fight racism with racism

This thread appeared in my newsfeed on Facebook. At first I thought this guy was just another racist loser, and I tried to find a 'report' button on the comment box. But then I read his last comment, and realized he's only trying to help us.

Well thank you, Dimitri, for helping "us people" fight the good fight.

Another way to make a word lose it's meaning is to beat the shit out of the ignorant racsists who use them until they stop using them. That's a little more expeditious.

que bonita bandera, que bonita bandera...

la bandera Puertorriqueña.
I made it to the THE parade this year.

I love my people.

overheard at the nail salon today

"She's dating a black guy. He's really nice, and she's Puerto Rican any way, so I guess it's fine."

i <3 turkey sandwiches

I eat a turkey sandwich every day. 

Every single day. 

Except on Sundays. I eat brunch on Sundays. But only on Sundays. The way some people only do coke when they drink, or smoke when they do coke.

Monday thru Saturday, I eat a turkey sandwich.

Definitely for lunch. Sometimes for breakfast. Depending on what time I get up. For a midnight snack; yum, and no guilt.  For a special treat, when I've done good.

I do mix it up. It's usually turkey on Home Pride (yes, Home Pride) with Gulden's mustard. But sometimes it's Dijon. Or lettuce tomato on toasted wheat. Or avocado in a wrap. Or everything, hots on the side, oil & vinegar on a sub roll. Or in a club sandwich with bacon cheese and mayonnaise (I know, mayo. I'm half white) if I'm hungover.

But always a turkey sandwich.

Because turkey sandwiches are easy.

They are extremely hard to mess up.

Turkey sandwiches are always available. Except in Mexico.*

Turkey sandwiches are familiar. Everything else changes and makes me learn it anew. Turkey sandwiches are there the same, waiting for me.

Turkey sandwiches don't surprise me with their stupid crazy shit.

Turkey sandwiches are low fat.**

Turkey sandwiches don't lie to me or talk behind my back.

They don't judge me.

They are delicious.

They are perfect.

Turkey sandwiches love me for me.

All this talk is making me hungry. Ahmago make a sandwich. bye.

* the only 2 places I've been in Mexico.

** when they don't have cheese, mayo, bacon, or been dropped in a fryolator.

listen..

if you're reading this blog, you should comment on it. Good or bad. It gives me a reason to keep going.

i found where in NY the swine flu is coming from

On a lovely spring Friday afternoon my husband and I were walking down Canal St. and I was feeling a little bit hungry. Before we could discuss any of our healthy delicious Chinatown options, a shishkabob cart came between me and any inkling of good sense I have. 

"Mmmmm...shishkabob" I said to my husband, instead of "Bleeecch. That reminds me. Let's go get lunch."

I ordered one beef kabob. The kabob guy dug through a pile of raw-ish kabobs, selected an "eh" one and put it on the griddle. He then took a wooden handled, rusty spatula thing and started pounding the shit out of it.

"Hot sauce?" he asked.

"No, just plain," I trailed off, captivated by the pounding he was giving my kabob.

As if in response to the beating, the kabob caught on fire. Kabob guy started blowing on it, the way a 2 year old imitating the big bad wolf might blow on a thing. He huffed and puffed and spit a shower of saliva all over the kabob. Unfortunately it didn't put the fire out, but rather seemed to enhance it, so I watched him huff and puff and spit on my kakbob for several more seconds.

"Tahini?" he asked.

"No. Just plain. No tahini, no spit, just plain."

The kabob started smoking like crazy, which I imagine was it's response to being mercilessly sprayed with spit. Kabob guy then took some oily shmeg from an adjacent filthier griddle and dribbled it onto the kabob. One time, two times, three times, four times...

"Pita?"

"No. Nothing. Plain. Please stop putting that stuff on my kabob."

"It will burn," he stated and spit on it a bunch more.

"Is he seriously spitting on the kabob like that?" I asked my husband incredulously. "I want to go."

"He said it'll burn," my husband snickered. Apparently he was having a good time.

Then kabob guy took turns furiously pounding the crap out of, then spitting on the kabob. It look like a ferocious gang beating. 

The kabob finally died. He dribbled more shmeg on it, and placed it in a piece of food wrap.

"Lettuce? Tomato? Onion?"

I stared at him mouth agape. He took another kakob that died long ago, a mummy kabob, and put it next to the newly murdered kabob, wrapped them together and handed them to me. "Four dollars," he said.

