Dec 31, 2009

Cupcakes

Watch out West Coast grad schools. I have my sights set on you (but mostly on the Sprinkles shop two blocks over).

Dec 2, 2009

Important

I purchased my first popcorn shrimp basket at Late Night Grille this evening. It came with fries and cocktail sauce. It is delicious.

Oct 27, 2009

Behcet's?!

THAT'S MY GALL BLADDER! Isn't it cute? That little blue thing right there on the left, that looks like an itty bitty robin's egg.

So school started...about two months ago. And a lot can change in two months. I got my appendix out. That was a fantastical week. I thought that would be my big news for the semester, really.

It wasn't. At all. But I got all these cool pictures from my surgeon.
You can click on them to see my purple, broken appendix in all its ruptured glory.

More pictures can be found in my Facebook album "In bun mode," which really just refers to the state of wearing a hair bun. In any case, my appendix did, in fact, rupture, but I was at the hospital already, and the operation was quick and easy. The whole ordeal was painful, but the surgery was cool, as always. FUN GAME: Try to stay awake as long as you can when they administer the anesthetics. [You always lose, but as a result, you always win.]

I also have three new scars because the operation was done...lapriscopically? Is that the right word? Something like that. They healed up pretty quickly too.

Then! In the midst of H1N1 sweeping the Allegheny College campus, of course I get something else, something totally weird and unexplainable. It started as a sore throat, which turned into lesions in my throat, which led to general inability to swallow, pee, or go to classness, to put it briefly. Then my eyes got super-inflammed and started to hurt. Then the swelling.

So you know what they diagnose me with? Herpes.

HERPES.

You just don’t tell someone they have herpes without being sure. You just don’t. Especially to a young woman with her whole life ahead of her, arguably. So for two days, I had herpes, and all the requisite emotional rollercoaster jerks of being diagnosed with an STD: the horror, the hopelessness, the regret, the confusion, the feeling that my youth had been stripped away. Then two days later, the doctor's like, Kidding, that was totally wrong. Sorry.

You don't even know.

I had to re-evaluate my entire life.

So the Health Office cut down on most of the symptoms with a late-but-welcome dose of prednisone, which I've been taking ever since.

Point is, they still couldn't figure out what's wrong with me, until they started connecting the dots...tonsillectomy here...mono there...appendectomy, oh my! Maybe she just has a crappy immune system!

And I do. Or they're pretty sure I do. The fun part is you can't easily diagnose autoimmune disorders, it's kind of like a process of elimination thing. So I'm spending all this week going to specialists to get blood drawn and tested, instead of going to class and distributing Overkill, which I would so rather be doing.

They think I have Behcet's Syndrome, which is common in Southeast Asia and the Middle East. The symptoms match up pretty well, and there's no cure, but there is treatment. And this is really upsetting because

1. I AM DISEASED.
2. Um, how will I pay my health insurance someday? They'll jack up my prices like crazy. Right? Isn't that how that works? Like there's no getting out of it. Dude, this sucks.

And it doesn't help to leave every doctor's office with another handful of prescriptions to fill. I'm TWENTY years old, damnit. Just- ok, I'm dealing with it, I am. Just don't complain about your workloads for school or anything around me, because seriously, I have bigger worries right now.

Then I'm like, oh no, there must be people on campus with herpes and cancer and other bad things. How do they make it through the day? Good grief. I take everything for advantage.

Sep 5, 2009

College.

John, Maggie, and Colin are sitting in my room playing an angry game of Mario Kart. There is much swearing. I feel at home.

Aug 19, 2009

Waiting

I'm done waitressing. My last day was on Sunday. You know how people have acid flashbacks? I have waitress flashbacks. Like sometimes I'll wake up in cold sweat and think I pressed the Side of Rice button when I should've pressed Side of Fries. I mean, I also have acid flashbacks but that's a different story.

Little things are coming back to me about the whole experience too. Like how remarkably feminist I am in (seeming) comparison to the other waitresses. I vividly remember one day when Adrienne was filling the soda machine with ice and dropped the bucket into the top of the machine.

She yelled out, "Oh my god. I can't reach. I need a boy!"

With this incredulous attitude that came out of NOWHERE, I strode up to the machine and pulled the bucket out, being quite taller than she. Then I said, more obnoxiously than I had liked, "You need a what? What do you need?"

"Or a...tall person..." she replied sheepishly.

"That's right."

Then I stalked off to serve my table, mentally scolding myself for acting so high and mighty.

But I kept doing stuff like that.

One day, I passed Heather taking a breakfast order from a grouchy middle-aged man. She was asking the standard questions you're supposed to ask, how would you like your eggs? Sausage or bacon? White or wheat toast? Butter or jelly?

And the guy just interrupted her and snapped, "Hey Blondie, why don't I talk and you write?"

I did a double-take and without thinking back to my "the customer is always right" training, I told him, "Hey, you don't talk to her like that." He wanted to see the manager. There were issues. But it felt totally right.

Then there's my whole deal with the correct term: waitress or server. I mean it's server if we're thinking political correctness and whatnot. But it's no coincidence every "server" I worked with was a young, attractive, skinny woman between the ages of 18 and 35. I don't dare put myself in that category, out of fear, because that can only mean I was yet another one to be gawked at and judged every single minute. It has to be different with guys. Waiters and servers. It has to be different.

We're very aware of the customers that watch us, that hit on us, that relish asking for each extra sauce one by one so they can watch us walk away (which we see in the mirrored wall) while they laugh with their buddies, that treat us like we all got pregnant in high school and are too dumb to go to college, especially when they give us their orders very slowly and repetitively, while I scold myself for even caring about the stereotypes and the commonly held beliefs.

There's a stigma to the waitress. There's a sexuality to the waitress. There's an urgency, an excuse to behave badly, a reason for mothers to feel the satisfaction of having someone else clean up their kid's mac&cheese mess after dinner. That is what the waitress is for.

There are people who just come out to eat and don't give their waitress a second thought.

But there are also people who come in to eat every day who complain about the food, who bitch about the wait, who shiver and say it's too cold in here, who want to see the manager, who want to used expired coupons, who loudly declare they're never coming back again, and you wonder why the fuck they come in to eat there every day if they hate it so much until you realize they have no job and no family and it's actually the best part of their day to come in and bitch and moan and feel like they have control over SOMETHING because they don't have control over anything else, so you pity them and deal with them because you know that letting them use you makes their day a little better, so you wait for them to come in.

