New blog!

We have moved! Please visit us at ProfoundNoms.com

{Recipe} Sriracha Chicken Caesar Sandwiches

I'm obsessed with Noodle and Co.'s spicy chicken caesar wrap. It's like crack, especially with the wonton chips. I found a recipe online for chicken caesar sandwiches, and I wanted to see if I could make my own version of N&C's wraps, without the mess.

Sriracha Chicken Caesar Sandwiches
Adapted from Chef in Training

Sorry, no picture today! They were scarfed down before I could snap a picture.

Ingredients

• 2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts
• 1 to 2 cups Caesar dressing (I used Cardini's)
• 1/2 cup shredded Parmesan cheese
• 2 teaspoons of dried parsley
• 1/2 teaspoon ground pepper
• 2 cups shredded romaine lettuce
• 12 slider buns or 4-6 regular sized hamburger buns
• Sriracha, to taste
• Wonton strips

Directions

1. Place chicken in a 3-4 quart slow cooker with 1-2 cups of water, cover and cook on low heat for 4 to 6 hours.
2. Remove chicken from cooker using a slotted spoon and drain the water from the slow cooker. Shred chicken, either by hand or in a stand mixer.
3. Place chicken back in the cooker and pour dressing, Parmesan cheese, parsley and pepper over the top. Stir until mixed evenly. Add Sriracha to taste.
4. Cover and cook on high heat for 30 minutes or until mixture is hot.
5. Mix chicken with wonton strips and romaine lettuce. 
6. Heat up buns in oven or microwave.
7. Add a scoop of chicken mixture to buns.
8. NOM.

It's the end of the world as we know it...

I am not good at friendship.

I am not good at being a friend.

I missed learning all those nifty little social cues as a child, when to be quiet, when to talk, when to back off, when to extend a hand. I’m not asking for pity, or comfort, but simple understanding.

There are many of us out there who don’t know how to interact with people; we’re shy, cautious, nervous. We say inappropriate things at inappropriate times, trying to break the ice, but making things worse in the end. We either avoid eye contact, scared of what we’ll see in someone else’s eyes, or hold it too long, trying to make a connection that has long since departed.

It’s hard to tell when people are annoyed at us, or just annoyed in general. We take all brushoffs to heart, when we need to learn to let go. We wait too long to reach out, to renew a friendship, only to find that our friends have moved on in our absence.

We are introverted, unable to connect, unable to see the world as others do. The thought of spending hours upon hours with others makes us panic, shake, cry. We do not know why others seek it out, when all we want is silence.

But still, we want to be liked, we want to be loved. We want to have that easy camaraderie that every one else seems to have, that we lack. We want to be *that* person, the center of attention, but when we finally are the center of attention, we freeze, run away, hide.

I’ve known for years that my sense of humor rarely meshed with anyone else - I’m sarcastic, dry, and prone to inane ramblings about nothing. I do not mean to offend anyone with my ill-timed comments, but in my head, they are quite witty. Until they tumble out of my mouth, the meaning lost, the words scrambled. And I am left looking like a fool.

I want to be your friend, I really do. I just don’t know how. I’m trying, every single day, I watch others interact and try to learn from them. But in the end, I think, it’s something that comes natural to a lot of people, but not to me.

Accepting it is hard, I truly want to be liked. And I truly want to like other people, I try to find ways that I’m similar to them, to find some common ground. History, tastes in movies, etc. Even something as simple as a peanut butter & mayo sammich. There are a thousand and one ways we can connect with people, a thousand and one things in common. But gathering up the courage to take that first step is hard.

But I’m trying. I am.

So forgive my ill-thought words and sarcasm. I mean well, I do.

On a side note, here is a picture of Larry the giraffe I bought the Boyfriend Unit (yay!):

Ramblings of an insecure mind

I don't know if I'll ever get better, honestly.

My new medication is helping a bit, but I can't seem to find the right combo that helps/doesn't make me gain weight/have bad side effects. Some drugs make me angry, some make me fall asleep while driving, while others make me triply. 

