So as an RE teacher I get asked, "Miss, what do you believe?" How many times per week?
A lot.
Honestly, children? If you really want to know, here are the basic tenets of your RE teacher's beliefs:
1) Don't be an asshole.
2) God exists, but don't get hung up on the fact that other people may have a different understanding of God.
3) Be grateful and express your gratitude.
4) "Can" does not equal "should"
5) Go forth.
6) Be awesome.
Amendment 1) Put some goddamn pants on.
Amendment 2) Learn to shut the eff up.
Amendment 3) IKEA is an acceptable place to purchase any/all furniture, except for bunk beds.
There, dear students. Now you know what I believe.
And, dear children, if you care to ask, the tenet I feel most strongly about is Amendment 3.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
That time I didn't understand whisky
I normally try to avoid writing in a public place about people I know and about things that happen with these people. Not this time. And while this post is sort of (okay, ENTIRELY) about making fun of two people, I just want to say before you read on that, in case it isn’t clear enough, these are two all-around awesome dudes.
Also, I got permission from them to write about them. And my God am I going to abuse that permission.
I was starting to get tired and began slipping down in my seat while listening to two guys describing a 34-year-old with a lot of character. This 34-year-old has so much character, they said. Part of me wanted to ask more questions about this 34-year-old, but then I remembered they were talking about whisky.
Let’s back up a bit and meet Tom and Ed, the guys I was with. Well, to start, they’re both RE trainees so they’re both extremely weird (read AWESOME) and conversations with them tend to descend into debates about things like the continuity of Christian doctrine. Tom is a vaguely Jewish-looking Northerner who writes a food blog and worships a North American goddess of wind. And the only way to describe Ed is that I don’t think he realizes the full extent of his own poshness. And that when he looks at his iPad he has the same look of awe in his face that I’ve seen fathers have when they look at their newborn children.
They’re two very different people, each loveable in his own way, but what they have in common is that they both have a passion for whisky that is completely beyond the scope of my understanding. When Ed graciously invited Tom and me to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society (of which he is a member), I was pretty excited to finally understand why they both always have pleasant, wistful looks on their faces whenever they get together and discuss whiskies past.
Plus it was a nice way to rinse away the annoying other part of the day, in which we went to a Hindu temple and the dude leading us around would not shut the fuck up about how baller his temple is. But apparently I was the only one of the group who felt such strong animosity towards this guy… Guess that’s me in a nutshell—constant, inexplicable rage.
So anyway, we get to the Whisky Society and I’m delighted to find it’s a small but warm atmosphere. But then the whisky came out and suddenly I was watching two ostensibly sane individuals sniffing glasses of whisky as though they were anteaters trying to sniff up ants. I swear I saw the whisky ripple from the force of their sniffing. Then they would hold their glasses up to the light and marvel with religious reverence at how brown or not each whisky was. Desperately trying to fit in, I too lifted my glass and commented on the fact that it was, indeed, quite brown. Not as brown as Tom’s, but slightly browner than Ed’s. Mmm yes, quite brown.
The whole experience was pretty overwhelming, particularly the menu. Each whisky had a paragraph—or a lovingly crafted ode, rather—describing its flavors with words like “dance” or “journey” or other actions that whisky is clearly incapable of performing. I think in addition to my eyes being duds my tongue must also not work, because all I tasted was Jack Daniels. Some whiskies tasted slightly less like Jack Daniels, and some slightly more. And I must say, when I describe Jack Daniels I don’t talk of flowers or ice cream or smoke or fruit.
Quite honestly, when I think of the taste of Jack Daniels I’m reminded of what the kibbutz laundry room I worked in for half a year smelled like. Basically Jack Daniels tastes of harsh, industrial strength laundry detergent, dusty metal, and hummus-based body odor.
So maybe whisky tasting isn’t for me, maybe it’s just a bit beyond me. I’m still thankful for the opportunity to get to know Tom and Ed a little better, even if doing so involved learning that they are slightly more retarded than previously thought. I did have a fabulous time, and I think the next time I’m forced to drink Jack Daniels I’m going to hold it up to the light, sniff it, and try pick flowers in it.
Also, I got permission from them to write about them. And my God am I going to abuse that permission.
I was starting to get tired and began slipping down in my seat while listening to two guys describing a 34-year-old with a lot of character. This 34-year-old has so much character, they said. Part of me wanted to ask more questions about this 34-year-old, but then I remembered they were talking about whisky.
