Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Nine Numbers
Posted on January 05, 2012Nine phone numbers. They are:
323 829 6396
415 816 8728
520 260 8787
949 939 1676
213 321 9920
949 521 4014
310 920 2793
520 260 4080
949 842 5324
On New Year’s Day I received a text wishing me a “Happy New Year.” What I knew was hat I hadn’t had any contact with anyone on the list except for one person with whom I’d gone to law school. I responded with, “It’s been a while. I guess my number was still in your phone.” I thought it was sufficiently neutral when I really wanted to text, “We haven’t spoken since 2007. Why fucking bother to wish me a happy anything? You were one of the many friends I lost when I really, really needed friends. Fuck you very much.”
Apparently this former friend knew how I felt despite my intended neutrality because she responded that I seemed “bitter,” “snippy,” and “mad.” At one time she knew me quite well but it’s true that we’ve not communicated with each other in any way whatsoever since 2007, or possibly early 2008.
I fucking hate mass text messages because they are all complete bullshit. Back on Thanksgiving I got a text message from my high school girlfriend and I responded that I had no interest in silly contrived mass messages. She assured me she had meant to message me and then was nice enough to attempt a “conversation” that I know was nothing more than a way to assuage her guilt.
So I struck up a conversation with Happy New Year, thinking that maybe she just didn’t have an excuse to contact me in the four years of birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and fucking Arbor Days since we last spoke. When we last spoke she did offer to “be a friend” if I wanted to talk, but I was in the midst of a depression that was so incredibly fucking boring that I didn’t want to subject any friends to it, so I didn’t. I suppose it was my place to let her know that I was no longer depressed, but by that time it had been so long since we’d spoken that I didn’t bother.
One of the things that made it easy for me not to bother was that chances were decent that Happy New Year and my ex-husband were still friends. Even though she went to law school with me, they got along quite well and he even had a crush on her. I have no interest in knowing anything about him or him knowing anything about me, which has been easy since we no longer have any mutual friends.
Despite my misgivings, I assured Happy New Year that I wasn’t at all mad and asked how she was. We had had two text exchanges within 15 minutes so I expected a relatively quick reply letting me know how she was. I didn’t expect anything deep, just a, “Been good. Have new job/kid/man, etc. How’re you?” I got nothing. For three days.
Maybe I should have given her more time to respond, but I don’t have any reason or inclination to keep in touch with people just for the sake of keeping in touch with them. That could be why I have very few friends I’ve known for very long. I’m still in contact with the aforementioned high school girlfriend, and still in contact with a good friend I had when I lived in southern California, and talk to a few friends from law school, and am still close with my old secretary from my first job as a lawyer, but no one I can say is my best friend or for whom I’d “do anything.” And that’s fine. I understand that I may be a difficult person.
I responded, “I guess you don’t care to tell me. Don’t ‘communicate’ w/me unless you actually want to, you know, communicate w/me.” I don’t imagine I’ll ever get a response to that.
I swear. True story.
badcowboy-2
Posted on December 27, 2011[Warning: This post will come across as bitchy, catty, snarky, and, some will think, just plain mean. Too fucking bad. It's my blog and I'll do what I want with it. Some people are so dumb they don't even know they're being made fun of. Yes, I pick on those less fortunate than myself.
This is the second time writing this because fucking WordPress signed me the fuck out and didn't let me save the draft. Consequently, I'm a wee bit pissed off. That means it might be even bitchier than I originally envisioned.]
I recently received a message on OkCupid, “Nice attitdue and mouth at the bottom. Loved your profile till then. Omg some people actually own a car and might dribe the 20 minutes too you.”
He didn’t seem to like the fact that the final paragraph of my profile is written in all caps and that it says – for the third time in the profile – that I have no interest in anyone who doesn’t live in the city of Chicago, even if he has a car and is willing to come to me. Not that I need to justify my desires, but if a guy lives in the burbs where the fuck are we supposed to fuck, if we want to fuck? I’m sure as shit not going to the burbs. Chicago has great public transportation so there’s no good reason to drive in the city. And the environment and all that.