We're all just waiting.

Really, this job taught me a lot about myself. I recommend waitressing to everyone because it's a very eye-opening experience to get to know yourself. I know the things I SHOULD'VE done...jobs with in-office experience...internships...grad school research...comp topic searching...but all I wanted to this summer was waitress, quite inexplicably. It was, in my mind, the biggest way I could push myself over the summer.

In any case, the job was enjoyable enough and certainly made me grow. My attitude going out to eat has become much more aware and empathetic now. And I'm better at small talk with people now, I think. I'm glad I did it. I kept the apron.

Aug 14, 2009

Psych majors, please comp on this?

Nails on a chalkboard don't bother me. At all.

But progressively, more and more,
and I have never before noticed this,
the following make me go gahhhhasjkldkge;lgjl:

1) Scraping plastic on styrofoam
(like a plastic spoon on a styrofoam ice cream to-go cup)
2) Scraping teeth on wet, wooden popsicle sticks
3) Scraping nails too hard on glazed ceramic coffee cups

Is this a psychological thing?
If nails on a chalkboard bother so many people,
then is this herd mentality or seriously a brain thing?
Can someone do their comp thesis on this please?
Or at least tell me if they know?
Because for the life of me, I don't know why these things
illicit such a strong and terrible gahhhaskkjkfriwe7!8n.

Kinda fascinating really.

Aug 6, 2009

A Thought

I am eating a grilled swiss cheese sandwich with truffle oil.
I am totally happy with it. Really freaking happy.


Do you ever stop to think: there is so much fucked up stuff in the world. So many people who can’t get what they want. So many dreams deferred and hopes crushed and goals so far out of reach. Even the most generic of people can make it through high school, go to college, get a job, get married, have kids, get a house, get life insurance, have a dignified tombstone… and it takes a whole life to get any of that stuff done.

But then there's food. Food is the only thing that give me total and immediate gratification. You eat it, you taste it, you swallow it, and it’s yours. No one else can take it from you. Food is fucking beautiful. I love food. I want to spend my life with food. This grilled cheese sandwich is beautiful.

Sex does not count as total and absolute immediate gratification. I can think of at least ten of my closest friends who would argue that. Sex gets complicated. You’re wrong. Even people in solid relationships can’t have sex whenever they want. But you can go downstairs at 4 a.m. and have a grilled cheese whenever. Masturbation is a little closer, I guess. This grilled cheese is probably a better sexual experience.

Why do some people waste their food time with crappy Lean Cuisine TV dinners and hard store-bought muffins when food is the best treat they’ll get all day?

I am so pleased with this grilled cheese.
If I wasn’t eating it, I’d have it plated with gold and put on display.

Aug 4, 2009

The Worst Line I've Ever Gotten

Customer: I'm Kevin, what's your name?
Me: Katrina.
Customer: What?
Me: Katrina. Like the hurricane.
Customer: Oh, cool.
Me: Yeah.
Customer: So hurricanes usually fly solo...you single?
Me: (stares)

Jul 27, 2009

In Defense of Fashion

So here I am, munching on my nectarine,
Flipping through the pages of Nylon magazine.

That rhymed, but this isn't a poem.
Bitch please, I didn't even have a single cup of coffee today.
(Post publishing edit: I did later.)

Today I'm thinking about fashion, makeup, & the careers and businesses surrounding them. This female-dominated realm is something in which I ricochet back and forth, as far as whether I take it seriously or not. Whether I like it or not. Whether it's worth my time or not.

And deciding whether you like something or not is very important, I think. Never definitive and final, but always very important.

I decided a long time ago that I do not like expectation. And unfortunately, I think life for a lot of people is built around expectation. There's a comfort to it and a need for it. But expecting I'll graduate from college, get a job, settle down, have 2.5 kids and a pension plan is necessary but not very interesting, no. I'll be happy to have all those things (and views can always change) but I'm not fired up about it. Not now at least. Not at all.

I also decided a long time ago that I love art. I love creating it and admiring it. And I know what kind of art I like. More Warhol than Whistler. More Gorey than Gauguin. And more Louboutin than Leonardo. I prefer art without the expectation of enjoying it in a museum where you're supposed to enjoy art. I like flipping through the pages of a magazine and finding art. I like walking down the street and finding art. I like rolling out of bed in the morning, smearing on my makeup while my eyes are still blurry from sleeping with my contacts in, and then realizing I did a pretty artistic job blending my eyeshadow regardless.

I like constantly reinventing myself with art. Fashion and makeup allow me to do that.

That's about it. Really.

So many people view the world of fashion, design and couture as superficial, vapid and useless. I often thought that way too, because in the great scheme of things, what I wear today doesn't mean a damn thing and doesn't make a bit of difference to anyone 100 years from now, 10 years, 1 year, tomorrow.

But I'm not hanging around 100 years from now, I'm hanging around right here, and if a boucle sweater and leggings make me feel sexy and happy right now, then sweet muffins!

So billions of women and gay men, if I may embrace some stereotypes, read Vogue, Vanity Fair, and other fashion magazines, or watch Top Model and Project Runway, inhaling fashion advice and goggling at images with anticipation, fascination, and devotion that others may compare to following politics, music, or sports.

I like some of them. I like the flamboyant Sanjaya look-alike that just got kicked off the designer reality show because he threw a hissy fit about his model being too skinny to fill out into his masterpiece fringed poncho. Dude, I'd be upset too. That fringe took like two days.

I do not like the ET correspondents who flock to the red carpet begging to know who Blake Lively is wearing. Brands are dumb. I also hate when celebrities tell fashion reporters they're wearing some obscure designer's name and get impressed responses as if they just figured out a really difficult math equation.

I think fashion is art when I like what I'm seeing. Durr. Asymmetrical shapes and offbeat colors are fashionable to me because they're interesting to look at. I don't care if bubble skirts are a great trend for the Fall, but I do care that my new skirt makes my butt look like a bubble, which is intriguing.







Maybe I just like flipping through Vogue for the voyeuristic deliciousness of their beauty, colors, and good hygiene, and that tiny hope that those "Get this look!" tips could bring me just a little closer to such a beautiful, bizarro world.

