Inexplicable bruises

I’m clumsy. That’s no surprise to anyone who knows about my inner ear imbalance. But riddle me Alzheimer’s: when exactly did I drive the back of my calf into a wall, causing it to look like a bruised pear? Did I fall on the inside of my forearm in the last 48 hours? And why exactly is my index finger puffed up?

I like things rough as much as the next gal, but it seems to me that I actually have to make contact with someone or something in order to sport a little friendly bruising. When a mysterious mark on my right earlobe appears, I think it’s time to install some motion-censor cameras because the only logical answer is paranormal activity.

(photo: prettyfeathers.com)

20-minute coffee prep

I don't know what's going on back there but this isn’t the Manhattan Project. It's a flippin' cup of coffee. While your coffee contraption looks like it was made by Skynet, I'm pretty sure it's not going to enable time travel. And it sure as hell isn't going to help me get back the 20 minutes I've been waiting patiently by the sugar station. What it—and you—are doing, however, is terminating my patience.

You don’t need to take the scenic route to get to my drink destination. Really. Just jump on the espressoway and knock that shit out. Don't wax rhapsodic about your special blend that was picked by monkeys on the north face of a mountain in Columbia. Don't spam me with your disdain for my decaf order. And while I appreciate your java jive, I don't need or want you to craft a flower or devil or my silhouette in my cappuccino's microfroth.

And when you take that long, you're setting up unreasonable expectations. If I don’t have an orgasm on my first foamy sip, your fine art of grinding, steaming, and frothing is lost on me. And that's truly a shame.

(photo: webdesignerdepot.com)

Old guy facelifts

It’s hard to watch any of the Kardashian divorce coverage. It’s not because Kim’s stunt disgusts me or that I think there’s no there there. It’s because of Bruce Jenner. 

I remember the ’76 Olympics. I remember Jenner taking a victory lap after winning the decathalon, fitting during a Bicentennial Year. Proud to be an American, I ate a lot of Wheaties with Jenner on the box.

Now, I sort of want to throw up my breakfast when I see Jenner doddering around the Kardashian klan. He looks like the grim reaper, the skin of his face pulled tightly over cheekbones and implants. And he’s not alone. Michael Douglas, Paul McCartney, and Steven Tyler are also part of the cryptkeeper club, not content to leave well enough alone and age gracefully, let alone move their face. These dudes are starting to look like ladies, and not in a good way. I’d punch them in the face, but I might shatter them.

(photo: celebritysmackblog.com)

Grocery go-carts

The grocery store is not an amusement park, nor is it a raceway. What it is, rather, is a clusterfuck, clogged with baby buggy bumper cars, grocery carts tricked out with a plastic toy car for your little one to lounge in while being chauffeured down the cereal aisle.
 

Excuse me, but while you're drivin' Miss Lazy, I’m trying to get to my Cocoa Puffs. Your bulbous pace car is cock-blocking my sugar addiction. This will not stand. Steer your fender extender to a less-trafficked aisle before I commit a moving violation of my own.
 

(Photo: raisingmaine.mainetoday.com)

White chocolate

Creamy? Yes.
Sugary? Yes.
Waste of space? Hell, yes.
Chocolate? Uh…..

I tend to be irritated by things I don’t understand. Quantum physics, Ulysses, the popularity of Snooki…

So you can imagine my apoplexy when I encounter white chocolate.

Apparently, it’s got cocoa butter in it. Big whoop. So does my body lotion, but I’m not going to snack on that, either. What it lacks is cocoa paste, liquor or power, not to mention flavor. White chocolate is the confectionery equivalent of The Hills. Pointless, flavorless, and mad white.


White chocolate isn't chocolate; it's a crime.

(photo: infobarrel.com)

Oatmeal raisin cookies

Mmm, a delicious golden-brown cookie, studded with scrumptuous bits and pieces. Just what the sweet tooth ordered. I reach for the treat, sink my teeth into its chewy goodness, and FREAK MY SHIT OUT.

Goddamn raisins.

As far as I’m concerned, a raisin is a poor man’s chocolate chip when it comes to an oatmeal cookie (and maybe everything else). I grew up eating my grandma’s cowboy cookie recipe, which my mother invariably burnt every time. However, dunked in ice-cold 2-percent, crispy chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies became sublimely soggy and the Hershey’s bittersweet chips made my little heart beat a little faster.

I have since perfected the recipe and it’s pretty much the only cookie I make. When I’m at a café or friend’s house, I am drawn to the plate of oatmeal cookies. Obviously, those little brown specs are chocolate chips. Why would you use anything else? More often than I’d like to admit, I feel betrayed by the baker, tricked by the bait-and-switch.

Chocolate always bests raisins in the Rochambeau of baked goods.

(photo: levainbakery.com)

Caricatures

Where do I even start?

First of all, a giant bobblehead on a tiny, wizened body is never a good look (just ask Lara Flynn Boyle). Our least-favorite features are blown up like a bad allergic reaction to shellfish, and the person sketching you is often wearing suspenders. Don’t let the sugar rush from the cotton candy cloud your judgment when you are walking down the midway. Your money would be better spent on Whac-a-mole. Do I have to draw you a picture? The only thing that looks worse than your caricature is your caricature after I punch it in its bulbous, pen-and-ink face.

(artwork: created by someone named Emet during lunch when I was an intern in Washington, DC. Clearly, I was bitchy even in 1988.)