Fat-Buster Duster No. 3492

Taken from New Statesman ca. 2006:

Put on an old army haversack with eight house bricks in it. Then, with soapy water, clean water, sponge, squeegee and polishing paper, set about doing the upstairs windows. Each pane gets 1,000 rubs with soapy water, 1,800 rubs with clean water, then squeegeed and 1,200 rubs with kitchen tissue. Calculate the total number of square millimetres you'll cover times rubs; convert this to pounds and imagine you're a multimillionaire.

Research shows washing dishes in warm, soapy water releases highly beneficial endorphins and pheromones more efficiently than any other activity. The rhythmic rubbing of dishcloth on plates and especially greasy pans, combined with chemicals in the water, stimulates tiny microscopic membranes on human skin, which in turn release the above chemicals. Intriguingly, in men the effect is radically different: not only is there a total absence of chemical activity, but alarming reductions in sperm count have been noted.

Day 19: Pretend to be a secret agent

"No one can know. This Book was a pretext to get in touch with you. Your government needs you. Don't look up now, they are watching. Meet at 1300 today outside work. Wave at the gray car. It will pick you up and take you to the secret rendezvous. Good luck. P.S. Tear this page out and swallow it."

I performed the ultimate in reconnaissance today: Operation Suburbia. My cover? Housesitting for Grandma at Carefreee senior apartments. My mission? Spy on unsuspecting stucco communities.

Before the assignment, I finished up the paper and proceeded to play with Grandma's kitty. He has a fetish for newspapers and New Years hats (especially the ones with feathers and glitter). Apparently, chasing the cat all over the apartment doesn't cut it in a senior community. The woman downstairs must keep her hearing aids cranked up because she began pounding on the ceiling with what might have been a broom handle, but sounded more like an untapped keg. Which begs the question, "Did she have to hobble onto a chair to reach the ceiling?" Intriguing...

So, I was a good samaritan (at least that was my cover) and left the apartment to "power walk" around the 'hood. The first stretch was nearly intolerable. Imagine walking along I-5 between here and the Grapevine: straight as a ruler, not a car-less body in sight, horn honks, and surprisingly smelly. Aparently they've been lacking on the duck-poop maintenance in those man-made lakes.

I got down to business. There appeared to be at least one car in front of every beige, tan, or cream-colored house, yet not a soul in sight. Not so much as a kooky welcome mat is allowed in these communities. With names like Willow Park and Hidden Glen, you're pretty much obliged to shrink into obscurity. Although the families do keep up with the modern world: I saw one house with FOUR satellite dishes, like whiteheads on a desperate-to-wear-a-rock-on-my-finger-eager-to-procreate-and-begin-nesting face.

All right, all right. I lost myself for a moment there. Granted, most everyone was probably still at work, hence the vacancy. I did get a few encouraging smiles from women jogging behind baby strollers! Probably more like, "Don't you look like an adorable teenager, in your college sweatshirt and glasses. Would you like to come with me for a makeover and a lobotomy?"

On the way home, I deliberately threw myself down a ravine, lined with grass, paved with gravel, just so I wouldn't launch myself in front of a U-Haul on the way home. I guess the "agency" won't be contacting me again, unless it's to implant a Stepford wife chip in my brain. Beware for a boob job and devastatingly handsome arm candy--who in turn will develop a beer belly and begin an affair in 10 years.

Day 18: Kill Something Day

"So-called Western civilization suppresses our legitimate aggressive impulses. Cast off the chains of narrow morality and stamp out the sad life of a member of some inferior species today: an ant, or perhaps a gnat of some kind. Indulge your dark urges before they overwhelm you. After all, as top Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin declared: 'the passion for destruction is also a creative passion...'"

