Monday, October 26, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Stagehand Experience
No, no. I'm not going to take you onstage with me. I'm about to go there myself in an hour's time.
Day to day I work alongside some grizzly men. The union guys that take our shifts are usually within the top 6 on the Saint Paul call list. They are guys that have been loading trucks, lifting weight and busting ass for thirty plus years. Dudes that have been physically crushed, teetering the brink of safety once or twice, and have sweat more than the average human. Some are giants and some are average size with the personality (or the self-disillusionment) of a giant.
They talk sports and late nights. They let me fake talk sports and allow my indefinite and noncommittal comments of "Yeah, Smith's had some kind of season, man".
Manly men, right? Definitely.
Unloading another midnight truck last night... I noticed a plastic bag sitting next to the crate of ratchet straps. That's a foreign object in that back of our truck. I had to peak inside. What I found... Well, I never thought I would find what I found in that back of our truck at midnight. I found a cabbage and a squash. My grizzly stage hands brought me vegetables freshly picked from the farm.
Of all the things that I could have found in that bag... so many would make sense... tools, clothes, even cookies makes sense. But Cabbage?
These men make me laugh. Their rough edges and their sensitivity has me in stitches nightly.
They notice every time I wear a new pair of shoes or jacket.
They are genuinely interested in where I got them and if I'm satisfied with my purchase.
They compliment me any time I get a haircut or am sporting a fresher face than normal.
They ask how my car is running and father me into conversations about changing the oil before I drive across state.
What a funny group of men I work with.
Day to day I work alongside some grizzly men. The union guys that take our shifts are usually within the top 6 on the Saint Paul call list. They are guys that have been loading trucks, lifting weight and busting ass for thirty plus years. Dudes that have been physically crushed, teetering the brink of safety once or twice, and have sweat more than the average human. Some are giants and some are average size with the personality (or the self-disillusionment) of a giant.
They talk sports and late nights. They let me fake talk sports and allow my indefinite and noncommittal comments of "Yeah, Smith's had some kind of season, man".
Manly men, right? Definitely.
Unloading another midnight truck last night... I noticed a plastic bag sitting next to the crate of ratchet straps. That's a foreign object in that back of our truck. I had to peak inside. What I found... Well, I never thought I would find what I found in that back of our truck at midnight. I found a cabbage and a squash. My grizzly stage hands brought me vegetables freshly picked from the farm.
Of all the things that I could have found in that bag... so many would make sense... tools, clothes, even cookies makes sense. But Cabbage?
These men make me laugh. Their rough edges and their sensitivity has me in stitches nightly.
They notice every time I wear a new pair of shoes or jacket.
They are genuinely interested in where I got them and if I'm satisfied with my purchase.
They compliment me any time I get a haircut or am sporting a fresher face than normal.
They ask how my car is running and father me into conversations about changing the oil before I drive across state.
What a funny group of men I work with.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Cupcake Ache
Hostess Cupcake at 5:00am = morning belly ache.
I blame my mom for the motivation.
And
I blame my dad for facilitating.
Hostess Cupcake will always remind me of the house I grew up in. The nostalgia outweighs the actual taste experience. Every so often a box would show up from my dad's truck. That house on 58th Street has stopped stocking the treats. But every so often, a weakness takes hold and I hear of the rare cupcake indulgence. In fact, I clearly remember an occasion where the urge was so strong that when the cupcake arrived, my mother cut my telephone conversation short. Mid sentence she interrupted me with a "Well, I'm going to have a hostess". That night I lost the attention battle to a cupcake.
I stopped at a gas station during my last long drive and headed indoors for some sugar to get me through. Craving a soft, chocolaty parcel ... I thought of Mom and knew what I was looking for. Nonexistent. Disappointed. I somehow lost to a cupcake again. I admitted my hostess failure to my mom later.
My dad comes up last night bearing a scanner and a printer that I won't have the luck of compatibility with, I'm sure... and .... a box of hostess cupcakes. Not sleeping on my tiny couch left me up and wondering at various points of the night. At 5:00am that box seemed like a good idea. How do I keep losing to deserts?
I blame my mom for the motivation.
And
I blame my dad for facilitating.
Hostess Cupcake will always remind me of the house I grew up in. The nostalgia outweighs the actual taste experience. Every so often a box would show up from my dad's truck. That house on 58th Street has stopped stocking the treats. But every so often, a weakness takes hold and I hear of the rare cupcake indulgence. In fact, I clearly remember an occasion where the urge was so strong that when the cupcake arrived, my mother cut my telephone conversation short. Mid sentence she interrupted me with a "Well, I'm going to have a hostess". That night I lost the attention battle to a cupcake.
