Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
McDonalds is my nemesis.
Welp. I just got back from McDonalds and as I lie on my bed- milkshake cup still in hand- with my typical stomach cramps and self-loathing, I just thought to myself "McDonalds is my nemesis."
Then I realized that I wasn't completely sure what "nemesis" meant so I looked it up. Turns out it was the ideal word for what I meant to say. Ready? Ima hit-chou wit some knowledge.
It always goes the same way. I do something I think is great and then I think I deserve a treat. Now, depending on how my life is going at a given point, the greatness bar can be pretty low. Like, today, I got my oil changed like I've been meaning to do - reward! or I really wanted to punt Oscar into next Tuesday and instead I just locked him in the bathroom- yay for me!
Tonight I ran 5 miles IN A ROW. Right? Please. Obviously I went to McDonalds after that feat.
I always go through the drive thru (due to my shame) and ask for a cheese burger, a small fry and a small vanilla shake. That's really all I ever want/feel like I need. Turns out, it is the exact recipe for my distress. I of course know this when I order it but somehow, I always believe that this time will be different. This time, I am going to feel awesome, justified, proud, rewarded, cool, sexy, satisfied and great.
One might say, if one were nerdy enough to research definition numero 3 wherein Nemesis is the goddess of divine retribution, that my McDonalds induced misery may be punishment for succumbing to my hubristc belief in my own entitlement and ability to overcome the forces of nature.
Between the time it takes me to drive from the ordering speaker to the window where I pay, I have usually reached Gollum levels of pathetic/desperate/aggressive. That is, if Gollum were trying to play it like he didn't like... NEED the ring. Basically I am unpleasant when I get up there. The lady tells me the price, I hand her my card. I see her sizing me up, judging me, taking forever to just hand me my damn shake. I start having an imaginary conversation with her where I defend my menu selection and tell her about the great thing I just did and how I deserve this food. This woman always takes forever. I begin wondering if she can't read/add or if she is just screwing with me by going so slow. I think maybe she is bitter and, sensing my desperation, uses her small amount of power in this world to wreak havoc on my emotions. In the imaginary conversation I'm still having, I begin to refer to myself in the third person. That's right, you tricksy little hobbit. Give Jessica the milkshake and she won't leap trough the window and tear it from your dumb slow hands.
After an hour and a half she hands me my food and probably says something like "have a nice night." I really have no idea what she says though because "At Last" by Etta James starts playing in my mind and between that and the sound I'm making with my straw as I immediately suck down 3/4 of my milkshake, I can hear very little else.
I've finished my fries and half of my cheese burger before I drive out of the parking lot and by the time I get home, I've only got that last quarter of my milkshake. And then there I lie, on my bed feeling nauseated and crampy, ruing the day I tasted my first Happy Meal.
And as I lay here this time, I recall a lifetime of defeat to this wretched force called McDonalds. I remember, as a 4-year-old getting my head stuck between the bars of the Hamburglar's jailhouse slide on the McDonalds playground. Panicked, I screamed and cried for my mommy who was unable to get me out. I should have realized that I was dealing with something genuinely formidable right then when even my all-knowing, all-powerful mother could not save me. The manager had to come out and they were just about to call the firedepartment when the Beast decided to let me go, only to torment me for years to come.
McDonalds always wins. That is the lesson here. And yet as I lay here in misery, I take the hand that's not still clutching my milkshake and I make a fist. I raise this fist towards the ceiling- the heavens really. And I shake it. It's a motion that is one part "I would have succeeded if it weren't for those meddling kids and their stupid dog" and one part "After all, tomorrow is another day..."
I'd like to say that this is the end of the story but I think it's clear at this point that McDonalds' has it out for me. But you know what? They're on my list too...