The point is, I think I get fashion as an art form. Not so much the business with whoever decides what's "in" and what's "out" and whoever thought Crocs were a good idea. But the fact that everyone wakes up in the morning (except for people who die in their sleep) and gets dressed. I see the innovative potential in fashion and cosmetics to transform this necessary task into a daily creative adventure to evoke a mood, make a statement, or generate conversation. Not with a $5000 Gareth Pughs coat of polyurethane balloons (above), but you know. That potential tastes good.


This has been Trina Tulloch, in another edition of "Desperate Attempts to Justify Herself with Seemingly Analytic Rambling." Good night, America.

Jul 23, 2009

The Lyrics to the Pancake Song

(from The Mighty Boosh, which you should know about)

eggs, milk and flour, pancake power,
look at his milky yellow sunshine face
flip it now flip it good oo
flip it now flip it good oo
some are salt
some are sweet
some are fruit
some are meat

the time we used the chive
it really came alive!
edible frisbees
springtime tuesday

i like to boogie.

All hail British humor.

Jul 18, 2009

Driving, Sushi, and HP6

Yesterday I got my drivers license (!!!)

Unfortunately, this still doesn't mean my dad trusts me driving alone. He has separation anxiety out the wazoo. He makes all these excuses about our insurance policy, but really he just wants me to be miserable. Truth.

I am currently eating a frozen yogurt. I don't often freeze my yogurts, I usually just eat them with tons of extra creamy Reddiwhip so I achieve my life long goal of being an All-American fatty. But someone recommended I try freezing Yoplait Whips. It's OK, in a frozen fluffy way. My spoon tastes too metallic. I broke a spoon at work today. Life is so unfair with spoons.

Apparently, I have forgotten how to type a happy and comprehensible blog post.

Let's start over.

I got my driver's license! I was shopping online a little for a car. I have such an affection for those new, boxy cars like the Cube [mobile device] and the Honda Fit. And those Smart Cars they imported recently from Europe. I don't know brands, haha, just shapes. Boxy cars look so futuristic to me, like the flying pods from The Fifth Element. Really I'd be happy with any car, but I hope the wave of boxcars means we're deep in a transition period toward digital and electric automobiles along with everything else. Sometimes I'm totally blown away by how different things are from ten years ago.

I don't even know how I would explain stuff today to someone in 1999. Did we even have iPods then? Friends was still on air. How would you tell someone back then that the funniest TV shows today don't even have laugh tracks? Holy cannoli, that was when I was in fourth grade. I had just gotten my first pair of glasses. They were wire frames. (shudder)

Anyway.

Yesterday, my mom and I went out to try a new restaurant to celebrate my acquisition of The NYS License. We meant to Koto Japanese Sushi Bar, but then my mom told me "koto" in her language means "lice." This significantly decreased my desire to go there. We instead went to a place called Hana, also a Japanese Sushi Bar, but also a steakhouse and hibachi bar.

I rarely go out for Japanese food (there are so few places here in the 518) but this place was EXTRAORDINARY. My mom and I were decided to be daring and order only dangerous sounding things. She got "Fast and Furious Sashimi" and I got "Dynamite Sushi."

Dynamite.

Our sushi chef.


Fast and Furious.


Bar.


Mmm.

What else, what else is going on. I saw HP6 twice. It was ridiculously funny the second time, because I was watching more of what was going on in the background than the main action in every scene There is some seriously funny and great acting by the extras. It's really always just very British, lots of very questionable staring. Especially Snape's reactions to everything. I really believe this is the best film to date. Everyone keeps complaining about a lack of action sequences and magic special effects, but they're the same people who thought Transformers 2 was good. Also, they paid money to go out and see Transformers 2. So I rest my case. I'm just really happy to see the younger cast starting to act and play off their amazing and experienced cast members (Alan Rickman, Maggie Smith, Helena Bonham Carter, Jim Broadbent, etc.)

I sound super snobbish and misleadingly interested in celebrity news, but I just really have a passion for watching British people, having grown up watching miniseries after miniseries on PBS.

Jul 9, 2009

A Love Letter

Dear Table 74,

It was such a delight to be your waitress this evening! You took my breath away the moment you walked through the doors. Your greeter and I may have debated in the kitchen whether or not you were completely stoned off your ass, but baby, you know that's how I like my men. Your bloodshot eyes, easy smile and ravenous appetite were more charming than anything else.

First of all, thank you so much for taking the time from your cell phone conversation to give me your order. I also really enjoyed the workout I got running back and forth to get you all those different sauces for your one turkey club. And it sure was a sexy surprise to find out you're in the army, although it would've been easier if you had asked if we give military discounts before I brought you your check.

But oh, the cherry on top of the sundae was when you left me your name and number on the bill, with a little "Call me." Brandon, I would totally call you, cause you were kind of a rugged hottie, but I'm afraid the $2 tip you left just doesn't say "true love" to me. Feel free to try again, though! *thumbs up*

Affectionately yours,
Katrina

Jun 30, 2009

It's raining, which I enjoy.
I saw this bush outside my window.
Its leaves get hit by raindrops one by one.
So the overall effect is a shivering bush.

It looks cold.
I pity it.

There are so many other things in the world.
Important things. Horrible things.
My attention was held by this.

Is this poetry?

Jun 26, 2009

Jellyfish, Teeth Whitening Strips, and My Ass

I watched Globe Trekker on PBS last night. The host went to Micronesia for this episode and got to swim in a place called Jellyfish Lake in Palau.

A Video from inside Jellyfish Lake
(click)

It's this amazing lake closed off from the ocean where the different kinds of jellyfish don't encounter any predators so their population just flourishes and there are millions of them in there! Because they have no predators, they don't develop really strong stings so humans can swim in there and be OK, which, in the program, was just so beautiful. I put swimming in Jellyfish Lake on my list of things to do before I die.

I bought Listerine Teeth Whitening strips because I saw a cool commercial for them and wanted to try them out. They're fun and work well and dissolve in my mouth, which is technologically amazing to me. They're like little minty rice papers.