I stopped at a gas station during my last long drive and headed indoors for some sugar to get me through. Craving a soft, chocolaty parcel ... I thought of Mom and knew what I was looking for. Nonexistent. Disappointed. I somehow lost to a cupcake again. I admitted my hostess failure to my mom later.
My dad comes up last night bearing a scanner and a printer that I won't have the luck of compatibility with, I'm sure... and .... a box of hostess cupcakes. Not sleeping on my tiny couch left me up and wondering at various points of the night. At 5:00am that box seemed like a good idea. How do I keep losing to deserts?
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Literal art
Bringing those pieces into work yesterday for scanning purposes made me throw them in the most sensible place ... my art portfolio for transport. Since I had it open and sprawled all over the floor, I started looking through the drawings I did in an art class long, long ago... college. Most assignments show visible signs of disinterest. There are a few where I obviously just made up objects in my head. I flipped pages quickly. Most not worth a minute of my time.
This one made me stop though. I can only assume the homework task we were given. Draw your family tree. Ok, I may have taken that too literally. I remember the fun I had with this piece and all the prep work that I did for it. I kept coming back with another layer. Anyway... Mom, don't be offended by the obvious meaning here. I love the crap out of you and will continue to call you every night whether you want to talk to me or not! But, no matter how much we love our families there are moments in life where your loved ones are supporting & strangling you at the same time.
This one made me stop though. I can only assume the homework task we were given. Draw your family tree. Ok, I may have taken that too literally. I remember the fun I had with this piece and all the prep work that I did for it. I kept coming back with another layer. Anyway... Mom, don't be offended by the obvious meaning here. I love the crap out of you and will continue to call you every night whether you want to talk to me or not! But, no matter how much we love our families there are moments in life where your loved ones are supporting & strangling you at the same time.
Cleaning Up My Act
I finally got my hands on a scanner for a bit. Check out Hello My Name is Simon and last month's Bi-Yearly Series for better pictures of the art I've been working on. I can no longer hide behind bad photography.
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/10/hello-my-name-is-simon.html
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/09/bi-yearly-series.html
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/10/hello-my-name-is-simon.html
http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/09/bi-yearly-series.html
Favorite North Shore Hour
Illustrated story - Island Life
Hiking away from the overcrowded Lighthouse on Split Rock, the beacon of light gets farther and farther away and the tower gets smaller and smaller in size. Flat rocks, worn from the great lake current, clink together under foot. Taking a rest on a quiet rock bed, I start dreaming of what's ahead of me.
An island. Pristine in nature. Untouched by the tourists. They have seemed to thin as I make my way further from the main attraction.
The Island is begging me. The edge closest to shore taunts me with a shallow sandbar. The stones are few and mostly submerged in the bitter waters. With a naturally made bridge... how can I not? How can I see these stones and that island and not experience both? I start out with the first few and survey the surroundings. Best to step in between the rising waves. Briskly, but not too briskly. It's not until I get to the island that I spy the state sign claiming it a natural reserve and trespassing is forbidden. My socks are wet. I'm breaking the law.
I let my socks dry out in the sun. Sitting on the island that I wasn't supposed to be sitting on was the best thing I did that day. Far from the people that emerged from hiding to appreciate this sun that felt so new. Quiet aside from the wind whisking past my ears and the water crashing into rock. I sat with my thoughts and the sun on my face for a long time. I cross back to the mainland barefoot this time.
Convinced I am a total bad ass, when this low flying plane blows through, I assume it the DNR ready to arrest me. I make up a scenario where the woman that saw me cross, ran back to tattle on the reckloose heading for the island.
I loved this hour of my day.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Helping Hand
Long road trips always make me thankful for my crotch. Suddenly, the space between my legs becomes a versatile wonderland.
It's a place to warm my hands before the heater kicks in.
It's a cell phone holder when I am expecting a call and need to access the device safely, safely from my crotch.
Clenching my thighs turns the area into a bottle opener, for those stubborn screw tops.
My crotch becomes a nesting place for snacks that need consumption.
Basically, my crotch becomes an extra hand. A hand for the everyday tasks that require two. Everyday tasks that I probably shouldn't be trying to use my crotch as a substitute for.
