an urn on the family mantel),  age is just a number (but does the number have to be so high), you look good for your age (I'm one wrinkle away from being mistaken for a pleated skirt). 

You know what I really hate?  When someone introduces an elderly person as "95 years young".  The person is five years shy of making it to Willard Scott's list of centenarians. There's not a microscopic element of youth in someone that old so please stop trying to be cute.

And since I'm ranting -- stop calling me "young lady".  In the restaurant --- and what will you have, young lady?  In the shop -- how can I help you young lady?   Is that supposed to be a complement you condescending twit?  I waved tata to "young lady" during the Reagan administration.

As you can tell, I'm not handling this ageing business well.  However, large quantities of chocolate cake -- the antidote for all life's problems -- should calm me down.  Just make sure it has only ONE candle.

Roach Coach No More

Not all that long ago we avoided food trucks like the proverbial plague -- possibly because that's what you might catch from eating at one. Lunch was yours to enjoy since nary a colleague would ask for a bite of anything purchased at a greasy food truck.

Roach Coach. Upchuck Wagon. Either way you were guaranteed greasy fries and burgers for not much cash.

Fast forward to 2012. The food truck is king. Long live the food truck. It is now way cool and semi-fine dining to buy a meal from these wheels. In fact, a Friday night gathering of food trucks at one local site is the place to be seen.

Of course, many of these food trucks have upgraded their menus from the greasy burgers and fries that made them famous -- or infamous -- to tasty international dishes from Thailand,India and other once exotic locales. I generally like the idea of a moveable feast. Sometimes it's a real "find". Unfortunately my next "find" needs to be someplace to sit down and eat.