Monthly Archives: February 2013

I love mayonnaise: An ode to mayonnaise

I just had a sandwich for lunch. Two sandwiches. I’ve been using a lot of mayonnaise lately, on everything. Most people, when you start talking about mayo, they’ll be like, “Ew! I hate mayo! Gross!” which is crazy, because it’s so tasty, it’s oil and eggs, it’s the basis for like fifty percent of everything delicious that comes out of the supermarket.

I’m planning on having another sandwich, maybe tonight after I get home from work, maybe tomorrow for lunch. Maybe both. Probably both. I’ve got it all figured out. Sometimes I’ll make a spicy mayonnaise, like I’ll blend mayo and spices and peppers and mix it all up. It’s more like a dressing at that point. I think most salad dressings are basically just mayo with some stuff in it, which is why I never understand people at restaurants, they’ll be like, “I’ll have a burger. No mayo. I’d like it medium. Can you make sure they don’t put any mayo on that? And some fries. Again, I can’t stress enough how much I really don’t want any mayonnaise anywhere near my plate. Got it? Oh by the way, do you have ranch dressing? Yeah, I’ll take a gallon.”

Obviously I’m only talking about the creamy dressings. Not like vinaigrette. Creamy vinaigrette? I’ve never heard of it. I’m sure they sell it somewhere. I remember when I was a little kid we’d go over my grandparents’ house for dinner pretty regularly, and whereas at our house we had our own way of eating dinner, at my grandparents’ house, my grandma always made a big salad in a bowl and she gave out separate smaller wooden bowls just for that salad. And there would always be like twelve bottles of dressing to choose from.

My favorite was creamy Italian. It’s what I was describing earlier, I guess, some sort of a creamy vinaigrette. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’m not describing it right. But I’d add probably a handful of greens and tomatoes to the bowl before filling it to the brim with creamy Italian dressing. At this point, the few vegetables that actually made it to my plate were nothing more than a medium for me to eat as much dressing as possible. Creamy Italian was so good. On a side note, when you go to restaurants now, and you ask what kind of dressings they have, it’s never Italian anymore, it’s always vinaigrette, or just balsamic, which isn’t even complete, it’s just vinegar, and the vinaigrette, it doesn’t even have any mayo at all, like I already said.

I’ve tried making my own mayo from scratch. Yeah, it’s OK. It never comes out thick like store bought does. Man, I’m hungry just thinking about all of this mayo. But wait a second, I’m actually freaking out, I think I’ve accidentally stumbled across a repressed memory here. Oh my God, it’s a strong one, it’s coming through, yes, I can see it now, I’m at a deli somewhere on a road trip. I ask for a sandwich, extra mayo. I unwrap it and take a big bite, but something’s not right.

What’s that taste? And the texture, it feels kind of weird also, like what I imagine paint would feel like if I put it in my mouth by the spoonful. Did a whole colony of algae somehow make it onto my cold cuts? I raise my head up from my sandwich to ask the deli guy what’s wrong, but my mouth is glued shut. It’s horrible. I can’t chew anymore and there’s no way I’m going to be able to choke down an entire bite.

“What’s wrong?” the deli guy asks me, noticing that I’m visibly distressed, “Did I make your sandwich the wrong way? Did you want any more Miracle Whip? I put a lot on there just like you asked me.”

I spent the rest of the day puking my brains out. Miracle Whip. Gross. If there’s something that we can all rally behind, it’s that Miracle Whip should be regulated like a class one narcotic. That stuff’s not even real. It’s not mayonnaise. It’s a sandwich spread. It’s white. It looks like mayonnaise, from a distance anyway. Actually, no it doesn’t. It’s not even close. It’s disgusting. Please take my word for it, I’m not exaggerating.

Not like mayonnaise. I just love mayonnaise. My favorite cartoon character is Patty Mayonnaise from Doug. When I get sick, I insist on getting treated at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. If I could start my own TV show, it would be called Man Vs. Mayo, starring me, with the premise being exactly that of Man Vs. Food, but instead of food, I’d just challenge myself to eat as much mayonnaise as possible, every episode.

Before I end it here, I’d like to point out that you don’t see enough dessert mayonnaise. I think that’s got to change eventually. Just add some sugar, some vanilla extract. I’d eat a bowl of that. Actually, that sounds pretty good, I think I have all of those ingredients right here in my kitchen. Yeah, so, I’ll let you know how it turns out. Now if you’ll excuse me.

Hey look, Canadians!

