My boss's name was Loretta Von Stink. That's what I'm going to tell you anyway. She has a real name, but I can't use it here because she might call me up and say something, and if I have to hear that woman's voice again I will have to remove my ears with fire.
She was awful, and not just awful because she didn't know how to manage people. My three coworkers and I believed that she either had one of those psychotic social disorders that she should have been medicated for, or that she was just an asshole, in which case the solution was to only allow her contact with robots until medical science came up with a cure for being a dick. Since no one had seen fit to seclude her yet, we divided our working hours between correcting all of the mistakes she told us we were making and chatting conspiriously about ways to get Loretta out of our lives. Our options were few. They included: getting other jobs, talking to HR about how miserable we were under her rule, talking to her about how miserable we were to establish some kind of mature conversation, and shoving her in front of a bus. All of us tried everything except that last one, not because we weren't compelled to do it but because we knew she would only come back as a ghost and criticize us for having done it wrong.
All that correcting would have been fine if the four of us actually were the incompetent imbeciles that she accused us of being, and if she could have decided what she wanted us to do. Her favorite way of micromanaging was to tell us to do something, let us do it that way for a week, and then run (seriously run) into the office to fuss at us because we KNEW that was the wrong way to do it and we'd been doing it that way ALL week! So none of us trusted her when she gave us direction because we knew the direction was going to change and when it did, anything done previously was going to be entirely our fault and if we didn't watch it we were going to have to be let go. This made any contact with her at all highly stressful. It's one thing to have to tolerate a critical person, but when that person can cost you your job, stomaching their bullshit becomes both nauseating and impossible.
To give you an example of this, and to prove to you that there was no point in killing her because she was already undead, I think I'm going to have to tell you about the meeting in the dark. And before I do that I have to tell you what she looked like in the light.
She was shaped like an eggplant and smelled like an onion bagel. Onion bagels are delicious when you eat them, but when you smell like them as a person, the people who work for you are not going to be able to breathe when you lean over them to show them something on the computer. And by "show them something on the computer" I mean, lean over them, seize control of their keyboard, delete what they just wrote and type something else because you believe that they're too stupid to type "Thank you. Please call if you have any questions," on their own. So not only is your underling offended and her personal space is being violated, but she will pass out soon from lack of oxygen.
But we believed that Loretta could have cared less about whether or not we were able to breathe since her own heart had stopped beating years before. And she was pale enough so that this theory seemed that it might have been true. Pale, veiny skin with bleached blonde hair that for some reason, and I spent a lot of time trying to figure this out, was never dyed completely. The dark roots always showed, never getting longer or shorter, just perpetually two inches of dark hair and then a shock of blonde the rest of the way. It was as if she went to the beauty parlor with a thong on top of her head and asked the hairdresser to dye around it. Her eyes were the same brown as the roots, and she seldom laughed but when she did it came out forced. She pronounced each "ha" - ha ha ha - like laboured breathing.
So one day, I got an Instant Message on my computer that said, "Genevieve, come to my office. Bring your laptop." I jumped because my nerves were always spring loaded, ready for an attack to come from her on some front - red letter email, bursting in to the room to yell at me, or as in this case, an IM summons.
"Oh God," I whined.
"What's up?" my coworker Brian asked.
"The Goblin Queen just summoned me."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but I'm to bring my laptop."
"Don't let her smell your blood. It makes her hungry."
"Tell my children I love them," I said, undocking my computer and carrying it sadly out of the office.
Her office door was open a crack, and at first I thought she wasn't there because no light came from it. It looked like she'd left but had forgotten to shut the door all the way. But then I heard her voice coming from inside of it...and another voice talking back to her.
I rapped the back of my hand on the door. "Loretta?"
"Yeah!" she said, and them mumbled something and a man's voice answered her.
I pushed the door open, and found Loretta sitting at her desk in the dark, talking to someone on speaker phone. There were no windows in her office so even though it was the middle of the day, the room was dark as night except for the blue glow of her computer screen which eerily lit her blanched skin and jaundiced hair.
I sat down in the chair across from her and set my laptop across my knees.
"What's your IP address?"" she asked, pointing to the laptop.
Not knowing that information off the top of my head, I did a quick search to find out. And just so you know, typing in the dark in your boss's office is quite disorienting even if you're an excellent typist and your fingers already know where the letters are. This is because YOU ARE SITTING IN THE DARK IN YOUR BOSS'S OFFICE. The light bulbs aren't burnt out, there isn't a black out, you're just sitting there with no clear view of her so you have no idea if she's salivating at the scent of your blood or not.
I found the IP address and said it loud enough for the guy on the phone to hear. A couple of seconds later, the guy, who she was calling Rick, took control of my computer. I could tell because the arrow on my screen began to move around without my touching anything. Either she was on the phone with technical support or she was communing with the devil, who now had control of my laptop. It was then that two questions came into my head. I decided to address the one that was bothering me the most, and I quickly I figured out a way to go about asking it without saying, "Are you a total freak?"
"Loretta? Do you have a migraine?" I asked.
She frowned at me. "No. Why?"
"Because the lights are off," I said, pointing at the ceiling to show her where the light was supposed to come from. "And whenever I have a migraine I need to be in the dark, so-"
"No, no," she said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea. "I just like it this way. I find it easier on the eyes when I have to look at the computer screen all day, you know?"
She did this a lot. Explained something and then ended it with "you know" so that I had the opportunity to identify. But honestly, I did not know. Staring at a computer screen did hurt my eyes, I got that part, but if I sat in a dark room long enough I would either go to sleep or become severely depressed. AND even if I did not have either of those reactions then at the very least if someone else came to join me I would turn the lights on. So that we could work. In the light.
Which led me to my second question.
"Cool. So, um, what are we downloading?"
She crossed her legs and frowned at me again. "Downloading? What?"
I pointed to the laptop. Our conversations involved a lot of pointing since neither of us could understand each other's words."What Rick is downloading. What is it?"
"Oh it's -" and she named a program that Brian usually worked on.
"Ok...Would you like me to work on it too?"
"Yeah," she said, giving me a look I used to get in high school when I would ask a popular girl a question. It was a look that said, "Yeah, uh, duh! That's what I'm saying, shit for brains."
The downloading of this program took about fifteen minutes which doesn't sound like much, but it is when you're sitting in a dark room with your boss who's glowing like a bleached blond stick of uranium and all you want to do is go back to your desk and joke about this whole experience with your coworkers. I thought about the snack waiting for me in my desk drawer and became a little more irritated.
When it finally finished downloading, Loretta said, "Ok, so let me show you this, it's really easy. I don't know if you're a note-taker or not but you might want to take notes."
Loretta should have known that I was a note-taker because I had made a habit of jotting things down when I was alone with her so that I could chronicle the inconsistencies and the insults.
After the tutorial she thanked me and sent me on my way. The thanks were always confusing because she said them genuinely. It wasn't like the laugh that seemed forced. See, I'm the kind of person that when someone tells me "thank you" I believe them. When someone says, "I like you" I believe them, and when someone is nice to me I believe that they like me. So when she acted like a bitch most of the time, it was really confusing when she had moments of niceness. Those moments, fleeting though they were, did happen but rather then garner credit to the fact she she might be a cool person but just a bad boss, they confused me and my coworkers all the more and we were left to wonder if she was just in a good mood because she'd eaten a baby. One of the girls I worked with said that those were just moments of fakeness, but I didn't know. There was no way to really know her at all. But of course, whenever I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, she'd fuck me over.