*insert dramatic/epic music + fade to black*
Then I realized that I wasn't completely sure what "nemesis" meant so I looked it up. Turns out it was the ideal word for what I meant to say. Ready? Ima hit-chou wit some knowledge.
nem⋅e⋅sis
/ˈnɛm
–noun, plural –ses
- something that a person cannot conquer, achieve, etc.
- an opponent or rival whom a person cannot best or overcome.
- (initial capital letter
- an agent or act of retribution or punishment
It always goes the same way. I do something I think is great and then I think I deserve a treat. Now, depending on how my life is going at a given point, the greatness bar can be pretty low. Like, today, I got my oil changed like I've been meaning to do - reward! or I really wanted to punt Oscar into next Tuesday and instead I just locked him in the bathroom- yay for me!
Tonight I ran 5 miles IN A ROW. Right? Please. Obviously I went to McDonalds after that feat.
I always go through the drive thru (due to my shame) and ask for a cheese burger, a small fry and a small vanilla shake. That's really all I ever want/feel like I need. Turns out, it is the exact recipe for my distress. I of course know this when I order it but somehow, I always believe that this time will be different. This time, I am going to feel awesome, justified, proud, rewarded, cool, sexy, satisfied and great.
One might say, if one were nerdy enough to research definition numero 3 wherein Nemesis is the goddess of divine retribution, that my McDonalds induced misery may be punishment for succumbing to my hubristc belief in my own entitlement and ability to overcome the forces of nature.
Between the time it takes me to drive from the ordering speaker to the window where I pay, I have usually reached Gollum levels of pathetic/desperate/aggressive. That is, if Gollum were trying to play it like he didn't like... NEED the ring. Basically I am unpleasant when I get up there. The lady tells me the price, I hand her my card. I see her sizing me up, judging me, taking forever to just hand me my damn shake. I start having an imaginary conversation with her where I defend my menu selection and tell her about the great thing I just did and how I deserve this food. This woman always takes forever. I begin wondering if she can't read/add or if she is just screwing with me by going so slow. I think maybe she is bitter and, sensing my desperation, uses her small amount of power in this world to wreak havoc on my emotions. In the imaginary conversation I'm still having, I begin to refer to myself in the third person. That's right, you tricksy little hobbit. Give Jessica the milkshake and she won't leap trough the window and tear it from your dumb slow hands.
After an hour and a half she hands me my food and probably says something like "have a nice night." I really have no idea what she says though because "At Last" by Etta James starts playing in my mind and between that and the sound I'm making with my straw as I immediately suck down 3/4 of my milkshake, I can hear very little else.
I've finished my fries and half of my cheese burger before I drive out of the parking lot and by the time I get home, I've only got that last quarter of my milkshake. And then there I lie, on my bed feeling nauseated and crampy, ruing the day I tasted my first Happy Meal.
And as I lay here this time, I recall a lifetime of defeat to this wretched force called McDonalds. I remember, as a 4-year-old getting my head stuck between the bars of the Hamburglar's jailhouse slide on the McDonalds playground. Panicked, I screamed and cried for my mommy who was unable to get me out. I should have realized that I was dealing with something genuinely formidable right then when even my all-knowing, all-powerful mother could not save me. The manager had to come out and they were just about to call the firedepartment when the Beast decided to let me go, only to torment me for years to come.
McDonalds always wins. That is the lesson here. And yet as I lay here in misery, I take the hand that's not still clutching my milkshake and I make a fist. I raise this fist towards the ceiling- the heavens really. And I shake it. It's a motion that is one part "I would have succeeded if it weren't for those meddling kids and their stupid dog" and one part "After all, tomorrow is another day..."
I'd like to say that this is the end of the story but I think it's clear at this point that McDonalds' has it out for me. But you know what? They're on my list too...
*insert dramatic/epic music + fade to black*
Friday, January 22, 2010
Jessica and Marta’s first real Christmas tree... OR the Time Jessica and Marta stole a small pine tree out of a complete stranger’s yard
If you’ve spoken to either of us in the past 2 months you’ve probably already heard at least the summarized version of the story of our pine tree “appropriation” but here it is in full, along with the much requested photos.
