The Yumazing Spiderman vanilla Pop-Tarts and Spideyberry cereal. For those who roll hard.
Framing My Eggs
I see a lot of innovative cooking these days. Delicious, gourmet meals displayed through a fuzz filter in hopes that the trashy erotic magnet souvenir on the icebox in the background will go unnoticed. Everybody is cooking. Hell, I’m cooking. Cooking up a storm. But it worries me that in this day of immediately gratifying Google searches, creativity will go the way of the cookbooks I so excitingly accept, but rarely venture through.
Easter ending left me with a surplus of eggs. Being the waste not, want not individual that I am I started thinking of ways to use them before expiration. I am proud to share with the eight or nine people who read this blog my new idea for eggs in a frame.
It starts off with a thicker slice of toast. I used a white bread that I’d made earlier in the week.
From there, I put not one, but three eggs inside. I let them sit for a moment and then break up the yolks to distribute the heat.
The toast’s thickness makes the flip a real trick. This one came out clean. Others have not been so lucky. The best advice I can give would be to make sure the toast is cut flat on both sides, and thoroughly pressed down on the pan so nothing seeps out. Furthermore, let the eggs cook for a good while before flipping.
Once the other side is cooked to the eater’s liking, add stuff. Cheese is a good option. As is avocado and tomato.
While I’m still on the topic of Easter Eggs, I have to mention another clever idea I’ve put into action.
Before Adrienne departed to Australia for 4 months, I bought her a stash of Cadbury Creme Eggs for our one-year anniversary. Being a responsible adult, she ate two eggs over the next couple days and then caught her flight, leaving 6 eggs with me under the impression that they would be safely awaiting her return. I held strong for several days before giving into temptation and eating all of them.
Luckily, it was still Easter season at retailers so replacing them wasn’t a big deal.
Until the next week when I had eaten all of the replaced ones. So I was through ~12 eggs and beginning to worry about how I was going to preserve ten for three more months after Easter passes and I cannot replace them.
So for round three I bought 14 eggs and froze them.
That didn’t work. Cadbury Eggs are still edible when frozen.
Then it dawned on me.
Relationship saved!
I’ve Gotten Boring
Don’t worry, this isn’t the obligatory post-graduation adult blog about how life has settled down.
In an attempt to avoid the fluff that makes its way around social networks, I’ve discovered that people don’t care as much about my opinion as I at one time thought they may have. I’m not even sure that I have one these days unless the subject is directly interfering with my line from point A (varies) to point B (usually some form of coffee). I had a good run with tumblr. I posted a few stories that I wouldn’t mind the family reading. I showed off my chest tattoo simultaneously with a mustache. I event ate an orange on the toilet seat.
My graduate school applications have all been sent out, and it’s a good feeling knowing that forty-hour work weeks are all I have to fold a schedule around from now until—who knows? Maybe August?
My surplus of free time primarily comes from February 7th, when a lady to whom I’ve developed a strong liking departed for a four month adventure in a land where toilet water flushes abnormally because the plumbing is full of spiders.
Asking me about Adrienne usually ends with me putting my hands in my pockets and noticing whatever former meal residue is left on your shirt. There are plenty of couples throughout the vast reaches of our interweb that will willingly advertise their undying love for one another with black and white photos. I miss her like crazy—let’s move on.
With the notion that I want to remain cheese-less for the remainder of this segment, I do want to reveal to you guys what my favorite part of March, April, and May has been/will be.
It’s simple really.
It’s a box.
But more than that.
It’s a box that Adrienne gave me before she left. It had five wrapped gifts in it for me to open on the 7th of each month that she’d be gone.
Now, since Adrienne left on the 7th, she had February’s envelope dated to be opened on the 14th (Valentine’s Day).
It was a kitty calendar!
And then came the 7th of March that revealed an envelope with $2.15 (the exact amount for a cupcake at pattiCakes).
I spent it wisely, too, on a Boston Cream Cupcake!
Then I remembered that I am an adult, and am entitled to two cupcakes should I be financially stable enough to spend $2.15 more.
I was. So I go an Italian Cream cupcake.
That’s it for now. The 7th of April is fast approaching and I am probably more excited than Brad Pitt in the movie Se7en to see what’s inside the box.
As I stated earlier, though, unlike Brad Pitt in the move Se7en, I’m not going to be all outwardly overemotional about it.
Forgive my recent lack of impertinence.
I try to save my tumblr for truly original pieces. That being said, everything thus far on this particular blog has been written for the sole purpose of letting [the few people who care to read] inside of my thought process, opinions and so forth. My writing (on here and in general) has pretty much ceased since my final semester of college for no reason that I can sufficiently offer. I currently have two possibilities as to why I have been so unproductive.