I walked back into the office and said to Brian, "So I'm going to be your backup."
"Oh yeah?" he said. He got up and walked over to me as I snapped my laptop back into the docking station. "What'd she show you?"
I read over the instructions she gave me. Half way through he shook his head. "No, no. She showed you wrong."
"Are you serious?"
"Are you surprised?"
"No. But...urrrgh! We sat in the dark that whole time, Brian! Do I look pale? I might have been bitten, I don't know."
He laughed. "Ooooooooh my God. I want to go home. Ok, sit down, tear that page out, and take down everything I'm about to tell you."
I did and discovered that Loretta had told me to do everything that would have rendered my work useless. Like, I am not kidding, or exaggerating, if I'd done it Loretta's way I would have been working in an endless loop, never making any progress. And then she would have called me a week later and said, "Genevieve, WHY is this not done? Do you remember ANYTHING that I showed you? Remember when I said 'thanks' at the end of it? We had a moment, Gen, I thought we were cool." Luckily this conversation never had to happen because I did the opposite of everything she taught me.
This was very unlike what happened just a few months into the job, back when I thought that talking to her, reasoning things out, might do some good. One day she ran into the office, stood uncomfortably close to me and berated me for not keeping an accurate record of the work I'd done for the month. "Why?" she hissed. "Why would you do that Genevieve??"
"Well," I said. "I'm sorry, I didn't neglect it deliberately. I didn't know it was that important and sometimes when it's busy-"
"But you have to! It's simple! If I can't rely on you to do simple tasks, then I don't see how this is going to work!"
I didn't know how to react. I told her that I had written everything in a notebook and I could approximate dates and copy it all into a spreadsheet and have it to her by the end of the day. She calmed down after I said that.
When I was done I printed it out and took it to her office. She took the pages, set them aside and asked me to sit down.
"Now," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about something. I heard that you seemed very upset this afternoon. Like it looked like you might have been crying."
"Uhhhh...."
It was true. There was a moment when I was crying quietly at my desk and thinking to myself, as I scrambled to get the report done before she fired me, "I hate this job, I hate this job, I hate this job." But I hadn't thought that anyone noticed. Besides the three people who I eventually became friends with as we formed a united front of hatred of Loretta, there was one other person in the office who was her stooge, and I wondered if it was this person who said I'd been crying.
"Uh, yeah. Sorry, I was just frustrated with myself for not keeping up with that report all month."
"Ok, and yes, that's something to take responsibility for. But you know, an emotional scene like that is very distracting for your coworkers and frankly unprofessional. And I'm sorry that you take things so personally."
"Personally?" I said, because all I could think to do was repeat a part of what she said.
"Yes."
"Ok. I will...try not to do that."
But unfortunately, being the incompetent emotional basketcase that I was, that was not the only time I had feelings in the office and over the next few months I was also corrected for (and I am not making this up) laughing, chatting, and asking my repeat phone customers how they were doing because I was "being too familiar."
And then, soon after the dark meeting, Loretta wasn't my boss anymore. She wasn't fired or hit by a bus, but transferred to another department. Every now and then I still see her, and sometimes I'm able to dodge her if I pick up the scent of onion bagel first. But the other day I was walking down the hall and she and I passed right by each other. I tensed up before I remembered that she couldn't do anything to me anymore - as if she ever could have fired me for walking down the hall in the first place. I wasn't really sure what to do because I'd never liked her, but had I really never like her bad enough to completely ignore her? When confronted with her in a brief social situation where it is impossible to pretend that I do not see another person walking in my direction? The absolute head-on collision of social interactions? Hypocritical as it might have been I decided that no, I could not just pass her without saying anything. So when she was a few feet away from me I looked her right in the face and squeaked, "Hi."
She pushed her lips shut, looked down and to the right of me, and passed me by. And I gotta say, I was pissed.
"What?" I thought to myself. "You're snubbing ME? Me, the employee who did your bidding and who you insulted belittled and jerked around for months and I tell you hi and you pretend I'm not there? You're not even going to pretend to be polite to the person who had fantasies about pushing you in front of oncoming traffic? Is this the way it is, we get to openly dislike each other now? Good! Next time I see you in the hallway I won't tell you hi, I'll just spray you with air freshener, Stink Bag."
I might, um, have taken that interaction personally. I'm going to have to work on that.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Four Speakers
I lost my balance in yoga class the other night and it was all John Lennon's fault. I was in tree pose which looks something like this:
This also confirms your suspicions that I actually am a cartoon. Anyway, my instructor plays music throughout class, which is ordinarily not a problem. It flows with the class, and it's usually groovy music with Indians chanting things that I don't understand. The other night he even snuck in a song from The Life Aquatic soundtrack, one of my favorites, with Portugeuse singer Seu Jorge covering David Bowie songs, and I was fine. But Monday night he played "Across the Universe" and it was all over.
"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup they slither wildly as they slip away across the universe/Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind possessing and caressing me." I want to write the moment I hear it. I know he was probably singing about drugs but it reminds me of how I feel when I write and the way the words flow through me. "Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind possessing and caressing me." That's what it feels like when I'm in that third place - that place where it doesn't even feel like it's me writing, something just takes over. I don't even have to try to write. Something comes in and possesses me but not in a bad way, not in like a way where I need a priest or anything. Just in a way that compels me to sit down and write something.
So when I was in tree pose and I heard those first few guitar chords and then heard him say, "Words are flowing out," I lost my balance and fell. I caught myself, I mean I didn't fall over like this:
I just lost my footing and didn't quite get it back until the song was over.
Music has that effect on me. I have a difficult time writing without it and it's usually what motivates me to write in the first place. The words don't even have to be good, the energy just has to go with what I'm trying to say. I wrote The Daily Dylanson Obituaries almost entirely to "Godless" by the Dandy Warhols. I listened to the whole album Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia in a loop, but sometimes I would just repeat that one song because when I heard the opening I could see my main character Judy riding her bike in lonely circles around her neighborhood and I could see Sammy lighting a cigarette and taking a walk because he can't sleep.
Other times, it just echoes what I feel and the echo comes back to me twice as loud as it sounds in my heart. Sometimes, the music is so loud it's like the four chambers of my heart are four big speakers that gush sound and blood. Especially if I'm feeling broken-hearted or angry.
One night a couple of weeks ago my yoga instructor had us lie down in a restorative pose towards the end of class. I was on my back with a bolster along my spine, so my torso and chest were higher than my head and legs. I know it sounds weird, but it feels good. Or that is to say it usually does. That night my lower back ached, and I kept squirming on my bolster trying to relax.
"This is supposed to feel good," my instructor said. "So if anyone is feeling any discomfort, and would like me to help, just raise your hand."
My hand went up. I used to be shy about having the teacher adjust me in class because it meant a stranger touching me, but I've learned two things about myself: one, I would rather ask for help than lie uncomfortably for ten minutes, and two, I like it when my teacher adjusts me...what? Look, he's got strong hands and he asks me if I'm ok. With that kind of attention once a week I can survive being single. But that's beside the point. My point is, I raised my hand and he knelt down by my head.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm ok," I said, sitting up. "But my lower back hurts."