I'm a vegetarian. I don't kill things. When I rip apart a hunk of meat with my incisors and masticate its remains with my molars, I consider it a form of coldblooded murder. But sushi tastes delightful. So eh, what are you gonna do? My friend took me to Kru, one of many overpriced boutique sushi restaurants in Sacramento. I had only been once, normally shunning the $15 rolls on principle, but since I wasn't buying, I agreed wholeheartedly and began to prep my protein-deficient tummy for a feast.

What is America's solution to infuriatingly healthy sushi? Deep fry the shit out of if and then dunk it in sauce. We had the Krazi Cali (a crunchy, garlic cream take on the traditional California Roll), the Tesla (the freshest roll of the bunch, but again smothered in garlic creaminess), and my choice, the Cindy (tuna, snow crab, jalapenos, deep-fried of course). In order to make our Japanese-American meal complete, we doused our wasabi-coated tongues with Sapporos. Then we headed to a neighborhood tavern to extinguish our heartburn with margaritas.

As if this isn't enough carnivore action for one weekend, yesterday I broke out the fly swatter. Sitting at the kitchen table working on the Sunday crossword is my #2 solution to a hangover (#1 being bloody mary brunch), you can imagine my ire when a fly the size and decible of New Orleans during Mardi Gras decided to brunch on our garbage can. Thankfully, we have a fly swatter nearby for just that occasion. This one, however, is battery powered and after pressing a button, can zap prey with the wattage of a nuclear testing site. (It feels similar to a dog's shock collar if you've ever been privy to either---personally, the nerves in my left elbow have never returned after said incidents). And that's that. Fly-free, and left to only the buzz of my ringing hangover. Not a cent of guilt either.

Day 17: Asparagus Day

"Eat nothing but asparagus all day long to ascertain how noxious your pee can get."

"[Asparagus]...transforms my chamber-pot into a flask of perfume." --Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

Unless your aversion to anything vegetable has prevented an exposure, or unless you've remained farther than 12 feet from the toilet bowl you've just leaked in, you've smelled the unmistakable, germinating scent of asparagus pee.

Last Monday I ate asparagus with EVERY SINGLE MEAL. I know that the assignment calls for only asparagus for every single meal, but I'm already a vegetarian so I think that would push me over the edge. For breakfast: an asparagus, mushroom, and onion omelette. So basically, I had bad breath in addition to bad pee. For lunch: a quick sandwich and cold asparagus dipped in mayo & capers. For dinner: angel hair pasta and baked asparagus & parmasean.

Some more rambunctious people told me to dip asparagus in a homemade hollondaise sauce, but after cooking so much butter, I'm pretty sure I would start to resent the asparagus. And the raw asparagus already resembles something of an inhospitable cactus, although a more leggy, model-type. So I stuck with the basics.

Now I realize that this blog business basically exposes one's private life at a level of that person's discretion. Well, I'm going down that road. My pee was beyond upset with me. If my pee could talk, it would be squealing. It would be like the sound of a man after he's had a bowling ball dropped in his lap. My pee was beyond extra-terrestrial.

And it lasted into the next day. I eat dinner late. Sometimes I go to bed on a full stomach (not recommended), but in this case, the asparagus attacked my toilet even the next morning. The asparagus was vicious. The asparagus was a bully. The asparagus won.

It will be awhile before I can willingly look this vegetable in the eye again. Jagermeister (aka anise) and I still aren't on speaking terms and I fear that the stubborn silent treatment has finally severed our friendship. So, the next asparagus dish better be worthwhile or else I fear a lifetime of produce animosity. Suggestions?

Day 16: The Digital Salute

"Discreetly give the finger to people all day."

I know for a fact that old people are down with the Canadian turn signal, although they seem to manipulate it in different ways than Gen X&Y. Don't get me wrong, they can still fuck the bird very effectivley, but their loss of muscle tone and/or their flagging flexibility makes the universal high sign less convincing. I guess they feel that they need to compensate by flipping the stick and then punching it into the air with a couple of geriatric thrusts for good measure. Either that or they've already given the finger so many times in their lives that they must creatively expound on it: my beloved adopted grandmother, nicknamed Stinkie, lived into her 90s and until her last months she used to hold up 3 fingers to her caregivers, "Read between the lines," she'd cough and holler. This is the same old woman who would regularly remind us that she "liked two things hard. And one of them was ice cream."

