I've always wanted to write, but I remember the exact moment I wanted to be a writer: my first viewing of the 1984 hit romantic comedy, Romancing The Stone (which Lisa mentioned yesterday!)
It's main character, brilliantly played by Kathleen Turner, is Joan Wilder - a romance novelist who is introduced as a lonely cat-owning, Manhattan-dwelling writer.
As a child, I didn't realize this image of the lone writer was a bad thing. That it was something the character was supposed to overcome on a journey with a good looking, adventurous con-man so she could actually live life.
To me that image - typing away with a cuddly cat in a Manhattan apartment and coming up with lines like, "That was the end of Grogan... the man who killed my father, raped and murdered my sister, burned my ranch, shot my dog, and stole my Bible!" - seemed more like the ride-off-into-the-sunset than the actual ride-off-into-the-sunset.
To some degree, I haven't shaken that image.
I write. I write almost every day. I query. I network. I social network. I write some more.
But I have never considered myself "a writer" because I still don't live in Manhattan with a cat and a typewriter - the kind that clickety-clacks.
But then I start thinking about all my friends who I consider writers -
- like Lynn whose days are filled with editing and cooking and caring for her family
- like Lisa who, if she was paid a penny for every time she was fussing over one of her kids would be a millionaire
- like Nicole who molds the minds of brilliant future writers
I can go through all the list of Pens and can even more onto non-Pens and none of them live alone in their Manhattan apartment with their cat.
So maybe it's time to rethink my image of a writer. Maybe a writer can be married with a house in San Francisco and a garden she obsesses over and a day job in Finance and more friends than she knows what to do with and an obsession with finding the perfect pizza...maybe, just maybe, I'm someone's image of a writer, too.
Showing posts with label martha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label martha. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Martha's Pickup Plea
There's this guy. He's called The Pickup-Artist. Or something similarly cheesy. He had a show for a while where he showcased his business technique of teaching men how to pick up on ladies.
He had copycats, and alas, some of them operated out of San Francisco. Specifically - Medjool Restaurant/Lounge/Nightclub/Whatever in San Francisco's Mission District.
The Pickup Artist teaches simple principles. Which start with -
1. Only approach women in pairs.
Why? Because one woman is desperate and a group of women isn't interested. Women in pairs are either on the prowl or waiting for a third member and amenable for conversation.
The pickup pupils are easy to spot. For one, because they have the look of a racer at the start of a line, body tense, ready to pounce. For two, because they religiously operate on the next principles.
2. Only approach women as a pair.
Why? Because one guy is creepy but a group of guys is creepier.
Now the key to this approach is...pay attention....
3. Engage the women with an open-ended question.
Often the two guys will feign an argument. One will say, "You've got to be kidding me! No no! I disagree." They will then pretend to notice you for the first time with raised eyebrows and all, and say, "Oh, you, what do you think? Is Star Wars or Star Trek better?"
This is the part where the women respond. The answer doesn't really matter. Because the two guys will let you have, max, 3 minutes of conversation. Because the next principle is really important.
4. Be congenial, thank them, and walk away.
This is key. No one likes an overstayed welcome. The men are careful not to ask for personal details like your name. Besides, the guys really don't want to have a conversation with you about which franchise is better (incidentally, I feel its an unfair comparison given the mediums serve different purposes). What they want to do is bump and grind on you. Giving us the final principle.
5. Wait until you spot the women on the dance floor and dance near them, thus giving you the opportunity for recognition and scoring.
I've debated the merit of the pickup artist with my friends. Especially given that for every douchebag who joins, there is a guy just looking for a way to connect with someone else but is shackled by shyness.
But I constantly come back to the same problem:
This isn't a sincere exchange.
I've heard the argument that sincerity doesn't matter at the beginning of a relationship. That the start is just negotiation and navigation of societally accepted norms until you can reveal the "real" you.
But if we all know we are hiding the "real" person, if dating is just killing time until someone tolerates you enough to *really* tolerate you, then can we shed the tapdance?
Pleaaaaaaase?
He had copycats, and alas, some of them operated out of San Francisco. Specifically - Medjool Restaurant/Lounge/Nightclub/Whatever in San Francisco's Mission District.
The Pickup Artist teaches simple principles. Which start with -
1. Only approach women in pairs.
Why? Because one woman is desperate and a group of women isn't interested. Women in pairs are either on the prowl or waiting for a third member and amenable for conversation.
The pickup pupils are easy to spot. For one, because they have the look of a racer at the start of a line, body tense, ready to pounce. For two, because they religiously operate on the next principles.
2. Only approach women as a pair.
Why? Because one guy is creepy but a group of guys is creepier.
Now the key to this approach is...pay attention....
3. Engage the women with an open-ended question.
Often the two guys will feign an argument. One will say, "You've got to be kidding me! No no! I disagree." They will then pretend to notice you for the first time with raised eyebrows and all, and say, "Oh, you, what do you think? Is Star Wars or Star Trek better?"
This is the part where the women respond. The answer doesn't really matter. Because the two guys will let you have, max, 3 minutes of conversation. Because the next principle is really important.
4. Be congenial, thank them, and walk away.
This is key. No one likes an overstayed welcome. The men are careful not to ask for personal details like your name. Besides, the guys really don't want to have a conversation with you about which franchise is better (incidentally, I feel its an unfair comparison given the mediums serve different purposes). What they want to do is bump and grind on you. Giving us the final principle.
5. Wait until you spot the women on the dance floor and dance near them, thus giving you the opportunity for recognition and scoring.
I've debated the merit of the pickup artist with my friends. Especially given that for every douchebag who joins, there is a guy just looking for a way to connect with someone else but is shackled by shyness.
But I constantly come back to the same problem:
This isn't a sincere exchange.
I've heard the argument that sincerity doesn't matter at the beginning of a relationship. That the start is just negotiation and navigation of societally accepted norms until you can reveal the "real" you.
But if we all know we are hiding the "real" person, if dating is just killing time until someone tolerates you enough to *really* tolerate you, then can we shed the tapdance?
Pleaaaaaaase?
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Martha's Life Strategy
Age 3 months: Sleep. Drink. Poop. Repeat.
Age 5 years: Take lots of baths. Learn how to hold breath. Optimize that look of your hair underwater so it is super flowy. All in the pursuit of being a "mermaid princess" (direct quote from my Kindergarten yearbook under "When I grow up I want to be ______). Judge if you want, but this was five years before Ariel made the idea popular.
Age 11 years: Be better than boys. Smarter than boys. Faster than boys. Boys suck.
Age 12 years: ditto
Age 13 years: ditto
Age 14 years: ditto
Age 19 years: Stop living life for my parents. Drop honors chemistry lab - who the hell takes honors chem when they don't want to be a doctor? Start taking classes for the enjoyment.(Note: it still never occurred to me to take a single writing class)
Age 22 years: Work is overrated. Write every free second. Join RWA. Query agents.
Age 23 years: Tuck tail between legs. Acknowledge failure. Focus on people, not personal achievements.
Age 31 years: OMG LIFE DREAMS ARE SO IMPORTANT besides now have a million friends so can take a break from that. Take back up writing. Write write write write write. Write some more.
Age 32 years: Yeah...maybe get in some revision.
Age 34 years: Try new venues. Let go of old expectations.