"Your lower back? Ok," he said, sounding certain that he knew what to do about that. "Lie back."
I laid back down and expected him to do something with my legs or maybe he'd swap out one hip bone for the other but instead he planted a hand on each of my shoulders and pushed them down.
I cracked open like a boiled crab. Air rushed into my chest. I had to open my mouth to take it all in. Breaking open never felt so good - I felt it everywhere. My chest, my back, my neck, and with the rush of air and the rush of relief in my sore muscles, came a rush of sound. The four speakers of my heart exploded with music, and echoed all the pain and frustration I've felt lately and it sounded like this
This also confirms your suspicions that I actually am a cartoon. Anyway, my instructor plays music throughout class, which is ordinarily not a problem. It flows with the class, and it's usually groovy music with Indians chanting things that I don't understand. The other night he even snuck in a song from The Life Aquatic soundtrack, one of my favorites, with Portugeuse singer Seu Jorge covering David Bowie songs, and I was fine. But Monday night he played "Across the Universe" and it was all over.
"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup they slither wildly as they slip away across the universe/Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind possessing and caressing me." I want to write the moment I hear it. I know he was probably singing about drugs but it reminds me of how I feel when I write and the way the words flow through me. "Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting through my open mind possessing and caressing me." That's what it feels like when I'm in that third place - that place where it doesn't even feel like it's me writing, something just takes over. I don't even have to try to write. Something comes in and possesses me but not in a bad way, not in like a way where I need a priest or anything. Just in a way that compels me to sit down and write something.
So when I was in tree pose and I heard those first few guitar chords and then heard him say, "Words are flowing out," I lost my balance and fell. I caught myself, I mean I didn't fall over like this:
I just lost my footing and didn't quite get it back until the song was over.
Music has that effect on me. I have a difficult time writing without it and it's usually what motivates me to write in the first place. The words don't even have to be good, the energy just has to go with what I'm trying to say. I wrote The Daily Dylanson Obituaries almost entirely to "Godless" by the Dandy Warhols. I listened to the whole album Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia in a loop, but sometimes I would just repeat that one song because when I heard the opening I could see my main character Judy riding her bike in lonely circles around her neighborhood and I could see Sammy lighting a cigarette and taking a walk because he can't sleep.
Other times, it just echoes what I feel and the echo comes back to me twice as loud as it sounds in my heart. Sometimes, the music is so loud it's like the four chambers of my heart are four big speakers that gush sound and blood. Especially if I'm feeling broken-hearted or angry.
One night a couple of weeks ago my yoga instructor had us lie down in a restorative pose towards the end of class. I was on my back with a bolster along my spine, so my torso and chest were higher than my head and legs. I know it sounds weird, but it feels good. Or that is to say it usually does. That night my lower back ached, and I kept squirming on my bolster trying to relax.
"This is supposed to feel good," my instructor said. "So if anyone is feeling any discomfort, and would like me to help, just raise your hand."
My hand went up. I used to be shy about having the teacher adjust me in class because it meant a stranger touching me, but I've learned two things about myself: one, I would rather ask for help than lie uncomfortably for ten minutes, and two, I like it when my teacher adjusts me...what? Look, he's got strong hands and he asks me if I'm ok. With that kind of attention once a week I can survive being single. But that's beside the point. My point is, I raised my hand and he knelt down by my head.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm ok," I said, sitting up. "But my lower back hurts."
"Your lower back? Ok," he said, sounding certain that he knew what to do about that. "Lie back."
I laid back down and expected him to do something with my legs or maybe he'd swap out one hip bone for the other but instead he planted a hand on each of my shoulders and pushed them down.
I cracked open like a boiled crab. Air rushed into my chest. I had to open my mouth to take it all in. Breaking open never felt so good - I felt it everywhere. My chest, my back, my neck, and with the rush of air and the rush of relief in my sore muscles, came a rush of sound. The four speakers of my heart exploded with music, and echoed all the pain and frustration I've felt lately and it sounded like this
Monday, April 15, 2013
Mom's Writing
It's 5:38 am and I have to leave for work in exactly one hour and 22 minutes. I can fill up that time with straightening up the house, straightening up my hair, putting on makeup, exercising, excessive budgeting, or excessive obsession over someone else that involves mad journaling, speculation and crying, but I thought maybe instead I would read a poem and then write to you.
What I've been avoiding lately, out of insecurity or whatever, is consistent writing. I do that a lot. I go to the rough draft of my book and I think, "But it's so stupid and it's never going to sell anyway." And so I don't write it and what happens is over the next few days I begin narrating things. Like when my daughter asks what's for dinner.
She asked what we were having for dinner, but it wasn't a question so much as an accusation, already scowling and ready with a scathing retort even before the answer came.
While I'm narrating this in my head, I've forgotten the question and her scowling turns to indignant outrage, "Mom! Are you even listening?!"
The thirteen year-old's face changed like a firecracker's - solid one second and exploding red the next.
"Mom! I NEED to know what we're having for dinner, I have to prepare myself...Why are you looking for a pen?"
"I have to write something down," I tell her.
"Are you writing down what we're having for dinner?"
"Firecracker," I mumble, jotting down that last sentence.
My other daughter walks up. "What's the matter?"
"Mom's writing."
"Shit," the eleven-year old whispers. "We're never going to eat."
See what happens? See why me avoiding my novel is dangerous for children? And really other than feeding them, I don't want to do much else with my time at this point. No social obligations, no real-life dramas, nothing like that. Just a single focus on channelling that loud, insistent narrator. The poem I read in The Writer's Almanac reminded me of it and since I haven't shared a poem with you guys in a while, here it is:
What I've been avoiding lately, out of insecurity or whatever, is consistent writing. I do that a lot. I go to the rough draft of my book and I think, "But it's so stupid and it's never going to sell anyway." And so I don't write it and what happens is over the next few days I begin narrating things. Like when my daughter asks what's for dinner.
She asked what we were having for dinner, but it wasn't a question so much as an accusation, already scowling and ready with a scathing retort even before the answer came.
While I'm narrating this in my head, I've forgotten the question and her scowling turns to indignant outrage, "Mom! Are you even listening?!"
The thirteen year-old's face changed like a firecracker's - solid one second and exploding red the next.
"Mom! I NEED to know what we're having for dinner, I have to prepare myself...Why are you looking for a pen?"
"I have to write something down," I tell her.
"Are you writing down what we're having for dinner?"
"Firecracker," I mumble, jotting down that last sentence.
My other daughter walks up. "What's the matter?"
"Mom's writing."
"Shit," the eleven-year old whispers. "We're never going to eat."
