Husband and I have been playing a first-person shooter RPG called “Resistance: Fall of Man.” We’re both loving the game. It’s a traditional split-screen cooperative mission-based game featuring soldiers trying to fight off an alien invasion (in a nutshell).
However, it’s a game with one main character. Husband took Player 1 and I took Player 2 and, as I said, it’s a first-person POV, so we’re looking out through our character’s eyes. Fairly early in the game, we saw that Husband’s character is a white male soldier and mine is a black male soldier.
At the end of various stages, the narrative – sometimes another character in dialogue, sometimes an explicit narrator – explains how there was only one survivor, or only one soldier accomplished something, or the protagonist was the only man who … meaning Player 1, of course. The white guy.
I’m making a real stink about this.
Narrator: “He was the only surviving soldier from that unit …”
Me: “Hel – LO!! What am I?? Oh, I get it, I’M not important!! Sure, acknowledge Whitey! Typical! Etc.”
Heh.
It was especially hurtful after a couple of levels during which I had some great marksmanship and was, like, shooting the robot drone bombers while husband was turned around or not yet at the battle scene or just a bit slower on the draw that particular time or whatever.
Our playing styles are pretty complimentary, but there are times when our personalities really show through. We’ll be doing the same mission at the same time (of course), but there’ll come a point where we’ve looked carefully through a room and husband is still methodically looking around the perimeter while I’m standing impatiently at the door ready for the next room.
Husband tends to find all the clues that are just sitting there waiting to be picked up.
I tend to trigger most of the ambushes.
Works for us.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Chickpea tikka masala
I read something like this recipe in a blog a few months ago, which is why I had the jar of sauce on hand.
Olive oil
1 carrot, finely diced
up to ½ bell pepper, chopped
up to ½ smallish onion, chopped
1 can chickpeas
1 small jar Tikka Masala sauce (from Food Fantasies)
Spices to taste
In saucepan, saute carrot until softened. Add pepper and onion and sauté until softened. (I used a red pepper because it’s what I happened to have on hand.)
During the vegetable sauté, add salt, pepper, garlic powder to taste.
Drain chickpeas and add to pan; sauté until hot. Add sauce and simmer briskly for five or ten minutes. Season to taste. (This is where I realized the sauce wasn’t quite as spicy as I’d imagined, so I added a bit of “Cajun seasoning” and chili powder, along with more salt, pepper, and garlic.)
That’s it! Serve over rice or pasta or whatever.
The good: pretty easy to make and super yummy. Also versatile, depending on what veggies you have on hand. This could be a great “don’t waste that last tired carrot” kind of dish. You could also try it with one of the other jarred Indian sauces available.
The bad: The only thing I can think of is that you have to chop up a couple of veggies.
Verdict: Awesome, would make again, looking forward to leftovers.
Olive oil
1 carrot, finely diced
up to ½ bell pepper, chopped
up to ½ smallish onion, chopped
1 can chickpeas
1 small jar Tikka Masala sauce (from Food Fantasies)
Spices to taste
In saucepan, saute carrot until softened. Add pepper and onion and sauté until softened. (I used a red pepper because it’s what I happened to have on hand.)
During the vegetable sauté, add salt, pepper, garlic powder to taste.
Drain chickpeas and add to pan; sauté until hot. Add sauce and simmer briskly for five or ten minutes. Season to taste. (This is where I realized the sauce wasn’t quite as spicy as I’d imagined, so I added a bit of “Cajun seasoning” and chili powder, along with more salt, pepper, and garlic.)
That’s it! Serve over rice or pasta or whatever.
The good: pretty easy to make and super yummy. Also versatile, depending on what veggies you have on hand. This could be a great “don’t waste that last tired carrot” kind of dish. You could also try it with one of the other jarred Indian sauces available.
The bad: The only thing I can think of is that you have to chop up a couple of veggies.
Verdict: Awesome, would make again, looking forward to leftovers.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Posole adventure
A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law gave us a can of hominy. She was cleaning out her pantry, didn’t want the hominy, and thought we might.
I hadn’t eaten hominy in … I don’t know how long; perhaps since trying it once or twice in elementary school and deciding it wasn’t for me.
