Due in large part to the overwhelming responses I've received, I'll give you all a little bit of an update.
The Car: I asked the second hitter when she hit my car. She said Wednesday - clearly not the same hitter. I took her money anyway. I mean at the end of the day - she hit my car, the car is broken, and it wasn't my fault. It's not my fault that those things aren't necessarily related. And still, she could've been lying. She totally dropped off a check for about $475 to pay for the damages - sucks to hit a Saab.
The Fudge: still on the back burner - no pun intended.
The Bahamas: flipping amazing. I've decided to start replacing the word "bitch" for any unnecessary or implied nouns. Like "fire that bitch up" or "where'd that bitch go?" when looking for anything. It can also be used as a delightful adjective. Like, "how was the bahamas?" "Bitching." [sorry mom, but I think it's the tamest word I could've picked up]. I'm currently suffering from post-bahaman depression syndrome. It's a cruel world.
I also have a nice little anecdote about the DC metro. Last week, I ran to catch my train and I hopped on, only to realize I had hopped on going the wrong direction. I didn't realize my error for TWO stops. While I was riding the train in the wrong direction, some (obviously crazy) guy woke up, turned to me, and said, "Do I know you from somewhere?" "No," I replied. He then went into how he knew me from somewhere, "Were you in Dupont Circle in the summer of '97?"
What the hell was he talking about? Was I "in" the circle? Like walking through it? Or living in it? I said no again because clearly I was still living at home in 1997. Lunatic.
Oh and on Monday after I got home, I was walking back to my apartment and I went to pass this guy in front of me. I got to just about even with him when he spit off to the side and nearly missed me. He goes, "Oops, sorry!" I just let out a nervous laugh because there is certainly no appropriate response to that. I mean I'm not going to say, "It's ok," because it's obviously not ok. I've also been walking in about the same spot when a runner ran by me and I felt a drop of sweat fall onto my foot - disgusting.
That's about my only gripes for today.
Stay tuned - tomorrow I give blood!!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
Picture this...
You are riding the metro home from work. Your mind gets lost in thoughts of the Bahamas - sailing, swimming, sunbathing. You step off the train at your stop and look up only to realize you are two train lengths away from the exit - that's ok, nothing can discourage you today. Every step you take, every passing moment, is one step closer to the Bahamas.
But wait, what's this feeling on your leg? It's damp, no wait, it's downright wet. You reach your hand down to your leg and yes it's soaked. Now you look at your hand and leg in disgust. What is it? Why did I have to put my hand in it too - wasn't it bad enough that my leg was covered in it? Did you sit in it? Lean up against it? Did it leak on you from above; splash up from below? Is it coming from your body? Whatever it is, it's all over.
Your mind drifts away for a moment - nothing can upset you today - this is just a minor setback. Oh, but then it dawns it on you. That cold, wet, feeling could be nothing other than your water bottle leaking all over your gym bag. As it seeps out, it fills up your bag like a water balloon. "That's ok," you think to yourself. There's nothing important in there. Oh, but there is.
You stop on a metro bench to inspect the damage. Just gym clothes - that's ok - you ring it out. The water falls to the ground. You turn your bag upset down to drain it. Oh, but wait, there is something else in there - your iPod, oh right, and your headphones. But you've saved it before any serious damage.
You get to the gym and start dressing. You take out your gym clothes and that's right - one giant spot on your shirt is drenched - its cold, but it's not completely unpleasant. Oh, and one sock and one sneaker are drenched - together they make quite a pair. You get dressed anyway and show up to class looking like a half drowned rat - made all the more worse by the fact that you grabbed a t-shirt that's too big. Between the wetness and the oversizedness it's hanging down almost to your knees. The only things peaking out from this giant wet t-shirt are your chicken legs and scrawny arms.
Due to a schedule change, your class is cancelled, but you get convinced to do a "sports-inspired cardio workout for building strength and stamina." This "high energy interval training class uses powerful music to inspire and motivate people." The class gets going and you look at yourself - uncoordinated, scrawny, flailing about. Your left food stands in a puddle of cold, yet filtered, water. The instructor is a blonde, 30-something woman, with the energy of a teenage cheerleader who has had 10 shots of espresso. But you can't hate her. She looks better. She has more energy and she keeps telling you you're doing a great job even though you know you're the "special student" in the class.