Even if the guy wasn’t on about a car, he had misspelled four words in three sentences including using the wrong to/too/two. It’s in my fucking profile that spelling, grammar, and punctuation matter to me. Many have complained that those things are unimportant, that the chemistry between the people is what matters. That’s true, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know that I won’t have any chemistry with someone who doesn’t know the difference between “til” and “till.” I suppose all his misspellings could be attributed to typos – he was so angry at seeing that he didn’t qualify for me that he was typing really hard and really fast, mixing up the letters in “attitude,” typing too many letters in “till” and “too,” and missing the V for the B in “drive.” If that’s the case, then he’s careless, something to which I am not attracted.
I’m also not attracted to pointless lashing out. He saw that we weren’t a match but instead of moving on he felt the need to send his carefully worded message. I had one for him as well, “So you went out of your way to send me a misspelled message because you like your car? I would think that with all the entertaining options out there you’d have something better to do.”
That would have been that, but he couldn’t let it go so he sent another message, “And your still complaining[.]“ That’s it, motherfucker. I was being nice before, but then he sent me a message without the courtesy of a fucking period (or the correct your/you’re).
“And you still don’t know how to spell. Lame shithead.”
Then I took a look at his profile. So many gems all in one place!
This is his main profile picture. The quality is astounding!
In the “details” section he indicated that he was a basic white guy with a college education. That, and that he claimed to be fluent in English both surprised me, but I guess education isn’t what it used to be.
He had recently updated his profile including wishing readers a Merry Christmas, and asking for suggestions on how to have better luck on OkCupid. Because I’m all generous and shit I decided to read the rest of the profile so I could give him some advice.
Under “What I’m doing with my life”:
I am tired, so many projects so little time.. I just redid my whole front of my truck,I was all over the road before this. N Good for another 300k
I try to eat healthy as much as possible but not a freak about it. Still need my coke. Sorry folks ya need some taste aka fat. No fat = no taste.
I walk often and been doing that since I was a kid. Always to this day walk around my neighborhood almost everyday. Sundays at the flea market much walk 2 – 4 miles.
I have some nice plants in my back yard that came with the house and trying to improve upon every year. My butterfly bush is so big and flowery should see all the butterflies I get. Also threw some tomatoes out last year in the yard for the animals ( as I love animals even find spiders in my house and let them outside instead of squashing )and some how they sprouted plants this year. Cool
Of course it’s just plain poorly written. Though he indicated that he never did drugs, I guess he’s unwilling to consider his daily cocaine habit; he needs it so it must be medicine. My absolute favorite – every time I read it I laugh out loud, literally – is “I walk often and have been doing that since I was a kid.” Really, you’ve been walking since you learned how to walk? How amazing. Basically, the guy just seems really fucking boring, and not too smart.
He’s “really good at”:
Shooting stick, golf, tennis, bowling, air hockey, darts, computers and restoring older cars. Love riding Quads Chevelle. Can fix almost anything and have the second largest tool box sears makes to prove that. It is cheaper to do the job and buy the tools to do it then have it done. When you buy good tools they last forever too. I have my dads tools and maybe some of his dads. Got some big tools and always wanting bigger ones. Craftsman tools and Chevy cars / trucks.
Real men don’t need instructions. (seen that one a T-Shirt at Sears and loved it fits me well)
Interesting facts:
I haven’t had a credit card in 10 years.
I haven’t had a full time job in 10 years or so.
I have 5 college degrees and two minors.
Associates in Applied Science
Associates in Arts
Associates in Computer Science
Bachelors in Computer Science with Certificate in Information Security
Bachelors in Interdisciplinary Studies with Minor in Management Information SystemsI have two certifications
Comp Tia A Plus
Comp Tia SecurityI have many cars and trucks.
I have never broken a bone.
I never owned a new car or new lawnmower
I can fix almost anythingMy last few cars and trucks were under $500 (my truck I currently drive has over 288k and not scared to take it anywhere. Love big tires and the noise they make down the road.).
I think he wants bigger tools because he wants a bigger tool in his pants. 
Mostly though the guy is a tool. Did he realize he was writing his profile to attract potential sex partners? Because it reads like he’s looking for a buddy. And he’s not even ambitious: Why doesn’t he have Sears’ largest tool box?