Years later, there aren’t many vegetables I still don’t like (I’m looking at you, turnips), so I did some searching for hominy recipes. (I was hesitant to just dump it in a bowl, microwave it, and call it a side dish.) Many of the results were for posole, a Mexican chicken and hominy soup.
Coincidentally (OR IS IT?), not long after, a blogger acquaintance of mine posted all about her own posole discovery, complete with recipe.
Well, why not? I decided to give it a try, making very few changes to her recipe.
Ingredients:
8 to 9 cups chicken stock
2 cups chopped onion
3 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, each cut into 4-5 pieces
4 garlic cloves, chopped
1 or 2 jalapeno peppers, seeded and chopped
1 30-oz can white hominy, drained
16-oz jar tomatillo salsa
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup chopped cilantro if desired
My modifications/comments:
I had less onion than that on hand (oddly, for me), but used what I had
*I used about 2 pounds of chicken, not 3
I used about 5 garlic cloves, but you really couldn’t taste it in the end
I used about 1 ½ jalapenos, but would use more next time
I had a 15-ish oz can of white hominy; I bought a similar can of yellow and used both because, in the store, I couldn’t remember which color I had at home or which color I was supposed to use.
The tomatillo salsa I used was labeled “medium,” the only type I found at the store, but the soup was by no means too spicy.
*backstory: Around a year ago I started eating meat after being vegetarian for 10 years. I was surprised to see how expensive chicken was, even the non-organic kind. We decided to go with two pounds instead of three based on cost. I was glad we did when I saw the meat counter guy piling up the chicken for me! It was a lot. I could cut it down still more if I made this again. Raw chicken was just as disgusting as I remember. I feel like I ended with a trash can full of veins and fat. Yuck! And that’s the clean, skinless, boneless, pristine meat counter specimens.
Put first 6 ingredients (stock through hominy) in a large stockpot and bring to a boil. Cover and simmer 35 minutes or until chicken is done. (The original instructions allow for chicken on the bone, which is then removed, boned, and shredded at this point. I fished out some of the bigger chicken pieces and shredded them up, but I wasn’t totally sure if I should or not.) Stir in tomatillo sauce and salt; cook for 5 minutes or until hot.
The recipe said to serve with cilantro, sour cream, and lime wedges.
The good: Usually when I make soup I make “freezer soup,” which has no specific recipe and has everything in it. It was nice to make a specific kind of soup from a recipe. It seemed extremely full of chicken even with the reduced quantity. The tomatillos added a nice flavor. It was a very comforting dish; a Mexican version of chicken noodle soup? This soup was very hearty but seemed very healthy at the same time, had great if somewhat muted flavors, and provided lots of leftovers
The bad: It seemed like this soup took forever to make, mostly because I work more slowly when making a new recipe, was paranoid about working with raw chicken and had to switch knives, had to scrub after chopping the garlic and again after chopping the jalapenos, etc. The proportions seemed a little odd, but I’m not sure in what way – maybe just that the chicken kind of floated, the hominy kind of sank, and everything else seemed to get lost. It didn’t seem spicy at all aside from a nice tomatillo whang, and I would have used more garlic, more onion, and more jalapenos next time. We both felt like it needed something, perhaps beans or more veggies? Bell peppers?
We had cornbread on the side for a yummy bonus.
Even though I’d bough cilantro, we skipped it because, by the time the soup was finished, I was tired of standing around waiting for soup and didn’t want to rinse and chop anything else. We’ll probably have it with the leftovers tonight. I didn’t serve it with lime wedges or sour cream because I didn’t want to buy either one just for this. If you could purchase sour cream in two-tablespoonful-packages, I would!
Verdict: I’m not totally sure I felt like it was worth the prep work, especially dealing with chicken, which totally grosses me out. Your response to chicken may vary. When it was done, though, the chicken was nice and flavorful. I would totally eat this in a restaurant if available, or make it on a weekend instead of weeknight.
I hadn’t eaten hominy in … I don’t know how long; perhaps since trying it once or twice in elementary school and deciding it wasn’t for me.
Years later, there aren’t many vegetables I still don’t like (I’m looking at you, turnips), so I did some searching for hominy recipes. (I was hesitant to just dump it in a bowl, microwave it, and call it a side dish.) Many of the results were for posole, a Mexican chicken and hominy soup.
Coincidentally (OR IS IT?), not long after, a blogger acquaintance of mine posted all about her own posole discovery, complete with recipe.