The class gets going and everyone is dripping buckets of sweat. Your face is turning shades of red that can only be classified as purple. You start regretting that pizza hut personal pan pizza you had for lunch - because by "lunch," you mean 4pm snack. You're not sure if you're going to vomit, pass out, or break one of your chicken legs. You're pretty sure that there is the taste of blood in your mouth and you are still the least coordinated woman in the class. But that's ok.
That's right - nothing can upset you today - because today is one day closer to getting on that plane and arriving in the Bahamas! You get home, get ready for bed, and close your eyes - knowing that tomorrow your body is going to hate you. And you'll hate it right back, but that's OK.
But wait, what's this feeling on your leg? It's damp, no wait, it's downright wet. You reach your hand down to your leg and yes it's soaked. Now you look at your hand and leg in disgust. What is it? Why did I have to put my hand in it too - wasn't it bad enough that my leg was covered in it? Did you sit in it? Lean up against it? Did it leak on you from above; splash up from below? Is it coming from your body? Whatever it is, it's all over.
Your mind drifts away for a moment - nothing can upset you today - this is just a minor setback. Oh, but then it dawns it on you. That cold, wet, feeling could be nothing other than your water bottle leaking all over your gym bag. As it seeps out, it fills up your bag like a water balloon. "That's ok," you think to yourself. There's nothing important in there. Oh, but there is.
You stop on a metro bench to inspect the damage. Just gym clothes - that's ok - you ring it out. The water falls to the ground. You turn your bag upset down to drain it. Oh, but wait, there is something else in there - your iPod, oh right, and your headphones. But you've saved it before any serious damage.
You get to the gym and start dressing. You take out your gym clothes and that's right - one giant spot on your shirt is drenched - its cold, but it's not completely unpleasant. Oh, and one sock and one sneaker are drenched - together they make quite a pair. You get dressed anyway and show up to class looking like a half drowned rat - made all the more worse by the fact that you grabbed a t-shirt that's too big. Between the wetness and the oversizedness it's hanging down almost to your knees. The only things peaking out from this giant wet t-shirt are your chicken legs and scrawny arms.
Due to a schedule change, your class is cancelled, but you get convinced to do a "sports-inspired cardio workout for building strength and stamina." This "high energy interval training class uses powerful music to inspire and motivate people." The class gets going and you look at yourself - uncoordinated, scrawny, flailing about. Your left food stands in a puddle of cold, yet filtered, water. The instructor is a blonde, 30-something woman, with the energy of a teenage cheerleader who has had 10 shots of espresso. But you can't hate her. She looks better. She has more energy and she keeps telling you you're doing a great job even though you know you're the "special student" in the class.
The class gets going and everyone is dripping buckets of sweat. Your face is turning shades of red that can only be classified as purple. You start regretting that pizza hut personal pan pizza you had for lunch - because by "lunch," you mean 4pm snack. You're not sure if you're going to vomit, pass out, or break one of your chicken legs. You're pretty sure that there is the taste of blood in your mouth and you are still the least coordinated woman in the class. But that's ok.
That's right - nothing can upset you today - because today is one day closer to getting on that plane and arriving in the Bahamas! You get home, get ready for bed, and close your eyes - knowing that tomorrow your body is going to hate you. And you'll hate it right back, but that's OK.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Dana vs. The Fudge [Part One]
I was in Chicago for Labor Day weekend and one of Cousin Jen's friends had fudge, which had been mailed to him by his mom, who had taken the care to make him fresh homemade fudge and pack each piece individually and send to him. [Moms, take note - care packages are always welcome!]
"Fudge! That's a great idea. I should make fudge." I thought to myself.
I went online and researched recipes. I happen to be chatting with Cousin Chris that day and I informed him of my day's plans, "I plan on making fudge today," I excitedly told him. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: i'm making fudge today!!!
Him: have you ever made fudge before?
Me: no, but how hard can it be?!
Him: fudge can be very sensitive
Me: sensitive? how?
Him: you should talk to ev, he's the expert
Me: how hard can it be?
Him: well, for starters you need a candy thermometer
Me: ev has a candy thermometer?
Him: and you'll need weird ingredients, like powdered milk. its definitely gonna come out like shit.
Me: [undeterred] thanks!! take care! :)
"That's ridiculous," I thought. Maybe Ev was using a more complicated recipe, but I found a "Fun and Easy" recipe and it doesn't mention anything about a thermometer or powdered milk.