The first one should be expected. I was forced to grow up, and in the hustle of doing so, I’ve not allowed time for novel writing. Well, not novel writing as in books, but novel writing as in mustache combs and tiny umbrellas for drinks. I wish I had something to offer for my months of absence, like a fancy job I wrangled with an undergrad degree, unusually high GRE scores that opened the door to grad schools, or a closet-constructed time machine. I don’t have any of those things. I have very little tangible evidence to support the claim that I’ve spent the last few months growing up, so let’s move on.
Perhaps I’ve ran out of interesting things to say. Or maybe interesting things have stopped happening to me. Is this what it means to grow up? Perhaps interesting things do still happen to me, but as a grown up, I keep these things out of the public eye. Who knows?
This, of course, is all banter that leads me to asking you guys for a favor. Give me shit to write about. Subjects, stories that (those of you that know me have heard) would like to read about, things that you’d like to get my opinion on. ANYTHING. I think there is an anonymous box on my page—submit something and I promise I will look in to it.
Onward with things. I have done quite a bit of food construction in the past six months with the added partnership of a special lady. Here’s a breakdown:
These are donuts and donut holes.
Cinnamon rolls.
French Toast Monte Cristos.
Crepes and biscuits.
Crepes: attempt 2.
Butterbeer cupcakes.
Venison burger—homemade rolls.
Stuffed crust venison pizza.
Cold brewed coffee—first batch of many.
Green eggs, purple banana pancakes, and ham.
Butterbeer cupcakes: attempt 2.
Nutella waffles.
Gluten free rolls.
Venison pizza: attempt 2.
Gyro pizza.
Meat pies.
Pigs in a blanket/green banana pancakes.
Potstickers.
Bacon wrapped hot dogs. Yay, Pepto-Bismol!
Lasagna (homemade noodles).
Calzones.
And as a final ending, my biggest contribution to society thus far:
Halloween Cap’n Crunch cereal shots!
I plan on doing more cooking in the following months now that holiday edition milk is on the shelves.
Until next time.
I found a minute to write!
Alright, I’ve had a lot of coffee today and I feel like it’s time to catch up on some things. We’ll start with last Friday.
Last Friday Man of the Morning came back and rummaged through my Jeep again. I guess it’s my fault for not learning my lesson and still leaving my door unlocked, but hopefully he learned his lesson when he saw that I literally have nothing left to steal inside of my car.
Attention Jeep thief (would he still be considered a Jeep thief if he didn’t steal my Jeep, but stuff from inside of it?),
My passenger door does not lock on its own and most of the time my Jeep’s power locks do not work when I push the button. You have become very cocky with your swindling as this time you threw my White Stripes De Stijl, OKGO Oh No, and Strokes Angles CDs on the floorboard. You did make away with the cheap alarm I put on the console [you trickster], but it wasn’t hooked up because it was a huge pain in the ass—always going off without cause. It will probably be a bigger pain to you considering that you don’t have a wireless remote for it and ordering a new one is more expensive than the alarm itself. Hopefully you have learned your lesson as I noticed a little earlier today that you’ve focused your attention on the red Corsica parked next to me with packaging tape on its window.
Thanks and I hope you accidentally sit on one of those sticky flytraps.
***
Today I was taking a fairly important test in my History and Systems of Psychology class. In the middle of the test, a knock on the door prompted our professor to leave the room momentarily. As soon as he left, a girl sitting near me took the opportunity to ask me what the answer to one of the test questions was.
WHO DOES THAT IN COLLEGE!?
More so, who does that in a major test in a room full of people? Maybe this is my tendency to over think things, but in the psychology building, I’m scared to do anything that isn’t normal.
For example:
Last month the UCA Physical Plant
Just thought I’d give you guys a visual image of the dedication of our maintenance crew. Getting back to it—the UCA Physical Plant was painting Mashburn’s (home of psychology) walls. Their efforts weren’t to be stifled by careless students so they placed “DO NOT TOUCH WALLS” signs all up and down the hallways. It was hard not to touch the paint, but in the back of my mind, I thought, “Wait a minute. This could be an experiment to see who actually touches the walls. I’m not falling for it.”
That got me thinking. In the psychology building, I don’t like to flip light switches, go into rooms by myself, turn on computers, or use certain conveniently placed trash receptacles just in case. And this lady asking me for an answer on a big test moments after the professor happened to slip out of the room mysteriously…not today, world. Not today.
She stared at me for an answer. Instinctively I just whispered, “No” but that wasn’t good enough to make her stop. So I shuffled through my test to the question she was referencing and said it again. “No.” That answer sufficed.
***
It is 8:32 pm on April 7, 2011. In exactly one month, I plan to be a college graduate who has eaten too much post-graduation celebration food. Something fancy, like Red Lobster or Ryan’s. I told this to a friend earlier and their reaction was, “Ooh Red Lobster! Cheese biscuits!”