Well, why not? I decided to give it a try, making very few changes to her recipe.
Ingredients:
8 to 9 cups chicken stock
2 cups chopped onion
3 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, each cut into 4-5 pieces
4 garlic cloves, chopped
1 or 2 jalapeno peppers, seeded and chopped
1 30-oz can white hominy, drained
16-oz jar tomatillo salsa
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup chopped cilantro if desired
My modifications/comments:
I had less onion than that on hand (oddly, for me), but used what I had
*I used about 2 pounds of chicken, not 3
I used about 5 garlic cloves, but you really couldn’t taste it in the end
I used about 1 ½ jalapenos, but would use more next time
I had a 15-ish oz can of white hominy; I bought a similar can of yellow and used both because, in the store, I couldn’t remember which color I had at home or which color I was supposed to use.
The tomatillo salsa I used was labeled “medium,” the only type I found at the store, but the soup was by no means too spicy.
*backstory: Around a year ago I started eating meat after being vegetarian for 10 years. I was surprised to see how expensive chicken was, even the non-organic kind. We decided to go with two pounds instead of three based on cost. I was glad we did when I saw the meat counter guy piling up the chicken for me! It was a lot. I could cut it down still more if I made this again. Raw chicken was just as disgusting as I remember. I feel like I ended with a trash can full of veins and fat. Yuck! And that’s the clean, skinless, boneless, pristine meat counter specimens.
Put first 6 ingredients (stock through hominy) in a large stockpot and bring to a boil. Cover and simmer 35 minutes or until chicken is done. (The original instructions allow for chicken on the bone, which is then removed, boned, and shredded at this point. I fished out some of the bigger chicken pieces and shredded them up, but I wasn’t totally sure if I should or not.) Stir in tomatillo sauce and salt; cook for 5 minutes or until hot.
The recipe said to serve with cilantro, sour cream, and lime wedges.
The good: Usually when I make soup I make “freezer soup,” which has no specific recipe and has everything in it. It was nice to make a specific kind of soup from a recipe. It seemed extremely full of chicken even with the reduced quantity. The tomatillos added a nice flavor. It was a very comforting dish; a Mexican version of chicken noodle soup? This soup was very hearty but seemed very healthy at the same time, had great if somewhat muted flavors, and provided lots of leftovers
The bad: It seemed like this soup took forever to make, mostly because I work more slowly when making a new recipe, was paranoid about working with raw chicken and had to switch knives, had to scrub after chopping the garlic and again after chopping the jalapenos, etc. The proportions seemed a little odd, but I’m not sure in what way – maybe just that the chicken kind of floated, the hominy kind of sank, and everything else seemed to get lost. It didn’t seem spicy at all aside from a nice tomatillo whang, and I would have used more garlic, more onion, and more jalapenos next time. We both felt like it needed something, perhaps beans or more veggies? Bell peppers?
We had cornbread on the side for a yummy bonus.
Even though I’d bough cilantro, we skipped it because, by the time the soup was finished, I was tired of standing around waiting for soup and didn’t want to rinse and chop anything else. We’ll probably have it with the leftovers tonight. I didn’t serve it with lime wedges or sour cream because I didn’t want to buy either one just for this. If you could purchase sour cream in two-tablespoonful-packages, I would!
Verdict: I’m not totally sure I felt like it was worth the prep work, especially dealing with chicken, which totally grosses me out. Your response to chicken may vary. When it was done, though, the chicken was nice and flavorful. I would totally eat this in a restaurant if available, or make it on a weekend instead of weeknight.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
U2, human nature, hope, and stuff
When I was younger, I was a raging optimist. Well, with qualifiers. I guess I didn’t think things would be okay for everyone, or for the whole world, but everything always worked out okay for me personally. I wouldn't change a thing. When I got my heart broken, I cherished the pre-heartbreak experience and tried to look at the whole thing as a learning experience. When I wasn’t sure what path to take, I tried to relax, secure in the belief that things would pretty much be okay for me if I listened to my heart, or to my gut (most of my other organs are smarter than my brain, with the possible exceptions of my lungs (asthma) and my appendix, which committed suicide).
