Happy Easter, You Guys

Hooraaaay.

Image via Buzzfed.

10 Ways to Ruin Ladies' Night

It's Good Friday, you guys.

. . .

Okay, good. I assumed all the Catholics would be like, "Oh shit!" and run off to  scourge themselves or something. Maybe eat some fish. But, now that they're gone, we can talk about them.

. . .

So, Catholics, huh? Amirite?

I used to be Catholic,* but now I'm The Kind of Person who Goes Out with The Ladies at Work on Good Friday. Not sure what you'd call that. Jewish? Whatever.

The point is, I have always wanted to work at a place where Ladies' Night is a thing. Actually going to Ladies' Night isn't that appealing since I don't like other human people, but I'm also not great at thinking up excuses, so when the other ladies are like, "You haaave to coooome," and I just stammer and tell them I should really stay home and give my eyelashes a perm, they see right through it. And call me names. And throw staplers at me until I agree to go with them.

So instead of fighting it, I've devised several ways to make sure I'm never invited back. Then when somebody asks if I'm going to paint pottery, I can say, "Oh, honey. Ladies' Night can't handle me."

All part of my clever plan.

10 Ways to Ruin Ladies' Night

and ensure you'll never have to hang out with anyone, ever

1. Take five shots of tequila and take your shirt off. On the drive over.
2. Go to karaoke. Only sing the backup parts. Oohs and shoo-wops all night long.
3. Play mini golf. Show up in argyle with a caddy and swing like it's regular golf.
4. Start a fight with the bachelorette party at the dueling piano bar. (This will only ruin Ladies' Night if someone actually gets hurt. If it's only a light tussle, the dueling piano background music will make it seem like you're an old-timey Western.)
5. Talk about your feelings. Cry.
6. Go see a musical. Talk loudly about how fake the set looks. 
7. Start gossiping about one of the ladies with you. When she confronts you, say, "Oh, I thought your name was Miranda." Keep talking about her.
8. Bring your kids.
9. "Forget" your wallet.
10. When it's your turn to pick what to do, suggest volunteering.

* At Catholic school we always had a half-day on Good Friday, because apparently Jesus was on the cross from noon until 3:00. We weren't allowed to speak during those three hours, out of respect - but what about the time difference? Jesus wasn't on the cross at noon California time, so really those three hours probably should have happened at night, when we wouldn't have to develop a strange sign language to use on the jungle gym until our mom made us go inside to pray.

Image via All-Star Skates.

IDES OF MARCH LIVE BLOG: ROMAN FEAST

Every March 15, there are those seven people in your office (or that one weird dude on the street) who greet you with a creepy smile and whisper, "Beware the Ides of March!" I always wonder if they're genuinely concerned for me, or if they just like to be creepsy. I guess they're trying to be festive, but the Ides of March just isn't good for much - we don't stab our friends or set booby traps for passers-by or anything. It's worse than Flag Day. I think we should give each other a reason to beware, like a lethal April Fool's Day. That would at least be exciting, but in all my twenty-three years, not once has anyone tried to knife me on March 15.*

I guess there's always next year.

IN THE MEANTIME:

If you happen to know someone who spends his days cataloging ancient coins ("Oh yeah, that guy," they all say knowingly), you may celebrate this day by making an authentic Ancient Roman feast.

If, however, you don't hang around with giant dorks, you can join us! On the

IDES OF MARCH LIVE BLOG! 

PART 6

Menu:

Teff bread with olive paste, served with olive oil and herbs

Cantaloupe with vinaigrette

Roasted pork shoulder with cooked sauce

3:40 - Carrie should be working. 

3:41 - The feast won't actually start for several more hours, but the cooking began last night with the garum.

[Boring historical bit: Garum was apparently used all the time in Ancient Roman Cookery, like soy sauce in Asian cuisine, or Frank's Red Hot: they put that shit on everything.]

I didn't get any pictures of the garum process, but I can paint you a WORD PICTURE:

It was March. The air was cold. A baby cried. I went to the store to buy a massive amount of anchovies, and the checkout lady was all like, "Eh...yum...?" to which I replied, "YOU DON'T KNOW ME. SHUT YOUR HOLE AND SCAN MY REWARDS CARD." But only in my head. Outside I just blushed. And cried a little.

If you've never made garum before, here's how it goes:

1. Boil two pounds of tiny, whole fish with some herbs and salt until the fish dissolve, leaving only their bones behind.**
2. Strain the fish-guts soup through a coffee filter until the liquid is clear. And all over your counter. And floor. And body.
3. Fry up some bacon to get rid of the fish smell.
4. Your house now smells like fish bacon. It's very confusing.

It also turns out that the ancient Romans would have used fresh smelt, whereas we used anchovies packed in oil and salt. On top of that, we added 2/3 cup of sea salt.  Then The Boy tasted it.

"That's the saltiest thing I've ever tasted. And I once at a big bowl of salt!"