And, yeah, Red Lobster cheese biscuits (obviously). That’s everybody’s reaction to hearing that restaurant’s name.
But it got me thinking. Ryan’s is not a great establishment. I go there about once a year. It’s one of those restaurants that I cannot think of a good reason to visit as a college student unless it’s a first date with a girl you are not interested in and you don’t want to have to come right out and say it—Ryan’s is perfect for that!
Think about it. On a first date, the less a guy eats, the more interested he is in the girl (in my opinion, calm down). If a guy takes you to a Mexican restaurant and orders a taco a la carte he likes you. But if a guy takes you to Ryan’s—a place that is by no standards cheap—you initially think, “Hey, he’s pulling out all the stops! A little trashy for a first date, but it’ll do.” Then you watch him gorge himself on low-grade beef until he can’t stand up for the sevenths.
There isn’t much hope in a first date at Ryan’s.
***
My coffee drunk is wearing off and I think it’s time to take my hot lap top off my knee for a bit. This was good. It’s always a la carte menu for you, tumblr, I like what we have going.
You deserve better, followers.
I haven’t updated in a while, and to the four(ish) people who actually take their time to read my crappy entries, I apologize. May graduation is fast approaching and once I get over this 19 hour (stealth school-is-hard-complaint) semester I will shower you with time wasting posts once again.
In the mean time, read this web comic that my friend Gus writes. He updates twice a week for those who prefer the consistency of someone who actually has their bearings well lubricated. I’m in today’s update as are several of his/my friends (stealth I-have-friends brag). I do recommend starting with page 1—the whole thing is a fast and enjoyable read.
and today’s picture (I’m the one with the fu man chu)
http://www.backwoodfolk.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/2011-03-31-allmyfriends3.jpg
January 24th is upon us again. Let’s talk about me dying!
I’m halfway through the devastating two days that will eventually host my demise. So far, nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, but I grant that this period of normality is by no means a chance of cosmic fate. In fact, for the last two years I’ve headed up this unfortunate two-day span with much preparation.
This proclamation, of course, comes from my moderately calculated predictions that the dates of January 24-25th yield the highest probability of my death:
While I mentioned in the former entry that these days could likely be detrimental to my existence, I didn’t bring up the precautions I’ve been taking to assure safety. I’m not claiming that my methods are foolproof or even useful. I’m just trying to give weight to the severity of the situation. I’m on my third year straight with no abnormal happenings so I must be doing something right.
January 24-25th, 2009
This was my first solid attempt at thwarting my bad luck so I went all out. I asked off work and I bought a pizza…That’s it… Those two things are all I needed to stay a hermit for two days straight. This happened to be on a weekend so I didn’t need to leave my apartment anyway. It went by fast. On the first day, my sister Kelsey came to visit me and she brought a baby. Not my baby. Not her baby. Neither of us have babies.
I don’t own any children’s toys. Okay, we have a lot of toys at our apartment, but children tend to like bowls. Bowls and marshmallows.
The next day flew buy as I finished off my pizza and coasted into the 26th of January unfazed.
January 24-25th, 2010
Once again, I requested to be off work with the goal being to avoid having to drive anywhere. Unfortunately, this year’s hermit weekend fell on a weekday so I had to attend class. It was no big deal.
***On a side note here—I still practiced carelessness when using campus crosswalks. If I am walking on paint, I feel like not looking both ways before crossing is a scholarship application.
These two days went fine. On the second day, I even decided to ride with a friend to get lunch.
January 24-25th, 2011
Here’s where I’ve thrown an audible (use of a sports term?). If I spend the rest of my life as a shut-in, living in fear of something shitty happening to me on my predicted day of misfortune—well then I’m pretty much dead as it is.
I didn’t request to be off work this year; I was still off, but that was a work of fate. I even rode with a friend to eat boneless wings (worth risking death amiright?). I may even attempt to drive tomorrow.
I think it’s somewhat lazy to blame this fortune on something that is out of my range of thought. In addition, it’s kind of lame to claim that my previous years’ actions have been the reason that nothing bad has happened to me. I’m just bored sitting at home mainly.
Which is why this year I’ve done several things just in case I do die. Of course I’m wearing fashionable underwear. And of course I haven’t eaten any fillet-o-fish sandwiches. However, as an added bonus, tomorrow I plan on taking several of these if I drive anywhere:
If I am going to die and there is going to be an autopsy, I want the report to contain the line, “…and the victim was full of tiny foam dinosaurs.”
For a final note, if I do die tomorrow, I don’t want to be fully cremated.
I do want to be partially cremated. I want some of the ashes to be mixed with gasoline and ran through my Ranchero at my funeral—which is to be held outside in the cold, January weather. I want everybody I know to hurl insults at me. There should be plenty of time for this because I don’t think my car can stay running for very long. But everybody has to remain outside until the Ranchero burns a whole tank of gas.