Today I went for a run around McKinley park. Normally when I'm in the proverbial "zone," I space out and after emerging from my endorfin haze, I either spit some pathetic excuse for a loogie or correct my posture. (You see, when I worked at Jamba, we had these worthless exercise books that dictated the proper erect running stance. Yes perverts, erect.) Consequently, I'm sure all of you are completely unaware of what you look like jogging. Let me tell you straight up: you look like fairies. Sure, when you're at the gym there might be a mirror around in which you can babysit your mojo, but for the most part, ya'll jog with prancy baby steps and limp wrists. I'm in the process of training myself to not run like a girl for the following reasons: 1) it hurts my knees, C) it tires me out, and IV) no one takes me seriously.

This afternoon in particular I remembered my assignment and decided to discipline my hands into versions of the finger. First I tried it on one hand. Then the other. Finally I worked up to double daggers and kept my pepper spray handy should some one take it personally. For the most part, I think fellow joggers were preoccupied; either that or they were too busy staring at my ass as I lapped them. But it was nearing rush hour and I hope that a few cars (preferably not buses full of pre-schoolers or nuns) noticed my neutral 'up-yours.' I received no indication of acknowledgement. Perhaps they were too busy texting illegally or extinguishing power boners after just firing somebody at work.

There is still time to work in some finger-flickin' fun before the end of the day. I trust you to do the same. Although, since Thirsty Thursday is the new Friday, I expect you to reign it in at the bars.....D-bags are dying for any excuse to miss class tomorrow with a fist broken on your mandibula.

Arriba, Abajo, Al Centro, Al Dentro!

Day 15: Be Gay for a Day

This one was easy because everyone knows how I love making out with girls.

Now that I have your attention, please note that this blog is being written about yesterday because I happened to be partying in the gay capital of our nation, San Francisco.

Slobbered out of bed around 8:30 am from a healthy night's sleep of about 5 1/2 hours. Dragged my hungover ass to Safeway where I purchased an ORANGE Gatorade because the aftertaste resembles goldfish crackers, and fish are gay, right Kanye? I almost hugged a complete stranger because she not only let me and my Gatorade go ahead of her in line, but she followed me out to the parking lot after I'd left my car keys at the cashier. Was I was still drunk?

I got to Berkeley to pre-party for the game a bit when Dev and I went to sushi (more gay fish) and talked shit about people the whole time. Wait I'm unclear..am I supposed to be a gay man or gay woman, here? Headed back for beers and football (ok, the butch in me is coming out) and I took a quiz testing whether my brain was masculine or feminine (http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/sex/add_user.shtml), and sure enough, on a scale from 0-100, zero being gender neutral and 100 being either really masculine or really feminine, I scored 25 toward being a man, which is scary because the average for men was 50. I guess, just call me Barb.....

After pizza, beer, sports, and periodically readjusting my junk every 3 minuntes, I changed clothes for the city. Mind you, I was wearing the equivalent of a football shirt (you know, really short but really baggy) only it was leopard print. I got off BART at 16th and Mission and immediately got leered at by a bunch of dirty old men so I barked back at them like any self-respecting lesbian would. At Danise's birthday dinner, I ordered squash soup. Don't think there's any gay connection there... But I WAS about the only person there sitting without a significant other, so it's kinda like I was the awkward, half-out-of-the-closet token gay person?

Later, we headed to Medjool for drinks and a terrace view of the city. And obviously, since I was gay, I could point toward the Castro. Then I proceeded to make out with every chick in the bar and called it a night.