Age 35 years: ??? I dunno - you tell me. :)
Age 5 years: Take lots of baths. Learn how to hold breath. Optimize that look of your hair underwater so it is super flowy. All in the pursuit of being a "mermaid princess" (direct quote from my Kindergarten yearbook under "When I grow up I want to be ______). Judge if you want, but this was five years before Ariel made the idea popular.
Age 11 years: Be better than boys. Smarter than boys. Faster than boys. Boys suck.
Age 12 years: ditto
Age 13 years: ditto
Age 14 years: ditto
Age 19 years: Stop living life for my parents. Drop honors chemistry lab - who the hell takes honors chem when they don't want to be a doctor? Start taking classes for the enjoyment.(Note: it still never occurred to me to take a single writing class)
Age 22 years: Work is overrated. Write every free second. Join RWA. Query agents.
Age 23 years: Tuck tail between legs. Acknowledge failure. Focus on people, not personal achievements.
Age 31 years: OMG LIFE DREAMS ARE SO IMPORTANT besides now have a million friends so can take a break from that. Take back up writing. Write write write write write. Write some more.
Age 32 years: Yeah...maybe get in some revision.
Age 34 years: Try new venues. Let go of old expectations.
Age 35 years: ??? I dunno - you tell me. :)
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Martha Sleeps With Snakes (literally)
I mean it.
I've slept with snakes.
Literally.
Not a, "Omg that was so funny I literally died laughing" literally which is not literally at all. But a, "Me, a bed, and some snakes!" literally.
In high school my friend Joy owned a couple of snakes. And by "owned" I meant she went into her desert backyard in Arizona, saw two snakes, and thought "I'd like to own these."
Weirdly enough, the snakes didn't seem to mind. They became quite petlike. They let her hold them. They let her feed them mice. They didn't run (slither?) away.
The snakes even did this cute thing (yes...cute...bear with me) where they would slither themselves into our belt loops and extend their heads all the way to the ground between our legs as we walked. (Talk about having a third leg, hardy har har.)Joy could even pull it off inline skating (ah, remember inline skates?) so she would zip through town with a little snake hanging out between her legs.
And one time, when I slept over, the snakes crawled (dammit, still slithered, isn't it?) into bed with us.
It was, ya know weird. You'd feel the sheets moving and then something scaley would slide over your calf or up your arm. Who knows what the snakes did once we actually fell asleep or if they did anything at all.
(Followup: One of the snakes eventually made its way back to the desert while the other died of...whatever snakes die of. Being owned by humans, most likely...)
I've slept with snakes.
Literally.
Not a, "Omg that was so funny I literally died laughing" literally which is not literally at all. But a, "Me, a bed, and some snakes!" literally.
In high school my friend Joy owned a couple of snakes. And by "owned" I meant she went into her desert backyard in Arizona, saw two snakes, and thought "I'd like to own these."
Weirdly enough, the snakes didn't seem to mind. They became quite petlike. They let her hold them. They let her feed them mice. They didn't run (slither?) away.
The snakes even did this cute thing (yes...cute...bear with me) where they would slither themselves into our belt loops and extend their heads all the way to the ground between our legs as we walked. (Talk about having a third leg, hardy har har.)Joy could even pull it off inline skating (ah, remember inline skates?) so she would zip through town with a little snake hanging out between her legs.
And one time, when I slept over, the snakes crawled (dammit, still slithered, isn't it?) into bed with us.
It was, ya know weird. You'd feel the sheets moving and then something scaley would slide over your calf or up your arm. Who knows what the snakes did once we actually fell asleep or if they did anything at all.
(Followup: One of the snakes eventually made its way back to the desert while the other died of...whatever snakes die of. Being owned by humans, most likely...)
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Martha's Guide To Ass Kissing
Ass kissing: the quest for gain via flattery.
Everyone says they don't kiss ass, but then why do so many people complain about useless ass kissers? Either we're all liars or we're delusional egoists. Either way, it doesn't bode well.
Look, I'm not going to judge. Sometimes you need something. Sometimes the key to that something is guarded by another person who doesn't know you and isn't inclined to give a shit about you. Sometimes a million other people also want this same thing. Sometimes you need an edge.
Ass kissing doesn't have to be unpleasant for the giver or the receiver. Just follow these simple rules:
1.Be Genuine
Very few people are all bad. Even the douchiest of douches has a redeeming quality. Find it. Focus on it. Why resort to false and fake flattery when there could be something real to connect over?
2.Be Strategic
If you hear too much of the same thing, it becomes white noise. I'm sure that super hot guy gets to hear about how hot he is all the damn time. Find a new angle to hit. Or be more specific than everyone else - say something unexpected.
3. Be Sparing
A natural extension of the former suggestion. Don't overdo it. Say what you want to say, allow for one comeback, then walk away. When you hear something nice about yourself, there's this natural inclination to want to hear more of it so deny your target the continued flattery and they'll be putty in your hand.
4. Be Focused
By focused, I mean on the other person. Some people ass kiss by talking about themselves and how awesome they are and what they can do. Guess what. Ass kissing isn't about you. Studies have shown (read: I think I may have read in Cosmo years ago) that people think more positively about people who make them feel smart and funny than they do about people who are themselves smart and funny.
5. Be Natural
Ass kissing should roll off your tongue like declarations of love for Timothy Olyphant. So don't bother with stuff that doesn't come naturally to you. For example, I could never compliment a person's car. Because I don't give a shit about cars. Does your car have wheels? Good for you. You're not getting a medal for anything more.
Now go forth and practice. Everything takes practice. Even ass-kissing. And don't give me some line about how you're not an ass-kisser, because you're only saying that so I can go, "Oh, wow, that's so great, you're so amazing" which means you're asking for ass-kissing and if anything is worse than an ass-kisser is the person who needs their ass kissed.
And yes, I kiss my mother with this mouth.
Everyone says they don't kiss ass, but then why do so many people complain about useless ass kissers? Either we're all liars or we're delusional egoists. Either way, it doesn't bode well.
Look, I'm not going to judge. Sometimes you need something. Sometimes the key to that something is guarded by another person who doesn't know you and isn't inclined to give a shit about you. Sometimes a million other people also want this same thing. Sometimes you need an edge.
Ass kissing doesn't have to be unpleasant for the giver or the receiver. Just follow these simple rules:
1.Be Genuine
Very few people are all bad. Even the douchiest of douches has a redeeming quality. Find it. Focus on it. Why resort to false and fake flattery when there could be something real to connect over?
2.Be Strategic
If you hear too much of the same thing, it becomes white noise. I'm sure that super hot guy gets to hear about how hot he is all the damn time. Find a new angle to hit. Or be more specific than everyone else - say something unexpected.
3. Be Sparing
A natural extension of the former suggestion. Don't overdo it. Say what you want to say, allow for one comeback, then walk away. When you hear something nice about yourself, there's this natural inclination to want to hear more of it so deny your target the continued flattery and they'll be putty in your hand.
4. Be Focused
By focused, I mean on the other person. Some people ass kiss by talking about themselves and how awesome they are and what they can do. Guess what. Ass kissing isn't about you. Studies have shown (read: I think I may have read in Cosmo years ago) that people think more positively about people who make them feel smart and funny than they do about people who are themselves smart and funny.
5. Be Natural
Ass kissing should roll off your tongue like declarations of love for Timothy Olyphant. So don't bother with stuff that doesn't come naturally to you. For example, I could never compliment a person's car. Because I don't give a shit about cars. Does your car have wheels? Good for you. You're not getting a medal for anything more.