"I only asked for one beef kabob," I said.

"I know what you asked of me. I gave you a gift," he said. For real.

My husband paid him and we walked away. I poked the top beef chunk, it was still completely raw inside. The other kabob, which I believe was chicken in it's former life, would have made a fine leather handbag. I was speechless. So was my husband, which he expressed by laughing hysterically.

I carried the kabobs for a few blocks, until I, being the caring and generous soul that I am, saw a starving trash can and kindly gave my kabobs to it. 

We turned down Christie, me silent and disturbed, my husband intermittently chuckling and shouting out condiments, until we found a little place where we had roast pork over steamed rice with green vegetable and a fruit juice for $2.50. Deeeelicious.

I guess spit costs extra.

whoops

I forgot I had a blog for a minute there. 

Be back shortly.

hey Kid Rock

Matt Stone and Trey Parker already made this. It's called "Team America".

okay Restaurant Week people, listen up

We know you don't eat out much. We know this is your big night out. You saw us on Chronicle. You've been dying to try us. $33.09?! What a great incentive to go! We know. We are so excited for you. Really, we are. We know you are never coming back again, until you get 3 courses for $33.09 again. That's okay, we'll play along. We want you to have a good time. Here are some tips on how to make it a truly pleasant night out. One where we don't want to shove your plate down your throat. Pay attention.

1) Even though this is your first time eating outside of your home, ever, WE have been doing this a very long time. Trust us. That IS frisee. A martini IS strong because it is all liquor. The chicken is not made with pork. At all.

2) Yes, the portions are small. You are paying 33.09 for 3 courses. We want you to get a taste of our food, love it, then come back and pay real prices for real portions. We aren't retarded hippies trying to get you all full because we love you.

3) No, it does not come with a free drink. Spring for the $1.75 soda, stimulate the economy.

4) We are soo happy you have a reservation in the dining room. We commend your foresight. You still have to pay the bar tab at the bar. I promise.

5) Feel free to ask us what pissaladiere is. Or don't. We love hearing you try to impress your friends with made up stuff.

6) No, we don't know what the name of the creamy, kinda salty, pink thing you had the last time you ate out, 4 years ago in Cincinnati. We don't have any idea what the hell you are talking about, and we know we can't ask you because you don't either.

7) No, the tip is not included in the $33.09. Seriously??

8) No, we do not have a Restaurant Week menu for children. We're hoping you'll find us delicious enough to come back with your friends some other regular-priced night. We don't know if you will, but we're pretty sure your 4 year old won't.

9) We care very much that you have a gluten allergy. Every other week of the year.

10) We are servers, not servants. You are out at Restaurant Week, not entertaining the Queen of England at your summer home, The Breakers. Act accordingly.

11) Read the wine list we hand you. Don't throw it back at at us unread, it's for your own good. It will save you from looking like an idiot and shouting "I'll just have a pinot." We will ask you "Grigio, Gris, Blanc, or Noir", but what we'll mean when we say it is "fuckin idiot."

12) Contrary to popular belief, we don't own the restaurant. We do what the owner tells us to do, so we can keep our jobs. You can tell us that what we need to do is put mango chutney on the burger, like you had at the hotel in the Bahamas, and we will look like we care. But we don't. Fill out your comment cards, the person who does care reads them.

13) We can tell if you are going to stiff us on our tip well before we serve you your last drink or dish. Think about that.

14) It's called "Restaurant Week", not "Celebrate Diversity in Cuisine at Every Restaurant Week". French restaurants don't serve nachos and guac, Italian restaurants don't serve egg rolls. Sorry.

15) Please do feel free to post the story of your horrible experience at our restaurant on Yelp and Chowhound. Only people like you read and care about Yelp and Chowhound. We appreciate your help in keeping you away.

Now go and enjoy yourselves, ya cheap bastards.

i can has cheeseburger...

The other night at a bar after a comedy show a friend said to me "I told my friend you are a comedian. He said never met one before, he wants to meet you." I said okay.

He brings me up to a fellow who looks like Biggie Small and Shaquille O'Neal had a retarded baby. I'm not judging, he just did. This is how our conversation went:

Me: Hi. My name is Bethany. Nice to meet you.

Him: I can break you down right here.

Me: Oh. Well me too. I can break you down right here.

Him: Well let's go.

