Lamesauce Letters

I burnt both of my hands pulling something out of the oven AGAIN this week. I had to capitalize that entire word because this is about the tenth time I've burn the tops of my hands on the roof of an oven. One would think I might get a clue and change my behavior, but I haven't. (At this point my sister, parents, and husband might be rolling their eyes.) The next logical response would then be to write complaint letters. (OBVIOUSLY.)

Dear recipes that call for cooking a pan on the stove and then placing said pan in the oven,

perhaps some people are talented enough to remember not to touch the metal handle of something that has been in a 400 degree oven... but I'm not one of them. The last time I needed to cook stuffed pork chops in this manner I told my husband that his one job was making sure I didn't burn myself. I grabbed that hot metal handle and scalded myself... twice. Stupid pork chops. LAME.

Dear Coffeemate Creamer,

I really like your product. I stay true to you and don't opt for other brands. You usually have the best coupons. But do you know what you don't have? A spill proof way of pouring. Creamer seeps out the top and down the sides no matter how careful I am! If I'm supposed to shake the bottle before using there will be creamer stuck up in the lid when I open and pour. LAME. Let's work on this.

Dear Campbell's Soup at Hand,

I faithfully drank (ew?) your product for almost a decade. Chicken and stars, wedding soup, taco blend... they all helped me through college, rehearsals, and long days at the office. Out of the hundreds of containers I opened I was never, ever, never, ever able to open and remove the metal lid without spraying at least some soup on me, the microwave, or the floor. LAME. There has to be a better way to package that product. If Apple can produce a new iPhone ever year, I think you can step up your game.

That's it... for now.

-Ginger

p.s. Don't worry. I'm still going to use all three of you. I'm just not going to do it smiling.

Goodnight/Hello.

We've registered... that was interesting/exciting. Let's just say one of us is trigger happy and the other is patient and likes to think through every. single. item.

But we did it. I'm excited for the fun stuff... but I'm really ready for a new place. So, to express my feelings, I thought we could have story time together... a little book I like to call "Goodnight, Apartment." Enjoy.

"Goodnight faucet that shoots water all over my counter whenever the dishwasher is running."

"Goodnight view of the other apartment complex and dumpster."

"Goodnight coffee maker that falls apart."

"Goodnight refrigerator with the handle that comes off every other day."

"Goodnight oven that is slowly falling to pieces."

"Goodnight one-bedroom apartment."

"Hello! Hello house with man who brings me flowers and cooks dinner after I've been away for work all weekend. Hello."

The End.

What's eating Gilbert's face?

It's a good thing I am not nostalgic and do not name things like my plant, car, or house. That is, I had not named anything EVER until the purchase of the Mac. My sister asked me over the phone if I had named my second born. (The first born is named Canon Rebel. He’s a bit rebellious, so the name just fits.) I jokingly replied that I would indeed be calling my laptop “Apple” after Chris Martin’s firstborn. She did not find this humorous. I decided to appease her and threw out “Macintosh, Granny Smith, and Gala.” Needless to say, she was not overly amused, although I could not stop laughing the entire time. I really am the funniest person I know. I think it embarrasses the Mac sometimes.

Well guess what? I’m not amused either. I hate my life. (Read: Technology hates me and I’ve literally screamed aloud 20 times in the last two weeks at computers, projectors, and my co-workers.)

You read the joyful birth announcement of little Apple. He was a surprise, as I was expecting a water filter. What I was not expecting was to have that child shut down repeatedly in the next 24 hours. Gilbert Grape, as the Mac was “affectionately” called, was clearly being eaten by something. (The amazing part about the name is that I can scream at the top of my lungs “WHAT IN THE HECK IS EATING YOU?!!”)

Gilbert was returned to the store after a few heart attacks and phone calls, and his hard drive was placed into another machine. He was handed back with plenty of apologies. I take home Gilbert II (I’m super creative), and plugged him in only to have it NOT TURN ON. I let it charge, all the while noticing a green light radiating from the charge connector. Two hours later, Gilbert is apparently still born.