See what happens? See why me avoiding my novel is dangerous for children? And really other than feeding them, I don't want to do much else with my time at this point. No social obligations, no real-life dramas, nothing like that. Just a single focus on channelling that loud, insistent narrator. The poem I read in The Writer's Almanac reminded me of it and since I haven't shared a poem with you guys in a while, here it is:
The Undeniable Pressure of Existence
I saw the fox running by the side of the road
past the turned-away brick faces of the condominiums
past the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks
and he ran, limping, gaunt, matted dull haired
past Jim's Pizza, past the Wash-O-Mat,
past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows
and he kept running to where the interstate
crossed the state road and he reached it and he ran on
under the underpass and beyond it past the perfect
rows of split-levels, their identical driveways
their brookless and forestless yards,
and from my moving car, I watched him,
helpless to do anything to help him, certain he was beyond
any aid, any desire to save him, and he ran loping on,
far out of his element, sick, panting, starving,
his eyes fixed on some point ahead of him,
some possible salvation
in all this hopelessness, that only he could see.
past the turned-away brick faces of the condominiums
past the Citco gas station with its line of cars and trucks
and he ran, limping, gaunt, matted dull haired
past Jim's Pizza, past the Wash-O-Mat,
past the Thai Garden, his sides heaving like bellows
and he kept running to where the interstate
crossed the state road and he reached it and he ran on
under the underpass and beyond it past the perfect
rows of split-levels, their identical driveways
their brookless and forestless yards,
and from my moving car, I watched him,
helpless to do anything to help him, certain he was beyond
any aid, any desire to save him, and he ran loping on,
far out of his element, sick, panting, starving,
his eyes fixed on some point ahead of him,
some possible salvation
in all this hopelessness, that only he could see.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Update on a Guest Baker and F. Scott Fitzgerald
I really do have an actual post to post (ooo! - see what the word "post" did there? It was a noun and a verb, look at that little guy go), but first I just read a newsworthy update on one of the bakers that recently starred in my post Baked Lunch. Jake Gyllenhaal has just narrated the audiobook version of The Great Gatsby, which you can listen to a sample of here http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/10/jake-gyllenhaal-great-gatsby_n_3055033.html.
Since The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite books and Jake Gyllenhaal has one of my favorite voices, I think it is essential to my career that I listen to this. Oh, and I think there's a new movie version coming out too with Leonardo DiCaprio and other sexy people who are kind of narrating the book in a way but also gesticulating wildly and running people over with cars. Ah yes, here is it - The Great Gatsby and in case you still doubt me here is photographic evidence:
And in case you're thinking that that's just a picture of me with the blonde hair and the feathers and the rest of those people are my coworkers then...well, first I'm flattered that you think I look like the Daisy Buchanan, but no really that's Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire and other dappery people. Actually, no, you're right, you're right, that is me, I look just like that woman. That's me with makeup on. Without makeup on, I look like this:
Speaking of which, what HAS Ice Cube been up to? Has he narrated any good books lately? That's what all creative people should do, they need to narrate all of my favorite books - Ice Cube can have Middlemarch by George Eliot and Leonardo DiCaprio can have Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix. And Jake Gyllenhaal can narrate every single one of these blog posts as soon as they come out in paperback. It will be a stunning move for his career.
And now for a stunning move in my own career, I'm going to go work on my book which will be narrated by F. Scott Fitzgerald himself....Oh. Ladies and gentleman I've just received word that F. Scott Fitzgerald is dead. That scraps that idea. I wonder if Jay-Z is available.
Since The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite books and Jake Gyllenhaal has one of my favorite voices, I think it is essential to my career that I listen to this. Oh, and I think there's a new movie version coming out too with Leonardo DiCaprio and other sexy people who are kind of narrating the book in a way but also gesticulating wildly and running people over with cars. Ah yes, here is it - The Great Gatsby and in case you still doubt me here is photographic evidence:
And in case you're thinking that that's just a picture of me with the blonde hair and the feathers and the rest of those people are my coworkers then...well, first I'm flattered that you think I look like the Daisy Buchanan, but no really that's Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire and other dappery people. Actually, no, you're right, you're right, that is me, I look just like that woman. That's me with makeup on. Without makeup on, I look like this:
Speaking of which, what HAS Ice Cube been up to? Has he narrated any good books lately? That's what all creative people should do, they need to narrate all of my favorite books - Ice Cube can have Middlemarch by George Eliot and Leonardo DiCaprio can have Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix. And Jake Gyllenhaal can narrate every single one of these blog posts as soon as they come out in paperback. It will be a stunning move for his career.
And now for a stunning move in my own career, I'm going to go work on my book which will be narrated by F. Scott Fitzgerald himself....Oh. Ladies and gentleman I've just received word that F. Scott Fitzgerald is dead. That scraps that idea. I wonder if Jay-Z is available.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Baked Lunch 2 - The Bakening
(Continued from the previous post Baked Lunch)
The guest bakers Bette Midler, Stephen King, Allie Brosch, Carl-Who-is-not-Jake-Gyllenhaal, and No-Risk-Angelina-Jolie are still lined up at the endlesssly long silver studio kitchen counter, they each have a large glass mixing bowl sitting next to smaller one and a pile of ingredients, they are all still wearing aprons that say "Genevieve Rheams is my favorite writer and overall human" except for Bette Midler who has modified hers to read "Genevieve Rheams is an overall twit" because I once mentioned that I don't like "You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings" and Stephen King is about to tell me that I need to stop writing run-on sentences.
"Well, look at it," he tells me. "That entire last paragraph is just one sentence."
"William Faulkner wrote run-on sentences all the time," I retort.
"William Faulkner is dead."
"...Because of run-on sentences?"
"He didn't pause to breathe."
I concede that this is a good point, and tell them to take up their eggs.
"Now," I say, standing before them and lifting my arms like a maestro. "We're going to mix our wet ingredients in the small bowl. You want to start by cracking each egg on the side of the bowl."
"The shells are sharp," Angelina Jolie mutters through her mouth guard. "I think I'm just going to set them in the bowl here and let them dissolve in the oven."
"No, no, it won't work like that and then you'll have crunchy shells in your brownies, which could possibly cut your lip."
Angelina shrieks.
"That's right. So you want to give each egg a good, sharp crack-"
She shrieks again.
"Oy. Ok, everyone crack your eggs, I'm going to assist Angelina."
Allie Brosch, whose inner child is already going giddy at the sight of sugar, giggles as she smacks an egg against the rim of her bowl, letting everything -yolk, white and shell- fall into the mix. Carl-the-Tour-Bus-Driver-for-the-Green-Day-Tribute-Band-Who-Tells-Me-He's-Not-Jake-Gyllenhaal-But-Looks-And-Sounds-Just-Like-Him and Stephen King are gabbing about music and not paying attention to what they're doing so Stephen King has a little bit of shell in his bowl and Carl is cracking open a quart of milk.
I move over to Angelina's bowl, crack three eggs, and toss the shells in the trash by her feet. She lays a hand on her chest.
"So brave..." she says.
I smirk. "I know. Now grab your forks and mix them up...good! and now we- Bette, what are you doing?"
"I'm adding some autographed pictures of myself and Lady Gaga. These brownies need style."
Stephen King nodds. He shakes a bottle of seasoning over the mix. "Needs minced evil."
"MINE NEEDS SUGAR!!" Allie Brosch growls and pours an entire sack of sugar into her bowl.
"Mine's still too dangerous," Angelina Jolie says, taking a bike helmet out of her pocket and tossing it in.
"Mine needs unsweetened baker's chocolate," says Carl.
We all look at him. He looks back at us. "What? It does."