I want things to get better, I really do. I don't want to be depressed for the rest of my life, I don't want to sit here, wondering when it's all going to end. I want to experience life, happiness, joy. I want to see the world and all its wonder, not four walls and a cat.

I've been reading up on Toastmasters, and wanting to go so I can improve myself, I'm just scared. I'm scared of new people, scared of new places, scared of public speaking. I know some people who go, and they say it has really helped them, so here goes nothing.

I try to hide when I'm depressed, mask it with a quick smile and a joke. Very few people know when I'm down, and for those people that do, I'm sorry. I know it's a lot to deal with, the constant negativity, the complaints, the moodiness and rambling. I appreciate your friendship, and your words of comfort. I wish there was some way I could repay you. 

Unless you'd let me bake you a lot of cookies? I love baking cookies. And eating them. 

But seriously, thank you. I wouldn't be here today if I didn't have friends like you, friends who listened, friends who cared. Please know that I'm here for you, just as you are here for me. I might not show it, but I am. Come hell or high water, I will do whatever I can for you.

Surf, sand and giggles

I think I need a vacation from my vacation.

The Ex-Boyfriend Unit & I went to Myrtle Beach, S.C., a couple of weekends ago for some relaxation and fun in the sun. It has been 14 years since I’ve been at the beach, and I was unprepared for how much the ocean would affect me.

Within 15 minutes of arriving at the oceanfront hotel Friday evening, my toes were buried in the sand and I was giggling like a small child. I was already in love with the water, just watching the waves come and go, hearing the ocean.

Walking on a pier later on Friday night, I was entranced by the waves, and by the division between humanity and nature. On one side were lines of hotels, cars, and lights, and on the other side was pure darkness for as far as the eye could see. It made me realize how small humanity really is, how we have conquered the land but the ocean still eludes us.

Civilizations will come and go, buildings will rise and fall, but the ocean will always remain the same, dark, mysterious, chaotic.

I loved watching our fellow beachgoers, the young, the old, the playful, the relaxing.

Saturday was a whirlwind. We woke up early, grabbed breakfast at one of the many pancake houses near the oceanfront, and went to Barefoot Landing to go exploring. We arrived about an hour before anything opened, and it felt like we were on the set of a zombie movie, the only sounds we heard were the ducks and fish.

We went to Ripley’s Aquarium and it was amazing! I dared to pet a stingray, small shark and some sort of crab thing. Watching the sharks swim around was awe-inspiring. They are so majestic, so regal, in the water.

Afterwards, we wandered into the Pepper Palace, a store full of BBQ sauce, hot sauce and salsa. Now, I love spicy food; growing up in Texas, I got quite used to it. I tried their Death by Salsa, their hottest salsa, on a whim, thinking I could handle it. Not so much. 30 minutes later, and my tongue was still tingling.

If you ever go to Myrtle Beach, go to WonderWorks. It’s aimed for children, but there are a ton of activities for adults, I particularly enjoyed the hurricane winds exhibit and lying on a bed of nails. We spent hours wandering around, playing with different exhibits, laughing and joking around. There was a virtual rollercoaster ride that took you upside down, I wasn’t too happy about that one, and neither was my hair. The Ex Unit loved it, though. No surprise.

I love talking to random people when I’m out and about, I’m a bit odd. Whether it’s complaining about the weather, or laughing while going through a haunted house, I love people. They are so varied, so many different life experiences, so many different adventures they want to go on.

Now, I’m scared of heights. Really scared of heights; I have problems with ladders and stepstools. So I was a little surprised at myself when I suggested we go on the Skywheel, a 187-foot tall enclosed Ferris wheel on Myrtle Beach. About a minute into the ride, I nearly hit the red panic button, I was so scared.

Oh, and I did threaten the Ex Unit that if he shook our cab, I was going to kill him. Slowly and painfully.

Saturday evening, we ventured into North Myrtle Beach for some barbecue and miniature golf. I love mini golf, I’m not that great at it, but it’s so much fun! Even though I lost.