Let’s back up a bit and meet Tom and Ed, the guys I was with. Well, to start, they’re both RE trainees so they’re both extremely weird (read AWESOME) and conversations with them tend to descend into debates about things like the continuity of Christian doctrine. Tom is a vaguely Jewish-looking Northerner who writes a food blog and worships a North American goddess of wind. And the only way to describe Ed is that I don’t think he realizes the full extent of his own poshness. And that when he looks at his iPad he has the same look of awe in his face that I’ve seen fathers have when they look at their newborn children.
They’re two very different people, each loveable in his own way, but what they have in common is that they both have a passion for whisky that is completely beyond the scope of my understanding. When Ed graciously invited Tom and me to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society (of which he is a member), I was pretty excited to finally understand why they both always have pleasant, wistful looks on their faces whenever they get together and discuss whiskies past.
Plus it was a nice way to rinse away the annoying other part of the day, in which we went to a Hindu temple and the dude leading us around would not shut the fuck up about how baller his temple is. But apparently I was the only one of the group who felt such strong animosity towards this guy… Guess that’s me in a nutshell—constant, inexplicable rage.
So anyway, we get to the Whisky Society and I’m delighted to find it’s a small but warm atmosphere. But then the whisky came out and suddenly I was watching two ostensibly sane individuals sniffing glasses of whisky as though they were anteaters trying to sniff up ants. I swear I saw the whisky ripple from the force of their sniffing. Then they would hold their glasses up to the light and marvel with religious reverence at how brown or not each whisky was. Desperately trying to fit in, I too lifted my glass and commented on the fact that it was, indeed, quite brown. Not as brown as Tom’s, but slightly browner than Ed’s. Mmm yes, quite brown.
The whole experience was pretty overwhelming, particularly the menu. Each whisky had a paragraph—or a lovingly crafted ode, rather—describing its flavors with words like “dance” or “journey” or other actions that whisky is clearly incapable of performing. I think in addition to my eyes being duds my tongue must also not work, because all I tasted was Jack Daniels. Some whiskies tasted slightly less like Jack Daniels, and some slightly more. And I must say, when I describe Jack Daniels I don’t talk of flowers or ice cream or smoke or fruit.
Quite honestly, when I think of the taste of Jack Daniels I’m reminded of what the kibbutz laundry room I worked in for half a year smelled like. Basically Jack Daniels tastes of harsh, industrial strength laundry detergent, dusty metal, and hummus-based body odor.
So maybe whisky tasting isn’t for me, maybe it’s just a bit beyond me. I’m still thankful for the opportunity to get to know Tom and Ed a little better, even if doing so involved learning that they are slightly more retarded than previously thought. I did have a fabulous time, and I think the next time I’m forced to drink Jack Daniels I’m going to hold it up to the light, sniff it, and try pick flowers in it.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Of course I spend the weekend in Paris and the only comment I have is about its bathrooms.
So this one time I fled to Paris on a whim. After a ridiculously long sit in Sacre Coeur contemplating what a complete and utter jackass I am, I decided that I was being called to something. Not to a vocation but to the toilets. I went on a quest that took me through narrow alleyways, stands of men desperate to sell me crepes, and European Urine Pockets. (Just as Chicago has random pockets of fart smell called, quite shockingly, Fart Pockets, Europe has random areas that smell of pee even when no urine is visibly presence)
Hang on, we interrupt this blog post to inform you that the two bespectacled, scrawny and massively nerdy folks, one female the other presumably male, at the table next to me at Café O’Conway at Gare du Nord Paris keep discussing what great quantities of weed they’re going to smoke in Amsterdam. Have fun with that, guys.
Once talk of drugs died down an awkward silence fell over their table. The guy pushed his glasses up and puffed his chest out like he was one of those birds hopping around trying to attract a mate. His voice dropped about five octaves and his accent even shifted to sound less Midwestern and more Californian: “Dude, at my college we have soooooo many pigeons.”
For a brief, unguarded moment the girl gave him a stare that seemed to suggest she was appalled at how boring this guy was, and then quickly looked away as she uncomfortably folded and unfolded the empty sugar packets that were on their table. Another awkward silence. You could practically hear the thoughts in the guy’s head: “How can I save this?” And clearly the best answer his brain could come up with was to say to the girl, “So we used to play ‘Kick the Pigeon.’”
Had we been in a slapstick film this would have been the moment for the girl to do a spit-take. But this being real life she just managed to somehow kind of choke on the last remaining drops of her Diet Coke. After the coughing died down she spluttered out a “WHAT?!”