My ass seems considerably larger than it was at the beginning of summer, which I attribute to my fried food intake at work. Honestly...I've never been more excited. I mentally put Venus Hottentot type bodies on a pedestal, perhaps because my mother constantly pushes food on me because she grew up in a developing country where fat still is a symbol of wealth, luxury, and happiness. It led me to respect the whole "put-some-meat-on-your-bones" concept, even in backwards Western culture where fat suggests excess, lack of self-control, and arguably poverty. That, combined with two serious past boyfriends being "ass men" and the song "Baby Got Back," put this recent development in happy light.

The Feminist in me raises the red flag at that thought...do I actually determine my happiness and self-worth at least partly by what other people value, specifically males? How disturbing. The Vulcan in me refutes that disturbance, determining the previous boyfriends' affinity to The Ass as positive reinforcement from potential breeding mates, whose opinion matters on simple grounds of survival by biological reproduction and happiness by sheer attraction. How logical. The Zen Muffin in me finds both arguments enough of an acceptable balance of Yin and Yang to continue eating the food that contributes to my factually larger derriere. How delicious. The Journalist in me finds the fact that I just blogged about my butt quite shameful, because apparently I can't comment intelligently on anything else in the world. How embarrassing.

The Couch on which I sit thinks my butt is big. Sweet.

In an attempt to sound apologetic and less pleased with my body, because that is the unfortunate paradigm of the female figure set by historic precedent and reinforced by popular culture, the upper half of my body is still waiting on puberty. You got this far so you officially care...I'll keep you posted.

Jun 20, 2009

Can't Stop Reading About It, Talking About It, Thinking About It


Source: http://tehranbureau.com/2009/06/20/iran-updates/

And the worst part is, I feel like I can't do anything more than make my Twitter avatar green.

Jun 19, 2009

Paradox on Hiatus

I just found out one of my closest and longest friends is pro-life. When the conversation came up, I realized two things.

1. I had never asked and she had never asked and our friendship and conversation has never delved into politics or ideology. In fact, we had never really talked about “grownup stuff” until we hung out together this particular night. Apparently we’ve only ever conversed in witty banter and boy talk. For six years.

2. I wasn’t strong explaining my own beliefs. I was taken aback by what she said and when it was my turn to share, I found myself explaining my pro-choice views with a very apologetic tone. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop. I often find myself being intolerant of people who don’t think other people should have a choice, or who use their religion to solidify their political views (nshe didn't), but in this case, I was trying very hard to make her be OK with me, so hard that I painted my view as the bad one. As if I should say sorry for being pro-choice.

I was incredibly annoyed with myself, as you can imagine. Especially because her response was so chill, as ever, “That’s cool,” which is why I love her in the first place. She didn't care we had different views on something I've always considered a heated subject, although she looked a little amused at my scrambling to explain. And I’m the moron who nearly pissed myself making a big deal about political ideology.

The thing is, I didn’t do it because I’m iffy with my beliefs, I did it because of my need to comfort people. I put a lot of value on hospitality, and trying to make people comfortable and happy, which really clashes with the fact I love speaking my mind. I hate imposing upon people, but I love standing up for what I believe in. In this case, I didn’t impose, but she wasn’t challenging me. She was asking me. So I found myself questioning (again) what’s more important to me.

Really, I’m a confused girl. There’s one thing I know for sure about myself - I like change for the hell of it. I was that kid in high school that dressed preppy one day and goth the next, not because I didn’t know who I was, but because I knew exactly who I was: someone extremely interested in breaking limits, fucking with expectations, blurring the line from one stereotype to the next, and surprising people. The biggest compliment someone could pay me would be something along the lines of, I don’t get you. I think escaping the limits of categorization is important to lead a happy, exciting lifestyle. I don’t know why I’m like that, but I’m sure it’s a whole other blog post. Maybe psych thesis material.

But that's why I’m uncomfortable explaining my views. Or calling myself a liberal. A feminist. An atheist. Because while I am those things, in the most basic of terms, a label like “pro-choice” doesn’t even begin to describe my views. I don’t like putting myself in groups when I think I have too many qualities that contradict.

It’s just easier on paper.

In my Writing Fiction class, I came across a really intriguing author named Paul Lisicky who kept being asked in interviews whether his work was fiction, memoir, or poetry. No one could peg it down and he would never tell anyone. He said, “I’m really interested in slipping in the spaces between genres…most of my friends were poets at Iowa (his school), but I think I’m one of those artists who isn’t terribly comfortable being categorized.” That really spoke to me.

I’ve been searching for a proper term to define this…motivation behind my daily life, I suppose, but that fight is, in itself, an effort in futility. But I'm extraordinarily happy to be thinking about it.

Jun 17, 2009

BUFFY'S BACK

Joss Whedon is tied to a project to produce Buffy, The Animated Series. I nearly pissed myself with excitement. They better do this well and I really hope the original actors return to do voices. SMG did the voice of April in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so it's not like it's anything new for her. Oh my god, I'm so excited.

Jun 14, 2009

Of Note

1. I wish I could be in Tehran right now. I mean, I'd probably get shot for being too outspoken, because I think their election was completely rigged and all the news reports are good and unbiased and implicative like this, from TehranBureau,

"The polling stations had been closed a little over two hours. Although we were told that results likely wouldn’t come in until late Saturday or even Sunday, a landslide victory was declared for President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad not long after midnight. No one, however, besides perhaps his staunchest supporters seem to trust the numbers. 'What happened?' people started to ask one another as a general feeling of confusion took over."

(above, women lined up to vote) And I only wish I could be that eloquent: well...it's all very suspicious...NO. IT WAS FUCKING RIGGED. It was a huge voter turnout and Iranian people care so beautifully much about their vote and it was just stolen from so many of them. I wish someone would just say it.

The police stopped foreign reporters and anyone trying to tape the protests, but low-quality home videos taken by people at the scene proved the violence of the police officials against Mousavi demonstators. International editor and reporter Lindsey Hilsum from Live Tehran 4 asked one citizen what he thought of the election and he responded, "Better not to think, better to close your eyes, and shut off all senses." Hilsum's cameraman was arrested during her report and their camera, confiscated.

Breaks my heart.











Mousavi, above
The protests, below

Pictures from time.com.

2. In other news, I changed my Facebook Name to Trina Tulloch because it sounds newscasterish and oh man, I just freakin' love alliteration.