Me: No. I'm not getting paid.

Him: I'll pay you right now.

Me: Not nearly as much as I just got paid.

Him: Okay then. You good? You wanna drink or something?

Me: No thanks, I'm good.

(He slowly looks me up and down)

Him: You sure? You want a cheeseburger?

Me: Nah, thanks, I'm all set. How bout you, you good? You want a Slim Fast?

His Friends: Oooooohhhhhh shiittttt! HAHAHAHAHAAHA!

Him: Aiiiiight. That was funny. Yo, Slim Fast. Slim Fast ain't original.

Me: My bad, I didn't try as hard as you. Yours was good though. How do you say that again "cheeeeeeezzzboorger? Cheeeeeeezzzzzbuugger?" That's some original shit, can I use it? "Cheeeezzzzzbeerger", zat how you say it? That's some good shit. How do I use it? Come on, show me, use it in a sentence. Damn that's some funny shit.

He stared at me and I stared at him, as some thicker, presumably more well-fed girls walked into the bar. He pointed to them and said "They don't need a cheeseburger."

I said "Indeed they don't. And they probably actually want to talk to you. So why don't you mosey on over to them then?"

He stared at me a little longer, then turned and walked over to the thicker girls.

My friend said "I shouldn't have introduced you to him."

"Don't worry," I said. "He'll get over it."

maybe I pushed too hard

me: What would your dream job be if you could have any job in the world?

husband: I don't know.

me: You never thought about your dream job? really?

husband: I can't pick one. Maybe there's a job out there I don't know about that would be the best one I'd love to have.

this is the funniest blog. ever.

I'm so sad I don't write it.

Fuck you, Penguin.

the story behind the fro.

I have an afro now, and this is why.

It all began in April, when I was booked for an ad for a big financial firm. You remember, back in the day when they had money for ads. The client requested that my hair be straight for the shoot, for what reason I don't know. I usually get booked for my natural hair, usually by clients who book ethnically ambiguous models to show an ethnically diverse consumer group that many ethnically diverse people use and are very satisfied with the client's product. Maybe this time they were targeting ethnically ambiguous people who try to pass and invest alot of money. Don't know, but they wanted my hair straight. They let me know this at 5:00pm the day before my 9:00am call time.

On my own, I can get my hair about as straight as Tom Cruise; you can tell it's really trying to look straight, it just doesn't. I had to get someone to get it wicked straight in a wicked hurry. I called ******* for a 7:00am appointment, said I was super sorry but it was for a job, and I'd pay double for the inconvenience, cuz paying double was still a fraction of what I'd be getting for the job. Few people ever want to take on the dumbly daunting task of straightening my hair at all, let alone at the ungodly hour of 7:00am, but said person agreed and I was ever grateful.

I brought my own flat iron, as I always do, a lovely io-bionic something or not burn-y other, that only gets so hot. This always seems to offend said person. Maybe because a different (very dear friend) hairdresser gave it to me, or maybe the presence of my super sexy hi tech flat iron made said person's flat iron feel inadequate. Whatevs, it's my hair and I've been with it longer than ANY hairdresser, so I always bring it anyway, offense or not, and said person always begrudgingly uses it.

Well, apparently the sight of my sexy iron was too much to bear at 7:00am. Said person began. I felt the sensation of a whole lock of my hair being gently ripped from my scalp. Then I heard the hiss of extreme moisture evaporation, followed by the mephitic smell of burning hair. It took about 10 cycles of yank, hiss, FIRE!, yank, hiss, FIRE! for my sleep addled brain to realize this series of events wasn't a coincidence, and that said person was not using my flat iron.

"Are you using my flat iron?" I said staring at it sitting on the chair across from me, while maintaining a glimmer of hope that maybe it was someone in the next room who was having their hair fried, not me.

"No, my bad, I forgot." said said person. "Almost done now."

On the ride home I was absolutely livid, while euphorically enjoying the ability to flip my hair from the front of my face clear over my shoulder with just a twitch of my head.

Eventually the burnt tenament building smell faded, but I didn't know the extent of the damage til I tried to get my curls back. And they didn't come back. Well, some did, some didn't. The roots and the ends curled, while the middle decided it liked being straight better (unlike a couple of my exes.) My hair quickly started growing in, and soon I had a naturally curly hair underbrush, with very long haylike tendrils dangling from it. I had a nagging suspicion that this wasn't good. I went to my very dear friend for help.