The guy may have five college degrees, but the guy is still a ‘tard. An associate degree is, in effect cancelled out by a bachelors degree. There’s no point in him mentioning the lower degrees after he earned his higher ones. As the Viking said, “It’s like saying he completed a four year program, as well as the first two years of that program.” (Or something like that, I wasn’t recording him.) I’m surprised he didn’t mention that he graduated from junior high and high school, or that he walked to school.
The Viking assured me that all the degrees and certificates make the guy one of those annoying IT guys you might have at your office, not a programmer or anything that would allow him to actually create things.
He has no clue what people first notice about him but guesses it’s his blue eyes. How the fuck can anyone tell what color his eyes are when he posts pictures like this? My guess is that no one notices him at all.
He mostly listens to country music and was nice enough to provide a link to a play list. Toby Keith, Garth Brooks, Lonestar, Keith Urban, and even Johnny Cash. I wonder if he knows that “Hurt” was not originally Johnny’s. He likes 80s and 90s music. Way to go out there and expand beyond what you listened to on the radio when you were a kid, buddy.
Like CSI shows, some sci fi and muscle car and 4 x 4 shows on Spike on Sat and Sun mornings.
Mexican and ItalianLike Pizzera Unio, Cheesecake Factory, Cracker Barrel and Northwoods.
A good home cooked pot roast w mashed potatoes is the bomb or even using the grill.
This guy is boring as shit. Why did he think we’d get along?! His most heinous crime is his taste in restaurants. Yep, I’m a food snob, which is one of the many reasons I don’t like the burbs, where the choices seem to be limited to shitty chain restaurants. At least he can cook, and even use a grill.
I may focus on sex a lot, but isn’t the point of meeting someone via OkCupid to eventually have sex? So I appreciate it when a guy’s profile says one of the six things he couldn’t do without is sex or women, or some combination thereof. Our cowboy, here, listed only five things, three of them being modes of transportation. The other two were computer and cats. Just. So. Fucking. Boring.
He spends “a lot of time thinking about” getting a masters, but what seems to be holding him up is that he’ll have to shell out about a grand for GMAT prep classes because he had a low GPA. Told you he was a dummy.
Then I began to feel kind of sorry for the guy because he said he spends a lot of time thinking about whether he’ll “find the one” for him, and he admits he’s no good at approaching women (though he wrote “woman”) “or understanding any of them.” Poor, sad, lonely, dumb, bad food eating, boring guy. I get the idea that maybe Mom wasn’t around. He definitely never had sisters. But surely by the time a person is 37 he’ll have figured out how to talk to the objects of his affection. From his messages to me I think he’s still in the elementary school stage of hitting girls and running away when he likes them. Yet he posted not one, but two, photos out of which he’s cut a woman. Yep, it’s true that he doesn’t understand women, or how not to be tacky. I especially like that he took the time to cut out the woman (or women) but then didn’t bother to crop the rest of the photo. This guy’s no visual artist.
I still have no clue why he bothered to get to the bottom of my profile considering he’s looking for women who are single. It’s probably that he’s dumb and doesn’t know OkCupid’s difference between “single” and “available,” something I’ve had to explain to a couple of guys.
I no longer felt pity for him when I read his “you should message me if” section:
Not looking for penpals. If you need more then a month of back and forth daily emails and not ready to get past the first meeting it will not work.Please send a personal emailnot something like “we have lots in common” . Tell me what made you reply, Else I know you didn’t read my profile.Your in good shape, not scared to get dirty and have no kids.
Live in the area not hours away unless its STL or AZ. .Must have a full picture not just your head. Must not be scared to meet. ;)Side note : If I save you as a favorite, its cause we like your profile but getting tired of writing long personals emails only to be deleted and sometimes never read just deleted. Yet you woman cant find a good man. So feel free to say hey.Thanks so much
Every fucking grammar, spelling, and punctuation mistake made me hate him more. And his demands made me know that he’s a fucking ridiculous loner who probably has never had an adult relationship.