Despite Chris' repeated attempts to dissuade me, I was steadfast and hastily set about on my mission.
Step 1: Mix condensed milk, sugar, and cocoa, heat until melted. To my surprise, and despite my past failures at melting chocolate, I actually got it all melted to a smooth consistency. "That Chris! This is so easy," I laughed to myself.
Step 2: Lower heat and stir until softball stage. "'Softball stage' must mean when it becomes a giant ball, no?" I continued stirring. I walk over to my laptop to gchat with Chris and brag about my success, albeit small and preliminary.
I walk back over to the stove. "Uh oh, a snag!" The fudge was boiling over my apparently too small pot. I lower the heat until it goes back down and unman the fudge briefly to figure out exactly what was meant by "softball stage." As I'm sitting at my desk, I see the fudge creeping back up again, this time it overflows all over the stove. I turn the heat off. I turn it back on. "Shit," I say out loud. Apparently 'softball stage' is precisely 235 degrees - something that I can't possibly gauge without a candy thermometer.
I go back over to the stove, which is now covered in chocolate, and spend about 5-7 minutes heating the "fudge," stirring until it overflows, and then turning the heat off. Determing that I must've either hit or surpassed "softball stage," I decide to skip ahead to step 3.
Step 3: pour into an 8x8 pan and cool at room temperature for an hour. This step I can handle.
Step 4: refrigerate another hour. Done.
I go back over to email Chris. I explain what happened and express some doubts over it actually solidifying. He replies that I've only done about 1/3 of the recipe since I never hit the "softball stage." He copies in Ev, who explains that the way I made the fudge, it's never going to solidify. Apparently if you take it off the stove too soon it becomes more like chocolate syrup rather than fudge; too long and you'll have inedible rock hard fudge. "Softball stage" takes at least 30 minutes to reach. Also, Ev warned, you have to make sure every granular of sugar is melted or you'll have crystallized sugar in your fudge - apparently this is a lot worse than it sounds. He also explained that a big pot is essential as it often boils over and if it's not boiling over, it's burning the bottom. [sigh]
The good news is that the apartment smells great! It's like walking into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. The bad news is that the fudge never solidified to any degree. Never having been one to get deterred, I even waited at least 5 days even though the recipe said it'd be ready an hour after it went in the fridge. I went out and bought a candy thermometer in anticipation of round two - which I haven't the energy or the patience to take on at the moment, but will happen at some point in the future.
The moral of the story? The recipe, which touted itself "fun and easy," was neither "fun" nor "easy."
Stay tuned for Round 2....
"Fudge! That's a great idea. I should make fudge." I thought to myself.
I went online and researched recipes. I happen to be chatting with Cousin Chris that day and I informed him of my day's plans, "I plan on making fudge today," I excitedly told him. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: i'm making fudge today!!!
Him: have you ever made fudge before?
Me: no, but how hard can it be?!
Him: fudge can be very sensitive
Me: sensitive? how?
Him: you should talk to ev, he's the expert
Me: how hard can it be?
Him: well, for starters you need a candy thermometer
Me: ev has a candy thermometer?
Him: and you'll need weird ingredients, like powdered milk. its definitely gonna come out like shit.
Me: [undeterred] thanks!! take care! :)
"That's ridiculous," I thought. Maybe Ev was using a more complicated recipe, but I found a "Fun and Easy" recipe and it doesn't mention anything about a thermometer or powdered milk.
Despite Chris' repeated attempts to dissuade me, I was steadfast and hastily set about on my mission.
Step 1: Mix condensed milk, sugar, and cocoa, heat until melted. To my surprise, and despite my past failures at melting chocolate, I actually got it all melted to a smooth consistency. "That Chris! This is so easy," I laughed to myself.
Step 2: Lower heat and stir until softball stage. "'Softball stage' must mean when it becomes a giant ball, no?" I continued stirring. I walk over to my laptop to gchat with Chris and brag about my success, albeit small and preliminary.
I walk back over to the stove. "Uh oh, a snag!" The fudge was boiling over my apparently too small pot. I lower the heat until it goes back down and unman the fudge briefly to figure out exactly what was meant by "softball stage." As I'm sitting at my desk, I see the fudge creeping back up again, this time it overflows all over the stove. I turn the heat off. I turn it back on. "Shit," I say out loud. Apparently 'softball stage' is precisely 235 degrees - something that I can't possibly gauge without a candy thermometer.
