Compliments Of
When I was in middle school, one of our favorite safe and wholesome group activities was having my parents drive us to the hypnotist show in a rundown post WW-II theater on State Street in suburban Salt Lake City. Vandermeide was the guy's name, and can't you just see his advertising poster--a barrel-chested, raven haired, eastern-European son-of-a-gun in a tux and caterpillar eyebrows set against a backdrop of red and yellow psychedelic vortex swirls and a tagline reading "Europe's Fastest Hypnotist"? On stage, of course, he was thirty years older, too round for his tails, and of dubious accent, and his lovely, young assistant? Was neither young nor lovely. There was a muumuu involved.
Vandermeide culled his participants from the audience by testing our suggestibility through having everyone make a fist and concentrate on his words as he spoke fast and hard into a microphone--"Your fist is getting tighter and tighter, locking tight, stick tight, tighter and tighter, the more you try to release the tighter it becomes, locking tight, stick tight"--like a barker at a county fair pig auction. Audience members for whom this actually worked were invited to the stage, where Vandermeide would peck them hard on the forehead with his middle finger and command their fists "Release!" One time my friend Candice made it to the stage, and we bought the souvenir video of that night's show, which included her voguing like Madonna on crack and then barfing all over the shiny pergo (not a routine part of the act).
Sadly or not, I was unable to be hypnotised that night or any other, and for years I've thought it was because I wasn't the least bit suggestible. I do what I want when I want, and although I can be convinced, I'm not easily persuaded. I considered myself immune to influence. That said, a few nights ago while watching GG, any time anyone ate anything or even mentioned anything edible or imbibable, I became completely fixated and couldn't think of anything else...until they mentioned something else I could stuff in my face, and then it was all about that. Donuts, cake, chicken chow mein, cheeseburgers, Pop Tarts, oatmeal, lobster puffs, and even coffee. Seeing as how I don't drink coffee because it smells yucky and, um, it's bean juice, the juice of beans, beany bean water, neither Simon nor I knew quite what to do when I blurted out, "Mmm. Coffee. I want coffee. I want coffee NOOOOOOOW."
Happily, it was only thirty seconds after the coffee came on screen that one of the characters said "pork loin" and my attention was directed more appropriately, but the whole coffee incident did get me thinking about how suggestible I might actually be, and at what cost. If this keeps up, I might wake up smeared in candied yams and then what would everyone think? Until I have a handle on outside influences again, I'll be steering clear of your Amway demonstration and Tommy Lee's Starbucks, thank you very much.
It was during one of those fits of food fixation that I decided I simply could not survive another minute on this cruel planet unless I had a crepe with powdered sugar. There were just enough ingredients at my house to whip up a 2/3 batch, and while Simon was on the phone with his mom, I made two little plates of rubbery flats (you could have chopped them into cushy playground mulch), even attempting to use my pancake forms to make one into a heart and another into a teddy bear. (Note: Non-stick cooking spray is essential to using metal forms, so if you're out, forget it.)
So the crepes didn't really work, and I added another hash mark on my tally of foods I've screwed up while trying my hardest to be domestic for my gentleman. If I thought there were hope, I would probably be upset about the failures, but since this has been going on for years, I'm now in a place of calm concerning cooking because, when you get right down to it, I seriously just can't do it. As with my other culinary projects, the crepes weren't inedible or ruined beyond repair, but just a good ten steps left of perfect, even though I follow directions to a tee and have watched more cooking shows on PBS than I can count. The garlic last night was perfect one minute and crispy the next, and unless I had some sort of out-of-body experience while standing there staring at it to make sure it didn't burn, I really don't know what to tell you. Thank god Simon is one of those horrible people who can cook without recipes, measuring cups, or timers, not to mention he looks really cute in his chef's hat and apron.
Last night after our meal of garlic shrimp and pasta (quickly becoming a staple) Simon thanked me for making dinner for him, even though he did as much as I: he put the frozen shrimp in the pan, I pushed it around with a spatula; he chopped the garlic, I monitored its slow burn; he put the water on to boil, I dumped in the pasta (nearly disastrous). And yet he thanked me not once but twice and told me how delicious it was and how he actually prefers a little carmelization on his garlic now and then.
