Sunday, January 13, 2013

Bathrooms without hooks

Fucking men.

That's what I think every time I go into a public restroom and can't find any trace of a hook for a coat or handbag, as in "Fucking men who design these bathrooms with no regard for a woman's needs."

And what I need right now, aside from relieving my bladder, is a hook to hang my stuff on. I'm not like George Costanza—I don't strip down to do my business—but sometimes I am wearing a long coat that would be better served hanging away from my backside.

You know what I'm talking about.

Then there's my purse and laptop bag. I would rather not set my luscious Kooba bag or quirky Orla Kiely on the Petri dish of a floor that clearly hasn't seen a mop since the OxiClean guy died.

Here's where I start blaming men, who traditionally don't have extra baggage (literally, at least) or clothing that needs to be hung up. Dudes don't think about the convenience factor of a hook. These are the same guys who have designed stadium bathrooms with an equal number of stalls for men and women. Um, when are you going to learn that chicks need more stalls so we can get back to the game or totally rad reunion concert just as quickly as the XYs of the world?

So architects and building planners of every gender, when you do figure out a better ratio of bathroom stalls for women to men, throw a hook in each one, please? I've got a few hang-ups.


Thursday, January 10, 2013

Desserts in jars

I love Anthropologie, I do, but I don't want to eat there.

These days, restaurants—so precious that I want to squeeze their white-washed and reclaimed wood cheeks—are squeezing all sorts of tasty cakes, crisps, puddings and brulĂ©es into Mason and Ball jars.


But what looks like a saccharine craft project becomes another kind of project, as I try to scrape, pull, and otherwise extract all of the tasty goodness out of the jar and into my piehole with a spoon or fork that doesn't have the same curvature. Serve my molten chocolate cake with a spatula, if you insist on stuffing it into a jar better suited for jam.

Let my dessert breathe on the plate, so I can breathe a sigh of relief.

(The idea for this post comes from a friend with the last name, ironically, of Mason.)


Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Blank Christmas cards

Blank Christmas cards are like supermodels: beautiful but empty.

This post may mark me as an Ebenezer and ensure that my mailbox remains empty come next December (providing that the world doesn't end on 12/21/12). 

This saddens me, as I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE getting mail. Opening my mailbox is one of life's simple pleasures. It's usually bills and weekly circulars, but the possibility of spotting a handwritten envelope or a familiar return address keeps the hope alive. 

It stokes my holiday fire. 

Receiving a postmarked holiday card can be a magical experience filled with sentiment. What's not so hot is opening the envelope and finding a lush gilded or letterpressed card with no personal message, just a scrawled signature. The letdown is acute. Instead of feeling connected and valued, I feel managed, a task you checked off your list three days ago.

While I appreciate making the cut, your blank card sends another message: "I care enough to send the very least." It drives home the point that in the Venn diagram of your social circle, I'm sitting in a circle on the fringe of your life.

The card becomes about you, instead of a gift to me. I get to admire your exquisite taste in artwork or your graphic design skills or how photogenic your children are (and yes, they really are adorable and growing so fast!). I'm happy to coo and ooh and ah, but I'd like to ask that you include a personal sentence or two that pertains to our relationship. Mention that it was good to see me last July or that you are glad we've been able to spend more time together or that you're looking forward to eating more pulled pork out of my Crock Pot in the new year (not a euphemism).

I gave up sending Christmas cards years ago because I wasn't able to sustain writing out 80 cards (more on that here). It began to feel like a chore, which wasn't what I was going for. While I'm not sending out a mass mailing, know that I love you, think your kids are really quite cute no matter what anyone says, and that I hope we find time in 2013 to eat a lot of braised meat together. And oh yeah, if you ever get a card from me in the mail, it will include a healthy sampling of my horrible handwriting.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Claire's Haiku Deck

Check out Claire's awesome Haiku Deck entry. She punches many things I've already punched and a few I'm itching to hit.

Haiku Deck is the best application for creating presentations on iPad

Create your own Punch in the Face Haiku Deck, send it to me by December 21, and win a free copy of TIWTPITF! More details can be found here.

Thursday, December 13, 2012


Fuck Middle Earth.

There, I said it.