I know I am not alone in my use of crotch while driving. It is a common and expected occurrence, but sometimes when I am conscious of using my crotch as a tool, I wonder what it looks like to the drivers passing me on the left.
That girl's hand is tucked between her legs... wonder what she's doing.
That girl is twisting something between her legs ... wonder what that is.
That girl is eating something she just found between her legs... wonder what it tastes like.
It's a place to warm my hands before the heater kicks in.
It's a cell phone holder when I am expecting a call and need to access the device safely, safely from my crotch.
Clenching my thighs turns the area into a bottle opener, for those stubborn screw tops.
My crotch becomes a nesting place for snacks that need consumption.
Basically, my crotch becomes an extra hand. A hand for the everyday tasks that require two. Everyday tasks that I probably shouldn't be trying to use my crotch as a substitute for.
I know I am not alone in my use of crotch while driving. It is a common and expected occurrence, but sometimes when I am conscious of using my crotch as a tool, I wonder what it looks like to the drivers passing me on the left.
That girl's hand is tucked between her legs... wonder what she's doing.
That girl is twisting something between her legs ... wonder what that is.
That girl is eating something she just found between her legs... wonder what it tastes like.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Yam Savvy
I’m convinced my complexion is a little orange (better than green with the ill that implies) with the five course meal I just consumed made entirely of sweet potato. It was Iron Chef with a yammy secret ingredient.
To tell you the truth, tonight was the first night that my plans pulled through this week. With a book club that I got kicked out of on Tuesday and a basketball game that I wasted tickets to on Wednesday, Thursday became the only night that ideas of grandeur became reality. Yeah, I just said that… ideas of grandeur i.e. spending the night cooking and eating a million different sweet potato concoctions. I knew what I was in for. Although, I’m not sure what I was thinking when I ate my left over butternut squash ravioli before going to this thing… Needless to say, I’m sufficiently sweeted-out. That’s a hard thing for me to do to myself! Impressive almost!
I walked into my cooking class a little apprehensive. When the chef made table-talk before things got started, I wasn’t having it. I don’t want to talk about what I’ve been cooking. I don’t know how to cook. Friends might say different, but I’m just really good at faking it. Just like when I played the clarinet in fourth grade.
On the Menu:
Parsley Sweet Potato Fries with Chipotle Aioli
Savory Mashed Sweet Potato with Cumin and Chives
Sweet Mashed Sweet Potato with Mascarpone and Candied Pecans
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Blue Cheese and Sage
Sweet Potato Doughnuts
I am continually curious about aioli and am glad to have one under my belt. I already have big plans for the Savory Mashed. Once I can stomach the idea of eating more yams, I plan on layering it with black beans for delicious baked quesadillas. Freshly made guacamole required.
I’m excited to make the gnocchi at home. Somehow that dish is incredibly romantic to me. I don’t mean fancy food, eat on a date romantic (that too, I suppose), more so Romantic ideology. Heavy in pathos, artistry and expression. There is a reason why they are commonly referred to as ‘little pillows of heaven’. So beautiful.
I will never make doughnuts again in my lifetime. I can tell you that right now. Surprisingly tasty though.
I came home with second and third helpings of all that is orange. Somehow between leaving class and setting foot in my apartment, I managed to push all of my doughnuts onto friends and neighbors. Forcing mashed potatoes on them just seemed too aggressive. I can’t even think about my diet for the next few days… it may bring along that shade of green. Then I’d be a pumpkin!
P.S. Yams and Sweet Potato are terms used interchangeably, but one does not necessarily equal the other. “Real” yams are largely found in Africa and grow up to a hundred pounds. The hands of slavery picked a familiar root from southern US soil (the sweet potato) and relayed the yam status. Sweet Potatoes have white, firmer/drier varieties and varieties that push the color spectrum to purple. Basically, when you have a recipe for yams/sweet potatoes and the grocery stores has two things that look identical and labeled differently…. They are the same. In that case, you are just looking for the orange insides. May you never stare quizzically at these root vegetables again!
To tell you the truth, tonight was the first night that my plans pulled through this week. With a book club that I got kicked out of on Tuesday and a basketball game that I wasted tickets to on Wednesday, Thursday became the only night that ideas of grandeur became reality. Yeah, I just said that… ideas of grandeur i.e. spending the night cooking and eating a million different sweet potato concoctions. I knew what I was in for. Although, I’m not sure what I was thinking when I ate my left over butternut squash ravioli before going to this thing… Needless to say, I’m sufficiently sweeted-out. That’s a hard thing for me to do to myself! Impressive almost!