I go back over to the stove, which is now covered in chocolate, and spend about 5-7 minutes heating the "fudge," stirring until it overflows, and then turning the heat off. Determing that I must've either hit or surpassed "softball stage," I decide to skip ahead to step 3.
Step 3: pour into an 8x8 pan and cool at room temperature for an hour. This step I can handle.
Step 4: refrigerate another hour. Done.
I go back over to email Chris. I explain what happened and express some doubts over it actually solidifying. He replies that I've only done about 1/3 of the recipe since I never hit the "softball stage." He copies in Ev, who explains that the way I made the fudge, it's never going to solidify. Apparently if you take it off the stove too soon it becomes more like chocolate syrup rather than fudge; too long and you'll have inedible rock hard fudge. "Softball stage" takes at least 30 minutes to reach. Also, Ev warned, you have to make sure every granular of sugar is melted or you'll have crystallized sugar in your fudge - apparently this is a lot worse than it sounds. He also explained that a big pot is essential as it often boils over and if it's not boiling over, it's burning the bottom. [sigh]
The good news is that the apartment smells great! It's like walking into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. The bad news is that the fudge never solidified to any degree. Never having been one to get deterred, I even waited at least 5 days even though the recipe said it'd be ready an hour after it went in the fridge. I went out and bought a candy thermometer in anticipation of round two - which I haven't the energy or the patience to take on at the moment, but will happen at some point in the future.
The moral of the story? The recipe, which touted itself "fun and easy," was neither "fun" nor "easy."
Stay tuned for Round 2....
The Saga Continues...
As back story, a few weeks ago, two to be precise, I was walking past my car to find that it had been the victim of a hit and run. The driver's side mirror was broken off and the mirror smashed on the ground. To my delight, albeit momentary, I found a note from a kind by-stander. The note implied that someone had hit my car and left a brief description of what kind of car and the tags. It had no information as to who left the note.
I called the police, they responded, and I filled out an incident report, only to find out that the police report is essentially useless. First, the officer informed me, the suspect has out of state tags and all the police department can do is look it up and find out that the person lives in NY and there is nothing (apparently) that they can do with that information. Second, my deductible was probably higher than the amount of damage done to the car, so I probably wouldn't even need to file a claim or use the report. He gave me my incident report number anyway and went on his way. I, not wanting to deal with this after a long week, stuck my head in the sand, so to speak, and ignored the situation. Since I rarely drive the car it was easy for me to do this.
Yesterday, I go out to my car - 2 weeks later - and find another note on my car. It said, "Please call me about your car, Jessica" with her number. Trying not to get my hopes up, after all it was a Colorado area code and the note left previously had said a NY driver hit my car, I phoned her and left a message. She called back and explained she hit my car and wants to pay for the damages.
Now, let's pause for a moment - I told this story both to my mom and to my friend Holly and both had the same reaction, which was, "Your car got hit again??" Hmmm. See, MY first reaction was the complete opposite. It was, "Wow, someone hit my car 2 weeks ago and had a change of conscience, came back, and left a note! What luck I have!" Its occurred to me recently, and repeatedly, that my mind will never quite work the same way as everyone else's. I now believe this is what kept me a B+(ish) student and not an A student.
Example: Friend Tiko is moving out of town; his friends are throwing him a going away party. The evite says "Kentucky Derby themed - costumes encouraged." I have my costume all set in my mind. I go out to dinner with Liz and Melissa the night before and ask them what they're wearing.
"Flowery dress and pearls," they both agree. Seeing my embarassed face, they ask, "Why? What were you going to wear?"
"Oh...[pause] I was thinking of dressing like a jockey...." The idea of dressing as a person attending the Kentucky Derby hadn't even occurred to me. I really thought we would all be dressing like jockeys (or horses I suppose).
So now I ask this to anyone reading (anyone? hello? is this thing on?) - Was it a new hit and run or the previous hit and run? Some things to consider are as follows: How long had this note been on my car? Didn't it rain last week? Wouldn't it have been a crumply mess if it had been rained on? And how soon can she send a check to cover the damages before she starts asking herself some of the same questions?