Now go forth and practice. Everything takes practice. Even ass-kissing. And don't give me some line about how you're not an ass-kisser, because you're only saying that so I can go, "Oh, wow, that's so great, you're so amazing" which means you're asking for ass-kissing and if anything is worse than an ass-kisser is the person who needs their ass kissed.
And yes, I kiss my mother with this mouth.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Martha's No Nag
I grew up in a nag-free household. There was no persistent and annoying urging or being painfully bothersome to get someone to do something.
That's because I lived in a Tiger household, and my mom only had to ask once.
Preferably, my mom did not have to ask at all.
If we had been asked to do the dishes yesterday, then we took the initiative to do them today, and every day, ad nauseum. My brother and I visited my parents over Christmas and it was the first time I'd been to their house in years but yep, we did the dishes. I did not have to be asked to clean my room, to do my weekly chores, to do my homework.
Now, as an adult, I'm shocked when I have to nag people especially to do things in their own self-interest. Allow me to give you a representative conversation:
Me: Don't forget to clear up the guest room before your sister arrives tonight.
Husband: Yep.
(four hours later)
Me: The guest room hasn't been cleaned - would you please do it?
Husband: Yep
(four hours later)
Husband: Crap, I forgot to clean the guest room - why didn't you remind me again?
The first time we had this exchange, I was shocked. You see, I knew the room hadn't been cleaned, but I figured, huh, he still hasn't cleaned it, and this is HIS guest who he knows well, maybe the room is good enough as is so I'm done here.
I didn't realize that some people expect to be nagged, that they count on it to get things done. That they think of nagging like a snooze button and they'll decide when they are done pressing. Especially because, like Adrienne, I hate being nagged. If I want to do something, I'll do it. And very little "encouragement" will change my mind. So imagine my surprise when I find myself on the other end of very good-natured nagging.
You know how there's that saying that there are two kinds of people in this world? Maybe nagging applies. People who need to nagged, and people who don't. People who like to nag, and people who don't. May we all find the right partner. :)
That's because I lived in a Tiger household, and my mom only had to ask once.
Preferably, my mom did not have to ask at all.
If we had been asked to do the dishes yesterday, then we took the initiative to do them today, and every day, ad nauseum. My brother and I visited my parents over Christmas and it was the first time I'd been to their house in years but yep, we did the dishes. I did not have to be asked to clean my room, to do my weekly chores, to do my homework.
Now, as an adult, I'm shocked when I have to nag people especially to do things in their own self-interest. Allow me to give you a representative conversation:
Me: Don't forget to clear up the guest room before your sister arrives tonight.
Husband: Yep.
(four hours later)
Me: The guest room hasn't been cleaned - would you please do it?
Husband: Yep
(four hours later)
Husband: Crap, I forgot to clean the guest room - why didn't you remind me again?
The first time we had this exchange, I was shocked. You see, I knew the room hadn't been cleaned, but I figured, huh, he still hasn't cleaned it, and this is HIS guest who he knows well, maybe the room is good enough as is so I'm done here.
I didn't realize that some people expect to be nagged, that they count on it to get things done. That they think of nagging like a snooze button and they'll decide when they are done pressing. Especially because, like Adrienne, I hate being nagged. If I want to do something, I'll do it. And very little "encouragement" will change my mind. So imagine my surprise when I find myself on the other end of very good-natured nagging.
You know how there's that saying that there are two kinds of people in this world? Maybe nagging applies. People who need to nagged, and people who don't. People who like to nag, and people who don't. May we all find the right partner. :)
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Martha's Defense of Vice
I'm not the type to deny myself.
Good food? I eat it.
Nice things? I buy them.
Social life? I haz it.
Why would I say no to myself? I LOVE myself. I give myself anything and everything.
In fact, I am PRO vice.
Let's break the big ones down, shall we?
Vice #1: Vanity aka Self-Love (no, not *that* self-love you dirty gutter-minded folks)
I never understood why Dante was so down on self-love. Even bringing in the religious mentality - if God made me in his image, and I love God, why wouldn't I also love myself? And who wants to hang out with a wallowing mess of self-pity anyway?
Vice #2: Greed
Our entire economy and society is built on the premise that I want things I don't have. Wanting leads to motivation and innovation. Wanting keeps things interesting.
Vice #3 Lust
Are we or are we not supposed to procreate as a species?
Vice #4: Anger
You know what creeps me out? Indifference. If things like child abuse, sexual abuse and human slavery don't make you angry, there is something wrong with you. For realz.
Vice #5: Gluttony
See Greed
Vice #6: Envy
See Greed
Vice #7: Sloth
Okay, I'll admit. I'm not a fan of sloth. I don't even like to sleep because it feels lazy.
I know, I know, your body is replenishing and your brain is doing something (useless) and it's good for you and studies show this but these studies don't compare what I can get done while I'm awake to whatever happens when I'm asleep.
On the other hand, I just got back from the Carribbean and everything else seemed to be a way to kill time until my next nap.
Breakfast then nap.
Lunch then siesta.
Pool time then doze.
Dinner then nod off.
Entertainment then sleep.
I also discovered the Snuggie for the first time, which is a genius napstastic accoutrement that makes you feel like you're being cradled by angels. I don't know what you got from me last Christmas, but this Christmas, it's probably gonna be a Snuggie.
(You're welcome.)
I digress - bottom line, if you've made it this far in life without giving into one of the big seven, you're probably not reading this blog as blog-reading is firmly covered under Vice #7: Sloth.
Ergo, I can say terrible things like those other people. Like they aren't very interesting. Not YOU, however. If you're reading this blog, you're fantastic.
Good food? I eat it.
Nice things? I buy them.
Social life? I haz it.
Why would I say no to myself? I LOVE myself. I give myself anything and everything.
In fact, I am PRO vice.
Let's break the big ones down, shall we?
Vice #1: Vanity aka Self-Love (no, not *that* self-love you dirty gutter-minded folks)
I never understood why Dante was so down on self-love. Even bringing in the religious mentality - if God made me in his image, and I love God, why wouldn't I also love myself? And who wants to hang out with a wallowing mess of self-pity anyway?
Vice #2: Greed
Our entire economy and society is built on the premise that I want things I don't have. Wanting leads to motivation and innovation. Wanting keeps things interesting.
Vice #3 Lust
Are we or are we not supposed to procreate as a species?
Vice #4: Anger
You know what creeps me out? Indifference. If things like child abuse, sexual abuse and human slavery don't make you angry, there is something wrong with you. For realz.
Vice #5: Gluttony
See Greed
Vice #6: Envy
See Greed
Vice #7: Sloth
Okay, I'll admit. I'm not a fan of sloth. I don't even like to sleep because it feels lazy.
I know, I know, your body is replenishing and your brain is doing something (useless) and it's good for you and studies show this but these studies don't compare what I can get done while I'm awake to whatever happens when I'm asleep.
On the other hand, I just got back from the Carribbean and everything else seemed to be a way to kill time until my next nap.
Breakfast then nap.
Lunch then siesta.
Pool time then doze.
Dinner then nod off.
Entertainment then sleep.
I also discovered the Snuggie for the first time, which is a genius napstastic accoutrement that makes you feel like you're being cradled by angels. I don't know what you got from me last Christmas, but this Christmas, it's probably gonna be a Snuggie.
(You're welcome.)