3. I also requested information from several grad schools:
Newhouse School of Journalism at Syracuse
Emerson College, School of Journalism
Columbia University, Graduate School of Journalism
Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern
Berkeley Graduate J-School
CUNY Graduate J-School
U of Missouri J-School
Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio

And I requested it all under Trina Tulloch. And loved it. I'm tired of being associated with hurricanes.

Jun 11, 2009

This Isn't A Food Blog, But...

I visited two amazing restaurants in the last week and just have to share. Like art, restaurants are another thing I would tally on my hypothetical death bed (refer to previous post). I'm fascinated with Starbucks as a corporation, but am an independent-cafe-o-phile at heart.

On Monday, I went to Peaches Cafe in Stuyvesant Plaza, formerly known as Peaches 'n' Creme in the nineties, so says my mom. I guess it's an ice cream parlor/bakery-turned-bistro (probably when Cold Stone came in, those bastards, oh wait, I worked for them for four years).

Anyway, I was delighted to have some of the best French Onion Soup in my life, with a tasty portobello and swiss on focaccia and side of fresh pasta salad with pesto. Ughhh so good.

Last night, I went to Provence and it was a dinner of many firsts for me...

1. First time drinking wine out with the
parents. I expected that would be after my 21st birthday, because my parents are rrrrulll straight-edge, but they probably forgot how old I was. My Uncle Bill, for whatever reason, bought two bottles of Chateau Corton Grancy wine, which is, idk, $100 a bottle.

!?

We're not rich people. I was psyched.

2. First time trying escargot! My only knowledge of this luxurious and mysterious food item is that it's snails and that it tastes like a balloon, according to Mary-Kate Olsen, in a childhood movie favorite, It Takes Two.







It's a SLUG. And I ATE it. It was chewy, and soft
and didn't taste like chicken. It tasted like slug.
At first, I thought they would be breaded in their little pods (strangely similar to the pods in Dollhouse) but the bread was actually like a little hat on top of the totally exposed slugosity. Like I really can't stop talking about the experience because it was truly bizarre and while I wouldn't call escargot delicious, it's certainly something I plan to try everywhere because I bet they do lots of different things with it. I didn't expect the little bread hats, but damn were they cute. It had a pesto sauce and olive oil too.

^ That's my dessert there.
Decadent layers of white and dark chocolate mousse.

Really, this is just me being a whore for food and photography.

Jun 7, 2009

Art and Confessions

I really do love to paint. It's one of those things where I'll be on my death bed and instead of happy, educated children or # of charity organizations to which I regularly donated, I'll be like, how many paintings did I do?! I need to calculate my success!! Actually, I have a real list of things to do before I die - none of which are important to the progression of society but literally to check off on my death bed (I have this death bed visual) or else I'll flip out about lost opportunities and induce my own heart attack.

A simple sampling:

#58 Open an independent business, preferably a cafe or bakery
#22 Sell a piece of my own art
#3 Make homemade cheese and give to a friend

Anyway, art means a lot to me, even though I really have no talent with it. I can't do cool effects or realistic portraits, but I have a pretty steady hand, so I like to think that makes up for everything else. And last year, when I joined my sorority, I got a cool position as the Junior Panhellenic Delegate. This was only a few weeks after I became a pledge so it was this whole big deal for me, my first leadership position in college. And that night I went back to my dorm all bouncy and inspired and spent hours painting a plaque, of sorts, for myself, because yes, I am that solipsistic.

Hah, you can see Delta Delta Delta didn't even exist at our college yet, I had to add them in as a cornerstone afterthought. Cornerstone Afterthought would be a great name for my future kid.

I meant to pass this down to the next Junior Panhel Delegate with a piece of chocolate, because I really want the girl who gets the first position in her pledge class every year to feel as proud of herself as I did. Like a cute little motivational token. I'm just having some trouble letting go of it. The current JPD is Emily Benner. I'll give it to her...soon.

#22 on my list of things to do before I die will so never happen.

It's like...painting something, no matter what it is, is such a romantic, intimate thing for me. It's just me, no makeup or attempts at interesting conversation, sitting in my room or wherever, with music playing. Spending hours with only canvas and paint and water. That's really romantic. Not for myself. I sound like I'm in love with myself haha. It's just mean, it's something very private and happy and lonely but in a great way. So that's why it's so hard to give up the products of experiences like that, which I think are so rare to have at all.

Selfish painter, reporting for duty.

Jun 2, 2009

New Job & Microwaveable Habits

Yesterday was my first day of work!

Let me start by saying I haven't slept since 6pm yesterday evening. I have a serious problem sleeping. John hated that all this semester, because it makes me a terrible bed buddy. But it’s true. So in the summer, my day is really two days. I sleep for 12 hrs and am awake for 24 hrs. I went to work this morning for the first time on no sleep, and with only coffee for breakfast. Worst decision of late.

Not because I was tired and about to crash, no, I could hold my own, baby. But there was cooking breakfast EVERYWHERE and it smelled so good and was complete torture. Also, I was duo-trained with another chick, an 18-year-old BRIGHTLY blonde haired, SUPER blue eyed HVCC student with tons of clumpy mascara named Ciana. I liked her a lot. But she didn't have breakfast either, and we starved and moaned about being hungry together.

And then my manager came along to give us paperwork to fill out. My manager, Jessica, has this insanely red hair. I could so visualize my life right then, the blonde, the brunette, and a redhead, and almost hear the porno music pounding in the background.

“If you both really want this job, you’re going to have to do me a little favor…”

bow chicka wow wow

No really, it was friendly girl chatter. Jessica brought us to the back room where Ciana and I watched these horribly corny but produced in 2009 DVDs on service, cleaning, ice cream, and fire safety. Ciana and I just cracked up at the little kids trying to remember their script, “It’s my…uh…birthday!”

Jess also had the really exciting news that all of the tips we make are totally ours, none of that namby-pamby tip pooling. This is non-equality in the work place of which I absolutely approve and was so relieved to hear. If one waitress gets $100 a night and another one gets $50, Waitress #2 can suck it and start being a better waitress.

Then, Ciana and I took the official tour. We saw the backroom with all the candy, the fridge, the freezer, the cleaning supplies, the COFFEE MAKER named Ralph, the salad bar, the fryer, the cook (he was making buffalo wings and Ciana and I nearly died), the registers, and the ice cream fountain. Dude, Friendly’s has like fifty different ice cream flavors in their fountain. I worked at Cold Stone and they seriously had sixteen, tops. SWEET DEAL.

