uberhoot
Sunday, September 30, 2007
You Should Have Thought of that Before We Left
A return to Überhoot's über-roots... a little old school collage action. ¶ 11:56 AM 0 Comments
A return to Überhoot's über-roots... a little old school collage action. ¶ 11:56 AM 0 Comments
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Fisher Price houseboat
I found a whole Flickr group devoted to vintage Fisher Price toys. Oh, the awesomeness. I miss my Little People Happy Houseboat #985...
¶ 1:07 PM 1 Comments
Friday, September 7, 2007
FOOB takes it too far
Just when you thought the FOOBiverse couldn't irritate you any more thorougly with the icky Liz / Grandthony storyline, the FOOB Web site unveils a whole nauseating tribute page to the relationship between Elizabeth and fiction's wimpiest man.
Oh, for crap's sake. ¶ 12:57 PM 0 Comments
Oh, for crap's sake. ¶ 12:57 PM 0 Comments
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Bad Sandwiches
I was pondering a leftover half sandwich yesterday. It was late afternoon, and the sandwich was not fairing well after being wrapped in a napkin and left on the counter for several hours. I generously offered it to my spouse, who had eaten the first half at lunch, but he turned it down.
I had made the sandwich for him. It had avocado in it, which is his thing and not mine. To me, avocados belong in one place and one place only, and that is guacamole, not in a sandwich. Nevertheless, I took a couple bites, because I had just been thinking it was about time for a snack (which is why I was wandering into the kitchen in the first place). The leftover sandwich wasn’t any better than expected—dry and tasteless, with an offensive smush of avocado.
I really don’t like my own sandwiches. I love sandwiches made by other people. Even a stale, old sandwich made by someone else is better to me than a fresh new sandwich I made. I’ve tried many ways around it, but no amount of time, planning, or effort seems to change my feelings on this. Over the years people have tried giving me pointers for how to achieve that "made by someone else" flavor. Someone once insisted to me that putting a layer of mayonnaise and a layer of mustard on each piece of bread will do the trick. I diligently tried that for years, but I am finally admitting the truth. It does not make a difference.
Sometimes, if there is no hope in sight of someone making a sandwich for me, I’ll make one ahead, wrap it in plastic, refrigerate it, and eat it later. It usually tastes a little better that way, maybe because the ingredients have had a chance to meld together, or the plastic has had time to release some particles into the bread, making it seem slightly artificial. But more likely it is because the time I made it is farther away and I’ve started to forget. It’s still nowhere near as good as a sandwich made by someone else of course, which tastes entirely different and better.
As a result of this annoying preference I end up dribbling away money on frivolous things like buying lunch. This was made crystal clear to me one lunch hour about eight years ago. I was standing at a deli counter waiting for my order, an Asian noodle salad, which in my opinion is even better than a store-bought sandwich, and infinitely better than a homemade sandwich. I was probably drooling a bit in anticipation.
An acquaintance happened to be waiting next to me in the crowd—a tall, glowing, blonde, mother of two. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she grinned at me sheepishly and said, “I can’t believe I’m buying a SANDWICH. Like I can’t even make my own SANDWICH.”
This from a woman who ostensibly has to make THREE sandwiches, EVERY TIME, since she has two kids, and I can't even summon up enough enthusiasm to make one? Goodness! What is wrong with me?
Her comment has been festering in my mind ever since (obviously), to the point where I can no longer order a sandwich without being struck by a pang of guilt and having a miniature version of her lovely face, sparkling with health, maternal good sense, and a fetching sprinkle of freckles, appear in a little bubble over my head, uttering her poignant words.
Really that was all she said, but in my imagination she is much more effusive on the topic. “SOME people have standards. SOME people have ethics. SOME people would not stoop so low as to regularly BUY sandwiches,” she glowers down her nose at me while I cringe in humiliation.
If I end up living on the streets in my retirement, there will be no one else to blame.
Yes, I can make my own sandwich, but I don’t want to. Is this too much to ask? Or can we trade lunch or something?