So as not to appear like a complete idiot, I bring the Mac to work just to have my boss make sure it’s not a user error. He turns the computer on with just one tap of the finger. (INSERT LOUD SCREAM). It stays on all day. I stop at the store just in case to tell them about the issue and ask for assurances that the computer will see me through my trip to Texas. They reassure.

I use the laptop all evening with no problems and charge it up for my flight. Fast forward to 10:30am the next morning as the captain has just informed us that we are now free to use approved electronic devices. I have a ton of work to do and affectionately smile at Gilbert. I open it up, press power, and WHAT THE FREAK!? Nothing. Nada. Zip. I pray, try pressing the power button from several angles… all to no avail.

I calmly pull out the writer’s old-fashioned solution, my favorite easy grip pen and a journal. All is well for roughly 20 minutes before my life becomes a scene straight out of Earnest goes to Jail. INK EVERYWHERE. Hands covered. No other pen with me, of course. I’m left with a giant mess and only a highlighter to my name. This left me with some great prayer time once I had calmed down, but seriously?! Really? Really Mac? Really pen? REALLY?!

I popped out the battery during my layover and then put it back in. The Mac came to life. This relationship is killing me. I don’t know what to expect from my child. Over the course of the weekend Gilbert turned on 80% of the time, shut down improperly 3 times, and then would drop from 40% battery life to 0% in less than a second. Is it wrong to hate your children? I wish he had never been born.

I’m taking him back. Today. I don’t even know if I’m ready for the responsibility of this kind of relationship anyways. So now I’m working on my trusty PC reject. (Which has shut down with no warning THREE times this morning. REALLY TECHNOLOGY? Really?!!)

The PC does not have a name. Nothing will ever get a name again. My own offspring will be referred to as Child 1 and Child 2.

I have to be this way to make the passing of Gilbert easier. I cry at Hallmark commercials and movie previews and therefore I cannot overly-feel my own life. Maybe it's because I’m German, or maybe I am the world's only romantic-realist. Can you be both? Guess so...

***UPDATE 4/3/2009***

Left Gilbert on the steps of the Mac Store. Picked up The Golden Child. Let's hope he lives up to his name. [He is not refurbished and has Apple Care. I feel the winds of change.]

Ikea - Swedish for "Why am I doing this to myself?"

Yesterday I officially became all grown up. It was my 27th birthday and my Aunt Kathy assured me that "You are really a grown up now."

To prove my independence, I drove to the nearest Ikea last week to pick up my Christmas present from my parents. It took 45 minutes to get there, an hour in the store, and almost half an hour to get the boxes loaded into my car. My new entertainment center came in two very heavy boxes. Spring made a brief appearance in Phoenix, and I sweated through the labor of loading 140 lbs of furniture in 78 degree weather.

Once home, I opened the boxes and carried the pieces individually up to my apartment. I decided to document the entire procedure, having been warned by my father: the challenge is putting anything together from Ikea without a) screwing it up and having to partially redo or 2) cursing or 3) throwing a tool or implement or 4)missing a vital part that should have been enclosed.

If I had only known what lay ahead for my Friday afternoon...

Construction of an Ikea Entertainment Center

as documented and narrated by yours truly:

I also purchased new boxes to hold my dvd collection. I had no idea they would involve construction.

The End.

Spice Up Your Life.

Phone message received yesterday morning:

"Hi, this is Cinnamon, Jamie's mother from the Children's Choir. I was calling about the next rehearsal for the Christmas Musical. If you could call me back at 623-###-#### that would be great. Thanks."

Deep breath and dial.

"Hi...Cinnamon...this is Ginger." Laughter ensues from both of us.

A child's name can be a heavy burden to carry. I'm not saying that my name is an actual burden. I've always pretty felt pretty detached from it for some reason, as if it's not really me, but someone I refer to. I don't dislike it and I probably wouldn't change it even if I could. But I do dislike the same three jokes used by everyone in the entire world. Yes, it would be funny if I married Tom Bread or Larry Snap. I had a youth leader growing up named Andy Ale. He had a son about eight years my junior and everyone thought it would be just swell for me to end up as one of the Ales. I don't even like Ginger Ale.