This morning I was riding my bike to work. I was all hopped up on some weird kind of euphoric energy. It was a mix of a couple of things, coffee, mostly. I always have three cups, and while they always feel great, they don’t always hit me this great, like great, great. Who knows, maybe it depends on how much food I have in my stomach, I have no idea. But I was feeling amazing, like I could do anything.

And so I was riding my bike, it’s below freezing out but I wasn’t bothered. It felt terrific, totally invigorating. Not only was my mood fantastic, but my body also, I imagined it an extension of my ultra-positive state of mind. Sometimes I’ll be riding my bike in the cold and it won’t feel great at all, my body won’t feel totally up to the task, like the morning commute might be a little bit more of a chore than I’d like it to be. But this morning it was a pleasure, a real treat.

I was pedaling away, the bike at its top gear, my legs pumping away, only feeling limited by the gears of the bike itself. I’m pretty sure I had enough energy to bike across the country if I wanted to. As I was flying down Crescent toward the Queensboro Bridge, I saw these people in front of a hotel, they were packing their bags into their car.

As I got closer to the car I see it’s a Quebec license plate. And I was just feeling so happy, so thrilled to be alive, and look, Canadians! And I wanted to share some of my positive energy with the Canadians, but I was going so fast, and so my intentions were hampered by the fact I didn’t really have enough time to, one, register their presence as being a foreign one and, two, think up something nice and clever or happy or funny or whatever to say to them.

So I wound up just screaming out, “Quebec!” and giving them a thumbs-up. But, and I know I keep repeating my words here, but I really was flying, like much faster than traffic. Obviously a car can go faster than a bike. But speed bumps? Traffic lights? I was definitely cruising down Crescent much quicker than any car. So quick that I didn’t even get to look at the Canadians as I shouted out to them their car’s point of origin.

And at that point I said to myself, “All right Rob, better calm it down a notch,” because, seriously, this was almost a good mood bordering on a manic episode. I wanted to make sense of what was going on, with my ebullience (that’s a pretty big word right there, but I’m demonstrating how elevated my mood was, like big-word elevated) with the Canadians. I stopped for a second and hopped off my bike, took out my iPhone and wrote “Quebec” in the little notepad application.

So now here I am, it’s after work, the sun’s down, I’m trying to get some writing done, and I open up the notepad app, and see “Quebec.” And now I’m struggling to put myself back in those happy shoes I was wearing this morning. I’m not in a bad mood, not at all. But I definitely wouldn’t describe myself as euphoric, or ebullient.

And I’m thinking about it from the Canadians’ point of view. How was their morning? Did their bodies respond to their morning coffee in the same way that mine had? Maybe they drank too much, it left them a little jittery. Or maybe not enough and they had a killer tension headache. That always happens to me when I’m away from home. I don’t have my kitchen, my coffee pot, my routine, and so I’m always feeling under caffeinated on the road.

And they were packing up, so, what, New York vacation over? Already? But it must have felt like they just got here, like there was still so much that they didn’t get to see. And did it live up to their expectations? Were they trying a little too hard to tell themselves that they really had a good time?

Getting ready for that long drive back to Quebec. Packing everything away in the car. And then this cyclist flies by and screams, “Quebec!” but he says it like a non-Quebecer, like “Kwa-beck!” instead of the “Keh-bec” that, now that he’s writing it all out, much later in the day, he always imagines Quebecers to say it like that, the second way. And maybe that was it, they were like, “all right, let’s hit the road, we’ve got a long drive, we’ve got to get to a gas station so we can get some gas and some coffee and let’s head back to Canada.”

I don’t know. I hope they had a nice trip. I hope the coffee hit them just right. I hope they got to feel during their stay here as good as I felt this morning, even for just a moment, that joy I got to feel just for my own fleeting moment.

My five-year plan

I went on this job interview and the woman asked me, “Rob, where do you see yourself in five years?” And I didn’t know what to say. So I spent twenty five percent of my mental energy trying to look natural while I used the other seventy five percent to try and think up a decent answer. My thought process went like this:

Five years, huh? Well right now I’m at this interview. OK, so after this I’m probably going to be pretty hungry, hungrier even, because I’m already kind of hungry right now. Going in for a job interview is so stressful. I didn’t want to spill anything on my shirt and tie so I skipped breakfast. I just grabbed a banana. But that didn’t do anything. So lunch, yeah, I think there’s a cool empanada place by here. If I get this job, how often am I going to be eating empanadas? I should probably try to limit myself, once a week, twice, tops. Empanadas are delicious, but healthy? Not really. A lot of dough, butter. And it’s not like I’m going to choose the healthy vegetable option every time, probably not even ever. I hope they have a sausage empanada. Or a breakfast empanada. I hope they still have breakfast empanadas when I’m done with this interview.