Sunday was our last day in Myrtle Beach, and we headed back to North Myrtle Beach to visit Alligator Adventure, an alligator preserve smack dab in the middle of a busy shopping area. There were more than 500 different alligators and crocodiles at Alligator Adventure, ranging from lots of little baby alligators, to a 2,000 lb. crocodile named Utan, to some albino alligators. It was honestly a lot of fun.

I really enjoyed the alligator feedings, and the reptile show; I got to pet a two-headed turtle, baby alligator and a corn snake! Totally made my day.

Oh, and I can’t forget my favorite part – the ocean itself! We splashed around in the ocean for a few hours, I jumped through waves, bobbed in the water and threw sand at the Ex Unit. And I can’t forget getting my daily salt intake by inhaling a bunch of seawater. Bleh!

Though I had a lot of fun sightseeing, relaxing on the beach was my favorite part of the trip. It was so nice to lie back and listen to the waves crash upon the shore, to listen to the children laugh and play, and the seagulls squawk to each other. I can see why the ocean has entranced so many over the ages. It makes you forget about your troubles, lost in the waves, and be at peace.

{Recipe} Cake Batter Pudding Cookie Bars

I will admit, I am a cookie addict. Chocolate chip cookies, sugar cookies, cookie cakes, you name it, I'll probably eat it. So when I found this recipe for a cake batter pudding cookie bar (say that five times fast!), I couldn't wait to try it.

Ingredients

• 1 cup butter, softened
• 3/4 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1 (3.4 oz) box INSTANT vanilla pudding mix, dry
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1 teaspoon almond extract
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/4 cup yellow cake mix
• 2 cups bread flour
• 1 cup white chocolate chips
• 1/3 cup sprinkles

Directions

1. Combine baking soda, yellow cake mix and bread flour into a bowl and set aside.
2. Cream butter, I find it best to use a stand mixer, as the dough is reaalllly thick. Cream sugars into butter.
3. Add dry pudding mix and mix until well incorporated. Add vanilla, almond extract and eggs to the mixture and beat well.
4. Add flour/cake mix mixture and mix well. Add white chocolate chips and sprinkles and mix until evenly distributed.
5. Press dough evenly onto the bottom of a greased 9x13 inch baking pan. Note: dough will rise up, so use a deep-dished pan. 
6. Add more sprinkles, if desired. 
7. Bake at 350ºF for about 20 minutes or until top is golden brown.

Original recipe was found at Chef in Training. 

I recently made the cookie bars for a work potluck, and I got rave reviews, despite the odd flavor. What odd flavor?, you ask. Banana cream. 

Yes. Banana cream.

I grabbed the wrong pudding mix at Kroger. But in my defense, both boxes look the same! 

So children, always remember to read box labels before dumping them into your dough.

Generation me me me

Earlier today, I stumbled across this post on the Wall Street Journal - The Most-Praised Generation Goes to Work. 

For those of you in the dark, a "millennial" is also considered Generation Y, a generation born from 1980 to the present, a generation who is just now getting their feet wet in the job pool.

By that definition, I am considered an Yer, but when reading about what constitutes a millennial, I am aghast at how selfish and clueless my generation is, and saddened by how our parents have raised us.

Employers are dishing out kudos to workers for little more than showing up. Corporations including Lands' End and Bank of America are hiring consultants to teach managers how to compliment employees using email, prize packages and public displays of appreciation.

I hate to break it to all the other millennials out there, but showing up for work should not earn you instant praise. It's a requirement of your job that you show up in a timely fashion.

As he sees it, those over age 60 tend to like formal awards, presented publicly. But they're more laid back about needing praise, and more apt to say: "Yes, I get recognition every week. It's called a paycheck."

I agree. If I do my job well, I get to keep said job. I work maybe 30 feet from my boss in a large corporate environment, I receive daily emails from him on tasks to do, but I might go a few days without talking to him. Why? Because I'm doing my job. I don't expect praise for doing the mundane. Do I like praise? Yes, especially when I've gone above and beyond in some obscure project. But I'd be happier with a yearly bonus, honestly.