"Oh baayby! Oooo the fuck did this to joo air?! Whu thee fuuck!" said my dear friend.

"So it's not that bad? whew." I non sequitured. "I just want it evened out a bit. There seems to be a few scraggly ends here and there, just make it a little rounder."

"A Few? Oh baayby, I'm so sorry this appened to joo. We'll grow it back together."

I should have heard between the lines, but I wasn't listening to him. I was listening to the conversation going on in the make believe land in my head in which my hair was never burnt, and he was saying "Baayby joo air iss soo ealthy I doan even need to cut it! It's so long! It's the longest air I ever saw!"

Meanwhile, in real life, he cut off 5 inches.

I know it's what needed to happen for my hair to be healthy again one day. But I still shrieked "Noooooooo!!!!!", grabbed two chunks of hair on either side and pulled with all my might, as if this action while pushing in on my belly button would grow my hair back fast as my Crissy doll's used to. It did not.

I love my dear friend for knowing what's best for me and my hair, and having the courage to do it, despite how I might feel about it. I hate him right now. Want to set his hair on fire hate him. But as my hair grows back stronger than ever, shiny and healthy and new, so will my love and friendship for him. I know it'll be sooner than I think, just the other day I caught my reflection and thought "If that hair were on some other girl's head, and not mine where all my hair used to be, I'd think it was kinda fly."

For now, I have an afro.

get over yourself, me.

I spent this afternoon walking around and around Healdsburg Square feeling sorry for myself. My 5 New England layers were making the 65° day wicked uncomfortable. I only had 6 pages of my new book obsession left. I didn't want to go into my favorite stores because I am broke, because I am laid off because I live in America, the home of trendiest economic crisis in a dog's age. Woe is me.

I am not feeling alone, because this morning I heard that November saw the highest number of layoffs in the private sector in more than 32 years, with 533,000 jobs lost, (granted, I graduated from work in October, but that's just me being the early adopter that I am) so alone I am not. I am however feeling sad, because okay, I did go into one store and saw a pair of Juicy Couture plaid flats that are exactly what I have needed my whole life and I cannot have. Window shopping, I decide, is stupid and cruel abuse, and I won't have any part of it. I will go have lunch instead.

I walk around the square again looking for something to eat, and pass a texting youth sitting on a bench for the 8th time. He looks at me like I'm a little crazy, and I decide not to yell "You wouldn't know I've been going around in circles if you'd get your lazy ass up and do something besides text!" Not because it might be uncouth, I could care less about my couth at the moment, but because my husband is here on business and both of us can't be not working at the same time.

I go into Cafe Newsstand and order a turkey w/LTO & avocado on a wrap. I know Thanksgiving just passed, and I should be outraged at the very thought of eating turkey. I eat some kind of turkey sandwich every day, holiday or not, and that's that. The sweet girl behind the counter informs me that there are no wraps. I'm crushed. The bench youth probably texted her and told her there was an odd, laid off woman doing laps around the square and if she comes in, don't give her exactly what she wants, just cuz. I accept the multigrain choice and sit on a couch by a window. I finish my book before the sandwich comes and mope into space. The bookstore on the corner has the next book (okay, two stores), but I can't buy it til my unemployment check comes. I can't have the book, I can't have plaid flats and I can't have a wrap. wah :-(

While I wait for the sandwich I take out my camera and scroll through the pictures we've taken since we've been here. Beautiful rolling hills full of vines, good friends we've made out here, bountiful food, the bucolic view from the lovely room in the estate we are staying on. I keep scrolling, through older photos too, of good friends back home, our families together this Thanksgiving, a couple of comedy gigs, my husband lying in bed covered in Ugly Dolls (not his fault, all mine). I smile to myself as the sweet counter girl puts my sandwich in front of me. She smiles, too, and says "Enjoy," singsongy and pretty and like she sincerely means it. Maybe she really didn't have a wrap.

And maybe I don't have a wrap either, or plaid flats, or the next Sookie Stackhouse book, or a job. But I'll have another turkey sandwich tomorrow, maybe on a wrap, my check will be waiting for me when I get home and I'll buy then next book, and I'll have a job soon enough. In the meantime, I do have an amazing life full of love and family and friends and adventure, and a little bit of extra time to enjoy it all. I am feeling lucky.

I do totally still want those flats, though.