I digress - bottom line, if you've made it this far in life without giving into one of the big seven, you're probably not reading this blog as blog-reading is firmly covered under Vice #7: Sloth.
Ergo, I can say terrible things like those other people. Like they aren't very interesting. Not YOU, however. If you're reading this blog, you're fantastic.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Martha's Moment of Peace
I have a pretty serious case of anxiety and therefore a pretty serious case of insomnia. Most mornings at three am, I find myself desperate to silence the chatter in my mind, desperate for a little peace.
I finally found it - on youtube.
Several years ago, I stumbled upon this video of a young man receiving a head massage in India.
The video is weirdly hypnotizing and relaxing especially given the video is loud and the massage itself even a bit...jarring. But I couldn't stop myself from watching it over and over again. Soon, I started clicking on other Indian head massage videos. After two or three videos, my eyes would droop and bam, I'd be asleep.
It got to the point where I'd sneak into bed with my tablet and tune into youtube to watch the video before falling asleep.
I started to feel like I had a dirty little secret.
Turns out - I'm not alone. This video, for one, has been watched nearly four million times as of today. There is a whole mini-cult of people who watch massage videos to calm down and are especially relaxed by videos of traditional Indian head massages.
Everyone's got something that soothes their soul.
Guess mine is just a little unorthodox.
I finally found it - on youtube.
Several years ago, I stumbled upon this video of a young man receiving a head massage in India.
The video is weirdly hypnotizing and relaxing especially given the video is loud and the massage itself even a bit...jarring. But I couldn't stop myself from watching it over and over again. Soon, I started clicking on other Indian head massage videos. After two or three videos, my eyes would droop and bam, I'd be asleep.
It got to the point where I'd sneak into bed with my tablet and tune into youtube to watch the video before falling asleep.
I started to feel like I had a dirty little secret.
Turns out - I'm not alone. This video, for one, has been watched nearly four million times as of today. There is a whole mini-cult of people who watch massage videos to calm down and are especially relaxed by videos of traditional Indian head massages.
Everyone's got something that soothes their soul.
Guess mine is just a little unorthodox.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
If you give Martha a cookie....
The modern day classic, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, is one of the most beloved children's picture books of recent decades.
I had outgrown picture books by its release, however, as a teenager, I read it to another child.
This book, quite frankly, horrifies me.
For those not familiar with this treasure (and I do not mean that sarcastically - the book is very well done), the story begins with the gifting of a cookie to a mouse.
It continues with the mouse making repeated and continued requests growing more and more outlandish.
As a teenager, I could not believe the cojones on this rodent.
SOMEONE GAVE YOU A GIFT!
Where was the thank you? Where was the graciousness? Where was the rush home to bake cookies to return so as to erase the karmic debt owed to this kind stranger???????
If someone gave me a cookie and I asked for something else, my mom would KILL me.
So rest assured, dear readers, do not fear giving me cookies this holiday season. I will accept them, graciously, no strings attached. :)
I had outgrown picture books by its release, however, as a teenager, I read it to another child.
This book, quite frankly, horrifies me.
For those not familiar with this treasure (and I do not mean that sarcastically - the book is very well done), the story begins with the gifting of a cookie to a mouse.
It continues with the mouse making repeated and continued requests growing more and more outlandish.
As a teenager, I could not believe the cojones on this rodent.
SOMEONE GAVE YOU A GIFT!
Where was the thank you? Where was the graciousness? Where was the rush home to bake cookies to return so as to erase the karmic debt owed to this kind stranger???????
If someone gave me a cookie and I asked for something else, my mom would KILL me.
So rest assured, dear readers, do not fear giving me cookies this holiday season. I will accept them, graciously, no strings attached. :)
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Martha's (Stolen) Leftover Secret
A few years ago, for the first time ever, my trained chef brother was going to be home for Thanksgiving. Implied: he was going to be cooking and oh, we were not disappointed.
He refused to plan a menu, saying how could he, when he didn't know what would be fresh in the grocery store that day. Such pretentious words were never more welcome!
For the first time in years, I ate a turkey that was moist, perfect, dare I say - delicious - without the help of gravy or other accoutrements. The mashed potatoes were fluffy and buttery. The cranberry sauce tart. The other side dishes were classics with culinary twists. Everything was, in a word, delicious.
When the chef bro said he'd be coming back the next day to "take care of leftovers" I was positively gleeful. What magic would he work??
So imagine my surprise when he stopped by with nothing but a bag King's Hawaiian Sweet Rolls. (I'd have a picture here...only Blogger hates me...so...sorry.)
Anyhoo -
I thought to myself, there's gotta be a mistake. There's no way someone trained by the likes of Lagasse and Keller is bringing ghetto hawaiian sweet rolls into my kitchen.
But he was totally serious and explained that sweet rolls make the perfect leftover sandwich. He then proceeded to breakdown Thanksgiving dinner by its components.
Mashed Potatoes or Sweet Potatoes were to be used like condiments. We slathered the bread in them.
Proteins like ham and turkey were layered.
Then we looked for something crunchy, like green beans.
We topped it off with a sweet element, like a dollop of cranberry sauce.
We made a half dozen combinations and spent the better part of an hour creating close to a hundred sandwiches.
They shoulda tasted so gross, but it was like the perfect Thanksgiving slider.
Turns out he uses hawaiian spring rolls to make a leftover for almost anything. Leftover ground beef of any kind - spaghetti, taco, whatever - makes a beef or sloppy joe slider. It's great for sopping up leftover soups and stews. And it's bite sized, so you can eat like...a hundred of them and it's only five calories, right?
NOW I USE THEM FOR EVERYTHING.
He refused to plan a menu, saying how could he, when he didn't know what would be fresh in the grocery store that day. Such pretentious words were never more welcome!
For the first time in years, I ate a turkey that was moist, perfect, dare I say - delicious - without the help of gravy or other accoutrements. The mashed potatoes were fluffy and buttery. The cranberry sauce tart. The other side dishes were classics with culinary twists. Everything was, in a word, delicious.
When the chef bro said he'd be coming back the next day to "take care of leftovers" I was positively gleeful. What magic would he work??
So imagine my surprise when he stopped by with nothing but a bag King's Hawaiian Sweet Rolls. (I'd have a picture here...only Blogger hates me...so...sorry.)
Anyhoo -
I thought to myself, there's gotta be a mistake. There's no way someone trained by the likes of Lagasse and Keller is bringing ghetto hawaiian sweet rolls into my kitchen.
But he was totally serious and explained that sweet rolls make the perfect leftover sandwich. He then proceeded to breakdown Thanksgiving dinner by its components.
Mashed Potatoes or Sweet Potatoes were to be used like condiments. We slathered the bread in them.
Proteins like ham and turkey were layered.
Then we looked for something crunchy, like green beans.
We topped it off with a sweet element, like a dollop of cranberry sauce.
We made a half dozen combinations and spent the better part of an hour creating close to a hundred sandwiches.
They shoulda tasted so gross, but it was like the perfect Thanksgiving slider.
Turns out he uses hawaiian spring rolls to make a leftover for almost anything. Leftover ground beef of any kind - spaghetti, taco, whatever - makes a beef or sloppy joe slider. It's great for sopping up leftover soups and stews. And it's bite sized, so you can eat like...a hundred of them and it's only five calories, right?