I've thought about a few possible scenarios here. One is my first reaction (see above). Another idea, which I only thought about after talking to my mom and Holly, is that after I pushed all the pieces of the mirror back together, someone else came and tapped my car ever so slightly and the whole thing fell apart. The "second hitter" sees this and is amazed at the amount of damage such a light tap accomplished, but leaves a note at the scene anyway. See, the note said that a blue Honda Accord with NY tags hit my car. When I spoke to "Jessica" yesterday, I told her that I appreciated her leaving the note and that I thought I was out of luck because of her out of state tags. Her reply, "No, I have DC tags." I didn't say anything else.
I also considered leaving the car back where it was parked for the past 2 weeks and seeing who else wants to take ownership for the damage. But, in an attempt to retrain my mind to think more uniformly with the rest of society, I quickly rethought the decision and decided to never park my car at that intersection again.
I kind of think of my car like a delinquent child, who you can't help but love, but with whom you are repeatedly disappointed. A tough love handbook somewhere would tell me to get rid of the car, but my heart makes me keep it despite all the trouble it causes me. I can only hope that someday it will sort itself out and we can both look back on our tough times together and smile.
I called the police, they responded, and I filled out an incident report, only to find out that the police report is essentially useless. First, the officer informed me, the suspect has out of state tags and all the police department can do is look it up and find out that the person lives in NY and there is nothing (apparently) that they can do with that information. Second, my deductible was probably higher than the amount of damage done to the car, so I probably wouldn't even need to file a claim or use the report. He gave me my incident report number anyway and went on his way. I, not wanting to deal with this after a long week, stuck my head in the sand, so to speak, and ignored the situation. Since I rarely drive the car it was easy for me to do this.
Yesterday, I go out to my car - 2 weeks later - and find another note on my car. It said, "Please call me about your car, Jessica" with her number. Trying not to get my hopes up, after all it was a Colorado area code and the note left previously had said a NY driver hit my car, I phoned her and left a message. She called back and explained she hit my car and wants to pay for the damages.
Now, let's pause for a moment - I told this story both to my mom and to my friend Holly and both had the same reaction, which was, "Your car got hit again??" Hmmm. See, MY first reaction was the complete opposite. It was, "Wow, someone hit my car 2 weeks ago and had a change of conscience, came back, and left a note! What luck I have!" Its occurred to me recently, and repeatedly, that my mind will never quite work the same way as everyone else's. I now believe this is what kept me a B+(ish) student and not an A student.
Example: Friend Tiko is moving out of town; his friends are throwing him a going away party. The evite says "Kentucky Derby themed - costumes encouraged." I have my costume all set in my mind. I go out to dinner with Liz and Melissa the night before and ask them what they're wearing.
"Flowery dress and pearls," they both agree. Seeing my embarassed face, they ask, "Why? What were you going to wear?"
"Oh...[pause] I was thinking of dressing like a jockey...." The idea of dressing as a person attending the Kentucky Derby hadn't even occurred to me. I really thought we would all be dressing like jockeys (or horses I suppose).
So now I ask this to anyone reading (anyone? hello? is this thing on?) - Was it a new hit and run or the previous hit and run? Some things to consider are as follows: How long had this note been on my car? Didn't it rain last week? Wouldn't it have been a crumply mess if it had been rained on? And how soon can she send a check to cover the damages before she starts asking herself some of the same questions?
I've thought about a few possible scenarios here. One is my first reaction (see above). Another idea, which I only thought about after talking to my mom and Holly, is that after I pushed all the pieces of the mirror back together, someone else came and tapped my car ever so slightly and the whole thing fell apart. The "second hitter" sees this and is amazed at the amount of damage such a light tap accomplished, but leaves a note at the scene anyway. See, the note said that a blue Honda Accord with NY tags hit my car. When I spoke to "Jessica" yesterday, I told her that I appreciated her leaving the note and that I thought I was out of luck because of her out of state tags. Her reply, "No, I have DC tags." I didn't say anything else.
I also considered leaving the car back where it was parked for the past 2 weeks and seeing who else wants to take ownership for the damage. But, in an attempt to retrain my mind to think more uniformly with the rest of society, I quickly rethought the decision and decided to never park my car at that intersection again.
I kind of think of my car like a delinquent child, who you can't help but love, but with whom you are repeatedly disappointed. A tough love handbook somewhere would tell me to get rid of the car, but my heart makes me keep it despite all the trouble it causes me. I can only hope that someday it will sort itself out and we can both look back on our tough times together and smile.
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