Mr. Nelson advises bosses: If a young worker has been chronically late for work and then starts arriving on time, commend him. "You need to recognize improvement. That might seem silly to older generations, but today, you have to do these things to get the performances you want," he says. Casey Priest, marketing vice president for Container Store, agrees. "When you set an expectation and an employee starts to meet it, absolutely praise them for it," she says.

Quite frankly, I find the entire concept of praising someone for doing what's expected of them childish and contrary to a good work ethic. It's like training a dog, you don't praise them every single time they sit, especially if they've known the command for years.

Many companies are proud of their creative praise programs. Since 2004, the 4,100-employee Bronson Healthcare Group in Kalamazoo, Mich., has required all of its managers to write at least 48 thank-you or praise notes to underlings every year.

When you require someone to give kudos or praise to an underling, it cheapens the praise itself. Praise should be spontaneous and truthful, not forced and trivial. 

The problem isn't with the millennials, it's with their parents. It's been proven time and time again that praising your offspring for every accomplishment, or for just being "special," over-inflates their ego and causes a disconnect between what they are and what they think of themselves. Do we all want to be special unique little snowflakes, brilliant at everything we do? Of course. Are we? No. I couldn't sing a note on key if my life depended on it, and I have no delusions about that. Nor could I pull a MacGyver out of thin air. But I do have my own skill set, one which has served me well throughout my career. 

Throughout said career, I have run into people from every walk of life, and I must say, working with millennials is the hardest. I can excuse an older generation for being incompatible with current technology, that is something they were not exposed to at an early age. I remember getting nearly indecipherable text messages from my mother when she first learned how to text.

While I expect college graduates to be a bit clueless on how the real world works, I do expect competency in basis tasks. I've run into people who were truly confused on how to address an envelope, didn't see the point in setting up their work voicemail, and would tell customers they were wrong.

There's also the mindset of those who are lucky enough to land a cush job straight out of college, with no real work experience, and their mindset is "this is good enough for me." Why should they expend themselves outside of their 8-5 hours, when someone else is willing to pick up the slack for them? Why should they continue to better themselves, professionally and personally, when everything is handed to them on a silver platter?

I might come off as a litter bitter, yes. I am constantly asked by millennials, "Where did you get your degree?" and they look shocked when I tell them I didn't receive one, that my college experience is minimal. I started working full-time when I was 18, and my job history has been varied. I've worked at jobs that only required 8-5, and jobs where 40 hours a week was considered a light week. 

This rant doesn't really serve much of a purpose, other that to reiterate what other like-minded people already know. It would not occur to the millennials in which this post reference that they are a problem, that they need to look within themselves and grow up. Nor would it occur to their helicopter parents that their parenting skills have led to a narcissistic generation who is only motivated by constant, meaningless praise.

On a side note, I took the "How Millennial Are You?" quiz at the Pew Research Center, and was told "Your Millennial score is 60." I'm halfway between a Generation Xer and a millennial. What's your score?

Smiles, scars and goslings

It's early evening, and I am sitting here, listening to my ceiling fan hum its favorite tune, not knowing where to start, where to begin. I don't even know if this will make sense to anyone.

I was reading up on the origins of "May you live in interesting times," curious to see if there is any history of this oft-quoted phrase, one that we attribute to an ancient Chinese curse. According to Wikipedia, the first evidence of the phrase in use was in 1936, by the British ambassador to China.

The saying does not appear to have a direct equivalent in Chinese. The only traditional Chinese idiom which even seems to be in the ballpark is translated from the original language as: "It's better to be a dog in a peaceful time than be a man in a chaotic period."

Agreed. I envy my dog Stormy, how she can just curl up in her bed, ignoring the world outside, content to lounge about all day, beg for pet-pets and treats, and go chasing after the goslings at the pond.

Listening to Marilyn Manson's song "Leave a Scar" has had me thinking recently, especially the line "Whatever doesn't kill you...is going to leave a scar." Physical scars, emotional scars, mental scars, they haunt us all.