NOW I USE THEM FOR EVERYTHING.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Martha's Present To You
You know how at Thanksgiving dinner you go around the table and say what you're thankful for and the pressure is high and they always start at the furthest point from you at the table and you're thinking "family" but then someone else says "family" and then crap, you have to come up with a new answer but then someone else steals "this meal" and "my friends" and "my health" and "you all at this table" and you're thinking CRAP, PEOPLE, STOP STEALING MY ANSWERS!
My gift to you this holiday season: a kick-ass list of backup gratefulness!
Things to be Thankful For If You Are Lucky Enough To Have Them
- potable water
- literacy
- indoor plumbing
- the internet
- Adele's Someone Like You
- free speech
- your adorable (insert pet name here)
- the right to vote
- Timothy Olyphant
- a job
- equality
- The Vampire Diaries
- access to first rate healthcare
- a safe place to sleep
- any first world problem
Can I also stick in a personal gratefulness plug for Gigi going into the holiday season healthy? Sure I can...it's my blog entry.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving weekend everyone!
My gift to you this holiday season: a kick-ass list of backup gratefulness!
Things to be Thankful For If You Are Lucky Enough To Have Them
- potable water
- literacy
- indoor plumbing
- the internet
- Adele's Someone Like You
- free speech
- your adorable (insert pet name here)
- the right to vote
- Timothy Olyphant
- a job
- equality
- The Vampire Diaries
- access to first rate healthcare
- a safe place to sleep
- any first world problem
Can I also stick in a personal gratefulness plug for Gigi going into the holiday season healthy? Sure I can...it's my blog entry.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving weekend everyone!
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Martha's Regret Playlist
I'm not a fan of regret.
Not because of this: "I don't regret anything because everything that's happened has made me who I am today."
That answer is a crock of shit. There are a million and one ways my life could be better or worse of. The universe of possibilities is so explosive I give myself a migraine just thinking about it. Every time I hear someone parrot the above line, I want to stab myself in the eye. But moving on...
I'm not a fan of regret because it involves a fair amount of sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.
But hey, I'm human. (Shocking, I know.)
And sometimes I sit around feeling sorry for myself.
This event is usually triggered by a beautifully written story or song.
In fact, I have a whole host of songs on my playlist designed to get me into a regret frame of mine so I can write about some character's pansy ass emotions.
Here are my top songs to get in the mood:
Go ahead. Sit back. Hit Play. Feel shame and sorrow for your life's choices. What else are you going to do on Hump Day?
Not because of this: "I don't regret anything because everything that's happened has made me who I am today."
That answer is a crock of shit. There are a million and one ways my life could be better or worse of. The universe of possibilities is so explosive I give myself a migraine just thinking about it. Every time I hear someone parrot the above line, I want to stab myself in the eye. But moving on...
I'm not a fan of regret because it involves a fair amount of sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.
But hey, I'm human. (Shocking, I know.)
And sometimes I sit around feeling sorry for myself.
This event is usually triggered by a beautifully written story or song.
In fact, I have a whole host of songs on my playlist designed to get me into a regret frame of mine so I can write about some character's pansy ass emotions.
Here are my top songs to get in the mood:
Go ahead. Sit back. Hit Play. Feel shame and sorrow for your life's choices. What else are you going to do on Hump Day?
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Martha Goes To Hell
I grew up Catholic, which meant one thing.
I was probably going to hell.
Sinful thoughts? Going to hell.
Disrespecting my parents? Going to hell.
Lying? Going to hell.
Stealing? Hella going to hell.
Doubting God? Totally. Going. To. Hell. (although if one doesn't believe in God and then one doesn't believe in Hell, this gets a little meta)
Point being, there were so many ways to hell, I really saw no way out. So by the time I hit six or seven years old, I'd accepted the inevitability of spending the afterlife in eternal, painful hellfire.
(Granted, this was after sitting around until the second coming.)
What shocks me as an adult is how okay I was with it. How I made peace with hell. Even though I tried to be a good person just because being a bad person sucks, I never thought I could do anything to be perfect enough for Heaven.
And to be honest...I kind of figured everyone around me was going to hell, too. I'd catch a friend cheating on her homework. Hell. Parents took the lord's name in vain 24-7. Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell. Everyone seemed to be working on Sunday, despite it being a holy day. Soooo much hell to catch.
I couldn't understand people who felt they were going to see the Lord one day. Who talked about how excited they were that one day they'd be in the loving presence of the Father.
But uh...I'd think...don't you remember coveting my color pencils a while back? That's a hell offense if I've ever seen one!
For some reason, the fact that everyone was going to hell made it okay. It was going to be one big hellacious party. We'd burn together.
Because trust me, if I'm going to hell, I'm taking ya'all with me.
I was probably going to hell.
Sinful thoughts? Going to hell.
Disrespecting my parents? Going to hell.
Lying? Going to hell.
Stealing? Hella going to hell.
Doubting God? Totally. Going. To. Hell. (although if one doesn't believe in God and then one doesn't believe in Hell, this gets a little meta)
Point being, there were so many ways to hell, I really saw no way out. So by the time I hit six or seven years old, I'd accepted the inevitability of spending the afterlife in eternal, painful hellfire.
(Granted, this was after sitting around until the second coming.)
What shocks me as an adult is how okay I was with it. How I made peace with hell. Even though I tried to be a good person just because being a bad person sucks, I never thought I could do anything to be perfect enough for Heaven.
And to be honest...I kind of figured everyone around me was going to hell, too. I'd catch a friend cheating on her homework. Hell. Parents took the lord's name in vain 24-7. Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell. Everyone seemed to be working on Sunday, despite it being a holy day. Soooo much hell to catch.
I couldn't understand people who felt they were going to see the Lord one day. Who talked about how excited they were that one day they'd be in the loving presence of the Father.
But uh...I'd think...don't you remember coveting my color pencils a while back? That's a hell offense if I've ever seen one!
For some reason, the fact that everyone was going to hell made it okay. It was going to be one big hellacious party. We'd burn together.
Because trust me, if I'm going to hell, I'm taking ya'all with me.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Martha. Art. Pbbblt.
Everybody in my family is naturally artistic.
We showcase my mother's oil paintings of the Vietnam landscape in rosewood frames around our living room and everyone assumes they're professional.
My brothers all sketch. One does comic style japanimation. The other specializes in animals.
Everybody in my family is naturally artistic.
Except me.
I can't make a face, a line, a circle. Nothing. I can't see something and represent it on paper. I don't eveh know where to start and I assure you I had a first class education complete with daily art classes where they tried to drill the elementary principles of drawing into my brain.
I was left with one simple conclusion thanks to first year biology:
I'm adopted.
Growing up, I found other reasons to add to this list.
My mother and brothers favor their left hand.
My nose tilts up while theirs falls flat.
They love camping and the outdoors and I hate hate hate all of that business.
They are all naturally slim and muscular and I'm, well, let's use the word: zaftig.
They found academia difficult and I always found it easy - not that I was some kind of genius or particularly motivated, I just never had to try very hard to meet the minimum requirements of whatever it took to hit the honor roll.
We can joke about it, but growing up, in the haze of teen melodrama, I genuinely imagined that I belonged to another family - one that would understand me if only I could find them. Preferably one with a last name like Rockefeller.
I'm guessing I'm not unique. Not just in my art suckiness, but also in how much I felt like an outcast in my own family, and when you're a kid spending a lot of time with your family it means feeling really, really alone.