I have serious hobbit fatigue. I thought we were done with dwarves, goblins, trolls, and the Bilbo Douchebaggins of the Tolkien world so I could get back to the business of hating on Steampunk and Ren Faires

Damn you, Peter Jackson.
The Hobbit is a children's book, which makes sense because so many Hobbiterations suffer from acute arrested development. Tolkien's books attract Wizards of the Coast-playing, Utilikilt-wearing, shaggy Peter Pans who live in their parents' basement and whack off while fantasizing about feeling up Galadriel.

Now the tale of Bilbo Baggins et al is about to be a big-screen trilogy and nerds everywhere can rejoice once again. Here's the thing, geeks—you aren't fringe clusters of bespectacled virgins playing Halo and talking about prime numbers. You and your culture have taken over. You have a place as a programmer waiting for you at Microsoft. You don't need a waistcoat and hairy prosthetic feet to feel like you're part of a quirky band of brothers. You may not be the 99 percent, but you are the 3.14159 percent.

Back away from the shire and the cosplay before I lead you to the Misty Mountains and leave you there. Let's see how you like being barefoot then.

* While I adore Martin Freeman—I am crushing wildly on his Dr. Watson in Sherlock—when he dons Bilbo's ears and feet, I lose my she-rection.


Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Create Your Own PITF Haiku Deck & Win a Free Copy of TIWTPITF!

Haiku Deck is the best application for creating presentations on iPad

Things I Want to Punch in the Face and Haiku Deck are like peanut butter and chocolate. In other words, the perfect combination. A new app for iPad, Haiku Deck allows you to create powerful presentations, using royalty-free images and bold graphics (check out the original PITF Haiku Deck here; it's hilar). I love a good contest so in conjunction with Haiku Deck, we are asking you to create your own personal Things I Want to Punch in the Face Haiku Deck for a chance to win a copy of Things I Want to Punch in the Face.

Here's how it works: 
  1. Download the Haiku Deck iPad app here.
  2. Between now and December 21, think of at least five things you are itching to punch in the face this holiday season. Hate your mother-in-law, your neighbor's outdoor Christmas decorations, crappy regifts? Detail it all through words and images. Using your iPad, type in what you want to punch and then access Haiku Deck's image database to find a good fit for your fury.
  3. Once you've completed your deck, send me the link at (include your name and e-mail) and I'll post the deck on the blog, using your first name only.
  4. After December 21, I'll select a winner and announce it on the blog. You'll win a free copy of Things I Want to Punch in the Face, just in time for Christmas!

Cold bathrooms after hot showers

I come from the land of cold, the kind of cold that turns nipples into deadly weapons. Seriously, I could cut you.
Growing up in Southwestern Michigan, we got bitter winds, huge drifts, and bitter, ugly, raw-knuckled cold, thanks to something charmingly referred to as the Lake Effect. In the morning before school, my mom would turn the oven on and we'd all gather around the open door as we woofed down our Quaker oatmeal packets. After school, I'd hang out with my grandma, sitting over the register doing crossword puzzles on a tv tray while the coal heat warmed my feet. At night, the hot-water heater never managed to provide enough steamy water to keep the tub warm for very long. So mom would heat up water on the stove and pour boiling water into my tepid bath so I could stay in a bit longer. 

That is love.
I moved away from sub-zero temperatures to the temperate climate of Seattle. My hot-water heater lets me top off my tub when it starts to cool down. The scalding water never runs out when I am in the shower. Heaven.
What's not exactly sent from above is the feeling I get when I step out of a hot shower. I may not live in the Midwest but no matter how much I close off the doors and windows to trap the steam in the bathroom, it's still a figurative cold bucket of water on my shower bliss when my pink heated skin meets the cold air. Even with my towel and robe draped nearby, the rosy glow of the shower fades as my aforementioned nipples become menacing and I get figuratively if not literally steamed. My fogged-up bathroom may not be as cold as a witch's tit (an oft-used phrase by my colorful stepfather), but it's decidedly cooler than the hot spray I was just under. Since I don't presently have radiant floors, a heated towel rack or a man to drape around my shoulders, I linger in the shower, making up new excuses to never get out. "My legs could probably use to be shaved twice," "Now that my muscles are heated, I should really do some stretches in here," "Is there such a thing as too much exfoliation?" "It's okay to be a little late to work today." The list goes on, as does my shower. The alternative leaves me cold.