Then I’ll probably go home. Jesus, I’ve got to speed up this thought process. How long did it take me to think through the whole empanada thing? Is she still looking at me? Am I looking like I’m thinking intently about her question? Because five years from now, that’s what I’ve got to be answering, and I haven’t even gotten through the rest of today. Maybe if I raise my finger slightly in the air and then I’ll open my mouth like I’m about to say something, and then I’ll close my mouth and make an even more pensive expression, like five years is a serious thing to think about, and so, yeah, I’ll bring that finger down from the air and bring it to my temple, like I’m really, really thinking, and that should buy me enough time to figure out the next five years.

Let’s see, I should probably assume that I’m getting this job, right? Or is that going to come off as too aggressive? No, they want aggressive. Do they want aggressive? Or do they want humble? Humble but strong. Strong but sensitive. Sensitive but with enough of a thick skin to not overly reveal too much sensitivity. Smart. Funny. Not too funny. Funny enough where people look forward to interacting with me, but not too funny to be seen as a distraction from work. Just kind of amiable. Aggressively entertaining, in a subtle but hardworking way.

“Nobody has five years planned out exactly. But in what direction do you see yourself headed?”

Shit, that was a follow-up question. I am taking too long. I’ve got to stall for some more time.

“Well, in five years I think I’m going to be doing a lot of subtle hard work. No, what I mean is … it’s just.”

That didn’t come out right. You’ve got to be more assertive. Just open your mouth and tell her what she wants to hear. You can do this. You’ll be eating empanadas every day. Screw the savings of bringing in a boxed lunch. You’ll be the living embodiment of success. They’ll be giving you empanadas for free. And you’re a funny guy. Say something funny.

“In five years, I think I’ll have eaten a lot of empanadas by then. Haha. Have you ever been to that empanada place around here? I’ve heard wonderful things. What I mean to say is, I’m definitely going to be a great addition to the team here. I insist that you hire me. Too aggressive? Sorry. Not too aggressive?”

Ask to go to the bathroom. No, don’t ask. Just go. Just get out. Just buy a bunch of empanadas to eat on the way back home. Buy a lot. You might not be back around this part of town anytime soon in the next five years.

My friend’s grandmother just died

Andre’s grandmother just died. We hadn’t spoken in months, but when I heard the news, I really felt like I should maybe reach out, try to offer my condolences. I didn’t want to call him up, because we always have this tendency to play phone tag and then get in fights. None of that’s really important. Not now. I figured, OK, I’ll just go to the wake. I’ll just show up and be there for him.

So I get there and there are tons of people. I’m worried that Andre’s not going to see me. And I’m not wasting a whole night at a funeral home for some lady that I’ve never even met before if Andre’s not going to know that I’m there, that I’m there for him. So I tried to grab his attention while I was on line to view the casket. I was like, “Hey! Andre! Hey!” and he looked over and kind of lifted his head in recognition, and so I thought that he saw me, that he was acknowledging my presence, but right after I stepped out of the line to go over and say hi, some lady walked right up and they shared this long, slow hug. It must have been one of his aunts or something. Was he looking at me? I thought so. Unless he was playing games with me. But I’d let this one slide, this was his night. Whatever makes him feel better, whatever lets him cope.

So then I tried to get back in line, but some other lady started giving me a hard time. “Listen lady,” I was getting really kind of annoyed here, “This isn’t the line for a roller coaster. I was waiting right here, and I thought Andre was calling me over.” And she didn’t even respond, she just looked at me all offended, like I’m the one causing the scene. So I just kept going, “Relax, all right? There’s going to be plenty of time to kneel down in front of that box.”

Still, no response. So I looked to the person behind her, clearly eavesdropping on the whole interaction, and I just kept staring at him, shaking my head in disapproval, like, can you believe this lady? But after I made eye contact with him all of the sudden he looked away, like now he wanted nothing to do with any of this. So I said to him, “What, so now you’re not interested? Don’t tell me you weren’t paying attention.”

And then that guy and the lady behind me, they kind of looked at each other, like it’s me, like I was the problem here. So I looked at both of them and said, “Fine, here you go. Please. I insist. Happy?” and I walked out of line and went to the back. No way would I have been able to stand there without getting into it. And this wasn’t about me, it wasn’t about the line. It was about Andre. It was about his dead grandma.

Still, when I got to the back of the line, I couldn’t stop thinking about those two people, were they whispering to each other? Come on, all I did was get out of the line for a second. What is this a bakery? No, not a bakery. Bakeries give you those numbers. That probably wouldn’t work out too well at a wake.