Hokay. So. It all started because we wanted our very own REAL Christmas tree. We’ve had a fake ones in previous apartments, but it sort of always felt like we were just playing house and this year, we wanted a real tree that would, like our pain-in-the-ass cat Oscar, legitimize our fabulous adult lives.
Beyond getting a tree that was real, we also wanted our tree-procurement to involve some element of adventure; after all, this is a Jessica and Marta tale here. I mean, sure we could have walked literally across the street from our apartment and bought a real tree at the florists. We could have done that... if we wanted our tree story to SUCK.
But no. Adventurers are we and so we decided that we would cut our own tree and that we would do it in the wilderness, not at a tree farm- those are for pansies.
So one December Saturday, we got in my car, filled up the tank, stopped by Max’s house for some saws, and got on the highway. I asked Marta if she had any idea where we should go because beyond getting into the car and driving to “the wilderness,” we hadn’t really put much thought into where we were going. Marta confessed that she didn’t really have any idea. Not a problem. In these situations we always have a reliable back-up plan: driving with our Feelings. You may scoff, but it always gets us somewhere interesting if not to our originally planned destination. “I feel like we should get on 128 South,” Marta said. I looked in my rearview mirror and nodded. I felt it too. After a half hour of driving and singing along too the “Jessica and Amy Dance Their Butts Off” mix (complete with James Brown and the Bee Gees), our Feelings told us to get onto the Pike. Right on, Feelings; there are trees out west.
After a half hour on the Pike, our Feelings told us that we were getting really warm, which was great because we were getting tired of driving. We got off the and drove down some minor highway in a sort of strip-mally area. We were a little discouraged; this was not the wilderness we’d hoped for. After a couple miles Marta began to despair. She pointed to some shrubbery behind a hardware store- “What about those?” “Get a hold of yourself woman!” I shouted. “We didn’t come all this way for strip mall shrubbery!”
We decided to follow a lake that came up on our right into a more rural/residential area. We saw a sign about conservation land. Bingo. TREES. We were inspired. We drove on with renewed strength and purpose. We found a little parking area near a sign that had some words on it like “Trust” and “Conservation.” How much more ideal could this place be for this mission? It was perfect on two levels- 1) There were trees here and lots of ‘em and 2) The element of danger since we were fairly sure that we could get into some trouble for cutting one down.
We got out of the car, inspected our surrounding and then put the saws into our coats because we thought we might look really suspicious carrying saws into conservation land and honestly, that’s really how you ought to transport sharp metal objects- right next to your unprotected body.
Here’s Marta demonstrating this tactic.
Hokay. So. It all started because we wanted our very own REAL Christmas tree. We’ve had a fake ones in previous apartments, but it sort of always felt like we were just playing house and this year, we wanted a real tree that would, like our pain-in-the-ass cat Oscar, legitimize our fabulous adult lives.
Beyond getting a tree that was real, we also wanted our tree-procurement to involve some element of adventure; after all, this is a Jessica and Marta tale here. I mean, sure we could have walked literally across the street from our apartment and bought a real tree at the florists. We could have done that... if we wanted our tree story to SUCK.
But no. Adventurers are we and so we decided that we would cut our own tree and that we would do it in the wilderness, not at a tree farm- those are for pansies.
So one December Saturday, we got in my car, filled up the tank, stopped by Max’s house for some saws, and got on the highway. I asked Marta if she had any idea where we should go because beyond getting into the car and driving to “the wilderness,” we hadn’t really put much thought into where we were going. Marta confessed that she didn’t really have any idea. Not a problem. In these situations we always have a reliable back-up plan: driving with our Feelings. You may scoff, but it always gets us somewhere interesting if not to our originally planned destination. “I feel like we should get on 128 South,” Marta said. I looked in my rearview mirror and nodded. I felt it too. After a half hour of driving and singing along too the “Jessica and Amy Dance Their Butts Off” mix (complete with James Brown and the Bee Gees), our Feelings told us to get onto the Pike. Right on, Feelings; there are trees out west.