"So now stir until everything is blended nicely," I tell them, and there is a general sound of clunking and tearing in the bowls as they attempt to cream butter, photographs, and bicycle helmets together.
"Excellent. Now you may pour the contents into the greased baking dish beside your bowl and put them in the oven where we will let them bake at 350 degrees for approximately 40-45 minutes."
Stephen, Bette, and Carl pour their batters into the dishes. Stephen King's is glowing green, Bette's is shimmering, and Carl's smell's vaguely of a bus. Allie Brosch's brownies don't make it to the pan. She finishes stirring, screams like Cookie Monster,and pours the contents of the bowl into her mouth, brownie mix dripping down her chin and covering up just enough letters on her apron so that instead of saying "Genevieve Rheams is my favorite writer and overall human" it says "Gen is all man." Angelina Jolie manages to pour the batter into the pan but then stares at the oven, eyes wide.
"I can't do this," she gasps. "It's too risky."
I walk over to her. "Oh now, come on, it's fine. It's just a preheated oven. Look," I pull open the oven door and a fireball erupts from inside, followed by demonic laughter. My eyebrows are singed and my apron burns off. Because Angelina is wearing fire retardant clothing and is slathered in 5000 spf sunblock she is unscathed. I close the oven door.
"Let's consult the cookbook shall we?" I say. A prop man brings me a copy of Betty Crocker's cookbook and I begin to flip through it. "Let's see...when Satan has possessed your oven....ah, page 63-"
"We need no book!" Allie Brosch growls. "Allie save you!"
Allie Brosch's sugar-charged inner child takes Angelina's pan of brownie mix, flings open the oven, and dives inside.
"Allie!" we all scream. Angelina faints.
The oven door has slammed behind her so all we hear is the demon snarling and Allie laughing as they grapple inside. The five of us are standing around the oven, watching and waiting with the exception of No-Risk-Angelina-Jolie who is out cold on the studio floor.
Carl-Who-Says-He-Is-Not-Jake-Gyllenhaal-But-Looks-And-Sounds-Just-Like-Him is overcome with worry and asks me for a hug.
I sigh. "Well, I suppose," I say, trying to appear nonchalant and hiding the fact that when he hugs me my extremities go limp and fall off.
"That poor kid," says Bette Midler, gazing at the oven. "She had such potential to be fabulous."
"She's not dead yet!" declares Stephen King. He cups his hands over his mouth. "Allie! If you can hear me, evil is sensitive to music! Sing something! Sing something lovely!"
I pull away from Carl as something in my brain begins to hurt. It's a pain that shoots through my ears and across the hemisphere of my mind.
"God," I say, with my hands over my ears. "What is that?"
Stephen King looks ecstatic. "She's doing it! Allie's singing 'You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings'! She's defeating evil, listen!"
The demon begins wailing from inside the oven and I begin writhing on the floor. Bette Midler stands over me with her arms folded and one eyebrow raised.
"So you say you like my song, huh?"
"Bette!-aaaack! I swear this isn't what it looks like!"
"Why don't you stick your head in a beehive?" she suggests.
And I don't want to tell her but that seems like a gentler alternative.
Then suddenly the pain stops. Allie flies out of the oven, and stands on the counter top. She has one hand on her hip and is holding a pan of freshly cooked brownies over her head. Her pink triangular dress and blonde ponytail are scorched but she is triumphant. She is still talking like Cookie Monster.
"Allie defeat demon with song about love!" she cries. "Brownie is reward!"
Allie shakes the pan of brownies over her mouth and she gobbles them up. She springs in the air and runs around the studio.
I clap my hands together. "Ok! So the rest of the brownies should be done. Let's take them out of the non-possessed ovens and see how they turned out."
Stephen King's brownies are still glowing green. He slices one and sets it on a plate for me to taste.
"It tastes like..." I say, chewing slowly. "Holy crap, this is the best brownie I've ever tasted."
"That's because I added evil. And it comes with a price."
I look back at him and his eyebrows have grown so long, they're touching the floor.
"I'm sorry Stephen," I say.
He shrugs. "No bigee. Do I win?"
"Let's see...Bette, may I sample?"
"Certainly," she says, and her grin makes me nervous.
I take a bite. "It tastes like fame."
"Enjoy it, sister, because it's the only taste you'll ever get. HA!"
"Come on, Bette," I plead with my mouth full. "I'm sorry about not liking your song. I really REALLY like a whole lot of your other songs, and I think you're hysterical."
She raises her eyebrow at me again. "Really?"
"Yeah!"
"Ok...but I only believe you because I shredded my greatest hits CD and put it in the mix. You don't seem to be having an allergic reaction to it."
And she's right. Other than the fact that my liver is failing because "You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings" is on that CD, I'm fine because I really truly am a Bette Midler fan.
"I'm adding some autographed pictures of myself and Lady Gaga. These brownies need style."
Stephen King nodds. He shakes a bottle of seasoning over the mix. "Needs minced evil."
"MINE NEEDS SUGAR!!" Allie Brosch growls and pours an entire sack of sugar into her bowl.
"Mine's still too dangerous," Angelina Jolie says, taking a bike helmet out of her pocket and tossing it in.
"Mine needs unsweetened baker's chocolate," says Carl.
We all look at him. He looks back at us. "What? It does."
"So now stir until everything is blended nicely," I tell them, and there is a general sound of clunking and tearing in the bowls as they attempt to cream butter, photographs, and bicycle helmets together.
"Excellent. Now you may pour the contents into the greased baking dish beside your bowl and put them in the oven where we will let them bake at 350 degrees for approximately 40-45 minutes."
Stephen, Bette, and Carl pour their batters into the dishes. Stephen King's is glowing green, Bette's is shimmering, and Carl's smell's vaguely of a bus. Allie Brosch's brownies don't make it to the pan. She finishes stirring, screams like Cookie Monster,and pours the contents of the bowl into her mouth, brownie mix dripping down her chin and covering up just enough letters on her apron so that instead of saying "Genevieve Rheams is my favorite writer and overall human" it says "Gen is all man." Angelina Jolie manages to pour the batter into the pan but then stares at the oven, eyes wide.
"I can't do this," she gasps. "It's too risky."
I walk over to her. "Oh now, come on, it's fine. It's just a preheated oven. Look," I pull open the oven door and a fireball erupts from inside, followed by demonic laughter. My eyebrows are singed and my apron burns off. Because Angelina is wearing fire retardant clothing and is slathered in 5000 spf sunblock she is unscathed. I close the oven door.
"Let's consult the cookbook shall we?" I say. A prop man brings me a copy of Betty Crocker's cookbook and I begin to flip through it. "Let's see...when Satan has possessed your oven....ah, page 63-"
"We need no book!" Allie Brosch growls. "Allie save you!"
Allie Brosch's sugar-charged inner child takes Angelina's pan of brownie mix, flings open the oven, and dives inside.
"Allie!" we all scream. Angelina faints.
The oven door has slammed behind her so all we hear is the demon snarling and Allie laughing as they grapple inside. The five of us are standing around the oven, watching and waiting with the exception of No-Risk-Angelina-Jolie who is out cold on the studio floor.
Carl-Who-Says-He-Is-Not-Jake-Gyllenhaal-But-Looks-And-Sounds-Just-Like-Him is overcome with worry and asks me for a hug.