Again, the guy tried to save it: “Um…um…yeah, it was a bloodbath! [*uncomfortable forced laugh*]” At this the girl started looking around desperately, presumably to find the hidden cameras, as she shouted, “WHAT? THERE WAS BLOOD???” The boy turned bright red, muttering, “Well, no, now that I think of it there was no blood…”
Anyway. Sacre Coeur. France. Toilets. I needed one. Soooo: after a long quest through Montmartre in which I suspect I may have at one point crossed into Belgium, I finally found a set of bathrooms that (to my paranoid, San Adreas Fault-warped eyes) looked rather precariously perched on top of this hill. In fact, even the sidewalk in the area was tilted and seemed to have fallen about halfway down the hill. Though nature kept calling and leaving increasingly frustrated voicemails, I couldn’t help but hesitate after imagining the entire bathroom sliding down the mountain about as gracefully as little me would slide down our hardwood stairs in a sleeping bag. Sliding down the stairs always ended in a few bruises on my ass, whereas riding the bathroom like a flume ride down this mountain would prolly end with my lifeless body in a mass grave somewhere in France because at the time my parents had no idea I was even in France. So do I risk riding the bathroom? Do I go big or go home (with wet pants)?
Pee gets the best of me and I end up entering this bathroom only to find a sort of old-fashioned courtyard. It’s tiled and wooden and for some reason it makes me think of Main Street at Disneyland, that same sort of faux old timey charm, though this being Paris the old timey charm was more likely vrai than faux. In the center of this courtyard—nay, piazza—was an attendant safely encased in what looked like an old-fashioned movie theater ticket window.
In general I find the European concept of someone being employed to facilitate your bowel movement experience a challenging one. But I find the bathroom attendants hidden away behind glass like they work in a high security bank instead of a place where people shit, write on walls, and occasionally have sex, to be a step beyond weird. If I had to rob something I don’t think the toilets at Sacre Coeur would be the first large haul target to come to mind. Then again, maybe I just haven’t given this enough thought.
I stood staring at this woman and her movie ticket window forcefield (“Hi, I’d like one ticket to the 2:00 pm showing of ‘Sam Urinates Today: Part II’”), and I tried to look for a sign indicating how much the Europeans would make me pay this time. Would I be able to hear her response or was this the sort of ticket window glass that as the bane of my existence, the type where the other person shouts (or mimes shouting) and all you hear is a faint buzzing?
Well, my questions were answered when I heard frantic knocking. Startled, I looked up to find the attendant knocking on the window with a panicked look on her face. Thinking my time had come to help someone in distress, I rushed up to the window to save this woman from whatever evil had befallen her. Heart attack? I’ve seen enough “House” to administer CPR. Invisible alien murderer strangling her? I’ve seen a similar amount of “Doctor Who.”
At this point the lady stopped her morse code of distress, pointed at a stall, and commanded me in French to go to it. Again, I was slightly confused so I hesitated. She tapped again, looking like she cannot BELIEVE how much time I’m wasting, and again barked at me in Paris talk to go to that stall. And in case I didn’t get the point, she had a terrified look in her eyes as she punctuated her command with an “ALLEZ-Y!” that seemed to herald the end of the world should I not make my way to that stall immediately.
I knew at this point I should just get my ass to the damn stall, but again I paused. I turned around and slowly passed a wary hand through the empty air to see if there were until now unseen hordes waiting behind me. No, this bathroom was so empty that if the movie ticket lady weren’t tapping the window and shouting “ALLEZ-Y” like it’s her job (maybe it is?), then I’m sure you could have heard crickets chirping, although in France I bet crickets play mournful accordion tunes of loves lost instead.
So I’m completely alone in this enormous bathroom up a mountain in Paris. And yet someone has decided I need to get my happy ass into a stall RIGHT NOW, hurrying like Indiana Jones trying to escape the Temple. Clearly the only appropriate response to this would have been, “Lady, how badly do you think I need to go pee?”
Hang on, we interrupt this blog post to inform you that the two bespectacled, scrawny and massively nerdy folks, one female the other presumably male, at the table next to me at Café O’Conway at Gare du Nord Paris keep discussing what great quantities of weed they’re going to smoke in Amsterdam. Have fun with that, guys.
Once talk of drugs died down an awkward silence fell over their table. The guy pushed his glasses up and puffed his chest out like he was one of those birds hopping around trying to attract a mate. His voice dropped about five octaves and his accent even shifted to sound less Midwestern and more Californian: “Dude, at my college we have soooooo many pigeons.”