When I got out of college and had to live, though, I started to feel differently. Paying for college left me flat broke, and starter-level salaries didn’t do anything to improve my situation. I lived in small, sad, telephoneless apartments, learned what “Murphy beds” were, accumulated debt, and tended to despair. Over the years, I came to believe that life was a frustrating sequence of mindless tedium punctuated by refreshing periods of bleak despair. Unless you’re rich, or have a much bolder personality than I do, you’re pretty much going to drag yourself to work, drag yourself home, and most likely plant yourself on the couch with a bag of Fat Rind and wait for oblivion while trembling in fear at the thought of your retirement budget. You get less and less healthy and realize gradually that not only do you have no idea how to accomplish any of your youthful dreams, but you hardly even have dreams any more. Your life slips away, and you miss large chunks of it, and then there’s nothing.
I don’t mean to drive anyone to despair with reading this, but hey, it’s been a long winter!
Anyway. One of the things that’s always helped me out a little has been music. My parents were uninterested in music, for the most part. Occasionally my mom would listen to the gospel station while ironing, but otherwise the radio was used to find out whether we had a snow day from school. They didn’t own a stereo, didn’t listen to records, didn’t sing in the church choir, didn’t attend my high school band concerts – nothing. To this day, my mother will set out on a road trip and never turn on the radio.
What saved me from a musicless existence was really my big sister. We shared a room and she had an old pink radio that got better reception if you piled things on top of it. Three cheers for 1970s album-rock A.M. radio. From earliest memory, the Beatles, Queen, and, God forbid, Black Betty (blam-a-lam) were my companions.
Unlike my husband – whose parents both liked music, and whose father in particular accumulated albums by the score – I feel like I had to start from scratch in my popular music education. In many ways, I feel like I’m still struggling to catch up, but it’s a labor of love. I listen to music every day; I subscribe to a number of concert listing e-mail services. It’s a passion.
I’m the type to rebut political speeches on TV with side remarks along the lines of “yeah, right” or “sure, if you don’t count THOSE civilian deaths” or cheery remarks of that nature. I’m not as intelligently cynical as many of my coworkers in the news industry, but I have a pretty low opinion of human nature.
Except at U2 concerts.
It’s impossible to be cynical at a U2 show.
When I go to a U2 show, I get a general admission ticket, if possible. U2 always charges less for floor – remember when you’re sitting in those $200 seats that the people on the ground paid a quarter as much to be much closer. What that means, though, is a lot more work getting there. For the Vertigo tour, we tried to get to the venue around 6 or 7 in the morning. For the current stadium tour, it’s more like 5 – and that’s just me, just the lazy, same-day experience; the best I’ve ever gotten with that is around 25th in line, and for that I had to stop by the stadium the night before and be numbered. So, travel to a strange city, stay in a hotel, get up around 4 a.m., rush to get ready and assemble your daylong needs – money, camera, ticket, food, water – grab a cab, get in line, and wait. And wait. And wait. If you’re lucky, you can grab a few Zs. Depending on the weather, you might be uncomfortable; you’ll almost certainly be uncomfortable depending on where you’re sitting. Starbucks isn’t even open yet. You spend the day pacing yourself. I know I need to eat and drink – some folks tough it out, but I’m too old for that. You might need sunscreen and a hat, or rain poncho, or even long underwear. Toward mid-afternoon you have to regulate your liquid intake and output – remember, you’re going to be unable to leave the line, and inside the stadium and probably unable to leave your post, from maybe 4 or 5 to about 10 p.m. By the time you enter the venue, you’ve been in line for 12 hours. Hungry, thirsty, sleepy, oh so tired. And you still have to run, run toward the stage and hope for a spot at the railing, and then wait while the setup gets finished, and wait through the opening band (usually bad), and wait during the set break. And then.
I do it for those couple of solid hours completely free of cynicism and anger. Free of criticism and negativity. Just me and 50,000 or so of my closest friends. Maybe this is the kind of ecstasy that charismatic church members feel, the shared passion and uplift. Something to believe in. Me and my kind, jumping up and down to “Until the End of the World.” Screaming to “Vertigo.” Crying during “MLK” and “Walk On.” Raising our hands and vowing to sign, to vote, to click, to text, to help, to hope. Hoping together that group passion can translate to group power; believing in it, for the moment. Impossible to be negative. Things that make you cringe later on the bootleg, or on the DVD – you believe in them utterly in the moment. No political speech seems overly long or out of place, no appeal to act seems misguided or wrong. It’s all the same thing, the same experience. It’s not jarring, not intrusive, it’s part of the experience. Because you believe.