I sigh. "Well, I suppose," I say, trying to appear nonchalant and hiding the fact that when he hugs me my extremities go limp and fall off.
"That poor kid," says Bette Midler, gazing at the oven. "She had such potential to be fabulous."
"She's not dead yet!" declares Stephen King. He cups his hands over his mouth. "Allie! If you can hear me, evil is sensitive to music! Sing something! Sing something lovely!"
I pull away from Carl as something in my brain begins to hurt. It's a pain that shoots through my ears and across the hemisphere of my mind.
"God," I say, with my hands over my ears. "What is that?"
Stephen King looks ecstatic. "She's doing it! Allie's singing 'You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings'! She's defeating evil, listen!"
The demon begins wailing from inside the oven and I begin writhing on the floor. Bette Midler stands over me with her arms folded and one eyebrow raised.
"So you say you like my song, huh?"
"Bette!-aaaack! I swear this isn't what it looks like!"
"Why don't you stick your head in a beehive?" she suggests.
And I don't want to tell her but that seems like a gentler alternative.
Then suddenly the pain stops. Allie flies out of the oven, and stands on the counter top. She has one hand on her hip and is holding a pan of freshly cooked brownies over her head. Her pink triangular dress and blonde ponytail are scorched but she is triumphant. She is still talking like Cookie Monster.
"Allie defeat demon with song about love!" she cries. "Brownie is reward!"
Allie shakes the pan of brownies over her mouth and she gobbles them up. She springs in the air and runs around the studio.
I clap my hands together. "Ok! So the rest of the brownies should be done. Let's take them out of the non-possessed ovens and see how they turned out."
Stephen King's brownies are still glowing green. He slices one and sets it on a plate for me to taste.
"It tastes like..." I say, chewing slowly. "Holy crap, this is the best brownie I've ever tasted."
"That's because I added evil. And it comes with a price."
I look back at him and his eyebrows have grown so long, they're touching the floor.
"I'm sorry Stephen," I say.
He shrugs. "No bigee. Do I win?"
"Let's see...Bette, may I sample?"
"Certainly," she says, and her grin makes me nervous.
I take a bite. "It tastes like fame."
"Enjoy it, sister, because it's the only taste you'll ever get. HA!"
"Come on, Bette," I plead with my mouth full. "I'm sorry about not liking your song. I really REALLY like a whole lot of your other songs, and I think you're hysterical."
She raises her eyebrow at me again. "Really?"
"Yeah!"
"Ok...but I only believe you because I shredded my greatest hits CD and put it in the mix. You don't seem to be having an allergic reaction to it."
And she's right. Other than the fact that my liver is failing because "You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings" is on that CD, I'm fine because I really truly am a Bette Midler fan.
"Carl, how about yours?" I say, turning to him.
He hands me a plate. "Carl...when I eat this the Brokeback Mountain theme song pops in my head. Why is that?"
He grins nervously. "Coincidence?"
"You're getting ready for a role as a bus driver, aren't you Jake?"
His eyes dart back and forth. "Am I believable?"
"I won't know for sure until you drive me around on a bus. Say, after the show?"
"Ok, I can do that."
"See that you do," I say, and I wonder if I should tell him that I consider this a date, but decide that it's probably better for him not to know, you know, because it might distract him from driving.
"And now Angelina-"
Angelina Jolie points to Allie Brosch who is running back and forth across the counter banging pots and pans together. "She ate them."
"Oh right. Allie! How were Angelina's brownies?"
"YUMUMUMUM!" she roars, and then suddenly stops. She becomes quiet. She looks at the pots in her hands and looks at all of us. "Angelina, I think the safety gear in your brownie mix worked as a antedote. I apologize for my behavior."
"It's cool," I tell her. "You defeated a demon."
"Rad," she says.
She climbs down from the counter.
"Ok, well since Allie ate her mix before they were baked she's disqualified. Sorry Allie. But you get special recognition for taming the devil. Everyone baked a good brownie, everyone well done. But unfortunately we can only have one winner and our winner is - Stephen King!"
Stephen King walks over to me, his cursed eyebrows dragging along the floor in his wake.
"Fantastic, what do I win?"
"You win five more guest appearances on my blog...Stephen, that's supposed to be an honor, please stop strangling yourself with your eyebrows."
But he doesn't and soon he is passed out on the floor, where he will remain until his next guest appearance on my blog.
That's our show, thank you for joining us. If you're wondering, I use the brownie recipe that I grew up with from the Betty Crocker cookbook which you can find by clicking on Ultimate Brownies. I would also like to recognize Bette Midler, Allie Brosch, Angelina Jolie, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Stephen King, all of whom I do not know in real life, so I'm just imagining how they'd react to being on my cooking show and you should not take me seriously when I say things like Allie Brosch jumps into ovens or that Stephen King bakes evil brownies. But I am pretty sure that Jake Gyllenhaal would go out with me.
He hands me a plate. "Carl...when I eat this the Brokeback Mountain theme song pops in my head. Why is that?"
He grins nervously. "Coincidence?"
"You're getting ready for a role as a bus driver, aren't you Jake?"
His eyes dart back and forth. "Am I believable?"
"I won't know for sure until you drive me around on a bus. Say, after the show?"
"Ok, I can do that."
"See that you do," I say, and I wonder if I should tell him that I consider this a date, but decide that it's probably better for him not to know, you know, because it might distract him from driving.
"And now Angelina-"
Angelina Jolie points to Allie Brosch who is running back and forth across the counter banging pots and pans together. "She ate them."
"Oh right. Allie! How were Angelina's brownies?"
"YUMUMUMUM!" she roars, and then suddenly stops. She becomes quiet. She looks at the pots in her hands and looks at all of us. "Angelina, I think the safety gear in your brownie mix worked as a antedote. I apologize for my behavior."
"It's cool," I tell her. "You defeated a demon."
"Rad," she says.
She climbs down from the counter.
"Ok, well since Allie ate her mix before they were baked she's disqualified. Sorry Allie. But you get special recognition for taming the devil. Everyone baked a good brownie, everyone well done. But unfortunately we can only have one winner and our winner is - Stephen King!"
Stephen King walks over to me, his cursed eyebrows dragging along the floor in his wake.
"Fantastic, what do I win?"
"You win five more guest appearances on my blog...Stephen, that's supposed to be an honor, please stop strangling yourself with your eyebrows."
But he doesn't and soon he is passed out on the floor, where he will remain until his next guest appearance on my blog.
That's our show, thank you for joining us. If you're wondering, I use the brownie recipe that I grew up with from the Betty Crocker cookbook which you can find by clicking on Ultimate Brownies. I would also like to recognize Bette Midler, Allie Brosch, Angelina Jolie, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Stephen King, all of whom I do not know in real life, so I'm just imagining how they'd react to being on my cooking show and you should not take me seriously when I say things like Allie Brosch jumps into ovens or that Stephen King bakes evil brownies. But I am pretty sure that Jake Gyllenhaal would go out with me.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Baked Lunch - it's like Naked Lunch only with brownies and with clothes on
After studying the figures, I've noticed that I get more hits on posts with the following labels: Literary panels, Angelina Jolie, Spleens, and Allie Brosch. The one with the most hits was the one where I wondered if Allie Brosch (writer of Hyperbole and a Half) was doing ok. The second winner was "No Risk Anglina Jolie" based on spam mail that I got. And third was "My Hetero Spleen," which could have been popular because I mentioned Jake Gyllenhaal, also possibly because of my sexual orientation questions, and also possibly because spleens are trending. I don't know. But somewhere in all of that is the winning combination to make me a Blog Star so I'm throwing them all in one post. And I'm going to include Stephen King who starred on my a literary panel because that was the fourth popular one, and also because it's in his contract. But what to make them all do together?....