And then I saw why he got to the end of my profile, “not scared to get dirty.” He saw that I listed myself as bisexual and thought I must be “dirty.” While I am quite dirty, not every person who considers herself bisexual wants threesomes and so on. Or maybe he meant he wanted someone to help fix things with him, who wouldn’t fuss when she got dirt under her natural (he hates fakes) fingernails. When his writing is so shitty it’s no wonder it’s not clear what the fuck his version of “dirty” means.
That he’s making such demands, they must be in shape and child-free, when he’s not provided that information himself just screams how clueless he is. Inexplicably he makes an exception to his rule that the lady should be close geographically with the city of Seattle and the state of Arizona. Huh?
I like how he thinks he knows what any of the women to whom he writes does with his messages. How the fuck would he know if the messages are 1) read, 2) deleted, or 3) deleted prior to reading? Since it takes him so much brain power to compose messages, he’s upset that they don’t get responses. I’m not the only one who cares about grammar, etc.
I like how he switched to the royal “we;” I’m sure he knows why he did it. “Yet you woman can’t find a good man.” No, she (cause he must be talking to a single woman) just finds you not a good man.
Notice that he’s not smiling with teeth in any of these photos? That’s a sure sign of some fucked up teeth. At least he knows enough to hide ‘em.
I was still nice enough to give him some advice: “You’re not having any luck on OkC b/c your profile makes you seem dumb and boring. Just a little tip for you. You’re welcome. “Coke” is the drink, “coke” is the drug.” Then I blocked him.
I swear. True story.
Is it (that) Hard?
Posted on December 19, 2011This week the book MWF Seeking BFF comes out. I don’t notice when most books come out so this book, about a woman who moves to Chicago because of her partner’s job (sound familiar?) and then spends a year looking for a best friend, must’ve struck a chord. I’m still not sure if I’m going to bother to read it.
I’ve been in Chicago a year and I don’t have a BFF here. I have a good friend whom I see about once a month when she comes into the big city from the ‘burbs. I’ve met a lot of people that I thought maybe could be my friend but so far nothing’s worked out.
I know that friendly relationships are like romantic ones in that you just have to keep cycling through them until eventually you find someone with whom you click, but it’s time consuming, nerve wracking, and heartbreaking. At least with romantic (read, sexual) relationships I can resort to sex if we don’t have much to say to each other.
I tried strictly platonic Craig’s List listings with no success. Of course I could go back and beat the dead horse some more but I just don’t have the energy to wade through oceans of stupidity.
Through Meetup.com I signed up for a group that seemed like it could be fun. The host said our activities were to truly bond, not just to meet acquaintances. To that end, she planned drunken brunches, Brazilian waxes, sex shops, and tattoo and piercing events for our meetups. Fun! I used to have groups of girlfriends with whom I’d go to spas and such, and I love me a drunken brunch, so I was in. Bonus was that the Meetup organizer was also new to Chicago so we could commiserate with each other over winter woes (she was from Texas).
The first time I met ladies from the group was a brunch of the drunken variety. We all started out sober, but that didn’t last long in a place where the mimosas were bottomless. The food was decent, too, especially considering it, too, was bottomless. Over buffet food and lots of mimosas we talked, but the true sharing didn’t happen until we started playing “Never Have I Ever.” Turned out one of the ladies at the table had never given a blow job and another lady had never kissed a girl. The one who hadn’t had cock in her mouth had been kissing only girls until very recently and had yet to get a taste for cock, and the one who had never kissed a girl hadn’t had the drunken coed experience despite having very recently completed Ohio State.
After our adult bonding the whole group went to a sex shop where quite a few of us bought some toys. No one was freaked out by the store, and after our game of “Never Have I Ever” it would have been odd if anyone was. They didn’t seem phased at all when I bought a strap-on harness. I ran for the bus saying a fond goodbye to my new friends.
Well, “friends.” I didn’t have anyone’s phone number; any contact was through the Meetup.com page. I was excited that I had had a fun day with a group of ladies. I wasn’t concerned that everyone else who had attended the brunch seemed to already know each other; there has to be a first time meeting for everyone, right? The group had proved itself to be open minded, and alcohol-, queer-, and swear-friendly so I was in.