I’m scheduled to work on Saturday, though, which, if you’ve been keeping up with your East Coast news coverage, is the annual Free Ice Cream Day. Jessica was like, “You and I are gonna have a fun day.” Noon-5p.m. Free Ice Cream. She said I won’t have to scoop though, that I’ll be out there with her talking to kids in the lines. That’s really awesome, I like talking to kids, especially for $9/hr., bitches! Training wages were surprisingly good. People kept warning me about waitressing pay and the bad economy, I was freaking out. Dude, what’s the worry?

So far, so good. I love my job. Check back on that fact in a month.

But that food, oh my god. I better get seriously great buffalo wings on my breaks or I'm not gonna make it there.

I’m in my kitchen typing this right now and my leg is on the counter because I'm making toast.

I should explain that better.

I have this thing where sometimes I feel badly about my body. Which is normal and stupid but normal and regular. It's such a mean commentary in my head though, when this happens.

Hey, Failure, why the hell aren’t your tits as big as everyone else’s?

Fix your tummy.

You are a mess.

Grow, tits, GROW.

At the beginning of the summer, I started a really weird thing whenever I go down to the kitchen and heat up something to eat, I do some ridiculous yoga position until it's done. I do a backbend down the fridge or one of those keep your leg at a 90 degree angle to tone your abs until the toast is done toasting or the popcorn popped in the microwave. So I would just hold this position, feel the burn, and, in my head, it balances out the crap I plan to eat seconds later. It’s ridiculous and not a real workout regimen but it’s what I do, and so my mom comes into the kitchen when I’m, like, on the floor in a pseudo-split while my coffee is brewing and she’s like wtf are you doing?! Try explaining that shit to your mother.

"Oh, nothing."

She always thinks I'm doing something outrageously horrible to myself. Today, though, I pushed my toast too far into the toaster that it got stuck in the toaster wiring so I waited for it to cool down and then stuck my hand into the toaster, trying to pull it out. My mom came in just then and thought I was trying to burn myself. She absolutely freaked, but I was just trying to get the bread out.

May 30, 2009

A Bit of Art

It's a simple one, but was fun to make. I read a quote from Laura Laine, this uh-mazing b&w illustrator/fashion designer/artist,"Color is merely an intrusion in the world of art."

imposeimposeimpose

I disagree with her...completely, but I wanted to give painting a shot with just black and white. My canvas was too big to properly scan her in but this was the result. I don't know why parents do this, but when both my mom and dad saw it, they didn't praise it or critique it or anything normal; they just kept demanding to know who it was. They're annoying.

I really like painting people. It would be cool to do the art for a murder mystery novel or something, like Disquiet. Hm, new career aspiration? Trying to think up a name for this chick...

Uncaffeinated Train of Thought

I often feel like I should talk about something intelligent, or news-worthy, on a blog, other than my day-to-day life. Because it feels like an imposition on people to talk about what I accomplished today or what I think about something. And what if someone asked about what I blogged about, and I could only honestly answer, myself? But when I look at other people's blogs, I love reading when they talk about themselves. It's fascinating and funny and I feel like I can be better friends with them, in a satisfyingly voyeuristic kind of way, even if I don't know them. I guess that's incentive to continue as is. And I'm excited to publish more fiction. I don't really know what the problem is, because I happily make 20 page scrapbooks about my life (I have four big ones now, for each semester of college) but they're only for my kids someday, so they know I was totally cool.

I really hope my kids are cool. If they're not, I'm going to be super disappointed. Not cool like quarterback of the football team cool, because if that were the case, I'd disown him on the grounds of being a tool (if he's anything like my high school's quarterback), but cool like I can chill with them sometimes. That's all I want from my kids. I still have awesome shopping trips with my mom and am not ashamed of it, not at all.

Overkill has been on my mind a lot lately. I've been tossing around lots of ideas in my head about where it's going to go, since I guess, with Erin and Emily out for good, the whole thing will rest on my shoulders. But lots of great people have stepped up saying they want to help, so hopefully this means it won't be hard to get writers and designers in the fall. I'm most nervous (read: terrified) about the first meeting where it'll just be me up there organizing the voting for new officers and delegating responsibilities with no E&E by my side. It's a big deal though, because here's a perfect chance for someone like me to bring Overkill in a direction that will make a long-lasting, eclectic mark on the campus for years to come, and that's not something every college student gets to do.

...GAH. I need coffee.

May 28, 2009

A Poor Attempt at Fiction by Katrina A. Tulloch


Domino


Royo Takishimi walks out of his apartment at 3:59 PM and is almost immediately run down by an ice cream truck going much too fast. The truck driver screeches away nonchalantly and Royo shakes his fist at the puff of smoke it leaves.

Royo is having quite a bad day. His girlfriend packed up and left him last night. He usually has sex with her in the mornings but not this morning. He just had a late lunch by himself at home – leftover Chinese takeout – but is now going back to work.

Blair Charlotte is a beautiful little girl. She already won first place at Little Miss Sunflower and had actually been stopped on the street last year by an acting/modeling agent. Blair’s mother Yolanda would have signed her up right away but it happened while Blair was with her father for the week. He picked Blair up off the ground and flipped the agent off while carrying her away. Blair cried about it until her father bought her a Barbie and strawberry ice cream. She just got out of her last class and is on the school-sanctioned bus ride to her ballet lessons.

Yolanda, Blair’s mother, won the 1985 Beauty of the Boroughs Pageant based on her silver bikini and moderately skillful baton twirling. She is currently stuck in traffic on the corner of Manhattan and 9th. Her platinum blonde hair razored into a severe chop sways every time she glances out her cab window at the light. She taps her foot irritatingly until her stiletto slips off.
Yolanda huffs, bends down, and pulls it back on. As the cab begins to finally pull forward, she sits up and spots an ATM out the window.

Yolanda is late to pick up Blair from ballet and hasn’t paid the ballet teacher in nearly four weeks now. She has also just realized she has no cash to pay the cab driver. She suddenly asks Muhammad Jazhal to pull over for a moment. Muhammad, who should've gone on his break ten minutes ago, sighs and does so.