By the way, I happen to feel the same way about salads, unless they’re those goopy kinds with lots of mayonnaise or fruit, which creep me out no matter who makes them. ¶ 10:22 AM 2 Comments
I was pondering a leftover half sandwich yesterday. It was late afternoon, and the sandwich was not fairing well after being wrapped in a napkin and left on the counter for several hours. I generously offered it to my spouse, who had eaten the first half at lunch, but he turned it down. I had made the sandwich for him. It had avocado in it, which is his thing and not mine. To me, avocados belong in one place and one place only, and that is guacamole, not in a sandwich. Nevertheless, I took a couple bites, because I had just been thinking it was about time for a snack (which is why I was wandering into the kitchen in the first place). The leftover sandwich wasn’t any better than expected—dry and tasteless, with an offensive smush of avocado.
I really don’t like my own sandwiches. I love sandwiches made by other people. Even a stale, old sandwich made by someone else is better to me than a fresh new sandwich I made. I’ve tried many ways around it, but no amount of time, planning, or effort seems to change my feelings on this. Over the years people have tried giving me pointers for how to achieve that "made by someone else" flavor. Someone once insisted to me that putting a layer of mayonnaise and a layer of mustard on each piece of bread will do the trick. I diligently tried that for years, but I am finally admitting the truth. It does not make a difference.
Sometimes, if there is no hope in sight of someone making a sandwich for me, I’ll make one ahead, wrap it in plastic, refrigerate it, and eat it later. It usually tastes a little better that way, maybe because the ingredients have had a chance to meld together, or the plastic has had time to release some particles into the bread, making it seem slightly artificial. But more likely it is because the time I made it is farther away and I’ve started to forget. It’s still nowhere near as good as a sandwich made by someone else of course, which tastes entirely different and better.
As a result of this annoying preference I end up dribbling away money on frivolous things like buying lunch. This was made crystal clear to me one lunch hour about eight years ago. I was standing at a deli counter waiting for my order, an Asian noodle salad, which in my opinion is even better than a store-bought sandwich, and infinitely better than a homemade sandwich. I was probably drooling a bit in anticipation.
An acquaintance happened to be waiting next to me in the crowd—a tall, glowing, blonde, mother of two. We exchanged pleasantries, and then she grinned at me sheepishly and said, “I can’t believe I’m buying a SANDWICH. Like I can’t even make my own SANDWICH.”
This from a woman who ostensibly has to make THREE sandwiches, EVERY TIME, since she has two kids, and I can't even summon up enough enthusiasm to make one? Goodness! What is wrong with me?
Her comment has been festering in my mind ever since (obviously), to the point where I can no longer order a sandwich without being struck by a pang of guilt and having a miniature version of her lovely face, sparkling with health, maternal good sense, and a fetching sprinkle of freckles, appear in a little bubble over my head, uttering her poignant words.
Really that was all she said, but in my imagination she is much more effusive on the topic. “SOME people have standards. SOME people have ethics. SOME people would not stoop so low as to regularly BUY sandwiches,” she glowers down her nose at me while I cringe in humiliation.
If I end up living on the streets in my retirement, there will be no one else to blame.
Yes, I can make my own sandwich, but I don’t want to. Is this too much to ask? Or can we trade lunch or something?
By the way, I happen to feel the same way about salads, unless they’re those goopy kinds with lots of mayonnaise or fruit, which creep me out no matter who makes them. ¶ 10:22 AM 2 Comments
Monday, September 3, 2007
Non Sequitur
This comic is pissing me off. Aside from the fact that it can't seem to make up its mind what it is about (Obviousman? Headless ghosts? Gothic pre-teens and imaginary horses? Kennebunkport fishermen with cats riding on their shoulders?) it had to go and weirdly crap all over this nice little character Brenda, owner of the Clam Shack, who was in love with this chubby middle aged talk show host guy, by having him dump all over her in favor of her sister, who is drawn with bigger breasts.
Wiley Miller, this storyline sucks. ¶ 8:57 PM 0 Comments
This comic is pissing me off. Aside from the fact that it can't seem to make up its mind what it is about (Obviousman? Headless ghosts? Gothic pre-teens and imaginary horses? Kennebunkport fishermen with cats riding on their shoulders?) it had to go and weirdly crap all over this nice little character Brenda, owner of the Clam Shack, who was in love with this chubby middle aged talk show host guy, by having him dump all over her in favor of her sister, who is drawn with bigger breasts.
Wiley Miller, this storyline sucks. ¶ 8:57 PM 0 Comments