The next time we got together was at a tattoo and piercing studio. I had been planning a tattoo for a long time but had never gotten around to it in San Francisco so I knew exactly what I wanted. I showed up slightly early and set about getting the tattoo. I was going to get it whether the other ladies showed up, but a little social support would have been nice. When I didn’t see them I figured most everyone had canceled and the host canceled the Meetup altogether since the last time I checked out the site. But I was going to get a tattoo no matter what.
After the artist drew what he thought I wanted and I approved it, he set about getting his station ready. Just as he called me back, the Meetup host showed up. She said that she and the other ladies had met earlier at a bar in order to build up courage. I don’t know if the host thought I was some sort of teetotaler – and she shouldn’t have considering our initial meeting over many mimosas – but I told her that drinking before a tattoo or piercing is not a good idea since alcohol can thin the blood, which can be troublesome, especially for a tattoo.
As I began getting tattooed, the host went to retrieve the other ladies from the bar. Everyone else showed up just as my tattoo was getting bandaged so none of them saw it fresh. A couple of the ladies got tattoos and a couple other got piercings.
Afterwards we went to a pretty dead sports bar across the street. We chatted, and some of the conversation turned bawdy, but before too long someone wanted to get “supplies” for her new piercing and rather than stay by myself at a bar that was blasting whatever game was on, I opted to go home.
By this time the host and I had exchanged numbers. We texted each other some asking after our new body adornments, but that was it.
I RSVPd that I would go to several more of the group’s meeting, and I wanted to go, but then finances were such that it was silly for me to go out to dinner when there was food in the house, that it was silly for me to get a Brazilian wax when there was a beard trimmer in the house, that it was silly for me to go out drinking when there was booze in the house, so I RSVPd that I couldn’t go. The next time I was actually able to see them I would explain the situation.
I got a text when the ladies were out to Greek food (a thing here in Chicago) that they wished I had made it. How sweet! I was looking forward to the next drunken brunch at another place with bottomless mimosas. If nothing else, the Meetup group would allow me to survey bottomless mimosa brunches in Chicago.
When the brunch was still a couple of weeks off I got an official, do-no-respond-to-this-message message from Meetup.com letting me know the Meetup group was no more. Wha? The group’s site on Meetup.com said that the group was no longer active, but still noted the upcoming events. I was very curious so I texted the host. She didn’t respond. Well, I was sure I’d get a full explanation at the brunch.
And then the brunch was canceled. I never heard directly from the Meetup’s host so I have no idea why the group was dissolved. The insecure child in me thinks the group was dissolved just so the rest of the ladies could get together without the possibility of me showing up, but that’s silly, right? When we got together we had fun, I thought. Sure, I wasn’t into going out dancing at clubs, but I wouldn’t have been into doing that with anyone, no matter what their skin color.
Did I mention that I was the only white girl in the group? And I only bring this up because I brought it up to a couple of people who’ve lived in Chicago longer than I, and they suggested that that might be the reason the group was dissolved. They said Chicago is a very segregated city. Maybe I just live in a white privilege bubble, but I don’t see why if that is so that it has to go on being so. The things I felt I didn’t have in common with any of the ladies from the group – cock sucking experience, lady kissing experience – had absolutely nothing to do with race as far as I could tell. Or I’m just naive.
I’ve met a few ladies through OkCupid, but I guess that forum makes it necessary that there’s some sort of sexual spark if the “friendship” is to develop. And I would love to again have a friend with whom I like hanging and also fucking, but just the hanging part would absolutely be enough for me right now. One lady said I was too intense. One lady seemed as enthused to meet me as I was to meet her but then things fizzled out, I think because I’m not kinky enough, whatever that means. One lady I’m still not sure about.
I don’t have the fortitude to do a lady date a week for a year in order to find a friend like the woman who wrote MWF Seeking BFF, but I suppose I should keep trying.
Happy Fucking Anniversary
Posted on December 08, 2011On my fifth wedding anniversary my then-husband and I went to a very fancy restaurant for dinner. The restaurant’s chef had been lauded in all the local and national food magazines and by word-of-mouth. Part of that word-of-mouth was from a friend of ours (Well, mine now that we’re out the other end.) who had recently completed culinary school and who was working as a pastry chef in said fancy restaurant. The meal wasn’t going to be inexpensive but it was our anniversary so we decided to go for not only the chef’s tasting menu but also the wine parings with each of the eight or so courses.