Life doesn't necessarily make you stronger for suffering through it, things don't always get better. The scars left on the heart never go away, we might be able to ignore them as time goes on, but they are still there, hiding, lurking, waiting to be reopened.

Our hearts are like broken bones, they will heal, but they will never be as strong as they were before, they will be more prone to pain and breakage. Essentially...what doesn't kill you leaves you weaker.

Things that hurt us weaken us over time, make us more fragile, but things that we love, things that bring us joy can help paste over the wounds in our hearts and minds.

I try to focus on the small pleasures in life. Dinner with a close friend, a dog's bouncing when you walk through the front door. Someone letting me cut in line at the grocery store. The sound of the ice cream truck driving by.

We worry too much about our legacies, what we will leave behind when we are gone. We want monuments built to our memories, our names to be written in textbooks for years to come. While a select few might be so lucky, it is those that cause the greatest harm that are memorialized for eternity. Pol Pot. Caligula. Attila the Hun. Hitler.

I want my legacy to be small but meaningful. I want to brighten people's days with a smile, lift their mood with a joke. I want that happiness to be spread to the next person, and the next person after that, and so on. I want this world to be full of smiles and happiness, not hatred and vengeance. I want children to grow up without fear, without bigotry.

The best way to start that is with a smile.

Light at the end of the tunnel

Earlier this week, a friend posted a link to Hyperbole and a Half's post on depression (here), and something in it struck home. Every word, every sentence, every bit of it was what I go through on a daily basis.

It is hard for most people to understand how soul-sucking depression is. Everything seems muted, dull, less shiny. What once entertained us now sits in corners collecting dust; those who we call friend drift away because we retreat into ourselves. We go through the motions of eating, sleeping, working, waiting for something to get better, but knowing it won't.

Reaching out is hard, because we do not think anyone will understand what we are going through. We fear that people will look down on us because we aren't normal or right in the head.

And you know what? Sometimes we are right.

We are constantly told everything will be okay, that everything will work out in the end. Well-meaning friends suggest finding hobbies, family members encourage us to go out and meet people.

They don't understand that none of it matters to us, the broken, the depressed, the lonely. We are trapped in a prison that has no walls, no doors, no guards. There seems to be no escape from the monotony, the apathy.

To some of us, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Our mental walls collapse and the only way to end the pain is to end it all, because who would miss us? We don't fit in with our families, our friends don't understand us (if we have any friends left at all), and our beloved pets would be better off with people who would play with them.

So we give up.

People tell me all the time that suicide is the easy way out, that living is hard. From our point of view, living is easy because we're just existing and going through the motions. Making a conscious choice to end our lives is hard, following through is even harder. We are consumed by pain that never seems to end, and we just want to rest.

Since I tried to kill myself in March, my life has seen some improvement. I am seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis, and a therapist weekly. Medications have helped stabilize me, balance out my mood, but I'm still far from whole and normal(ish).

I have good days where I can clean, cook delicious meals, talk and laugh with my friends, and I have bad days, where I just curl up on the couch and cry, ignoring the world. Today was a better day, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.

Sad Songs and Lullabies

Sunday night, I tried to end my life.

I was overwhelmed with past decisions and felt my life was spiraling out of control. I tried to drown my sorrows and pain with a handful of pills and some tears. I then went out to the car with my favorite teddy bear and cried.

A bit later, I realized that I didn't want to die. I called the Ex-Boyfriend (previously the Boyfriend), crying, sobbing, repeating over and over, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die."

He rushed home and took me to the emergency room, where I spent 28 hours feeling like a freak show. When a person overdoses, they can either pump the stomach or give the patient activated charcoal to absorb whatever medication they took if they are unsure if it has been digested.

The ER staff went with option B for me.