The lady in front of me at the back of the line was sobbing, really heavy sobbing. At one point she looked to me, like she wanted to maybe start a conversation, like maybe she wanted to put her head on my shoulder. But I wasn’t really feeling it, so I took out my cell phone to kill some time.

Finally, I was at the box. I knelt down. How long do I have to kneel down here for? What am I supposed to be doing? I counted to thirty and then got up. I said hi to Andre’s mom. And then Andre.

“Sorry for your loss.”

“What were praying about?”

“Right now? Just then?”

“Yeah, what did you pray for?”

“Uh, you know, I just prayed that she’s in heaven, that …”

“Of course she’s in heaven. She doesn’t need you to pray for that.”

“Right, right. I just mean that, I hope that she’s happy in heaven.”

“Of course she’s happy. She’s with my grandfather. What’s wrong with you? By the way, real classy of you, getting in a fight with my aunt, using your cell phone at a funeral home.”

So he was calling out to me before, trying to get me out of the line. Wasn’t he?

“Listen Andre, I’m trying to be the bigger person here. Is this some sort of a coping mechanism? Because if that’s the reason, fine, I’ll get past it.”

“It’s not a coping mechanism. You should be a little more respectful.”

“Respectful? Since when can’t you use a cell phone at a funeral home? It was on silent. I wasn’t talking. Look, you’re aunt’s using hers right now.”

“She’s in mourning! She’s allowed to!”

“Well I’m in mourning too. Why do you think I’m here in the first place?”

“You’re not in mourning. You’re just an asshole.”

And so I got really pissed off, and I made a move, like I was going to push him, but I stopped myself, I remembered where we were, I saw his mom standing right next to him. Still, it must have been convincing enough, because he jumped back a little and bumped into some flowers and they all fell over. And I looked around and everybody’s just looking at each other, looking down at the floor, trying not to be a part of any of this all the while shaking their heads in disapproval.

A total self-reinvention

It’s a brand new me. I’m new and improved. And it’s more than just my new haircut. Do you like my new haircut? Yeah, I guess I don’t say “nice haircut” every time somebody I know gets a haircut, even if I notice it. Well, the old me doesn’t do that. The new me is all about that. Nice haircut. Well do you have it up differently? Whatever, it looks great, nice hair.

But the new me doesn’t care if you compliment me on my haircut. The new me gets haircuts every week, so that way it always looks like I’ve had a fresh cut, because I have, but you just won’t notice it, because that’s the way it’s always going to look, like right out of the package, like new, brand new.

Are those a new pair of boots? Really, that old? Well they look brand new. They look terrific. Boots, boots, boots. Ahem. You just look really put together, really sharp. Have you gone through any sort of personal reinvention lately? Like a brand new you? No, I don’t see why you’d need one, the right now you is totally working out fine.

But I needed something different. I can’t get stuck doing the same old for too long. Do you like my new boots? Yeah, they cost like four hundred bucks. And you can’t really tell unless I pull my pants up, but look how high up they go, totally leather, like Western inspired, like the Wild West. And these jeans. Man, I thought boot cut jeans would have been exactly what I should have gone for with these boots, but that’s such an old me way of approaching life, fashion. No, I went with the slim, extra slim. So you can kind of see the outline of the boots even with the pants rolled down. Actually, I’m having a little trouble here getting this leg down again over the boot. Maybe it’s a little too slim. Just, here, you pull, I’ll make sure the boot doesn’t get caught, no, not like … no, that’s it, you got it.

All right, brand new brand new me, starting right this second. That pant leg mishap doesn’t count. But wait, this brand new brand new me, I got a haircut two days ago, I need to get another one, right now. I’ll get it later. That’ll be a totally reinvented brand new me. I guess this is like a transitory brand new me. Maybe I shouldn’t get so hung up about the haircut.

I need a new watch. You would have thought I’d have planned this out a little better, maybe like write a list: Title: Brand New Me. And then I’d underline that title, and then I’ll do like bullet-points. Bullet point: watch. Bullet point: boots. But that’s where I think I lost myself. I just thought, in my head, not on paper, bullet point: boots. I went online, bought the boots, got a haircut, broke the boots in at home, came in with the perfect boot-jean pairing. Brand new me. Right? No.

Watch, what else? Do you have a pen? Cufflinks. Cufflinks? No, not with jeans. With jeans? No, definitely not with jeans. Tie clips. Bowties. I should have bought some lifts for my boots, just maybe like an extra inch or two, really tower myself over everybody else. But wait, if I’m that high up, everybody’s less likely to notice my haircut, it’ll be too far away. Maybe just an extra half-inch.

Are those new glasses? Ahem.