We dressed up. I wore a vintage dress that was figure-flattering. The Ex wore a button-down shirt and a tie and jacket – the same combination thereof he had worn to our wedding. The jacket was still somewhat ill fitting, but not much can be expected from the young men’s equivalent of Express when pressed for time and money.
First we had a drink at the bar and then we were shown to our table in the plushly carpeted, heavy curtained, dimly lit room. Once we settled into our seats we were brought a bottle of champagne along with a note. The friend who worked at the restaurant – who was off that night – and his partner – with whom I’d gone to law school – had arranged for the champagne as an anniversary present, which was incredibly sweet.
With champagne flutes in hand our wait staff went to work telling us about our meals. Though we had both ordered the chef’s tasting menu, our meals would be different from one another’s, as would our wine, since it was paired with our particular dishes. I was very exited, and I liked that we would have the opportunity to taste twice as many dishes and wines since we could share.
I’m not sure exactly when it happened – if it was before the first course or between the first and second courses – but at the time there was no food on the table. We were sipping our champagne. We toasted. We smiled. He got a serious look on his face.
I don’t know what I expected. I know I hoped for something along the lines of, “I hope we have five more wonderful years together,” or some other clichè bullshit. If we weren’t blissfully married – and we were not, after all we’d been married for five years – then I thought the reason for the extravagant anniversary dinner was to acknowledge that there had been some good and some bad in the prior five years and to move forward in a positive fashion.
My then-husband and I had very different ideas of what it was to move forward in a positive fashion. His idea was not to start anew with hope. Or maybe he did think he was being hopeful when he said, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.” Then he said some other things that probably related to having once been so happy to be with me and those feelings fading over the years and wanting a fresh start, or something like that.
Truthfully, I didn’t hear much of anything beyond, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” and I’m not sure who at the receiving end of that sentence would. I calmly placed my napkin on the table, got up, and walked away.
I went to the bathroom where I thought about how fucking much the meal was costing us – a meal that we couldn’t afford and that we wouldn’t have planned except for the “special” occasion that he ruined with his shitty timing – and how I wasn’t about to let the insensitive idiot put that money to waste. I freshened up and returned to the table.
He told me he thought I had left. Suddenly he was concerned about my feelings. The rest of the several courses were tasty but icy, at least on my part. We did not taste each other’s courses – I had no interest in sharing with him nor in asking him to share with me.
Since we had wine with each course, by the end of the meal I felt almost happy. Well, my belly was full and my mind was intoxicated, both things that can feel like “happy” to someone who had no clue what she was feeling. Was I supposed to “make” my husband fall in love with me again? Life isn’t some fucking lame romantic comedy about how a couple can find love again.
So because I felt “happy” and because my then-husband didn’t want to be alone with me and hadn’t for some time – when we were home there was television and, except for that dinner, when we were out it was with a group – I agreed to go with him to meet up with some friends. At a dive bar. In the Tenderloin.
We had just dropped over $500 on what was supposed to be a romantic anniversary dinner but instead of spending some quality time together, he wanted to be around other people. Even after we broke up he wouldn’t fucking admit that we did so much socializing for the last few years of our relationship so we didn’t have to deal one-on-one with each other.
Sure, we were close to the Tenderloin so it would be easy to take a walk, or to be fancy and hop in a cab considering our attire, to hang out with some mutual friends. (“Friends” with whom I’ve had little to no contact since the final breakup.) And it was our anniversary so I didn’t want to go home alone, something I would have had to do since he was set on going out. So we went to the kind of Tenderloin dive bar that opens at 6am and has the kind of regulars that show up upon opening – daily.
I honestly don’t remember if it was that anniversary or the next one, or the next one, that a group of us ended up at our place after hours. I remember anniversary toasts from our friends. I remember a lot of drinking. I remember a lot of years of avoiding any difficult conversations by being too busy, by there being too many people around, by drinking too much, by wanting to enjoy a fucking anniversary meal (which is not the place or time for a difficult conversation, something my dolt of an ex-husband probably still doesn’t realize).