Next, I want the rest of my cremated remains to be thrown in the face of someone named Jared by the person who chose to leave my funeral procession first. As the remains are thrown, the person is required to yell, “POCKET SAND!”
I want the rest of me to be buried. I should be wearing all of the shirt.woot shirts that I own. Bury me wherever; who am I to be meticulous? I really don’t even require a headstone. Here’s a perk: you guys can put whatever you want on my headstone if you outlive me.
Finally, I don’t want my facebook to remain active. This is because I think it’s silly when people write messages on people’s walls after that person passes away. So here’s what I want to happen: if I still have a facebook account when I pass want everybody to mass-poke me. This allows you to do your cheesy goodbye in privacy and it also allows you to say that you’ve poked a dead guy. Three days after my funeral I want everybody to report my account for pornographic content at exactly 1:37pm.
Since I already have one strike on my record for pornography that should put me over the line.
Quick continuation on different techniques to pull them digits.
The Insurance Fraud Approach:
*knocks on door on a snowy day*
“Hello, my name is Garrett and I accidentally slid into your house with my car.”
Mention insurance and you’re bound to get them digits. Play with this one by making up a back story to justify your driving in such horrible weather; something about bringing soup to the elderly. Just be creative. It’s a new year and the world is your oyster.
Happy first snow of the year!
This means you too, Fox Run Apartments (and thanks for the awesome winter wonderland view).
Take a Number
I remember a time when much emphasis was put on pulling a phone number. Five years ago that was the way people got in contact with one another.
Don’t worry, I’m not about to puff up my wisdom cheeks and explain to you the differences between then and now. I just worry that the technique of pulling them digits has been relaxed these days as communication advances.
A proposed competition at work nearly halted productivity several nights ago when two employees began to argue over who could pull the most phone numbers in a single 8-hour shift. As my coworkers compared techniques and past experiences of phone numbers being thrown at them (one story was only five minutes old—hence the origin of the competition) I reminisced on…well, nothing. I’ve never pulled a phone number. In fact, I don’t recall ever asking for a phone number. But in light of my novice status in the game of having game, I still have a few conjectural tactics that won’t might work.
The retail approach:
I probably service fifty customers a shift in the photo department. When there is a counter, a computer, a roll of 35mm film, a few ink pens, a register, a blue polo, and a nametag between me and another person, there is no qualm about asking for a phone number. Perhaps this confidence should be carried over into a social approach.
Imagine for a moment a foxy gal with a boyfriend (because all girls already have a boyfriend, amiright?) sitting at the bar, atm, ravioli section, et cetera. I think simply walking up to someone and going right into, “…and your phone number?” may possibly catch them off guard just enough to get you at least the first 5 digits of their number. And the last two numbers can easily be found through the guessing game.
The “Can I borrow your phone?” approach:
This one is simple. Put your phone on silent, approach a 7.3 at the post office and tell her that you’ve left your phone in your car and you need to call Pizza Hut to find out when they’re still serving carryout—this is a strategic line, but feel free to variate. The Pizza Hut involves food. People love food. The carryout part lets her know you can drive to Pizza Hut (ergo you have a car).
Call your phone. Score. “Accidentally” send a “wrong” but clever message to that number several weeks later.
To diminish the creepiness of this genius technique: you could tell her that you worry you have lost your phone and ask her to call your phone to help you find it. When it rings in your pocket just be all like, “That’s so odd. I’m…”
The shotgun approach:
This one involves patience and faith. Use your area code and service provider for the first six digits as a starting point, and then generate your final 4 numbers. Begin with 1111… Then 1112… Then 1113… I understand that there is zero guarantee here, but if you get a response, you have just pulled a number.
Text these numbers and play off the response. It’s easy to mistakenly text a wrong number.
—————————————————————————————————
Speaking of wrongfully texting people, I have a confession to make.
My friend Josh recently moved back to Arkansas from Texas. I had his phone number saved in my phone and had been receiving responses from him for a while before I learned that I was actually talking to what I believe to be a high school girl. This belief was after I received a message that read. “JACKSONVILLE RED DEVILS WHOOOO!”
…
Honest mistake on my part and I promise you I deleted the number right away; at least I thought I did. Apparently, my phone saves phone numbers in 9 default locations once it’s stored. Last Tuesday I had a conversation with Josh:
Me: Want to have a beer with me when you get off?
Josh: Yeah man ill drive up there. I got overtime tho, Ill be a bit late
***not the style of Josh, but so far nothing too off***
Me: Sounds good. Give me a shout.
Josh: I got some weed too. If u wanna hit dat.
…
It wasn’t Josh.
I inadvertently invited a high school girl over to drink a beer with me.