While we ate we watched another brilliant movie pic by yours truly: The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra. Granted, the whole point of the movie is that it's bad, but still, it wasn't a solidly good bad movie, but a kind of hit-and-miss bad movie that should be viewed under a particular set of circumstances (e.g., drunk). "I'm going to fall asleep," Simon said fifteen minutes in, and while I not only didn't blame him but wanted to join him, I thought I should bear the responsibility of watching the whole thing since I was the one who picked it.
Halfway through I woke up for the sole purpose of pinching Simon to make him stop snoring in my ear. We sat up, shifted around, I filled him in with stuff I made up to make it seem like I hadn't fallen asleep and missed the middle forty-five minutes. When the film ended, we clicked around on the special features and ten minutes later I was asleep again. Simon woke me up with some very nice words and then I scowled at him because I'm a complete bitch when spoken to while tired. (Sorry, honey!) Just because I was cranky, though, doesn't mean I didn't hear him, and among the nice things he said was "Thanks for picking the movie. I liked it." *Scowl* I said and shoved a toothbrush into my mouth.
He's just trying to make me feel better, I grumped. Does he actually think I'm going to fall for that crap? How dare he patronize me! I thought back to a few days before when he told me out of the blue, "I loved that you made me crepes last week. It was really sweet" and how I responded by rolling my eyes and grunting like a barbarian. Yeah, right. Everyone loves spongy crepes topped with lumpy (how?!) powdered sugar. Who does he think he's kidding?
And then I stopped, because he hadn't said he'd loved the crepes, he said he loved that I made him crepes, and that, my friends, makes all the difference. He was acknowledging the act and the thought, not the product, and I was being completely ungrateful that he was appreciating me. As for the movie, he did say he liked it, and maybe he was telling the truth, but even then, does it really matter? After the comment on our last webcast about how I've inherited my mother's knack for picking crappy movies, he was just trying to be reassuring, to let me know that even if I can't fry an egg or recognize the difference between The Gnome-Mobile and Schindler's List that he still thinks I'm a pretty cool chick.
I left the house late and unshowered this morning (I know, gross), and as I pulled back from my good-bye kiss before running out the door, Simon said, "Your hair looks really great! The swoopy part at the front makes you look all sophisticated and professional." I was wearing a faded thrift-store shirt, saggy jeans I retrieved from the living room floor, and imitation Pumas with velcro straps, and so my response was to roll my eyes and grunt like a savage because I hadn't yet realized, as I have now, that the appropriate response was to smile and give him another kiss. Learning how to take a compliment is the one thing they don't teach on PBS.
Wow...I have no idea how you got from that begining to that end...but it worked for me.
I'm with iamnot on this one.
"Wow...I have no idea how you got from that begining to that end..." or, what the fuzzy ear picture had to do with it...unless, I guess it represents the fact that you must listen "clearly" to the words spoken in order to get the correct message. - Yeah, that's it!
The crepes were actually pretty good.
now i know GG references food more than any other show on tv, including cooking shows, but craving things you normally find icky?!?.... seen aunt flo lately?
Remember that GG episode where Suki's (sp?) food tastes all whack, but Suki can't tell? And then they realize it's because Suki's pregnant?
Yeah, I'm trying and failing miserably to go somewhere with this.
Not pregnant. Not trying. Aunt Flo sends her love. (But last night's episode was the one where Sookie (sp!) yelled at Norman Mailer because she was pregnant!)
The lost Skeleton Rules
I am HORRIBLE at accepting compliments, I usually say "whatever" which is a horrible response lol
Once after watching an episode of GG in which they ate Sundaes my roommates and I HAD to have one so we ran over to DQ before they closed. Yum
hey I was just peeking up at thye Listening part of your sidebar. Did someone steal all your CD's and leave you with only that one? I'm sorry.
Yeah, yeah, I know about the not pregnant, not trying, but I thought I'd join the chorus of conspiracy theorists (or something) who have been leaving similarly questioning comments here lately.
Aww, I loved that episode of GG where Sookie (thanks!) yells at Norman Mailer. We're a season or so behind over here in Egypt, so I just saw that one recently. The last GG episode I saw, where Lorelai buys Luke's father's boat may have been my favorite episode ever, but mostly because Rory finally got sassy with that Logan. Wee!