Royo gets back to the office on time, but immediately realizes he forgot his quarterly competitive marketing proposal on the kitchen table. He is scheduled to present it to his boss in half an hour. He clenches his eyes together, then takes off, but he will not get back in time.

Yolanda flies to the ATM, just cutting off a man wearing a black business suit, even though it is over ninety degrees out. She hastily apologizes as she punches in her PIN number, Clark’s birthday, which she mentally reminds herself to change now that the divorce is final.

Royo gets home at 6:59 PM. He is exhausted but looking forward to being comforted about the proposal fiasco by Claire until he remembers she’s gone. He is hungry but does not want to go eat out alone. He flips on the TV to hear his stock has plummeted another few points.

Blair is the only ballerina left. Her forehead is pressed against the front glass of the ballet studio on West 53rd.

“Sweetie, should I call your mom again?”
Mrs. Valmont is 56 years old and doesn’t know how to work a cellular phone.
“OK.”
And Mrs. Valmont is in the back room using the rotary phone on the wall next to her framed 1962 degree from Linda’s Collegiate School of Dance. Yolanda feels the vibration in her coat pocket but continues to punch buttons.

Royo is still hungry. He doesn’t keep much food at home because he often goes out with Betsy. Royo looks everywhere for his Yellow Pages to call for pizza, but his sneaky old illegal immigrant neighbors always steal them because they’re not registered as citizens.

Yolanda arrives at Twinkletoes Junior Studios half an hour late. She apologizes profusely to Mrs. Valmont and hands her a fat wad of cash. Mrs. Valmont seems perfectly satisfied with this apology. Blair, on the other hand, is furious.

“I was waiting forever.”
“I know, Sweetie Pie, I’m so sorry. My cab got stuck in traffic. I’ll tell you what; how about I bring you to a movie tonight? Broadway show? What will make it better?”

Royo Takishimi gives up on the Yellow Pages and hunts down a 24/7 Pizza Delivery place online. He calls them up and orders a large sausage and mushroom pizza for himself. A friendly young woman on the other end says it’ll be there in just ten minutes. Royo sighs in relief and contentment and flops back onto his burgundy leather couch.

Blair and Yolanda are on the cab ride home to Yolanda’s Park Avenue apartment. Yolanda is on the phone with Blair’s flute teacher.

“That just will not work. You must reschedule that recital for the 19th; it’s impossible for her to miss this audition. You don’t understand, we’ve had it arranged for months.”
“Mom, it’s really OK if I miss just one – ”
“Quiet, honey. They’ll fix it. Yes, I understand there are other students scheduled, but my daughter is the First Chair flutist – what exactly do you plan to do without her?”

Royo goes to the door with his wallet, completely forgetting that he was never able to get money at the ATM today, on account of a blonde woman emptying the last of the cash stored in the machine right before him. Royo desperately asks the pizza boy if he can pay by check or credit card. The pizza boy stares at him, then turns and walks away with the pizza, shaking his head, his dreadlocks swinging back and forth. Royo stands in the doorway and watches him go. No cab, no pizza. He needed to get cash soon. He remembers he has some Ramen left in his cabinet.

Yolanda hangs up.
“I told you not to do that.”
“It’s for your own good, darling.
Blair glowers at her mother.

The water is boiling. Royo snips a strip of plastic from the top of the Ramen and goes to pull out the teriyaki flavor packet that isn’t there. He peers into the little red bag. Surely a mistake. Royo shakes the dry noodles from the bag. Empty. Of all the billions of Ramen packages in the world, someone forgot to put in the flavor packet in this one. Royo’s eye twitches.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, young lady. As a Charlotte, you ought to learn this lesson sooner rather than later. It’s important they know who’s in charge. We’re the benefactors in this world; we put food on their table, and they often need to be reminded. Don’t you forget that.”
Blair sighs and rests her head on the cab window.

Royo is running toward his balcony. The screen door is wide open.
He doesn’t think. He jumps to the street below.

Clark Charlotte is half-listening to the news on the 1994 Sanyo television fixed above the bar. An unintentional suicide murder, it is. Some guy jumped from his apartment right into 14th Street. A mother and daughter crushed on impact, but their cab driver is fine.

Clark chuckles, “Good for the cab driver,” and orders another round of drinks.

Clark’s boss laughs, “Hope his register’s running as long as they’re stuck in the cab.” They continue to guffaw at the broadcast, celebrating Clark’s great marketing proposal that afternoon.

Fact

This blog isn't interesting at all.


Maybe some fiction or news or poetry
rants or reviews or revelations
or pictures
will help.

Wonderful Things Right Now

1. Just got hired as a waitress at Friendly's, where I really wanted and needed a summer job. My manager is so chill and down-to-earth, too. Everyone has been telling their hair-curling stories of food service, so I've got my tolerant shield up, but I really am excited to start. And I've worked with ice cream and kids before at Cold Stone, so I guess it'll be just like that except with waitressing and no carpel tunnel. It's the Friendly's right by the hood though, and the manager said she had to kick some people out once for threatening to shank one of the waitresses. Should be interesting.
2. Soon-to-be Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor (!)

3. I'm going shopping today for ice cream-colored polo shirts for Friendly's! That's seriously the uniform. "They have to be an ice cream color," she said. I was thinking about this today; I'm happy to get more polo shirts because I have always liked them and never bought them because they're so associated with a preppy stigma, but I only like them because they're so colorful. And now I can wear them to work in Admissions all the time too! Sweet muffins.

polo polo polo polo polo polo polo polo

4. Got a letter from Maggie yesterday!


5. I have a strawberry popsicle right now.


So life is currently pretty sweet.

May 21, 2009

May 18, 2009

I do not know what I want.

There's this boy. I met him during a game of Apples-to-Apples at a three-week writing camp at a prestigious liberal arts college in the summer of my junior year of high school. I enjoy layers of prepositional phrases. As the weeks rolled by, we talked, walked, he played his bass for me, I gave him a blow job in the woods by the college's recreational field, he fingered me on the lawn next to the college's observatory, etc.