After a half hour on the Pike, our Feelings told us that we were getting really warm, which was great because we were getting tired of driving. We got off the and drove down some minor highway in a sort of strip-mally area. We were a little discouraged; this was not the wilderness we’d hoped for. After a couple miles Marta began to despair. She pointed to some shrubbery behind a hardware store- “What about those?” “Get a hold of yourself woman!” I shouted. “We didn’t come all this way for strip mall shrubbery!”
We decided to follow a lake that came up on our right into a more rural/residential area. We saw a sign about conservation land. Bingo. TREES. We were inspired. We drove on with renewed strength and purpose. We found a little parking area near a sign that had some words on it like “Trust” and “Conservation.” How much more ideal could this place be for this mission? It was perfect on two levels- 1) There were trees here and lots of ‘em and 2) The element of danger since we were fairly sure that we could get into some trouble for cutting one down.
We got out of the car, inspected our surrounding and then put the saws into our coats because we thought we might look really suspicious carrying saws into conservation land and honestly, that’s really how you ought to transport sharp metal objects- right next to your unprotected body.
Here’s Marta demonstrating this tactic.
Anyhoo. We walked across this field into the woods. We didn’t have to go far before it became obvious that there was somehow no pine in these particular woods. It was uncanny. Despair. Sorrow. Defeat. Some other negative feelings.
We walked back to the car. We drove back to the main road in silence. It was that part of the story where things aren’t looking so good for the heroines. It looks like they are going to go home losers. But wait! As we drove back down the residential street we’d come on to get to the “Conservation land” (pff!) we began to see friendly little green pine trees. The only problem was that they were in peoples’ yards. “WAIT!” Marta cried. We had just passed the sweetest little gathering of 6 foot pine trees. They were right next to a mailbox. I put the car in reverse and like a total creeper, crept back slowly until we were right next to them, sitting there eyeing them like some weirdoes with a sick tree fetish. “Do you think those people would miss just one?” Marta asked. It was a pretty heavily wooded area, I couldn’t imagine that they would even notice. “I mean... the real question here, is would we get caught,” I said.
We decided to feel the situation out a little. I opened my hatchback and went around as though I was just, you know, getting some washer fluid out or something. Marta got out and sat on the ground next to the tree and started sawing at it with her arm extended to the side and not even looking at it. What we didn’t know all this time, was that Max’s saws were fricking magical or at least really sharp and so that little tree was down in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Marta leaped up in panic and scurried into the car; she didn’t plan on actually cutting it down. I sprung into action, grabbing the skinny little thing and shoving into my trunk. I slammed the lid, ran around to the side and we sped away like criminals in the night. Oh the adrenaline!
Here it is in the back of my car. I guess maybe Max’s saw didn’t have to be magical to cut through it so quickly.
We decided to celebrate our victory with a little seasonal Dunkin’ Donuts Beverage when we got back to the strip mall area. We went through the drive through and who should pull up behind us but a cop car. Play it cool. Play. It. Coooooool. We sat there cringing at the scrawny little pine branches sticking up in all directions, clearly visible through my back window. We finally breathed a sign of relief as we pulled out of the parking lot unfollowed by the Law.
So that is really the exciting part of the story. After that we got home, put our tree in a bucket with water and bricks (classy), hung some popcorn and paper stars on it and called it a day.
Behold the finished product:
So that is really the exciting part of the story. After that we got home, put our tree in a bucket with water and bricks (classy), hung some popcorn and paper stars on it and called it a day.
Behold the finished product:
Were we a little cuter/suburban mom, we might have made a Christmas card out of the one with Marta, Oscar and me.
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