My mom made the best Hamburger Helper. She used to buy the the Beef Pasta flavor, the one with the giant egg noodles. I remember her preparing this decidedly mundane dinner in the most exotic way -- in the wok. My parents received a wok as a wedding gift and I think my mom considered it the greatest culinary invention. She was also really great at oatmeal. For breakfast, she'd prepare the old fashioned oats on the stove and toast an entire loaf of white bread. Then she'd sit my brother and I down at the table, each in front of a steaming bowl of mush. In the center of the table she'd place a towering stack of white bread toast and plenty of cinnamon and sugar, the better to flavor our bland oatmeal. From there it was a free for all. To this day I can't eat oatmeal without plenty of white bread toast to sop up the mushy dregs.
My mom was a great babysitter. During the summers of my childhood, she often babysat a handful of neighborhood kids, in addition to my brother and I. (Although, is it really babysitting when it's your own kids...?) She was always searching for activities to occupy our time until the pool opened at noon. One particularly creative morning she decided to clear out the kitchen cupboards, eradicating any canned goods past their expiration dates or deemed unworthy of gracing our kitchen table. The morning was fruitful, as she found buried at the back of the cupboard a can of Campbell's Nacho Cheese Soup (which, ew, really does exist), and a can of pickled beets. In a stroke of motherly genius, she donated these two items to my game of "house". And because every good mother wants their child to have the tools to succeed, she also offered up a can opener. WHY? The world may never know. But man, oh man, were we glad she did. That day the Yokom girls and I created the culinary delight known as Beet Cheese Surprise. Lacking bowls or cups, we dumped the contents right on the pavement, using sticks to stir up the lumpy mass. When my mom discovered our masterpiece, she checked the clock, announced the pool to be open, and sent us on our way. She must have felt somewhat responsible for the unpalatable mess as I'm pretty sure she hosed that shit down and never spoke of it again.
My mom was a fantastic cheerleader. As a precocious first grader, I had the dubious honor of receiving an award for excellent spelling. I say dubious because first grade spelling is not really all that difficult. Either that, or I was matriculating with a class full of morons. Anyway. I was set to receive this award at an all-school assembly, which also happened to fall on "crazy clothes day". My mom, not wanting me to miss an opportunity to express my individuality, enthusiastically applauded my decision to wear long johns covered in tin foil topped with an antenna headband. Crazy, right?! The school administration thought otherwise and ordered my mom to bring a change of clothes, post haste, which she also did enthusiastically.
My mom was a great storyteller. At night, after tucking my brother and I in, she'd pull out the chapter book and read until I drifted off. Most of the books are a jumbled mass of lost memory floating in my brain, but the night my mom finished Charlotte's Web made an indelible mark on me. Mom's voice was calm and soothing as she read of Charlotte's imminent demise and Wilbur's panic and dismay. Like every other night, my mom closed the book, checked once more on my brother, and went off to bed herself. But that night I lay weeping, sad for Charlotte's death, sad for all that Wilbur had lost, confused at why anyone had to die. I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to my parent's room, looking for answers. I crawled in next to my mom and sobbed, "WHY DID CHARLOTTE HAVE TO DIE?" My mom, ever the compassionate woman, replied, "Because all things die." Her answer was so succinct, so honest and true. She hugged me close and let me cry until I couldn't cry anymore.
My mom was never the soccer mom. She never carpooled the neighborhood kids or baked elaborate birthday cakes or volunteered as art mom or joined the PTO. She never scheduled her life around my brother and I. What she gave was time, and sometimes her time was precious. My mom gave of herself in a way that fostered a deep and lasting relationship, and we have weathered some storms. She has always been my loudest cheerleader and a seemingly bottomless well of support. I don't always say it and sometimes I'm quite terrible at showing it, but mom, I really do think you're the greatest. And you still whip up a wicked Hamburger Helper.
Happy Mother's Day.