I swear. True story.
Dream Journal: 7/20/11
Posted on December 04, 2011[The Ex] in Chicago being helpful. I’m in a new apartment and he’s helping me settle in. I ask if he ever thought he’d find himself in Chicago. Have Isis with us at an outdoor restaurant. Take Isis to park across from restaurant. I see a tennis ball and go to pick it up but slip in mud. I end up getting deeper into the mud as I fall down the hill. I know not to struggle but I’m in deep – entire left leg and part of right – so I need help getting out. [The Ex] nowhere around. A group of college-age kids happen by and they help me out. {When I was having the dream I struggled with it being positive yet having [the Ex] in it and whether to write it down because not doing so assures I’ll forget it.}
Baby’s First Chicago Thanksgiving (4)
Posted on December 01, 2011[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (3)."]
Despite being a seasoned cook and knowing that the oven’s heat was significantly compromised every time the oven door opened, I didn’t have much of a choice. The cornbread for the dressing had to be dried out; the acorn squash had to be roasted.
Soon our other guests arrived. They brought a tomatillo gaszapacho and a pumpkin cheesecake along with some wine. Folks, the proper thing to do when going over to someone’s house for a meal, be it Thanksgiving dinner or lunch, is to bring something for the host. You can look that shit up on etiquette websites if you don’t believe me.
I put all the guests to work. They offered and considering I felt kind of pressed for time I accepted. One guest cut up the sage for the dressing – after I showed him how. One guest washed and peeled the veggies for the salad. She had offered to help but then seemed to want to get out of it but I didn’t let her; I needed hands working if we were to have a full meal. The Viking did most of the vegetable deconstruction for both the dressing and the salad.
The guests, despite having a selection of snacks available to them, were getting restless – and hungry – so as soon as the salad was ready everyone began picking at it. I was worried no one would like the salad, which consisted of very thinly sliced raw root vegetables (thanks to the Viking and his mandoline) over arugula with a hazelnut dressing, but they were all about it. So much about it, in fact, that I replenished the platter o’ salad and all of it was gobbled up. They also gobbled up most of the acorn squash. I was surprised everyone was so into the vegetables, but I supposed they didn’t have a choice since the turkey was still in the oven. We had gaszpacho to eat, too, so we had some of that and declared it quite tasty.
We were having fun socializing but I was getting worried. I had put a temperature probe in the turkey so I was watching that, not the time, to determine doneness. The thickest part of that thigh was not cooking nearly as fast as I had hoped. Sure, the oven was opened a bit in the beginning, but since I took out the squash I left the door shut. Still, it was cooking slow as shit. What I didn’t realize until a couple of days later when I was still lamenting my poor timing of the meal, was that all the turkeys I had cooked before this year were done in a convection oven. That hot blowing air really does make a difference so if you’re a roaster and considering investing in an oven, I suggest a convection-capable model. The turkey ended up taking about two hours longer than I had expected.
The guests were very nice, and by that point it’s not like they could have found a decent Thanksgiving meal elsewhere, and claimed they weren’t bothered by having to wait so fucking long for the turkey. The Viking said it was kind of fun to hear my frequent declarations of the turkey’s interior temperature.
When the turkey was finally up to temperature I pulled it out of the oven and put the turkey on its rack under foil to rest. The roasting pan went over two burners and one of the guests endeavored to make the gravy. I think he was really hungry and wanted to get on with it already. After a tasting the gravy was declared very salty. Shit. Then someone pointed to the blender. The blender – which had been taking up space on the counter since the guests arrived – was about a third full of a red sauce. Duh! The red sauce was a bunch of reconstituted dried chilies blended up to be added to the gravy, to make it an ancho chili gravy. Once that was stirred into the contents of roasting pan, the gravy was not too salty and it was downright tasty.