After several unsuccessful attempts at drinking it (and spewing it all over the walls), a feeding tube was inserted into my nose. Three times. I fought them the first time, there was no numbing and a good deal of pain. They switched to my other nostril after realizing my nose had been cauterized at a young age. The second time, they numbed the back of my throat and nose and slid it in, only to discover they had slid it into my lungs. It finally made it into my stomach, where the activated charcoal was pumped in and left to sit.

I was then left to wait until the hospital's counselor/shrink/etc. was available to talk with me. Four hours later, the decision was made to admit me involuntary to a mental health facility, as required by North Carolina law.

I arrived at the hospital at 10:30 p.m. Sunday night and did not arrive at the facility until 2 a.m. Tuesday. I spent nearly 27 hours under watch, wearing only a paper gown.

The three days I spent at the facility was life-changing, to say the least. The nurses and staff treated me like a human being, albeit a human being under constant supervision. The other patients were there for a variety of reasons - schizophrenia, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, etc. Some handled it well, participating in therapy, etc., while others fought and demanded immediate release.

I will never forget that feeling of helplessness. Every movement monitored, recorded, observed. Staying in a small room for 12 hours a day, with four hours for therapy/group activities and eight for sleeping. Having to check out toiletries between 6 and 7 a.m., sleeping with my door open and bed checks every 15 minutes. Spending hours upon hours staring at the wall or coloring, because there was nothing to do.

It was strange going home; though I only spent three days there (four total, including the hospital), it felt like a lifetime. I was overwhelmed when I got home, being able to open doors whenever I wanted. Privacy when showering. Choosing my own food.

I will say this now: I will never attempt it again. Not just for the experience of attending a mental health facility, but how I was treated by others on the outside, including medical professionals.

I realize that working in the emergency room can be difficult, even more so if you work the third shift. I realize that you see people from all walks of life, all ages, all needing some sort of care. But what these people need most is compassion, especially those that try to end their lives. We are lost, lonely, confused. We think we are worthless and unloved. Burdens to society and to those we care about.

We come to you because we need help, whether we realize it or not.

To treat us with apathy and disdain only makes us hate ourselves more; we feel like burdens, drains, leeches. To tell us a procedure "isn't that bad" if you have never experienced it only makes us distrust you even more.*

To sit there and laugh about a mentally disturbed patient who was lying in bed drugged and handcuffed because he was a danger to himself and others is abominable. You have been entrusted with our lives, our mental well-being. How can we trust you if you mock us behind our backs? 

*The young doctor who treated me Sunday night had received a feeding tube through his nose, it was standard practice at the medical school he attended. If you do not know what your patients are going through, how can you empathize?

I am aware that they deal with suffering, pain and death on a regular basis, that it drains the heart and soul. I am aware that the only thing you can do during those times is laugh, but if you must laugh about your patients, do so behind closed doors.

Additionally, if you are a nursing student visiting a mental health facility and choose to interact with the patients, please show some tact and decorum when talking with them. Do not call them "nutty" to their face, or tell them you do not want to "worsen" their condition by winning a game.

You do not know the circumstances around their arrival, or what their illness is. You do not know if they are bipolar, schizophrenic, manic or going through withdrawal. You do not know what insults they have put up with by those who do not understand their condition.

So do not insult them to their faces.

According to the CDC, an estimated 25% of adults in the U.S. reported having a mental illness in 2003 (source). As of 2010, there were 308 million people in America, 231 million adults, so nearly 60 million Americans suffer from mental illness. While some of the numbers are skewed to the elderly (you are more likely to be depressed in a nursing home), reported lifetime diagnosis of depression were 15.7% (source).

The NCHS states:

Antidepressants were the third most common prescription drug taken by Americans of all ages in 2005-2008 and the most frequently used by persons aged 18-44 years. From 1988-1994 through 2005-2008, the rate of antidepressant use in the United States among all ages increased nearly 400%.

Source.

Open up Facebook. Look at all your friends. Out of the 100 people you know, 15 to 25 suffer from mental illness, either depression, bipolar disorder, etc., and you might not even know it.