5.11.2013
5.06.2013
Born This Way
A few years back a young, talented pop star emerged and captured the attention of, well, everyone. Everyone but me, that is. I loathed this woman. She sang about dancing and paparazzi and poker and telephones. She dressed like a fool. Nothing she did or said appeared to contain any real substance -- it was all for shown. And I hated it. I hated her hoof heels and meat dresses and her "Born This Way" anthems. Everything about her was contrived and fake. To me she was a walking punch line. Why couldn't she just be REAL, I moaned.
Then, by chance, I caught an interview with the loathsome star on 60 Minutes. And I fell in love with Lady Gaga.
I have always been unapologetically in lurve with pop culture. I read fashion and gossip blogs obsessively. I consume pop culture like some people consume food. But I don't fucking care. It fills an entertainment void AND does double duty as trivia fodder. When Unsuspecting Fred Meyer Clerk challenges me to a pop culture duel, look out, because OF COURSE I know Joe Pesci released an album in the 60's, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway.
Throughout the course of the interview, Lady Gaga was asked about her music, her fashion forays, her songwriting. Conspicuously missing from the interview was anything personal -- nothing about her love life, family, home. ZIP. ZILCH. NADA. And I realized (somewhat naively, I suppose), that Lady Gaga was a construct. Of course she was. She served as a buffer, or, more accurately, a cop conducting traffic. Every time she arrived in an egg, or eschewed pants in public, she was directing my attention to her persona, making sure I never looked behind the curtain for the wizard. The meat dress was merely guiding me in Lady Gaga's desired direction, while Stefani Germanotta was free to carry on as a somewhat normal member of society. Lady Gaga wasn't a fraud, she was a GENIUS. What better way to keep the public's prying eyes from your most intimate and private moments than to create a male alter ego named Joe Calderone?! Fucking brilliant.
Now back to my pop culture consumption. Like any bad habit, I consume(d) all that salty, delicious pop culture mindlessly, never caring for what was said or who was saying it. (Expect Britney. Man, that was hard to watch.) And while I clicked and clicked, always wanting more and more, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I, too, was being observed. Like every good twenty-something, I Facebooked, I blogged, I tweeted. Every piece of myself I put into the universe was really me offering myself up for judgement. But was I?
Every piece I put into the universe was calculated. Every piece was pointed, thought-out, crafted. Every post, tweet, and status update gave the universe fodder, but rarely did I provide a piece of myself. Save for a handful of very raw blog posts (and one "shitty" post), I have worked hard to cultivate my own (online) persona -- one of a fun-loving, outgoing, happy-go-lucky young woman. That part of me really does exist, to be sure, but it is not all of me. Not by any means. By creating this persona, though, I have been able to avoid pointed questions about my faith, my family, my love life -- all things I consider personal and decidedly NOT up for discussion.
Which leads me here. Because I offer up little of myself in initial meetings, I am invariably wary of people who say they "LOVE!" me upon first meeting. Or second meeting. Or only in certain contexts. Or because I post funny shit on the internet. I take my time getting to know people, and conversely, take my time letting people get to know me. It's rare (read: NEVER) that I let anyone know all the things initially. As a matter of fact, I feel very UNcomfortable when people know too much. Occasionally someone comes along who forces me to be socially intimate before I'm ready, shoving Stefani Germanotta behind the curtain, and thrusting Lady Gaga onto the stage.
I'M FUNNY! I'M WITTY! I FUCKING SWEAR! AHAHAHAHAHA!
I inevitably become the caricature you think I am. This makes me bitter and resentful, both because I am not a caricature and because I don't like to be forced into anything.
The very unfortunate flip side to this coin is that I am also very suspect of those who offer themselves up for consumption, seemingly without regard for privacy or mystery or self-respect. I do not understand those individuals who share willy-nilly the most intimate pieces of themselves. I do not understand how one's faith, family, or love life could be offered up as fodder for prying eyes. I do not understand why sharing (with complete or near strangers) is caring.
But Mindy, this is at total odds with your pop culture obsession! How do you reconcile perusing gossip blogs with your seemingly unending need for personal privacy?!
I don't know. I'ma go read some Dlisted and get back to you.