I worked at a summer camp that provides each of it's employees with a summer nickname. Campers spend an entire week trying to guess your real name. I used to give the following clues. I am a noun that can be found in your kitchen. My name can also be added to and become an adverb. You can't do that with Katie or Jessica.

My best friend all through elementary school was Kelly. She moved from Michigan right before the start of first grade. We met at Sunday School and Kelly went home to tell her mother that she had made a new friend named "Nutmeg." Confused, her mother suggested she rethink that name. They ended up pulling every spice from the cabinet before determining that my name was not Nutmeg or Sugar.

Do you know what isn't exciting for me? When I meet you and you excitedly proclaim that "My dog is named Ginger!!" Am I supposed to be pleased with this?

Something I have been pleased with is the costume possibilities that my name allows. I once went to a Christmas party with bread hanging off my shirt and fashioned as earrings.

"Nice costume. So, what are you supposed to be?"

What's my name?

"Ginger."

What am I wearing?

"Toast."

That's right. I'm ginger toast. Good guess, genius.

And finally, the piece de resistance. The summer after my senior year of high school, my family moved from Dallas to Houston. I had to order a new voter's registration card. I don't remember how we registered at that time, but it would not have been on-line. Someone typed in the information on my card and made one slight error. For years our house received jury summons for one FINGER. Oh snap.

Flight Plan

Did you know that water on a United Airlines flight will set you back $2.00? All I wanted was a cup of tap water, something to wet my parched throat. What a bunch of Scrooges. And no, I don’t carry cash on me. I made this lovely discovery on my most recent trek back to Texas.

Thankfully I was able to enjoy the window seat without having to worry about my elbows being crushed by my neighbors. By the time I boarded for the flight home I was ready to enjoy a relaxing few hours reading “Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life.” But of course, I can’t relax on a flight – and not because of fear of flying. The whole experience is just dreadful for me. I hate having to lift my carry-on suitcase above my head and heave it into a bin, especially when I have to walk 15 rows back from my seat to do so, thus insuring that I will have to sit on the plane until most of the passengers have disembarked from the aircraft. I find my seat and then spend the next half hour hoping that the seat next to mine will somehow be empty. This was of course not the case on this most recent flight.

Let me set the scene for you. I was in row 6. Row 5 was the first row past first class. The woman in front of me had nowhere to store her carry-on bag, so she placed it below her seat – leaving me with nowhere to place my laptop bag. The mature response would have been to try and get her attention and simply ask her to move her bag. I also considered addressing the flight attendant, but she was clearly occupied elsewhere. So – wonderful person that I am – I place my laptop bag under the seat and ever so slowly begin to push with my legs hoping that either her bag would allow for the addition of my bag, or that she would my subtle message. But I realize this isn’t working. So I push harder. I’m even starting to get winded, but I’m trying not to let the people in my row notice. I’m starting to panic. I do not want to be parted with another of my bags. The last time someone took my bag it ended up in Indianapolis.

Finally the flight attendant comes by and suggests I put my bag in an overhead bin. No way. No in the heck way. I need my things next to me, I have rights. I begin my explanation calmly enough, but soon discover the pitch in my voice rising, the volume as well. Suddenly I’m 12 years old.

“It’s just that her bag is under the chair where my bag is supposed to fit and so I don’t have any leg room and I need to be able to do some work and I would try to get it to fit, but it won’t work and…”

Just then the woman in front of me apologizes profusely in a kind manner, removes her bag and quickly hands her possession to be packaged in the upper realm.

Whew. All good. Until an hour later I find myself calmly reading about the quirks of Amy Krouse Rosenthal when the gum I’ve been chewing drops from my mouth straight down my shirt – a la Nashvegas style. I begin going over my options to retrieve the foreign object. Do I ride the rest of the flight conscious of the problem? Do I make my way to the smallest lavatory in the world, hoping along the way that the gum does not lodge itself further and become stuck to my clothing? Or do I try and pull a Sydney Bristow, pull off the impossible while everyone else sits casually around me? I decide to take action, knowing all the while that this might one day make great material for a blog post…if I am brave enough to actually follow through with this. I slowly turn to gaze out the window at the passing clouds and pull my book up close to me. Perhaps I looked deep in thought, hopefully no one was watching.