They didn't ask for this, they didn't ask for their mind to betray them, to lead them down dark and twisted roads, feeling more and more isolated. They didn't ask for society to look down upon them because they see things that no one else sees, or their emotions are taking a twirl on the Ferris wheel. All they want is to be understood and loved.

Don't blame them when they want to end it all, don't walk away because you don't know how to handle it. Yes, it's hard dealing with the constant drama and emotion. It's even harder on us, because you only see a fraction of what goes on inside our heads.

Just hold us, comfort us, tell us that we are loved, that we are special and deserving of life. Talk about the happy times. Ask what you can do to help.

And above all: treat us with respect.

The Hunt for the Domesticated Salesman

Earlier this month, my car, the Awful Boat, started acting liked it was about to go to the Great Car Unknown, so the Boyfriend Unit and I traded it in, after looking at many new and used cars.

I hated it.

The actual process of picking out a car -- deciding on the model, interior, perks, etc. -- was a bit frustrating, but fun at the same time. I liked looking at all the cars I can't afford, and wincing about most of the ones I can.

The part that I hated the most? Dealing with salespeople. I know, everyone hates dealing with car salesmen, they are up there with politicians, creepy preachers and the kid who plays with his iPhone at the movies.

Most complaints that I've heard about car salesmen is that they are too pushy, they constantly call or pester you to make a sale, and they might smudge details about a vehicle so it's more appealing.

I wish we encountered that, or some attention from salesmen. Instead, we were ignored at the dealerships, left to wander the vast wastelands of domestic and imported cars, blinded by their shiny new paint jobs. When we are able to capture the attention of a domesticated peddler, we were treated like pariahs, riffraff, someone to humor until we decide to leave.

We realize that we were not buying the most expensive of cars, but neither were we looking for a cash car or the cheapest car on the lot. We knew what we wanted, we knew what our budget was, and we're reasonably well-informed about the cars we did want to look at.

Salesmen are guilty only of what so many of us do on a daily basis - judging a book by its cover. We didn't go to dealerships dressed to the nines, looking to impress; indeed, we did just the opposite. While we do not quite resemble hobos, we were quite casual in our attire -- flip-flops, tee shirts, ponytails (on me, at least).

We didn't seek out salesmen, we waited for them to come to us. It's a game, really. If a salesman is brave enough to venture outside his air-conditioned dealership, and talk to us like human beings, they will get our business (if they are selling the car we want, of course).

“For every sale you miss because you're too enthusiastic, you will miss a hundred because you're not enthusiastic enough.” -- Zig Ziglar

The only time we encountered a salesperson that actually treated us like human beings was at a Chevy dealership, and the guy had only been there a week. He was nice and very personable, if a bit unknowledgeable about the vehicle, but his sales manager was horrible - talking down to us (and to New Guy), treating us like we were wasting his time, up until he found out that we could actually afford the vehicle, and then some. Then we were his best friends, and he became the pushy salesperson we all love to hate.

All of the other salesmen at the other dealerships would barely give us the time of day. One older gentleman, whose chest hair was quite distracting, even cut our conversation short because someone else came in and wanted to talk to him. We avoided that particular dealership.

I guess you can't really blame salesmen, though. Their livelihood depends on selling vehicles, and they don't want to waste time on someone who isn't serious about purchasing a car. But there are many types of vehicles on the market, from many different dealers, and in the end, you can try to sell the car and the brand, or you can sell yourself and the company - make the experience as pleasant as possible and make yourself stand out in consumers' minds in a favorable way.

But without that personality, you're just another polo-shirt taking up space at the dealership.

Update - In the end, we ended up with a 2013 Volkswagen Golf. Why did we end up with a VW? Multiple reasons. We've both had VWs before, and loved the feel of them, and the dependability. The Golf had the features we both wanted - Bluetooth, horsies, size, warranty, and the Outlaw (as we dubbed our salesman) was honest. If he didn't know something, he didn't bullshit us.