I’ll be a gloomy cynic again soon enough.
When I got out of college and had to live, though, I started to feel differently. Paying for college left me flat broke, and starter-level salaries didn’t do anything to improve my situation. I lived in small, sad, telephoneless apartments, learned what “Murphy beds” were, accumulated debt, and tended to despair. Over the years, I came to believe that life was a frustrating sequence of mindless tedium punctuated by refreshing periods of bleak despair. Unless you’re rich, or have a much bolder personality than I do, you’re pretty much going to drag yourself to work, drag yourself home, and most likely plant yourself on the couch with a bag of Fat Rind and wait for oblivion while trembling in fear at the thought of your retirement budget. You get less and less healthy and realize gradually that not only do you have no idea how to accomplish any of your youthful dreams, but you hardly even have dreams any more. Your life slips away, and you miss large chunks of it, and then there’s nothing.
I don’t mean to drive anyone to despair with reading this, but hey, it’s been a long winter!
Anyway. One of the things that’s always helped me out a little has been music. My parents were uninterested in music, for the most part. Occasionally my mom would listen to the gospel station while ironing, but otherwise the radio was used to find out whether we had a snow day from school. They didn’t own a stereo, didn’t listen to records, didn’t sing in the church choir, didn’t attend my high school band concerts – nothing. To this day, my mother will set out on a road trip and never turn on the radio.
What saved me from a musicless existence was really my big sister. We shared a room and she had an old pink radio that got better reception if you piled things on top of it. Three cheers for 1970s album-rock A.M. radio. From earliest memory, the Beatles, Queen, and, God forbid, Black Betty (blam-a-lam) were my companions.
Unlike my husband – whose parents both liked music, and whose father in particular accumulated albums by the score – I feel like I had to start from scratch in my popular music education. In many ways, I feel like I’m still struggling to catch up, but it’s a labor of love. I listen to music every day; I subscribe to a number of concert listing e-mail services. It’s a passion.
I’m the type to rebut political speeches on TV with side remarks along the lines of “yeah, right” or “sure, if you don’t count THOSE civilian deaths” or cheery remarks of that nature. I’m not as intelligently cynical as many of my coworkers in the news industry, but I have a pretty low opinion of human nature.
Except at U2 concerts.
It’s impossible to be cynical at a U2 show.
When I go to a U2 show, I get a general admission ticket, if possible. U2 always charges less for floor – remember when you’re sitting in those $200 seats that the people on the ground paid a quarter as much to be much closer. What that means, though, is a lot more work getting there. For the Vertigo tour, we tried to get to the venue around 6 or 7 in the morning. For the current stadium tour, it’s more like 5 – and that’s just me, just the lazy, same-day experience; the best I’ve ever gotten with that is around 25th in line, and for that I had to stop by the stadium the night before and be numbered. So, travel to a strange city, stay in a hotel, get up around 4 a.m., rush to get ready and assemble your daylong needs – money, camera, ticket, food, water – grab a cab, get in line, and wait. And wait. And wait. If you’re lucky, you can grab a few Zs. Depending on the weather, you might be uncomfortable; you’ll almost certainly be uncomfortable depending on where you’re sitting. Starbucks isn’t even open yet. You spend the day pacing yourself. I know I need to eat and drink – some folks tough it out, but I’m too old for that. You might need sunscreen and a hat, or rain poncho, or even long underwear. Toward mid-afternoon you have to regulate your liquid intake and output – remember, you’re going to be unable to leave the line, and inside the stadium and probably unable to leave your post, from maybe 4 or 5 to about 10 p.m. By the time you enter the venue, you’ve been in line for 12 hours. Hungry, thirsty, sleepy, oh so tired. And you still have to run, run toward the stage and hope for a spot at the railing, and then wait while the setup gets finished, and wait through the opening band (usually bad), and wait during the set break. And then.