Then, by chance, I caught an interview with the loathsome star on 60 Minutes. And I fell in love with Lady Gaga.
I have always been unapologetically in lurve with pop culture. I read fashion and gossip blogs obsessively. I consume pop culture like some people consume food. But I don't fucking care. It fills an entertainment void AND does double duty as trivia fodder. When Unsuspecting Fred Meyer Clerk challenges me to a pop culture duel, look out, because OF COURSE I know Joe Pesci released an album in the 60's, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway.
Throughout the course of the interview, Lady Gaga was asked about her music, her fashion forays, her songwriting. Conspicuously missing from the interview was anything personal -- nothing about her love life, family, home. ZIP. ZILCH. NADA. And I realized (somewhat naively, I suppose), that Lady Gaga was a construct. Of course she was. She served as a buffer, or, more accurately, a cop conducting traffic. Every time she arrived in an egg, or eschewed pants in public, she was directing my attention to her persona, making sure I never looked behind the curtain for the wizard. The meat dress was merely guiding me in Lady Gaga's desired direction, while Stefani Germanotta was free to carry on as a somewhat normal member of society. Lady Gaga wasn't a fraud, she was a GENIUS. What better way to keep the public's prying eyes from your most intimate and private moments than to create a male alter ego named Joe Calderone?! Fucking brilliant.
Now back to my pop culture consumption. Like any bad habit, I consume(d) all that salty, delicious pop culture mindlessly, never caring for what was said or who was saying it. (Expect Britney. Man, that was hard to watch.) And while I clicked and clicked, always wanting more and more, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I, too, was being observed. Like every good twenty-something, I Facebooked, I blogged, I tweeted. Every piece of myself I put into the universe was really me offering myself up for judgement. But was I?
Every piece I put into the universe was calculated. Every piece was pointed, thought-out, crafted. Every post, tweet, and status update gave the universe fodder, but rarely did I provide a piece of myself. Save for a handful of very raw blog posts (and one "shitty" post), I have worked hard to cultivate my own (online) persona -- one of a fun-loving, outgoing, happy-go-lucky young woman. That part of me really does exist, to be sure, but it is not all of me. Not by any means. By creating this persona, though, I have been able to avoid pointed questions about my faith, my family, my love life -- all things I consider personal and decidedly NOT up for discussion.
Which leads me here. Because I offer up little of myself in initial meetings, I am invariably wary of people who say they "LOVE!" me upon first meeting. Or second meeting. Or only in certain contexts. Or because I post funny shit on the internet. I take my time getting to know people, and conversely, take my time letting people get to know me. It's rare (read: NEVER) that I let anyone know all the things initially. As a matter of fact, I feel very UNcomfortable when people know too much. Occasionally someone comes along who forces me to be socially intimate before I'm ready, shoving Stefani Germanotta behind the curtain, and thrusting Lady Gaga onto the stage.
I'M FUNNY! I'M WITTY! I FUCKING SWEAR! AHAHAHAHAHA!
I inevitably become the caricature you think I am. This makes me bitter and resentful, both because I am not a caricature and because I don't like to be forced into anything.
The very unfortunate flip side to this coin is that I am also very suspect of those who offer themselves up for consumption, seemingly without regard for privacy or mystery or self-respect. I do not understand those individuals who share willy-nilly the most intimate pieces of themselves. I do not understand how one's faith, family, or love life could be offered up as fodder for prying eyes. I do not understand why sharing (with complete or near strangers) is caring.
But Mindy, this is at total odds with your pop culture obsession! How do you reconcile perusing gossip blogs with your seemingly unending need for personal privacy?!
I don't know. I'ma go read some Dlisted and get back to you.
3.17.2013
Packing, Plotting, and a Whole Lotta Day Drinking
Today's word of the day comes from Dictionary.com:
Sundry (adj.) - various or diverse
I have sundry topics on which to report.
First, in an attempt to save mucho dinero, packing has commenced and I am moving AGAIN, this time back to the nest. For years my parents have jokingly referred to their spare room as "Mindy's Bedroom", a term at which I always scoffed. WELP. Joke's on them now, bitches, 'cause my shit's taking up residence in Meridian. Do not be too jealous of my awesome adult life, Internets.