For years, it was so easy to see the things that made us different, that I never thought about what made us the same. Not until my husband got together with my brothers' wives and had themselves a complain-about-the-family pow-wow.
Turns out we all are party poopers when it comes to Santa (who wants to admit to having a kid who falls for that line o' crap?) and giving gifts (clutter, ugh), and feelings (don't have 'em, don't wanna talk about 'em) and apocalypse scenarios (prepare or die) and a whole bunch of things.
It's just enough for me to figure: Art. Pbbblt.
We showcase my mother's oil paintings of the Vietnam landscape in rosewood frames around our living room and everyone assumes they're professional.
My brothers all sketch. One does comic style japanimation. The other specializes in animals.
Everybody in my family is naturally artistic.
Except me.
I can't make a face, a line, a circle. Nothing. I can't see something and represent it on paper. I don't eveh know where to start and I assure you I had a first class education complete with daily art classes where they tried to drill the elementary principles of drawing into my brain.
I was left with one simple conclusion thanks to first year biology:
I'm adopted.
Growing up, I found other reasons to add to this list.
My mother and brothers favor their left hand.
My nose tilts up while theirs falls flat.
They love camping and the outdoors and I hate hate hate all of that business.
They are all naturally slim and muscular and I'm, well, let's use the word: zaftig.
They found academia difficult and I always found it easy - not that I was some kind of genius or particularly motivated, I just never had to try very hard to meet the minimum requirements of whatever it took to hit the honor roll.
We can joke about it, but growing up, in the haze of teen melodrama, I genuinely imagined that I belonged to another family - one that would understand me if only I could find them. Preferably one with a last name like Rockefeller.
I'm guessing I'm not unique. Not just in my art suckiness, but also in how much I felt like an outcast in my own family, and when you're a kid spending a lot of time with your family it means feeling really, really alone.
For years, it was so easy to see the things that made us different, that I never thought about what made us the same. Not until my husband got together with my brothers' wives and had themselves a complain-about-the-family pow-wow.
Turns out we all are party poopers when it comes to Santa (who wants to admit to having a kid who falls for that line o' crap?) and giving gifts (clutter, ugh), and feelings (don't have 'em, don't wanna talk about 'em) and apocalypse scenarios (prepare or die) and a whole bunch of things.
It's just enough for me to figure: Art. Pbbblt.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Martha's Meme Crutch
We've had the definition before, but let's go over it one more time for effect:
meme: an idea, behaviour or style that spreads from person to person within a culture
Sometimes it's a youtube video, but sometimes it's something else entirely.
Remember this:
I couldn't make it through a day of junior high without something going all not worthy.
Or how about this:
I don't know when it popped up, but back in college I never said "I know, right?" but now I'm that douchebag that says it all the time. Oh yeah, also, using the word douchebag all the time? Meme.
There was a time no one used the word douchebag to describe someone negatively. Then someone used it. Then it caught fire and everyone used it.
The problem with these types of memes is that they lead to verbal crutches and, in writing, the dreaded cliche.
As a young-adult author, I'm naturally obsessed with whatever Taylor Lautner's abs...I mean...Taylor Lautner is doing so I've been checking out his latest trailer:
There's a point where Taylor Lautner is on the phone with what must be the bad guy.
The bad guy says, "We're going to find you."
Taylor responds aggressively, "Not if I find you first."
That's technically another meme. Somewhere, societally, we decided the badass answer to "I'm going to find you" was "Not if I find you, first."
Even though this makes absolutely no sense.
If I said to someone: "I'm going to find you."
And they said, "Not if I find you first."
My natural response would be, "Oh...cool, well, let's just agree to meet somewhere? What's good for you? I don't mind cabbing it...maybe we could grab lunch?"
If cliche is the enemy of the writer than so is meme...but strangely, not zeitgiest (which we've discussed before in depth on this blog...)
The key is capture the spirit of the times without beating it like a dead horse (ahem...yet another meme turned cliche...)
With all the pressure to keep your writing pristine, thank goodness there's blogging! Where I can say whatever the hell. :)
meme: an idea, behaviour or style that spreads from person to person within a culture
Sometimes it's a youtube video, but sometimes it's something else entirely.
Remember this:
I couldn't make it through a day of junior high without something going all not worthy.
Or how about this:
I don't know when it popped up, but back in college I never said "I know, right?" but now I'm that douchebag that says it all the time. Oh yeah, also, using the word douchebag all the time? Meme.
There was a time no one used the word douchebag to describe someone negatively. Then someone used it. Then it caught fire and everyone used it.
The problem with these types of memes is that they lead to verbal crutches and, in writing, the dreaded cliche.
As a young-adult author, I'm naturally obsessed with whatever Taylor Lautner's abs...I mean...Taylor Lautner is doing so I've been checking out his latest trailer:
There's a point where Taylor Lautner is on the phone with what must be the bad guy.
The bad guy says, "We're going to find you."
Taylor responds aggressively, "Not if I find you first."
That's technically another meme. Somewhere, societally, we decided the badass answer to "I'm going to find you" was "Not if I find you, first."
Even though this makes absolutely no sense.
If I said to someone: "I'm going to find you."
And they said, "Not if I find you first."
My natural response would be, "Oh...cool, well, let's just agree to meet somewhere? What's good for you? I don't mind cabbing it...maybe we could grab lunch?"
If cliche is the enemy of the writer than so is meme...but strangely, not zeitgiest (which we've discussed before in depth on this blog...)
The key is capture the spirit of the times without beating it like a dead horse (ahem...yet another meme turned cliche...)
With all the pressure to keep your writing pristine, thank goodness there's blogging! Where I can say whatever the hell. :)
Friday, September 16, 2011
Martha's Secret Charity Shame
If this were the charity equivalent of an AA meeting, this is where I'd tap the mic, wince at the screechy feedback through the speakers, clear my throat with an awkward cough and say, "Uh, my name is Martha and I'm a Charitaholic."
When I was in elementary school, our class was asked to fundraise. I don't remember the cause, I only remember it involved public solicitation of cash from parents, friends, and neighbors. And I remember refusing to do it.
Oh, and no one could make me do it. Not the teachers. Not the nuns. No amount of Catholic guilt was going to sway me.
I don't know why I had this particular aversion to fundraising. But I do know after the class raised money, and I found out the amount, I made an equal, private donation to the same charity...but didn't tell anyone about it.
There is probably some psychological reason I have this weird dysfunction, but I suspect I'm not alone.
If you...
- publicly shun the donation till at Church only to sneak in after the service and stuff it with dollar bills
- refuse requests to fund races for leukemia and whatnot only to go online later and donate anonymously
- when alone, and only when alone, randomly dole out cash to all kinds of people on the streets...only to learn that some of them are not homeless or pandering, only bike messengers chilling between assignments (oops)
- often purposely over-purchase at restaurants and pretend you are throwing it away only to give it whatever poor soul is hungry and huddled in a blanket nearby
...then you, too, may have Charity Shame.
Why am I ashamed of charity? Maybe it's the word - charity. It's full of connotations. Like I'm somehow "better" and giving to someone "in need" or "helpless" which makes me feel all douchebaggy and squirmy inside.
But the truth is....
(deep breaths)
...I love, love, love giving away my time, energy, and money to other causes/people/friends/strangers. I really do.
NO. I DON'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT. STOP LOOKING AT ME WITH YOUR HEARTWARMING SYMPATHY EYES, DAMMIT.