I do it for those couple of solid hours completely free of cynicism and anger. Free of criticism and negativity. Just me and 50,000 or so of my closest friends. Maybe this is the kind of ecstasy that charismatic church members feel, the shared passion and uplift. Something to believe in. Me and my kind, jumping up and down to “Until the End of the World.” Screaming to “Vertigo.” Crying during “MLK” and “Walk On.” Raising our hands and vowing to sign, to vote, to click, to text, to help, to hope. Hoping together that group passion can translate to group power; believing in it, for the moment. Impossible to be negative. Things that make you cringe later on the bootleg, or on the DVD – you believe in them utterly in the moment. No political speech seems overly long or out of place, no appeal to act seems misguided or wrong. It’s all the same thing, the same experience. It’s not jarring, not intrusive, it’s part of the experience. Because you believe.
I’ll be a gloomy cynic again soon enough.
Monday, March 07, 2011
Recipe: black bean dip
We needed a large snack over the weekend, and I made this could-have-been-better but very simple bean dip.
1. I medium-small chopped a medium-small onion and sautéed it in a pan with olive oil plus salt, pepper, and dashes of garlic powder, chili powder, cumin and parsley.
2. While the onion softened, I mostly drained a can of organic black beans just using the lid, poured the can in a bowl, and rinsed the can with a couple of tablespoons of water and added that to the bowl. Then I mashed up the beans with the back of a heavy spoon, not worrying about getting all the beans or how well they got mashed up. I started out using a fork, but it wasn’t getting the job done.
3. I added the beans to the pan with onions and continued cooking medium-low until the beans were hot and bubbly, stirring well to incorporate the onions and adjusting the seasonings and adding some ‘Louisiana’ spice blend. At the last minute I stirred in a toss or two of shredded cheddar, which was enough to make it gooier but not enough to make it too cheesy or stringy.
4. Poured it in a bowl, scooped up with organic blue corn chips. The two of us ate the whole thing.
The good: easy, inexpensive, had the ingredients on hand, relatively healthy, hearty.
The bad: underseasoned, needed something.
We didn’t have jalapenos, sour cream (which we NEVER have on hand), or even bell peppers on hand; the dip needed a whang. The beans sucked up all the salt and even the cumin and chili powder even though I re-seasoned a couple of times while heating. Husband was surprised to hear that there was a whole onion in it; they kind of disappeared too even though I tried not to make them too soft. Maybe I could have saved a handful of raw onions to add at the end.
Verdict: Would try again with some adjustments.
1. I medium-small chopped a medium-small onion and sautéed it in a pan with olive oil plus salt, pepper, and dashes of garlic powder, chili powder, cumin and parsley.
2. While the onion softened, I mostly drained a can of organic black beans just using the lid, poured the can in a bowl, and rinsed the can with a couple of tablespoons of water and added that to the bowl. Then I mashed up the beans with the back of a heavy spoon, not worrying about getting all the beans or how well they got mashed up. I started out using a fork, but it wasn’t getting the job done.
3. I added the beans to the pan with onions and continued cooking medium-low until the beans were hot and bubbly, stirring well to incorporate the onions and adjusting the seasonings and adding some ‘Louisiana’ spice blend. At the last minute I stirred in a toss or two of shredded cheddar, which was enough to make it gooier but not enough to make it too cheesy or stringy.
4. Poured it in a bowl, scooped up with organic blue corn chips. The two of us ate the whole thing.
The good: easy, inexpensive, had the ingredients on hand, relatively healthy, hearty.
The bad: underseasoned, needed something.
We didn’t have jalapenos, sour cream (which we NEVER have on hand), or even bell peppers on hand; the dip needed a whang. The beans sucked up all the salt and even the cumin and chili powder even though I re-seasoned a couple of times while heating. Husband was surprised to hear that there was a whole onion in it; they kind of disappeared too even though I tried not to make them too soft. Maybe I could have saved a handful of raw onions to add at the end.
Verdict: Would try again with some adjustments.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Weird childhood memories
For some reason I was just thinking about the time I sprained my ankle.
I know, totally mundane. I was lucky enough to live a largely injury-free childhood apart from the usual skinned knees and elbows, so this event was pretty significant to me. I’m not sure how old I was, but I’m thinking probably fourth or fifth grade. We were called in from recess and I was running to get in line, and wham! Got up, hopped to the line, realized my foot wasn’t working, got sent to the nurse’s office.
I remember that a man was in the nurse’s office chatting with her – not a teacher, who I would have recognized, so maybe a janitor or something? The nurse moved my foot around, and it hurt like hell, and I made little “ow” sounds, and the guy mocked me. Um, thanks a lot, why are you even in here? (Remember how kids didn’t have rights? It wasn’t any use to complain, no matter how much injustice you felt.)