I have *OFFICIALLY* finished all mah grad school apps. And now I wait. The waiting is maybe the hardest part. Ultimately I'm not terribly concerned with where I end up, I just know I am SOFA KING ready to go. Like yesterday ready.
I crocheted my first baby beanie. I know, like, eleventy billion pregnant women, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone -- learn a new skill AND make cool hipster beanies for all the new babies. So far I have completed just the one, but I think it's stellar. Also, that beanie model is legit, don't ya think?
Sundry (adj.) - various or diverse
I have sundry topics on which to report.
First, in an attempt to save mucho dinero, packing has commenced and I am moving AGAIN, this time back to the nest. For years my parents have jokingly referred to their spare room as "Mindy's Bedroom", a term at which I always scoffed. WELP. Joke's on them now, bitches, 'cause my shit's taking up residence in Meridian. Do not be too jealous of my awesome adult life, Internets.
I have *OFFICIALLY* finished all mah grad school apps. And now I wait. The waiting is maybe the hardest part. Ultimately I'm not terribly concerned with where I end up, I just know I am SOFA KING ready to go. Like yesterday ready.
I crocheted my first baby beanie. I know, like, eleventy billion pregnant women, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone -- learn a new skill AND make cool hipster beanies for all the new babies. So far I have completed just the one, but I think it's stellar. Also, that beanie model is legit, don't ya think?
It's a hat! Or a Yurt! Or half a bikini!
Thanks to my favorite old lady, Erica, I have signed up for two courses through Coursera, the online education technology company. In order to keep my brain engaged (and keep myself from going crazy neurotic insane), I have enrolled in courses titled Synapses, Neurons and Brains; and Introduction to International Criminal Law. In the first course, "You will become intimately acquainted with the operational principles of neuronal “life-ware” (synapses, neurons and the networks that they form) as well as with recent ideas about how the dynamics of these networks generate the “neuronal code.” As an aperitif we will highlight present brain-excitements and for dessert we will discuss the future of brain research." I fully appreciate the use of "aperitif" and "dessert" in the context of learning. Food motivates me, what can I say?! The second course on International Law is simply a way for me to learn to circumvent anti-piracy law...
I have fully cemented my status as a second rate hipster by purchasing a pair of Tom's. They are squishy and fluffy and wonderfully slipper-like. And despite my best efforts to talk shit at every available opportunity, I am fully convinced they were worth every penny. Happy early birthday to me!
Finally, beer-drinking weather, ERRR, golfing weather is BACK! Game on!
2.17.2013
Class is now in session
Look ma, I'm internet famous!
And why I save these conversations for a Sunday morning (with a Jack and Coke hangover, no less) is beyond me...
And why I save these conversations for a Sunday morning (with a Jack and Coke hangover, no less) is beyond me...
2.14.2013
Lazy Love
Today is a day for love. Or the manufactured construct of love. I don't have time to write about that shit, though. I did, however, have time to repost some shit. ENJOY!
Today was not one of those days.
Today, I had to make a trip to Kooky Korean Doc's so that I could fish around in my own poop, so that in a week Kooky Korean Doc can tell me if I'm gonna die, or if I just have hemorrhoids. Or colon cancer. Or e.coli poisoning. (Yeah, pretty sure it's not that last one, but if it is, hooray for my new "I'm headed home soon and need to lose 20 pounds FAST" diet plan!)
So yeah, this Valentine's Day was THE SHIT!
*As much as I'd fucking love to end this post with that wildly successful pun, I can't. After I told Kooky Korean Doc about my probs, he asked me the routine follow-up questions: What did you eat? Are you feeling stress? How is your sleep? Do you have lelijun? WAIT. WHAT?
"Do you have lelijun?" he repeated. I ran the word through my Konglish Translator. Lesions? Do I have lesions?
"Like spots?" I asked, still baffled.
