pseudostoops

It’s been a busy 24 hours. Yesterday was my last day at my job, and in about 10 minutes we’re leaving for the airport to go to Egypt.  I kind of can’t believe it.

See you in a week.

I used to write for my college newspaper, and there was this joke that the one thing you couldn’t write about was the post office on campus. It sucked, everyone knew it sucked, and writing the 659th article about its suckage pretty much meant you sucked as a writer and couldn’t come up with anything newsworthy.

I recognize that writing about the many small indignities of commuting is the office-drone equivalent of writing about the campus post office, but here I go anyway, because this NEEDS TO BE SAID.

Gentlemen (because it’s always a guy) take note: you are not entitled to spend the duration of your commute in the space in the train you occupy when you first alight.  You are just not.

It is one thing if you are sitting in a seat.  If you get a seat? Fine. Stay there. Sure, I’d like to see you stand up for little old men and pregnant ladies, but if you prefer to be kind of a low-grade jerk and keep reading your magazine while you pretend not to notice the blue haired grandma struggling to keep her balance right in front of you, fine. I will leave you be.

But if you are standing? And if the place you like to stand is leaning broadly against the glass wall right inside the door of the car? And if it is rush hour and dozens of people are getting on at every stop?  MOVE YOUR ASS.  Seriously. You are slowing us down with your stubborn refusal to move further into the car.  Yes, I realize that it is more comfortable to lean in a languid fashion against the glass than it is to hold on for dear life to a greasy metal pole.  AND YET. People should not have to jostle around you, buffeted by your huge ridiculous Timbuktu man bag, to reach the open spaces within.

Perhaps a diagram would be illustrative:

So are we clear? If you are a young, fit, able-bodied dude, there is no excuse for you taking up prime real estate in the el car at the expense of everyone else.  You can pretend that you’re so engrossed in your music or magazine that you don’t even notice the people having to contort themselves like circus tumblers to get around you, but no one is fooled.  You’re annoying, you’re rude, and you’re going to get you an elbow to the face pretty soon if you don’t cut it out.

Thank you, that is all.

People, I’ve just completed a sewing class.  It was my fourth.  (!)  I have now sewed: five tote bags, a frillion little zipper pouches, a hobo bag, 8 pillows, 6 picnic placemats, several reversible headbands (anyone want one? I have extra!), 4 baby blankets, a Kleenex cozy (TOTALLY NORMAL), and, as of last night, a clutch purse.

You: Ooh, pretty!

I believe we’ve reached a point previously unrealized in the history of pseudostoops: the point where a new hobby actually sticks.

I have a bit of a checkered past on this point.  I am, I’m afraid, something of a serial hobbyist.  I’ve tried:

• Rock climbing
• Drawing (egad, I was HORRIBLE)
• Candymaking
• Knitting
• Crocheting
• Rollerblading
• Short story writing (and I thought the drawing was bad…)
• Wii playing
• Ice Cream making
• Photography (anyone in the market for moody, poorly-lit shots of my feet?  Wait, don’t answer that.)
• Screen printing

I still do many of those things, occasionally. (Not rollerblading.)  But with all of them, I went through an initial period of frenzied, almost manic adoration, followed by a total “this hobby is dead to me” period, before achieving that “it’s okay once in a while” equilibrium.

Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but sewing seems to be sticking.  It’s been almost a year since I took my first class, and I still find myself sewing regularly.  I think this is attributable to three things:  (1) sewing is an excuse to buy pretty fabric, and I really really love pretty fabric; (2) it’s a great thing to do while watching bad television, so you can feel less guilty because you’re doing something “productive” while you contemplate the Bachelorette candidates; and (3) it’s pretty fast – you can take a small project from start to finish in the course of one showing Dirty Dancing on Lifetime.

Reason #2 is telling.  I have a hard time being idle- I hear my mother’s voice in my head, nagging me to do something useful with my time.  Whenever I just beach myself on the couch and watch television for several hours, there’s always a pesky undercurrent of guilt that accompanies my feelings of blissful relaxation.  I like sewing, a lot, because I am doing something “productive” but not mentally taxing.  I have watched a lot of trashy movies while sewing. I highly recommend it.