I haven't seen him since, as he lives states and states away, but we talk on Facebook occasionally. I don't really know what impact I made on him but our mutual comments are consistently friendly and arguably flirtatious, as we pour in and out of relationships at home. I don't care to tell him what he means/meant/will mean to me, in fact, I would immediately prefer that he doesn't because I can't readily define it. I don't love him, I don't mind if I never see him again, but I'm attracted to his fleeting presence in my life. In following his colorful albums and various links, I found his blog just an hour ago. I didn't know he had one but since he always struck me as intelligent, creative, and thoughtful, I was interested to see what he had to say.

"Today more than ever we have to be political, we have declined into a state of self-interest that leads most of us to live our lives as if we were being constantly filmed. We no longer concern ourselves with social progress, but only with self-progress. A result of the triumphant capitalist mentality that has become so pervasive everywhere we turn. Capitalism, they say, is a beautiful thing. The only system that gives us an incentive to be innovative as opposed to lazy. The innovation comes from the assumption that we all want to make as much money as possible, or that we all want as much as possible. We are told this lie everyday. The truth is that corporations, not people, want to make as much money as possible and/or get as many resources as possible. The people have become mindless consumers that truly believe they have a mind of their own. The parallel between today’s people and the character Don Quijote from El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha by Cervantes is remarkable. Most people truly believe that they live in a democratic society, that the market is good, that the media is telling them the truth, and that consumerism is good. Don Quijote was one of few crazy characters in the story by Cervantes, but today we seem to have governments and constituents of Don Quijotes world wide. This time, however, Don Quijote does not imagine him or her self being a virtuous knight, but instead he or she “thinks” they are a rational person (perhaps from reading too much literature that so narrowly defines rationally, or just from watching too much TV)."

His thoughts aren't necessarily new, but they refreshing to me, and I know I am not as intelligent as I would be prefer to be. This may be a lack of ambition, natural aptitude, or interest in education on my part, or the result of too many nights smoking weed at college, it doesn't concern me hugely.

I really wish I could explain the following thought better, but I can't - the sexual connection I had with him years ago inexplicably makes me feel as if I should be able to possess what he says here. I understand it perfectly and appreciate it. I agree with it. And yet, I still enjoy consumerism, I don't want it but I enjoy it. I still feel as if I am doing right by enjoying it. I read the words "mindless consumer" and am OK with it.

And that makes me want to cry.

May 17, 2009

SPOCKLOVE

I spent last night having a grand moviethensleepover with Kimberly Fry, one of my favorite people in the entire world. -->
We saw Star Trek....

I've never been a Trekkie, I suppose, I probably didn't get any significant references in the movie and even right after we left the theater, I still wouldn't have been able to articulate what a Klingon was if someone had asked (I thought they were bad guys, but the film was all about Romuluns...). I mean, I did happily note "boldly go where no one has gone before," instead of "no man." But OK, I was a cable-free kid. I grew up with PBS, NBC, FOX, and the WB-turned-CW. And when it was 10pm on a weekday and I had finished my homework, hell yeah I would tune in to Patrick Stewart's shiny Next Generation head. I don't remember much of the cast besides him, Levar Burton, and some frizzy-haired chick named Troy, but I remember a few episodes significantly freaked me out up to age eleven, in that deep-tingling, you-kinda-like-it way.

So when Kim sheepishly asked me to go see the movie with her, yes, OK, maybe I wanted to, especially after seeing the main cast members and Nimoy himself on the SNL season finale.

Since I don't have much to knowledgebly comment on, I'll make my response simple. I think it was a marvelous extension of the franchise and, as a sort of outsider to the original cast and plots, I really didn't have any problems with it. And from what I hear, Trekkie friends and youtubers aren't so enraged with the time-travel and alternate universes (universi?).

But above all that, I may or may not have had the girl-equivalent-of-a-hard-on for Spock circa the entire duration of the film, and this slightly worries me. Am I one of them now? Can I have a Vulcan poster in my dorm room next semester and maintain my dignity? Spock, you can live lo[ooo]ng and prosper in my bed every night, baby.

In a purposefully unrelated subject, my fondness for media and culture is mushrooming with my free time and wireless this summer, so congratulations on winning the 2009 World Transgender Pageant, Miss Tiffany Universe, Sorrawee Nattee! These chicks are seriously hot.

May 13, 2009

War, grunt.

I'm sitting in bed, laptop on thigh, as every night this past week. I seem to fail at getting anything done or even being able intelligently function ever since school ended. I don't really have any goals except getting my license. One guy's status on Facebook said "waging a war against my belongings" and I decided that was pretty definitive of my current situation. There are too many items in my life between home and college and I'm too stubborn to part with any of them. I wish I could be super Spartan with my belongings like John who had a total of 5 bags when he left from the Delt house last week. I had:

10 bags from the Delt House room
18 bags from the Ravine room
2 laundry baskets full of things
&one saxophone

Not to mention my fridge, lamp, TV, DVD player, and pouf chair in storage.

That does it. I own too many things and need to zennify my life by throwing it all out/having a super yard sale.

Omg, a yard sale. The PR possibilities...I could Overkill up the signs. I could offer one free cupcake with every purchase. There could be pink lemonade. NEW SUMMER PROJECT.

May 12, 2009

Well damn.

I might supremely hate myself for venturing back into the blogosphere tomorrow, but for now, I'll savor the college student cliche. After all, a blog was my first internet addiction and socializing tool during high school. Then, in order:

Livejournal
Myspace
Facebook
Twitter

And here we are again.

Not my fault, I blame the inspiration on James Hepplewhite. Not that my writing is even close to as inspiring, interesting, or intelligent as his, but I've always been a solipsistic individual and I love the idea of audience, even if its not there. Color me wrong, but that's the story, wishbone.

I'm also mildly interested in the fact that I can't escape the food theme, as far as usernames go. I find the idea of a surreptitious bundle hilarious and fascinating, but also I really
like the word bun. In fact, today I baked a bun of challah bread with my mom. I may have severe passion for food. Past usernames include:

marblecupcake, twitter
onion_for_you, livejournal
Duchess of Cupcakes, sorority life


And past screennames on AIM, dating back to grade school:
Creampuff6
Iciclepuff66
LemonMeringue04
chocoholic64640

Not to mention, I adore that my sorority is Alpha Delta PI.



I kind of hope no one ever reads this. I don't plan to tell anyone about it.


Of Course Digital Face Recognition Finds An Asian