I walked into my cooking class a little apprehensive. When the chef made table-talk before things got started, I wasn’t having it. I don’t want to talk about what I’ve been cooking. I don’t know how to cook. Friends might say different, but I’m just really good at faking it. Just like when I played the clarinet in fourth grade.
On the Menu:
Parsley Sweet Potato Fries with Chipotle Aioli
Savory Mashed Sweet Potato with Cumin and Chives
Sweet Mashed Sweet Potato with Mascarpone and Candied Pecans
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Blue Cheese and Sage
Sweet Potato Doughnuts
I am continually curious about aioli and am glad to have one under my belt. I already have big plans for the Savory Mashed. Once I can stomach the idea of eating more yams, I plan on layering it with black beans for delicious baked quesadillas. Freshly made guacamole required.
I’m excited to make the gnocchi at home. Somehow that dish is incredibly romantic to me. I don’t mean fancy food, eat on a date romantic (that too, I suppose), more so Romantic ideology. Heavy in pathos, artistry and expression. There is a reason why they are commonly referred to as ‘little pillows of heaven’. So beautiful.
I will never make doughnuts again in my lifetime. I can tell you that right now. Surprisingly tasty though.
I came home with second and third helpings of all that is orange. Somehow between leaving class and setting foot in my apartment, I managed to push all of my doughnuts onto friends and neighbors. Forcing mashed potatoes on them just seemed too aggressive. I can’t even think about my diet for the next few days… it may bring along that shade of green. Then I’d be a pumpkin!
P.S. Yams and Sweet Potato are terms used interchangeably, but one does not necessarily equal the other. “Real” yams are largely found in Africa and grow up to a hundred pounds. The hands of slavery picked a familiar root from southern US soil (the sweet potato) and relayed the yam status. Sweet Potatoes have white, firmer/drier varieties and varieties that push the color spectrum to purple. Basically, when you have a recipe for yams/sweet potatoes and the grocery stores has two things that look identical and labeled differently…. They are the same. In that case, you are just looking for the orange insides. May you never stare quizzically at these root vegetables again!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Special Delivery
I never get packages. I hardly get mail.
I walked through my front door this evening and glanced towards the gold mailboxes inlaid on the wall to my left. I can usually see slivers of paper product peaking through the metal slots. I have become so good at this guessing game that I can identify whether the mail inside is worth my time. Chances are it's Time Warner Cable's special offers and I'll let it sit in there for a few days. I consider it corporate punishment.
For some reason I took a second look at the small box wedged in the magazine holder. Mary Phelps? What the hell.
I dislodge the box and the contents are clear. Tampons.
What a unusual piece of promotional mail. A free sample addressed specifically to me. How the hell did Platex get my name? And why the hell have they been talking about my menstrual cycle? I think there is a period conspiracy going on here. You're all in on it, I'm sure... whispering to each other about my flow.
The puzzlement faded away to downright sympathy. My mailman must have had a tough day. Carrying around boxes of tampons for all the ladies of the world. That's farther on the humiliation spectrum than the girlfriend forced visit to the hygiene isle "just because you're out" situation. I feel sorry for any dude that's fell victim to that one. That isle is overwhelming to me and I know what all that stuff does.
Anyway, that is my story about becoming three tampons richer!
I walked through my front door this evening and glanced towards the gold mailboxes inlaid on the wall to my left. I can usually see slivers of paper product peaking through the metal slots. I have become so good at this guessing game that I can identify whether the mail inside is worth my time. Chances are it's Time Warner Cable's special offers and I'll let it sit in there for a few days. I consider it corporate punishment.
For some reason I took a second look at the small box wedged in the magazine holder. Mary Phelps? What the hell.
I dislodge the box and the contents are clear. Tampons.
What a unusual piece of promotional mail. A free sample addressed specifically to me. How the hell did Platex get my name? And why the hell have they been talking about my menstrual cycle? I think there is a period conspiracy going on here. You're all in on it, I'm sure... whispering to each other about my flow.
The puzzlement faded away to downright sympathy. My mailman must have had a tough day. Carrying around boxes of tampons for all the ladies of the world. That's farther on the humiliation spectrum than the girlfriend forced visit to the hygiene isle "just because you're out" situation. I feel sorry for any dude that's fell victim to that one. That isle is overwhelming to me and I know what all that stuff does.
Anyway, that is my story about becoming three tampons richer!
I give this guy credit for making tampon dolls and then hugging them.
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