They're going to bake brownies. Cue the cooking show music! (bah tah tah tah TAH! Bah bah BAAAAH! Ba-dum)
You are now looking into a studio kitchen with a really REALLY long counter. It's about the size of the low brick wall that Charlie Brown leans against when he's having a heart to heart talk with Linus - with no visible ends in either direction. Behind the counter, smiling back at you, is Angleina Jolie, Allie Brosch, Stephen King, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Bette Midler because I mentioned not liking the song "Wind Beneath My Wings" in one of my last posts and I'm afraid that I might have hurt her feelings so I'm going to make it up to her with brownies.
"That was a run-on sentence, Gen," Stephen King says to me.
"What was?" I ask him.
"That last sentence. It needs editing."
"Thank you, Stephen, we will not be discussing my editing skills today."
"It's what you brought me on for. And really if you want any success as a writer-"
I cross my arms at that guy. "Do you WANT a brownie?"
Stephen King closes his mouth. He lowers his head, and pushes back his glasses. "Yes."
"Well, alright then. Grab an apron."
He gleefully takes the apron folded neatly next to his bowl on the counter. It is blue and in white letters it says, "Genevieve Rheams is my favorite writer and overall human." In fact, all of them are wearing this apron. "So I guess we should start by introducing our bakers for today," I continue. "To our far left we have Angleina Jolie."
Angelina is wearing a helmet, elbow pads and wrist guards because she is the No Risk Angelina Jolie version of herself and she's nervous about baking accidents. She grins through her mouth guard.
"And next we have Hyperbole and a Half blogger Allie Brosch."
"Genevieve," she says, wearing her triangular pink dress and her blonde hair in a pony tail sticking straight up on her head. "Are you sure you want me around sugar? You've read The God of Cake, you should know that if my inner child eats too many brownies it could destroy you all."
"I know, it's why the producers asked you to join us. Ratings suggest that people like to watch cooking shows where the cooks tweak out on sugar and destroy the studio. If possible they would also like you to develop a moonshine addiction, sell ducks on the black market, and fall in love with Stephen King."
"I'm your girl."
"Excellent. And to Allie's right we have Jake-"
Jake Gyllenhaal's eyes go wide. "My name is Carl."
"We have...Carl?"
"Yep," says Carl who is not Jake Gyllenhaal, even though he has the same smile that makes my toes go numb. "I'm a bus driver."
"What kind of bus driver?"
"I drive the tour bus for a Green Day Tribute band called Teal Day. See, I enjoy pot brownies and I was sent here by the court to learn how to cook clean ones. I brought my paperwork."
He pulls a folded white piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. I scan over it.
"Yes, well, this seems to be in order. Ok, uh Carl, I don't know how much you'll like these brownies after you've had the special ones but-"
"Oh I've never eaten a pot brownie," he says.
"But," I hold up the paper. "Yeah, you have."
"No, no. I just enjoy the idea of them. I was sentenced by an ideal court."
I look back at the paper.
"Well I'll be damned," I say. "Ok. Welcome to the show. Next we of course have Stephen King, who is chatting up the baker next to him who is the lovely! The legendary! Miss Bette Mid-"
"Don't try to flatter me, pip squeak," says Bette Midler. She narrows her eyes at me and then begins sifting flour into her glass bowl.
"Oh Ms. Midler we haven't started yet," I tell her.
"I don't have to listen to you," she says, narrowing her eyes even more until they are coin slot sized. But what shows through that slit is so much loathing that I know if I put a coin in it wouldn't be candy that comes out but hate. "I know what you said about my song."
"Oh, uh, about that. I didn't say I necessarily disliked it. I just said-"
"That you'd rather stick your head in a beehive than listen to it?"
"Uhhhhhhhh..."
"Listen, sister. That song has inspired millions of people. Make that billions. BILLIONS of people, world wide. I bet everyone here likes it." She looks down the line of bakers. "Who here likes 'You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings'?"
One by one, all of their hands go up, Angleina Jolie pausing only to spray Lysol above her head before she sticks her hand in the air.
"See," Bette tells me.
"That song reminds me of Brad and the kids," Angelina muses.
"I play it when I need writing inspiration," says Allie.
"The guys in the band ask me to play it constantly on the road," Carl-who-is-not-Jake-Gyllenhaal says.
"You don't like that song?" Stephen King asks me. "Are you missing a soul?"
"The ideal court would not approve," Carl warns.
"Alright! Alright! Look, Bette, I'm sorry I said that. I think you're a fantastic actress and I love your voice. I love 'The Rose'."
She scowls at me. "You would."
Seeing that I can not win her over I decide that it's time for our bakers to start baking.
Which will happen in part two of this post. Oh come on, don't be disappointed. It's only a 24 hour commercial break. In the mean time, Carl-who-is-not-Jake-Gyllenhaal insists that you enjoy Green Day.
They're going to bake brownies. Cue the cooking show music! (bah tah tah tah TAH! Bah bah BAAAAH! Ba-dum)
You are now looking into a studio kitchen with a really REALLY long counter. It's about the size of the low brick wall that Charlie Brown leans against when he's having a heart to heart talk with Linus - with no visible ends in either direction. Behind the counter, smiling back at you, is Angleina Jolie, Allie Brosch, Stephen King, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Bette Midler because I mentioned not liking the song "Wind Beneath My Wings" in one of my last posts and I'm afraid that I might have hurt her feelings so I'm going to make it up to her with brownies.
"That was a run-on sentence, Gen," Stephen King says to me.
"What was?" I ask him.
"That last sentence. It needs editing."
"Thank you, Stephen, we will not be discussing my editing skills today."
"It's what you brought me on for. And really if you want any success as a writer-"
I cross my arms at that guy. "Do you WANT a brownie?"
Stephen King closes his mouth. He lowers his head, and pushes back his glasses. "Yes."
"Well, alright then. Grab an apron."
He gleefully takes the apron folded neatly next to his bowl on the counter. It is blue and in white letters it says, "Genevieve Rheams is my favorite writer and overall human." In fact, all of them are wearing this apron. "So I guess we should start by introducing our bakers for today," I continue. "To our far left we have Angleina Jolie."
Angelina is wearing a helmet, elbow pads and wrist guards because she is the No Risk Angelina Jolie version of herself and she's nervous about baking accidents. She grins through her mouth guard.
"And next we have Hyperbole and a Half blogger Allie Brosch."
"Genevieve," she says, wearing her triangular pink dress and her blonde hair in a pony tail sticking straight up on her head. "Are you sure you want me around sugar? You've read The God of Cake, you should know that if my inner child eats too many brownies it could destroy you all."