"You are American? Do you have L-E-L-I... I am Christian!" Kooky Korean Doc proudly proclaimed, as he pointed to the Bible on his desk.
Oh FUCK.
"Uh, no, I do not have RE-LI-JUN," I enunciated carefully. But back to the potentially cancerous growth in my intestines, if you will.
"You are happy?"
Exasperated sigh. "Yes, I am happy."
"Me! I am happy or not happy?"
REALLY exasperated sigh. "Uh, happy?"
And on it went until he pulled out a sheet of paper entitled "Seven Steps to Spirituality: Reasons Mindy's NOT Getting into Heaven", or some such ridiculousness.
*Parenthetically: I am all for religious freedom -- practice it, revel in it, bathe your damn kids in it -- but for fuck's sake please, please, PLEASE keep it at church. And while we're at it, keep it off the streets of Itaewon, everyone there is already going to hell. Oh, and my front doorstep too.
Anyway, seeings how I could never say any of those things to Kooky Korean Doc, I batted my eyes, smiled politely and said, "Religion is for church. Health is for hospital. Please, no religion here."
He sat back. He smiled. Then he asked if I was ready to poop.
I have completely neglected this bitch. But don't feel bad, I've pretty much neglected e'erything else as well. As a matter of fact, dishes from my last home-cooked meal (read: the morning of Sunday, February 6th) are continuing to rot in the sink. Don't judge. I got food poisoning that night and puked so hard snot dripped outta my nose and tears streaked my face. Which leads me to today, Valentine's Day. A day for sappy sentiments and even sadder, sappier suckers. I have nothing against Valentine's Day. As a matter of fact, I've had a handful of awesomely successful Valentine's chock full of flowers and food and sex.
Today was not one of those days.
Today, I had to make a trip to Kooky Korean Doc's so that I could fish around in my own poop, so that in a week Kooky Korean Doc can tell me if I'm gonna die, or if I just have hemorrhoids. Or colon cancer. Or e.coli poisoning. (Yeah, pretty sure it's not that last one, but if it is, hooray for my new "I'm headed home soon and need to lose 20 pounds FAST" diet plan!)
So yeah, this Valentine's Day was THE SHIT!
*As much as I'd fucking love to end this post with that wildly successful pun, I can't. After I told Kooky Korean Doc about my probs, he asked me the routine follow-up questions: What did you eat? Are you feeling stress? How is your sleep? Do you have lelijun? WAIT. WHAT?
"Do you have lelijun?" he repeated. I ran the word through my Konglish Translator. Lesions? Do I have lesions?
"Like spots?" I asked, still baffled.
"You are American? Do you have L-E-L-I... I am Christian!" Kooky Korean Doc proudly proclaimed, as he pointed to the Bible on his desk.
Oh FUCK.
"Uh, no, I do not have RE-LI-JUN," I enunciated carefully. But back to the potentially cancerous growth in my intestines, if you will.
"You are happy?"
Exasperated sigh. "Yes, I am happy."
"Me! I am happy or not happy?"
REALLY exasperated sigh. "Uh, happy?"
And on it went until he pulled out a sheet of paper entitled "Seven Steps to Spirituality: Reasons Mindy's NOT Getting into Heaven", or some such ridiculousness.
*Parenthetically: I am all for religious freedom -- practice it, revel in it, bathe your damn kids in it -- but for fuck's sake please, please, PLEASE keep it at church. And while we're at it, keep it off the streets of Itaewon, everyone there is already going to hell. Oh, and my front doorstep too.
Anyway, seeings how I could never say any of those things to Kooky Korean Doc, I batted my eyes, smiled politely and said, "Religion is for church. Health is for hospital. Please, no religion here."
He sat back. He smiled. Then he asked if I was ready to poop.
2.06.2013
Signs of the Apocalypse
Search keywords that may or may not have led *YOU* here:
Cooking with sperm
AND
Snowman of sperm
I just. I can't even. UGH.
*UPDATE. Please read this.
Cooking with sperm
AND
Snowman of sperm
I just. I can't even. UGH.
*UPDATE. Please read this.
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