Charity is fucking ridiculous and I don't have to do it just because you expect me to and get the fuck out of my face with your stupid cause.
(no really, it makes my heart warm and fuzzy...)
BUT NOT BECAUSE YOU THINK I SHOULD, DAMN YOU.
All right we're clearly not going to solve all my issues in one blog post.
Point being.
Sometimes prickly people are charitable, too.
Stop making so many damn assumptions about us.
(grumble grumble grumble)
When I was in elementary school, our class was asked to fundraise. I don't remember the cause, I only remember it involved public solicitation of cash from parents, friends, and neighbors. And I remember refusing to do it.
Oh, and no one could make me do it. Not the teachers. Not the nuns. No amount of Catholic guilt was going to sway me.
I don't know why I had this particular aversion to fundraising. But I do know after the class raised money, and I found out the amount, I made an equal, private donation to the same charity...but didn't tell anyone about it.
There is probably some psychological reason I have this weird dysfunction, but I suspect I'm not alone.
If you...
- publicly shun the donation till at Church only to sneak in after the service and stuff it with dollar bills
- refuse requests to fund races for leukemia and whatnot only to go online later and donate anonymously
- when alone, and only when alone, randomly dole out cash to all kinds of people on the streets...only to learn that some of them are not homeless or pandering, only bike messengers chilling between assignments (oops)
- often purposely over-purchase at restaurants and pretend you are throwing it away only to give it whatever poor soul is hungry and huddled in a blanket nearby
...then you, too, may have Charity Shame.
Why am I ashamed of charity? Maybe it's the word - charity. It's full of connotations. Like I'm somehow "better" and giving to someone "in need" or "helpless" which makes me feel all douchebaggy and squirmy inside.
But the truth is....
(deep breaths)
...I love, love, love giving away my time, energy, and money to other causes/people/friends/strangers. I really do.
NO. I DON'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT. STOP LOOKING AT ME WITH YOUR HEARTWARMING SYMPATHY EYES, DAMMIT.
Charity is fucking ridiculous and I don't have to do it just because you expect me to and get the fuck out of my face with your stupid cause.
(no really, it makes my heart warm and fuzzy...)
BUT NOT BECAUSE YOU THINK I SHOULD, DAMN YOU.
All right we're clearly not going to solve all my issues in one blog post.
Point being.
Sometimes prickly people are charitable, too.
Stop making so many damn assumptions about us.
(grumble grumble grumble)
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Martha Tries Hunger
Both my parents come from poverty.
My dad was raised in rural Georgia, the son of a saw sharpener, and hunting for food wasn't rare.
My mom grew up in war-torn Vietnam. My dad has a story he sometimes tells - how the first time he brought her to a grocery store, she tried to stockpile the rice because she didn't believe it would be there the next day.
They've both known hunger. Real hunger. Not the wimpy kind I'm about to talk about.
Given my obsession with apocalyptic scenarios there's a part of me that thinks - what if? What if food is gone, tomorrow? What if I can't find something to eat? Could I survive hunger? Would it break me?
I've gone days without eating before. Sometimes while fasting for religious reasons. Sometimes because I've gotten too busy to eat. Sometimes because it's just something to do.
Don't get me wrong, I eat often, I eat lots, and I eat well. I'm not in any danger of anorexia. I don't have glamorized ideas about our world's hunger problem. Sometimes I just like...not eating.
It's weird what gets to you when you go hungry.
It's not so much the sensation of hunger. The gnawing at your ribs. Or the cramping in your gut. Although it's not pleasant, trust me. Sometimes you're so hungry you can't sleep and sometimes you can't think about anything else but making that pain go away.
But it's really the lack of socialization that gets to me first. So much of what I do with my friends surrounds food. In the end, what breaks me is hunger, not for nutrition, but for companionship.
Who knew I was so needy? :)
My dad was raised in rural Georgia, the son of a saw sharpener, and hunting for food wasn't rare.
My mom grew up in war-torn Vietnam. My dad has a story he sometimes tells - how the first time he brought her to a grocery store, she tried to stockpile the rice because she didn't believe it would be there the next day.
They've both known hunger. Real hunger. Not the wimpy kind I'm about to talk about.
Given my obsession with apocalyptic scenarios there's a part of me that thinks - what if? What if food is gone, tomorrow? What if I can't find something to eat? Could I survive hunger? Would it break me?
I've gone days without eating before. Sometimes while fasting for religious reasons. Sometimes because I've gotten too busy to eat. Sometimes because it's just something to do.
Don't get me wrong, I eat often, I eat lots, and I eat well. I'm not in any danger of anorexia. I don't have glamorized ideas about our world's hunger problem. Sometimes I just like...not eating.
It's weird what gets to you when you go hungry.
It's not so much the sensation of hunger. The gnawing at your ribs. Or the cramping in your gut. Although it's not pleasant, trust me. Sometimes you're so hungry you can't sleep and sometimes you can't think about anything else but making that pain go away.
But it's really the lack of socialization that gets to me first. So much of what I do with my friends surrounds food. In the end, what breaks me is hunger, not for nutrition, but for companionship.
Who knew I was so needy? :)
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Martha's Beach Horror Experience
When I was young...maybe six or seven years old...my family went on a Hawaii vacation over Christmas break.
Here is what I remember.
Like any horror movie, we open on a beautiful scene.
We stayed with my mom's friend, a beautiful Vietnamese woman. Her family owned hotel properties on the island, and she invited us to her gorgeous beach-side home where the ocean's waves were practically a welcome mat.
She had a son named Paul who was about my age, and while my parents insisted we would get married when we were older, all I remember is that I wanted to kick his ass at everything. If he dove off a diving board, I dove off a higher one.
She took us to luaus and other celebrations where I was constantly singled out to go on stage or hula. At the time, I thought this was because I was unbearably cute. While this may have been true, I now realize it's because I was with the boss.
Like any horror movie, there was a turn.
The shenanigans became too much.
My brothers held me over an open volcano pit, threatening to drop me inside.
I went for a swim in the ocean and a strange woman encouraged me the race a wave. I was tossed around and unable to break the surface. I took gulp after gulp of salt water which stung my lungs until the wave finally tossed me onto shore and I choked it out.
I was buried in the sand up to my neck, unable to move, and while movies had made this seem fun really it was cold and kind of sucked and hey did I mention there are bugs in the sand?
Hawaii was beginning to lose its shine.
Like any horror movie, we soon realize the true horror is not what we expected.
We left cookies out the night before Christmas, but two things struck me was incredibly wrong. For one, how was Santa going to find us. For two, there was no friggin' chimney in this place. Was Santa supposed to use the door?
I worried about it all night. I couldn't sleep. I finally decided I needed to leave the cookies outside on the doorstep. I slipped out of my room (in what I imagine to be an adorable nightie) and saw the unthinkable.
My parents and their friends in the dining room eating Santa's cookies.
Now I wasn't an idiot.
I'd had my doubts about Santa. But now they were confirmed.
What I hadn't known is that my parents were in on it.
I left Hawaii knowing two things for certain.
1. Nature could kill you. Like really, totally kill you.
2. Parents are deceitful liars.
So while I like a good beach, Hawaii can suck it.
Here is what I remember.
Like any horror movie, we open on a beautiful scene.