Good news – I retrieved the gum – and of course I instinctively put it back in my mouth and begin chewing. Eat it, Sydney Bristow.

Photos by Booknero and Sierraromeo

The mixer, the master, the mighty mix master says...

So when I said that I would never move again, what I really meant was that I would never move again without paying movers. Yes, this makes move number 12, maybe 13, since starting college. The best part about this move? Two months ago I moved from an apartment, placed all of my belongings in storage, and rented a furnished room in a condo. What did I do last week? I left the furnished room, moved to an apartment complex that is literally next door to where I lived in June, hired movers to haul all of my junk out of storage, and did it all over Labor Day Weekend. I tell you what, moving is a very special way to celebrate not working. Thankfully I once again had help from friends as I unpacked everything and tried to get settled. Aside from discovering that I have far too many books, I was pleasantly disturbed to find that I apparently have an affinity for mixers. Do I cook? Yes. Do I bake? Not very often. I’ve probably baked about 15 times in the entirety of 2008. Here's what I think happens when I do decide to bake. I head to the kitchen, check the recipe, take stock of what I have and decide that I need to go and buy a new mixer. I have three mixers. (See above photo) All three were under $15 at Target, I’m sure of it. Maybe I can turn a profit on them. I could sign them and send them to you for $20. People do stuff like that on their blogs all the time. You could put it on your shelf and then tell everyone about it. Maybe be like, “Oh…you don’t read That Reminds Me? Wow, you are really missing out on a mildly entertaining commentary on life by two white, middle-class 20-somethings. Yeah, I don’t even use this mixer. I’m saving it to pass down to my grandchildren one day.”

But I digress. I tried to get rid of things before I moved the first time…but somehow I ended right where I started (or in the next complex over) with three mixers. I don’t know if I wasn’t paying attention, or if the state of moving simply blinds me. (Although it did not cause my eyeballs to fall out, even if that would have proved to be far more entertaining writing.) All this to say that I’m never moving again, at least not with 3 mixers.

Never again...ok, maybe once.

That's it. I'm finished. I've just spent the last 5 days lifting, cleaning, and sweating. I despise moving. I was lucky enough to have wonderful friends to help with the heavy lifting and some of the cleaning, but I just felt like the task was never ending. A majority of my things are now in storage while I am living in a fully furnished condo for a while. I've compiled a list of things for you to seriously consider the next time you are even THINKING about moving.

1. Do you HAVE to move?

2. Do you live in Arizona? If so, do not move in the month of June when it is 112 degrees outside.

3. Why do you own so much stuff?

4. Say you turn your keys in and then realize that you have left 3 items in a cabinet - just let them go. It's not worth going back there for one more trip.

5. Do you really need to move?

6. Maybe try giving monasticism a try. It's less stuff to move.

I think the high-light of this entire event was smashing my fingers in a drawer and then trying to get my keys off of the key ring to give to the apartment manager. I was putting all the effort I had into getting the keys off, and she just kept standing there. I was about to lose it. I was so tired, so sweaty, and the stupid keys were each on a ring. She finally offered to help after 5 minutes of smashing my fingers.

The new challenge about this move is that I do not have Internet in my new place...so I'm blogging at the library. Since I only have one hour on the clock it doesn't lend much time for creativity. I'm sure I will read this later and wonder what I'm talking about.

I'm now heading out to reward myself for not losing it with anyone over the past weekend in the moving process or at work (crying or shouting - although I have done plenty of that on my own.) I'm thinking my feet have been asking for a pedicure, I picked up a new book, and a stop at Sonic is in order for a Route 44 Diet Coke. (Also, I'm preparing to watch Deanna bring the number down from 3 J's to 2 tonight.) Let the NOT-MOVING commence.