What’s that? You want to see more pictures of the clutch?  SURE!

I have no explanation for the lining. I don't even like pink! But do you see that interior zipper? faaaaaaancy.

So even though turning the corners of that effing clutch purse brought me to the verge of tears last night, it was worth it.  I finally have a little bag for evenings out to replace the ugly 80s-era black one I stole from my mom 5 years ago, and (good friends might want to look away here) I think I know what a bunch of people are getting for Christmas this year!

I have a month off starting in two weeks.  That’s a lot of free time, and though I should be excited about it I’m already starting to hear that guilty voice in my head.  I’m going to need something to fill that time, and it’s a LOT of time.  Are there any other hobbies you think I should be taking up?

My Rolling Stone magazine, in a feature on “The Songs of Summer” from 1990 to present, seems to believe that the song “Mr. Brightside” by the Killers is 5 years old.  Which is hilarious, because that song is practically a new release! All the cool kids still have it on their iPod running playlists! It couldn’t possibly be 5 years old.

I also had occasion to consult imdb the other day to get some information about the movie “Almost Famous” and found, to my astonishment, that imdb seems to believe the movie is 9 years old. Almost a decade. Which is just ridiculous because it couldn’t possibly be more than 3 or at the most 4 years ago that I watched it in the theaters.

Finally, someone in the alumni affairs office of my university seems to be laboring under the mistaken impression that I graduated from college so long ago that it’s time to start sending me “teasers” for my 10 year reunion.  I’m sorry, I graduated college in 2001. Like, practically last year. Still YEARS away from a 10 year reunion.  I mean, we practically just started the new millennium! Remember all the crazy partying like it was 1999? Anyone? No?  So truly, there’s no need to start getting me amped up for it now! In fact, in so doing you’ve virtually GUARANTEED that I will immediately recycle all of your correspondence without reading it, which is definitely not a good way to get a check (which is, I assume, what you’re seeking).

While I’m disappointed in these terrible lapses in temporal accuracy, I trust both these publications, and my college, will correct these errors promptly.

Behold, a highly subjective list of things you probably buy pre-made that you should really be making yourself.  I’m not going to be telling you that you should weave your own cloth, or be lovingly nurturing a sourdough starter for homemade artisan bread (though if anyone out there knows how to do that and wants to coach me, email me please!)  But all of the things on this list are (a) relatively easy (b) substantially more delicious in their homemade incarnation, with no artificial chemical weirdness.  They’re also often more cost-effective.  Win-win.

• Microwave popcorn
• Granola
• Oreos
• Spaghetti Sauce
• Salad Dressing (there are a zillion recipes, I have several favorites)
• Maraschino Cherries (see below)

I wrote about Maraschino Cherries over at LiveWell yesterday, and at Swistle’s request, I’m sharing the recipe.

Maraschino Cherries

Technique 1 (easiest):

Adapted from The Essential Cocktail by Dale DeGroff (LOVE THIS BOOK.  Buy it.  Seriously.)

Ingredients:

• some amount of sour cherries (also called pie cherries; they’re bright red and slightly smaller than Bing cherries); if you’re using brandy or bourbon, you can also use dark sweet cherries, but the results won’t be as pretty.  (I used a quart, and it yielded 4 8oz jars of cherries).
• white sugar
• maraschino liqueur (like Luxardo), or brandy, or bourbon
• mason jars

1. Wash the cherries.  (I remove the stems but leave the pits; you can leave the stems to get a more traditional look, or you can remove the stems and the pits for ease of eating.  I find removing the pits isn’t really worth the effort.)

2. Pack the cherries tightly into mason jars.  Pour in sugar to surround them so they’re packed in sugar.  Allow to macerate for a day or two in the fridge.

3. Open up the mason jars, pour in marashino liqueur to fill, shake, and let steep for at least 2 weeks, shaking occasionally to help dissolve the cherries.  You’ll end up with delicious cherry syrup and lovely cherries.  Enjoy.