Anyway, the nurse thought nothing was broken and wrapped it up, and I remember for a few days I couldn’t put any weight on it. My big brother carried me between the school bus and house, and my teacher assigned a couple of other kids to help me – I had to lean on someone while hopping to, you know, music class or whatever, and a couple of helpers and I got to leave for lunch a couple of minutes early because I was slow. I remember waking up every morning trying to flex it a little, or tentatively putting my foot to the floor to see if it could bear any weight yet.
In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder why my parents didn’t take me to the doctor or something. Crutches would have made my life SO much easier for those days. Jesus Christ, people. I’m hopping around on one foot for the greater part of a week! A little help here? Thanks for nothin’!
Which is the general feeling I have when I think about being a kid, really – thanks for nothin’, you know?
Seriously. You gotta laugh.
I know, totally mundane. I was lucky enough to live a largely injury-free childhood apart from the usual skinned knees and elbows, so this event was pretty significant to me. I’m not sure how old I was, but I’m thinking probably fourth or fifth grade. We were called in from recess and I was running to get in line, and wham! Got up, hopped to the line, realized my foot wasn’t working, got sent to the nurse’s office.
I remember that a man was in the nurse’s office chatting with her – not a teacher, who I would have recognized, so maybe a janitor or something? The nurse moved my foot around, and it hurt like hell, and I made little “ow” sounds, and the guy mocked me. Um, thanks a lot, why are you even in here? (Remember how kids didn’t have rights? It wasn’t any use to complain, no matter how much injustice you felt.)
Anyway, the nurse thought nothing was broken and wrapped it up, and I remember for a few days I couldn’t put any weight on it. My big brother carried me between the school bus and house, and my teacher assigned a couple of other kids to help me – I had to lean on someone while hopping to, you know, music class or whatever, and a couple of helpers and I got to leave for lunch a couple of minutes early because I was slow. I remember waking up every morning trying to flex it a little, or tentatively putting my foot to the floor to see if it could bear any weight yet.
In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder why my parents didn’t take me to the doctor or something. Crutches would have made my life SO much easier for those days. Jesus Christ, people. I’m hopping around on one foot for the greater part of a week! A little help here? Thanks for nothin’!
Which is the general feeling I have when I think about being a kid, really – thanks for nothin’, you know?
Seriously. You gotta laugh.
Friday, January 07, 2011
Unrefrigerated madness
Yesterday my husband took the afternoon off work so he could be home for a refrigerator delivery. He came home at noon, shut our cat in the bedroom, and waited.
Going on 5:00, they called to alert him that they were on the way. Fifteen minutes later, they called asking why nobody was home – apparently our landlord who owns our house sent them to the wrong address entirely.
When they finally got to our house – or, rather, when he got to our place – and discovered that our stairs have a turn or two in them, he said that he can singlehandedly deliver refrigerators up stairs that do not have turns in them, but help is required for fancy stairs. Strangely, although he called for help, none of his coworkers were willing to respond.
They’re allegedly coming back Saturday, at which point we will have been without a fridge for going on a week. We called our landlord about this last Sunday. I am really angry about this – and I’m not even the one who sat around all afternoon for no reason while work piled up at my office, or the one who was shut into the bedroom all afternoon for no reason. ARGH.
Next time any appliance goes down, I’m just going to leave town. It’s easier.
Going on 5:00, they called to alert him that they were on the way. Fifteen minutes later, they called asking why nobody was home – apparently our landlord who owns our house sent them to the wrong address entirely.
When they finally got to our house – or, rather, when he got to our place – and discovered that our stairs have a turn or two in them, he said that he can singlehandedly deliver refrigerators up stairs that do not have turns in them, but help is required for fancy stairs. Strangely, although he called for help, none of his coworkers were willing to respond.
They’re allegedly coming back Saturday, at which point we will have been without a fridge for going on a week. We called our landlord about this last Sunday. I am really angry about this – and I’m not even the one who sat around all afternoon for no reason while work piled up at my office, or the one who was shut into the bedroom all afternoon for no reason. ARGH.
Next time any appliance goes down, I’m just going to leave town. It’s easier.
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