Finally, we could eat! The six of us ate less than a breast’s worth of meat on the 14.5 lb turkey, but I had designs for leftovers anyway. Some were going to go home with the guests. We had saved some very sturdy take-out containers from previous meals that would be perfect vessels for reheating. One of the guest helped me fill the containers. Well, “fill.” By that time I’d had quite a bit of wine and didn’t fully realize that my helper was having me put about a snack’s worth of food in each of the containers; I had meant to be much more generous.
There was dessert, the brought pumpkin cheesecake and ancho-chili crème brûlée that the Viking had made. Overall it was a pretty satisfying meal, if a bit disjointed due to my timing issues. Maybe you’re interested in seeing what the food looked like, or perhaps the recipes. Go ahead and take a look at the Viking’s food blog for all the details.
And the final (very minor) disaster of the day occurred when we were running the dishwasher. In my experience dishwashers are self-contained, keeping the water spraying within behind a locked door. Not that day. That day the dishwasher spit out a bunch of hot, dirty water all over the floor. While I removed my socks, junker towels (the ones that aren’t suitable for company) were retrieved, and we spent the rest of the evening trying to ignore the huge mess in the kitchen.
I swear. True story.
Baby’s First Chicago Thanksgiving (3)
Posted on November 25, 2011[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (2)."]
It was probably around noon when I got up. Getting up for me is a process of relatively long duration; I don’t drink coffee. The Viking was nice enough to make a brunch that would allow me to perform my chef duties.
And chef duties I did perform. I ended up doing a shit-ton of delegating because despite all my planning I felt pressed for time and put my sous chef, the Viking, and most guests to work.
Before that, I pulled the turkey out of the brine, but not before noticing the security of the bag in which the turkey and brine were to be protected from the surrounding icy water had been breached. Instead of turkey and brine staying in the bag and the properly concentrated brine doing its job on the turkey, sometime during the night the bag had sprung a leek. When I opened the lid of the ice chest I saw a turkey carcass floating in a tea-colored, ice-laden liquid. I figured the turkey could spend even more time in the not-so-briny liquid before it became too salty.
That may have been one of my many mistakes of the day, thinking I had more time than I did. Eventually, I put the turkey in the roasting pan and put it in the fridge to give the skin a chance a dry out. After making the achiote butter and making room between the turkey’s skin and its breasts for it to rest and baste, I made a chile and spice rub and caressed it into the turkey’s skin.
Then it was time for me to do my hair. I had seen a video of a woman with seemingly thick hair put her hair into a cute up do within minutes and I wanted to give it a go. I didn’t have the right kind of hair pins or any dry shampoo, but I thought bobby pins and mouse would make do. I was kind of wrong because bobby pins weren’t wide enough to take on my hair; the mousse worked pretty well. Because the pins weren’t strong enough, they didn’t hold up my hair, which was supposed to be in a cute bun-like configuration off-center on the back of my head. I ended up having a side pony tail that hopefully didn’t look too stupid.
My hair might have been less than it could have because when I was doing it our first guests arrived. We had told them to come over any time after 3pm but that it was very casual so I didn’t expect them until at the earliest, 3:30pm. However, they must have had a different idea because the doorbell buzzed at 3:02pm.
Of course they were welcomed, just not by me since I was doing my hair. The Viking let them in and showed them the snacks available on the sideboard. In addition to buying olives, pickles, and such from Whole Foods, I had made my own seasoned nut mix that was very “fall” with pumpkin seeds and maple syrup; the Viking put them all out in a very inviting manner.
After finishing my hair I greeted our guests and endeavored to get the turkey in the oven. Yes, guests had arrived and I had yet to put the turkey in. I knew from a few years of cooking them that turkeys don’t take nearly as long to cook as our mothers led us to believe they do so I wasn’t worried. Also, I did some math with the Viking’s help and we determined that the turkey should go in right around 3pm. Our guests thought the turkey was done – apparently because the chile and spice rub gave it a nice patina – so they weren’t worried either. I put the turkey with a temperature probe in a thigh in the preheated oven.
Then I endeavored to prep the dressing and the vegetable side dish, both of which needed time in the oven. Because they needed to go into the oven, and out of the oven, the oven door was opened quite a bit. Anyone who cooks knows a lot of heat is lost every time an oven door is opened. I knew that, I did.
To be continued ….
I swear. True story.