We stayed with my mom's friend, a beautiful Vietnamese woman. Her family owned hotel properties on the island, and she invited us to her gorgeous beach-side home where the ocean's waves were practically a welcome mat.
She had a son named Paul who was about my age, and while my parents insisted we would get married when we were older, all I remember is that I wanted to kick his ass at everything. If he dove off a diving board, I dove off a higher one.
She took us to luaus and other celebrations where I was constantly singled out to go on stage or hula. At the time, I thought this was because I was unbearably cute. While this may have been true, I now realize it's because I was with the boss.
Like any horror movie, there was a turn.
The shenanigans became too much.
My brothers held me over an open volcano pit, threatening to drop me inside.
I went for a swim in the ocean and a strange woman encouraged me the race a wave. I was tossed around and unable to break the surface. I took gulp after gulp of salt water which stung my lungs until the wave finally tossed me onto shore and I choked it out.
I was buried in the sand up to my neck, unable to move, and while movies had made this seem fun really it was cold and kind of sucked and hey did I mention there are bugs in the sand?
Hawaii was beginning to lose its shine.
Like any horror movie, we soon realize the true horror is not what we expected.
We left cookies out the night before Christmas, but two things struck me was incredibly wrong. For one, how was Santa going to find us. For two, there was no friggin' chimney in this place. Was Santa supposed to use the door?
I worried about it all night. I couldn't sleep. I finally decided I needed to leave the cookies outside on the doorstep. I slipped out of my room (in what I imagine to be an adorable nightie) and saw the unthinkable.
My parents and their friends in the dining room eating Santa's cookies.
Now I wasn't an idiot.
I'd had my doubts about Santa. But now they were confirmed.
What I hadn't known is that my parents were in on it.
I left Hawaii knowing two things for certain.
1. Nature could kill you. Like really, totally kill you.
2. Parents are deceitful liars.
So while I like a good beach, Hawaii can suck it.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Martha's Favorite Sexy Recipe
My absolute favorite use of the word sexy comes from celebrity chef Jamie Oliver.
Here is his salad, copied directly from his website with my comments in brackets.
I love this salad. Apart from being a great combination, it always seems unbelievably effortless, which is the kind of recipe I like. The constant success of this is due to the common-sense marriage [marriage! see how he talks about food? like its PEOPLE] of salty Parma ham, milky buffalo mozzarella and sweet figs, which obviously need to be of a good quality. The best figs to use are Italian and the best time to buy them is June to August when they are in season. Greek figs are a good second-best and are in season from September to November. The best figs always seem to be those that are about to split their skins. Use green or black figs - it doesn't really matter.
One thing I do is to criss-cross the figs but not quite to the bottom - 1 fig per person is always a good start. [I often screw up and hit bottom. Nothing to cry about.] Then, using your thumbs and forefingers, squeeze the base of the fig to expose the inside. At this point you'll think, 'Oooh, that looks nice, I think I'm quite clever ...' or at least I do. [Also sexy? A sense of humor. Check this guy out!] More importantly, it allows your dressing to get right into the middle of the fig. All these little things really help to make a salad special. Simply place the figs in a dish, weave around 1 slice [or three] of Parma ham or prosciutto per fig, throw in some slices of buffalo mozzarella and rip over some green or purple basil. Mix 6 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, 3 tablespoons of lemon juice, a tablespoon of good honey and some sea salt and freshly ground black pepper together in a bowl and drizzle everything with this dressing. As far as salads go, it's pretty damn sexy. [Agreed]
Here is his salad, copied directly from his website with my comments in brackets.
I love this salad. Apart from being a great combination, it always seems unbelievably effortless, which is the kind of recipe I like. The constant success of this is due to the common-sense marriage [marriage! see how he talks about food? like its PEOPLE] of salty Parma ham, milky buffalo mozzarella and sweet figs, which obviously need to be of a good quality. The best figs to use are Italian and the best time to buy them is June to August when they are in season. Greek figs are a good second-best and are in season from September to November. The best figs always seem to be those that are about to split their skins. Use green or black figs - it doesn't really matter.
One thing I do is to criss-cross the figs but not quite to the bottom - 1 fig per person is always a good start. [I often screw up and hit bottom. Nothing to cry about.] Then, using your thumbs and forefingers, squeeze the base of the fig to expose the inside. At this point you'll think, 'Oooh, that looks nice, I think I'm quite clever ...' or at least I do. [Also sexy? A sense of humor. Check this guy out!] More importantly, it allows your dressing to get right into the middle of the fig. All these little things really help to make a salad special. Simply place the figs in a dish, weave around 1 slice [or three] of Parma ham or prosciutto per fig, throw in some slices of buffalo mozzarella and rip over some green or purple basil. Mix 6 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, 3 tablespoons of lemon juice, a tablespoon of good honey and some sea salt and freshly ground black pepper together in a bowl and drizzle everything with this dressing. As far as salads go, it's pretty damn sexy. [Agreed]
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Martha's List of Cheap Thrills
I am a sucker for that head to toe sizzling sensation.
Here are a few standbys that always get me going:
The Stratosphere Big Shot in Las Vegas
Rides like this don't always get to me, but maybe because this one's in Vegas, it's my favorite and I used to go several times a year. My husband planned to propose to me at the Big Shot! (Yes, planned is the operative word there...that's another story.)
I can't take you to the real thing so here's my next best shot at it:
The Kiss Sequence in Catch and Release
All right, so anything with Timothy Olyphant is a safe bet with me. I may have blogged about this before, but what makes this scene great is the range of emotions that happen in a 60 second sequence. I can barely make it through two sets of emotions in one long-ass scene. But in this scene, Jennifer Garner's character has just discovered Timothy Olyphant's character has been hiding her dead fiance's affair from her.
She begins the scene angry, moves to awareness and desire, and quickly to shame and loathing. He begins the scene annoyed, also moves to awareness and desire, and ends the scene with regret and yearning. Did I mention he's Timothy Olyphant? Sigh. Drool. All that.
Boy's 15 Year Old Bday on Michael Buble
In this clip, a mom talks her son onto stage at Michael Buble's concert citing his birthday. What follows is so genuine, I can't watch without grinning ear to ear and actually clapping.
I hope these thrill you as much as they thrill me!
Here are a few standbys that always get me going:
The Stratosphere Big Shot in Las Vegas
Rides like this don't always get to me, but maybe because this one's in Vegas, it's my favorite and I used to go several times a year. My husband planned to propose to me at the Big Shot! (Yes, planned is the operative word there...that's another story.)
I can't take you to the real thing so here's my next best shot at it:
The Kiss Sequence in Catch and Release
All right, so anything with Timothy Olyphant is a safe bet with me. I may have blogged about this before, but what makes this scene great is the range of emotions that happen in a 60 second sequence. I can barely make it through two sets of emotions in one long-ass scene. But in this scene, Jennifer Garner's character has just discovered Timothy Olyphant's character has been hiding her dead fiance's affair from her.
She begins the scene angry, moves to awareness and desire, and quickly to shame and loathing. He begins the scene annoyed, also moves to awareness and desire, and ends the scene with regret and yearning. Did I mention he's Timothy Olyphant? Sigh. Drool. All that.
Boy's 15 Year Old Bday on Michael Buble
In this clip, a mom talks her son onto stage at Michael Buble's concert citing his birthday. What follows is so genuine, I can't watch without grinning ear to ear and actually clapping.
I hope these thrill you as much as they thrill me!
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