Now fuck off,
Barb

Day 14: A Day of Compliments

First off readers, I apologize for being so blog lax. Actually I hate that word because it reminds me of poop, which in turn reminds me of Rachel, who I in turn love because she actually reads my blogs. So maybe I will say LAX loud and proud. And when you come back from the bathroom, here is my latest anecdote:

"Flatter someone today and see if it does indeed get you anywhere."

It must be nearing the holidays because I'm already turning into a younger, better toned version of Ebeneezer Scrooge. (P.S. If someone were to name their child Ebeneezer today, what would his nickname be? Ben? I shudder...) Anyway, it is now 6:35pm and I was thinking back on the day in terms of compliments. It pains me to admit that nothing remotely tiptoeing towards a compliment emerged from my mouth before about 5:45pm! OK sure, I slept in until about 10am, then went to the gym where I generally make it a rule to ignore every bitchy housewife and her school-ditching daughter, whereupon I returned home and had to actually Google my breakfast, "how to cook eggs over-easy," while I was Gchatting with Calin (like the shoutout, honey?). I guess the closest I came to complimenting her was by calling her a Betty (and me a Veronica) as we brainstormed names for our upcoming fashion blog. Does that count? I think that anyone who reads Archie comics would probably not prefer to be compared to the technicolor version of Olivia Newton John, aka Grease's Sandy before she became a pleather-wearing, chain-smoking skank.

Next I made it to the banks, yes plural, because being the product of divorce forces at least bi-monthly bank inconveniences. And we all know that there is little opportunity to wedge in a compliment at one of the dryest, most sterile institutions in the United States...although I almost complimented the teller on her nail polish, but it was about 2 shades of green off from the color I prefer most. So nope.

After depositing my paycheck I drove into an area of Sacramento that I despise almost more than any other: Arden. Imagine strip malls, Outback Steakhouses, sushi warehouses (I mean, restaurants) named Tex Wasabi that manufactures gargantuan "Gringo Sushi" that has names like Jackass and Screaming Gobbler, a turkey, pepper jack, and mayonaisse roll. Yummers... After retching out the window at every other stoplight, I made it to Aaron Brothers Framing where I purchased a relatively inexpensive, shamelessly pretentious, flagrantly gaudy diploma frame. Ironically, it was made in Indonesia. Insert guilt here.

As I road raged my way home, I realized that over easy eggs hadn't satisfied me and that my overtly gloomy behavior and compliment deficiency was simply the result of an underfed tummy. I promptly asked Rachel where I should go to eat and she wasn't very helpful when she suggested Jack's, a SALAD BAR!!! I still love you though, Ape. I decided on Opa Opa, a Greek cafeteria-style restaurant at which I indulge myself from time to time. When I say "indulge," I'm not referring to food entirely; rather, I indulge on the attention. The thickly-accented Greek workers call me "love" and always compliment me on my outfit. What more can a grumpy girl ask for than a meal and an ego-boost? Of course, I couldn't return the compliment at that point because I was blushing too much.

Finally, after eating half my falafel gyro (the take-out menu claims it's pronounced year-o) and all my side of spanakopita, Igor, my stepsister's boyfriend came home. He's living in Sacramento during the week to work on a prestigious science fellowship at the capitol. At this point (about 5:45pm), he had packed and loaded his car. He was thanking me for letting him crash the party pad while the parents were away when I could easily have been using it for, well...parties. But honestly, I didn't care! He left the parents two bottles of wine and presented me with a pot of my second favorite flower, orchids. Then he said I could eat any of the food he'd brought with him and after asking if I used iTunes, gave me a gift card, a perk he'd received at work! I could get used to this! But seriously, he's a terrific, gracious, helpful dude so I had no choice but to compliment him and let him know he could come back any time. Mind you, this is not really my house to be offering, but he's the kind of person who's welcome anywhere. So he deserved my first compliment of the day. I haven't yet made another, but it's Friday and the night is still young...