Note: with this method, you’ll sometimes end up with extra sugar in the bottom of the jar that doesn’t dissolve.  This is no biggie, but if you’re giving the cherries as gifts or something, it’s not the most attractive.  To prevent this, there are two variations:

• you can soak the cherries in simple syrup (one part sugar to one part water, heated until sugar has dissolved) for a day or two, then pour out 2/3 of the simple syrup and fill the jar with the liquor of your choice.
• Or,  you can simmer the cherries in some simple syrup for a few minutes (no more than 5) then drain them, put them in jars, and pour in the liquor.

What’s that you say?  Cherries aren’t in season where you are?  Then try this hack:

Technique 2: (cheaters way; but still yummy)

Ingredients:

• 1 1/2 cups water
• 1 cup bourbon or brandy
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 1 vanilla bean, seeds scraped (optional)
• 1 strip lemon or orange zest (optional)
• 3/4 of a pound of dried cherries, the closest to inact you can find (some dried cherries are sold in little bits; those will not work.  I’ve found intact dried cherries at Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods.)

1. In a saucepan, combine water, liquor, sugar, and vanilla bean and zest, if using.  Heat to boiling and cook for 7 minutes, until sugar is dissolved and it looks syrupy.

2. Add cherries and simmer- DO NOT BOIL- for 5 minutes.

3. Transfer fruit and syrup to a clean dry mason jar.  If you can stand waiting, let them “cure” at room temp for a few days, then store them in the fridge.

***

Um, that’s way more than you ever wanted to know about cherries.  Well, hopefully the one person still reading this will enjoy their sweet, boozy goodness!

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve doubtless heard of John Mayer:

I am not particularly a fan of JohnMay’s music, but if you read gossip magazines (and I do, people, I do.  No shame in my game!) it’s hard to avoid his rotating famous-lady girlfriends, his practical joke antics, his narcissistic fan cruise.

JohnMay is ALSO famous, or so I’m told, for a particular face he makes while performing:

John, let me tell you: you’re lucky that your “lost in the moment” face is what it is, because just one twist of the mouth and you could be toiling away in obscurity.  Why? Read on:

This weekend, I donned a blue pageboy wig (sweaty! And also itchy!) and got on a trolley with 15 other wig-wearing girls to fete one of my best childhood friend’s who’s getting married.   We did all the bachelorette party things (Drinking! Pictures! Flashing the 17 year old boys who mooned us from the window of their  hotel across the street!)  (Wait, that’s not a normal bachelorette party thing? Yeah, I was the one at the back saying a silent prayer “please let them be of age please let them be of age I really don’t want anyone at this party facing charges for doing naughty things to a minor please let them be of age.”)

We went dancing, of course, at a club featuring a DJ backed up by a live bassist and drummer.  It was kind of odd, but it worked.  You felt for the live musicians, though – the  DJ was clearly the star of the show, and they were just playing along.

The drummer looked for all the world like he spends his days working as a CPA.  Pleated khakis, polo shirt, ear-protecting headset, semi-bored expression.  Good for you, dude, getting your musical kicks on a Saturday night.  The bassist, though.  Oh, the bassist.  He had long, 70s southern rock hair, and not in an ironic way.  He writhed and flailed and just generally gave the impression that he felt like this was IT, man, this was ROCKING OUT, despite the fact that he was essentially just mimicking the baseline of whatever the DJ threw down.  But the best was his face.  Instead of a JohnMay-style O face, we had the wince-grimace.  Seriously, I tried to get a picture of it, but the club was too dark.  It looked like he’d just been hit in the nuts, hard.  Seriously, like this:

Except somehow even more wince-y and pinched looking.  It was…kind of hard not to laugh, to be honest.  And as I sat there, throwing stones from my blue-wig-wearing glass house, it occurred to me: this guy could be the best bassist in the history of TIME, and he would still have trouble booking gigs because of that face.  That face may be the only thing standing between him and a real rock n’ roll career.