"I know, it's why the producers asked you to join us. Ratings suggest that people like to watch cooking shows where the cooks tweak out on sugar and destroy the studio. If possible they would also like you to develop a moonshine addiction, sell ducks on the black market, and fall in love with Stephen King."
"I'm your girl."
"Excellent. And to Allie's right we have Jake-"
Jake Gyllenhaal's eyes go wide. "My name is Carl."
"We have...Carl?"
"Yep," says Carl who is not Jake Gyllenhaal, even though he has the same smile that makes my toes go numb. "I'm a bus driver."
"What kind of bus driver?"
"I drive the tour bus for a Green Day Tribute band called Teal Day. See, I enjoy pot brownies and I was sent here by the court to learn how to cook clean ones. I brought my paperwork."
He pulls a folded white piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. I scan over it.
"Yes, well, this seems to be in order. Ok, uh Carl, I don't know how much you'll like these brownies after you've had the special ones but-"
"Oh I've never eaten a pot brownie," he says.
"But," I hold up the paper. "Yeah, you have."
"No, no. I just enjoy the idea of them. I was sentenced by an ideal court."
I look back at the paper.
"Well I'll be damned," I say. "Ok. Welcome to the show. Next we of course have Stephen King, who is chatting up the baker next to him who is the lovely! The legendary! Miss Bette Mid-"
"Don't try to flatter me, pip squeak," says Bette Midler. She narrows her eyes at me and then begins sifting flour into her glass bowl.
"Oh Ms. Midler we haven't started yet," I tell her.
"I don't have to listen to you," she says, narrowing her eyes even more until they are coin slot sized. But what shows through that slit is so much loathing that I know if I put a coin in it wouldn't be candy that comes out but hate. "I know what you said about my song."
"Oh, uh, about that. I didn't say I necessarily disliked it. I just said-"
"That you'd rather stick your head in a beehive than listen to it?"
"Uhhhhhhhh..."
"Listen, sister. That song has inspired millions of people. Make that billions. BILLIONS of people, world wide. I bet everyone here likes it." She looks down the line of bakers. "Who here likes 'You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings'?"
One by one, all of their hands go up, Angleina Jolie pausing only to spray Lysol above her head before she sticks her hand in the air.
"See," Bette tells me.
"That song reminds me of Brad and the kids," Angelina muses.
"I play it when I need writing inspiration," says Allie.
"The guys in the band ask me to play it constantly on the road," Carl-who-is-not-Jake-Gyllenhaal says.
"You don't like that song?" Stephen King asks me. "Are you missing a soul?"
"The ideal court would not approve," Carl warns.
"Alright! Alright! Look, Bette, I'm sorry I said that. I think you're a fantastic actress and I love your voice. I love 'The Rose'."
She scowls at me. "You would."
Seeing that I can not win her over I decide that it's time for our bakers to start baking.
Which will happen in part two of this post. Oh come on, don't be disappointed. It's only a 24 hour commercial break. In the mean time, Carl-who-is-not-Jake-Gyllenhaal insists that you enjoy Green Day.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Wide Awake
After going to bed old-ladyish early last night I found myself wide awake at 3:45 this morning. It wasn't the kind of awake where you look at the clock and think, "Oh thank God, I've got two more hours to sleep." Oh no. I woke up the same way my dog wakes up. "I'm awake! I hungry! I wanna go somewhere! I wanna chase that truck!" After I ate something and chased a confused utility truck down the street I came back in to write to you all. Good morning, my dears.
"Genevieve," you groan. "It's 5:30 am on a Saturday."
"I know!" I say. "You're still in bed??"
"Yes."
"But we've got the whole day ahead of us and the sun will come up soon and the azaleas are blooming in the yard [at this point I've begun twirling around the room] and the coffee is done brewing and everything is wonderful-"
"GENEVIEVE!" You growl, taking the pillow from behind your head and cramming it over your face.
I lean over you and tap tentatively on the pillow. "Hey, so you don't want pancakes?"
"No," you mumble, and I pretend that I can't understand you.
"They have chocolate chips in them."
"I don't care," you say as well as you can manage with a mouth full of pillow.
I sigh. "Or you could get up and read my blog."
You toss the pillow aside. You're wearing a cartoonish frown, like the kind where the lines of your mouth look like they're spilling onto the floor.
"I'm in your blog! You woke me up just to put me in here!"
"And it's wonderful of you to join us! Here, have a pancake."
And the pancake suddenly makes everything better, as they usually do. Here, have another:
"Gen, that's a lemur."
"It is?"
"A baby lemur."
"But isn't he so cute you could just eat him up?"
"Sure." And the pillow goes back over the face.
Well. I tried. I don't know why I wake up like this sometimes, but I do. It's like waking up with the crack of a confetti egg
It's silly and fun and colors seem brighter and I feel in love with the world. I actually wish I woke up like this more often, instead of how I usually wake up. My routine is to shoot a bleary eye at the clock, roll back over, and think about how much I hate my day job. But this morning I got to get up and write, which is like the joy of pancakes, lemurs and confetti eggs all in one.
And now I really am going to go running, but not after a truck. It's one of the things that I've gotten back into - exercising on a regular basis. And I don't usually feel like doing it at the crack of dawn, but since I'm bursting with energy I should probably harness that and send it running a mile or two. But before I go, I will deliver on my promise. Since I woke you up and everything.
"Genevieve," you groan. "It's 5:30 am on a Saturday."
"I know!" I say. "You're still in bed??"
"Yes."
"But we've got the whole day ahead of us and the sun will come up soon and the azaleas are blooming in the yard [at this point I've begun twirling around the room] and the coffee is done brewing and everything is wonderful-"
"GENEVIEVE!" You growl, taking the pillow from behind your head and cramming it over your face.
I lean over you and tap tentatively on the pillow. "Hey, so you don't want pancakes?"
"No," you mumble, and I pretend that I can't understand you.
"They have chocolate chips in them."
"I don't care," you say as well as you can manage with a mouth full of pillow.
I sigh. "Or you could get up and read my blog."
You toss the pillow aside. You're wearing a cartoonish frown, like the kind where the lines of your mouth look like they're spilling onto the floor.
"I'm in your blog! You woke me up just to put me in here!"
"And it's wonderful of you to join us! Here, have a pancake."
And the pancake suddenly makes everything better, as they usually do. Here, have another:
"Gen, that's a lemur."
"It is?"
"A baby lemur."
"But isn't he so cute you could just eat him up?"
"Sure." And the pillow goes back over the face.
Well. I tried. I don't know why I wake up like this sometimes, but I do. It's like waking up with the crack of a confetti egg
It's silly and fun and colors seem brighter and I feel in love with the world. I actually wish I woke up like this more often, instead of how I usually wake up. My routine is to shoot a bleary eye at the clock, roll back over, and think about how much I hate my day job. But this morning I got to get up and write, which is like the joy of pancakes, lemurs and confetti eggs all in one.
And now I really am going to go running, but not after a truck. It's one of the things that I've gotten back into - exercising on a regular basis. And I don't usually feel like doing it at the crack of dawn, but since I'm bursting with energy I should probably harness that and send it running a mile or two. But before I go, I will deliver on my promise. Since I woke you up and everything.
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