And on top of all that, our city's water supply was contaminated! (That could've taken our story in a much more dramatic direction, but all it really means is that to water the garum down, we had to hoist up a five-pound jug of water and tip it daintily down into the pot. It also meant that I couldn't take a shower so I came to work all fishy.)

Huh.

4:02 - I had no idea George Clooney and Ryan Gosling were in a movie called The Ides of March until just now. The poster is extremely vague, but I'm guessing Ryan Gosling kills George Clooney and then steals his face.

5:54 - Turekns ourt thalkt Romsan foofd is s sssuiper oilyu//.

6:04 - Since The Boy can't eat gluten, dairy, or eggs, we've made some teff bread, shown here with some Wine With a Lady On It and a knife. For cutting bread.

Look closely: The stabbing knife is hiding in the shadows.

6:09 - The Boy thinks I should use the Latin names for all the food we're eating. I said nothing, but as he walked away I muttered, "Wait till Bigus Dickus hears of this."

6:17 - HERE IS OUR MORTAR AND PESTLE. WE GOT THEM TODAY. IN THE MAIL. FOR ROMAN FEAST DAY.

AND HERE IS THE MEAT WE HAVE SLICED UP AND MARINATED UNTIL IT'S ALL PURPLE AND PLUMP:

The picture is blurry because technically, the meat is still alive. The Romans liked their meat bloody and throbbing and just off the animal, or tristis animalis, which means "sad animal" in Latin. So we plugged in a phone charger and left the other end in the marinade, which brought the meat sort of back to life. It's vibrating a little bit, which I hear makes it really tender but also not great for pictures.

Plus, if you listen really carefully, you can hear it moo very quietly.

Which is weird, because it's a pig.

6:36 - YOU GUYS. THE TEFF BREAD SHOULD BE CALLED TOUGH BREAD, BECAUSE IT'S LIKE A LITTLE BRICK. I HEARD THE ROMANS GOT THIS RECIPE FROM THE EGYPTIANS, WHO WERE JUST TRYING TO PLAY A LITTLE JOKE ON THE ROMANS, SO THEY GAVE THEM THE FORMULA FOR THEIR PYRAMID BRICKS AND SAID IT WAS BREAD.

6:58 - Carrie finds out her older sister knows way more than she does about ancient Rome. Also that she is a staunch Caesar supporter, while Carrie prefers the dashing young Brutus. We are a family divided.

Cantaloupe has been cut up int stabbed into little pieces.

7:08 - If this were ancient Rome, Twitter would be divided into #teambrutus and #teamcaesar.

And also if ancient Rome had Twitter.

7:26 - The meat is cooked, the melon is dressed, the bread is sliced and the sauce is . . . a little bit pukey. But the meal is ready, which means TIME TO RECLINE AND BEGIN THE FEAST!

9:49 - We have so much leftover garum. Everyone can expect little jars of salty fish juice for Christmas.

You're welcome.



* But OTHER DAYS...!
** Which is also how most pirate recipes start.




Images via Krystal Cooks, The Hairpin, reddit.

I Should've Been a Bachelor

Here's something the stereotypes don't tell you: Sometimes girls are messy.

Not endearingly untidy or adorably scatterbrained, but deeply, patholigically dirty, in a way that makes you clasp your hand to your bosom and whisper, "How can you live like this?"

It's disgusting, but messiness usually means the girl is brilliant, beautiful, and/or wildly talented.

It just so happens that none of those applies to me. I am just gross.

I am also hungry, most of the time. Sometimes when I don't eat for over half an hour, I start to cry - brave, blubbering tears over the punishment I put myself through to maintain this fantastic bod.

Stop laughing.

Whenever The Hunger comes upon me, nothing can stop my path of destruction through everything  even remotely edible in the general vicinity.

Not even an expiration date.

When I first moved to Pennsylvania and hung out in The Boy's apartment all day while looking for a job, there wasn't much to eat. The Boy can't eat eggs, gluten, or dairy, so I didn't have many options for edible food. I bought a loaf of bread and made tuna sandwiches most days, but after a week or so I finally realized that the mayonnaise had expired in 2011.

I read the date mid-bite, but instead of spitting it out and throwing the rest of the sandwich away, I figured I might as well finish it. If I was going to die anyway, it seemed foolish to die hungry.

After I finished, I put the relish away and reached for the mayonnaise.

And paused.

And thought about my actions.

The garbage wasn't full; it wasn't as if throwing this old mayonnaise away would require a trip to the dumpster. But I kind of thought I might want tuna the next day, and throwing the bottle away today meant a trip to the store tomorrow. Besides, the trash was behind a closed cabinet, and the fridge door was already open.

Really, the decision was made for me.

I recently bough a new jar of mayo, after finishing the last one about a month ago. New expiration date: May 2014.

Well. We'll see.




Image of Marlene Deitrich by Eugene Robert Richee, via tumblr; “La Naine Dona Mercedes” by Ignacio Zuloaga, via Where is Pierre.