For a brief, unguarded moment the girl gave him a stare that seemed to suggest she was appalled at how boring this guy was, and then quickly looked away as she uncomfortably folded and unfolded the empty sugar packets that were on their table. Another awkward silence. You could practically hear the thoughts in the guy’s head: “How can I save this?” And clearly the best answer his brain could come up with was to say to the girl, “So we used to play ‘Kick the Pigeon.’”
Had we been in a slapstick film this would have been the moment for the girl to do a spit-take. But this being real life she just managed to somehow kind of choke on the last remaining drops of her Diet Coke. After the coughing died down she spluttered out a “WHAT?!”
Again, the guy tried to save it: “Um…um…yeah, it was a bloodbath! [*uncomfortable forced laugh*]” At this the girl started looking around desperately, presumably to find the hidden cameras, as she shouted, “WHAT? THERE WAS BLOOD???” The boy turned bright red, muttering, “Well, no, now that I think of it there was no blood…”
Anyway. Sacre Coeur. France. Toilets. I needed one. Soooo: after a long quest through Montmartre in which I suspect I may have at one point crossed into Belgium, I finally found a set of bathrooms that (to my paranoid, San Adreas Fault-warped eyes) looked rather precariously perched on top of this hill. In fact, even the sidewalk in the area was tilted and seemed to have fallen about halfway down the hill. Though nature kept calling and leaving increasingly frustrated voicemails, I couldn’t help but hesitate after imagining the entire bathroom sliding down the mountain about as gracefully as little me would slide down our hardwood stairs in a sleeping bag. Sliding down the stairs always ended in a few bruises on my ass, whereas riding the bathroom like a flume ride down this mountain would prolly end with my lifeless body in a mass grave somewhere in France because at the time my parents had no idea I was even in France. So do I risk riding the bathroom? Do I go big or go home (with wet pants)?
Pee gets the best of me and I end up entering this bathroom only to find a sort of old-fashioned courtyard. It’s tiled and wooden and for some reason it makes me think of Main Street at Disneyland, that same sort of faux old timey charm, though this being Paris the old timey charm was more likely vrai than faux. In the center of this courtyard—nay, piazza—was an attendant safely encased in what looked like an old-fashioned movie theater ticket window.
In general I find the European concept of someone being employed to facilitate your bowel movement experience a challenging one. But I find the bathroom attendants hidden away behind glass like they work in a high security bank instead of a place where people shit, write on walls, and occasionally have sex, to be a step beyond weird. If I had to rob something I don’t think the toilets at Sacre Coeur would be the first large haul target to come to mind. Then again, maybe I just haven’t given this enough thought.
I stood staring at this woman and her movie ticket window forcefield (“Hi, I’d like one ticket to the 2:00 pm showing of ‘Sam Urinates Today: Part II’”), and I tried to look for a sign indicating how much the Europeans would make me pay this time. Would I be able to hear her response or was this the sort of ticket window glass that as the bane of my existence, the type where the other person shouts (or mimes shouting) and all you hear is a faint buzzing?
Well, my questions were answered when I heard frantic knocking. Startled, I looked up to find the attendant knocking on the window with a panicked look on her face. Thinking my time had come to help someone in distress, I rushed up to the window to save this woman from whatever evil had befallen her. Heart attack? I’ve seen enough “House” to administer CPR. Invisible alien murderer strangling her? I’ve seen a similar amount of “Doctor Who.”
At this point the lady stopped her morse code of distress, pointed at a stall, and commanded me in French to go to it. Again, I was slightly confused so I hesitated. She tapped again, looking like she cannot BELIEVE how much time I’m wasting, and again barked at me in Paris talk to go to that stall. And in case I didn’t get the point, she had a terrified look in her eyes as she punctuated her command with an “ALLEZ-Y!” that seemed to herald the end of the world should I not make my way to that stall immediately.
I knew at this point I should just get my ass to the damn stall, but again I paused. I turned around and slowly passed a wary hand through the empty air to see if there were until now unseen hordes waiting behind me. No, this bathroom was so empty that if the movie ticket lady weren’t tapping the window and shouting “ALLEZ-Y” like it’s her job (maybe it is?), then I’m sure you could have heard crickets chirping, although in France I bet crickets play mournful accordion tunes of loves lost instead.
So I’m completely alone in this enormous bathroom up a mountain in Paris. And yet someone has decided I need to get my happy ass into a stall RIGHT NOW, hurrying like Indiana Jones trying to escape the Temple. Clearly the only appropriate response to this would have been, “Lady, how badly do you think I need to go pee?”
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