We were originally trying to decide between a Golf and GTI, the GTI was more fun, but the Golf is a bit more practical. Problem with the Golf was that they didn't have the wheels we wanted or the color, and the GTI was a bit too pricy. When we went back to the dealership after a lunch break, Outlaw had actually found the Golf we wanted, and offered us a price break.

What made us happy was that he found the cheaper car we wanted. Most salesmen would have tried to find the more expensive car to sell us, knowing their commission would have been bigger, but he knew we would be happier with the Golf.

And we are, we both love it.

Zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom.

Adventures in New Eyeballs, part two

Today was my first day back at work since last Wednesday, and let me tell you, it was certainly interesting. About an hour after I clocked in, my eyes were already hurting. My left eye is currently 20/20 (with a slight glare around all lights, including monitors and cell phones) and my right eye is 20/25. Between the two eyes, I can drive and read just fine, but staring at a computer was apparently a bit beyond me.

About an hour into my shift, my coworker CF noticed I kept staring at the ceiling, letting my eyes rest. She alerted our boss and I was sent home, with orders to call the doctor.

I received a call back from the doctor's office just as I arrived home, with instructions to stop on in as soon as possible. Thanks to Apple's new Map feature, a 10 minute journey ended up taking me the better part of an hour, as Maps mistook Ellstree for E Lane Street, and I ended up in the bad part of town.

While I was driving, my right eye went from "eh, sore and tolerable" to "gonna pop out any second now." So it was a fun drive, being lost, in pain and panicking because I was lost.

Since the office staff and DK were so good to me, I made them a basket of goodies decorated Halloween-style to say thank you.

I found the basket at World Market, and the ribbon and bow at A.C. Moore. Inside, I put some pumpkin crunch popcorn, two types of crackers, three chocolate bars, candy corn, tequila salsa, three berry preserves, garlic & herb cheese wedges, chocolate-covered jelly beans and a bag of chocolate eyeballs (get it?).

They absolutely loved it!

When my right eye was checked out, we found the pressure had skyrocketed - up to 53 (normal is between 10 and 20). A couple round of drops were put in, along with the dreaded pills that make you, er, extremely dehydrated. After about an hour and a half, DK had come back from surgery and the pressure in my eye was down to normal.

We talked for a bit, and decided that the next course of action was the laser procedure again - the one that made me empty my stomach and pass out. Of course, I started panicking immediately, and asked if I could take leave for an hour, I needed to eat and wanted the Boyfriend Unit there with me. He said of course, and off I went into the rainy unknown.

The Boyfriend met me at Applebee's, and after a well-deserved Coke and spicy boneless chicken wings, we went back to DK's office. All three of us started discussing options, and we eventually made the decision to do surgery on my right eye - same as last time, opening up some drainage holes to permanently reduce the pressure.

Rant Time
DK said he wished he had done it on Friday, when I was already put under, but the Boyfriend brought up a good point - why operate on an eye that was behaving normally? It only increases the risk of infection.

A few comments have been mentioned to me that it's an easy surgery, that DK is trying to fix his original mistake, cover his ass, etc., but that is simply not the case. A very small percentage of those who receive ICLs have complications, and I just happened to be one of them; there was no mistake by DK or his staff.

The ICL surgery is different than LASIK -- sedation is administered, my eyes were surgically cut into, the ICLs were implanted and allowed to unfold and then the drainage holes were put in (an iridectomy, actually). There's risk with every surgical procedure; you're just as likely to get an eye infection from LASIK or even a simple eye exam.

A very complicated procedure, actually, if you factor in the fact that one small mistake can permanently blind someone; it's not as simple as removing an ingrown toenail or a loose tooth.
End Rant

Tomorrow's surgery is scheduled for noon, though I have to be at the surgery center at 10 a.m. No food or drink after midnight tonight, which means I'll probably be a bit cranky tomorrow.

If you take anything from this, please let it be this bit of advice - your eyes are one of the most important organs you have. Without your vision, you cannot drive, see the sunset or the sleepy look on your lover's face. Go in for yearly checkups, and for Shiny Unicorn's sake, if you're prescribed corrective lens, please wear them, if not for your own safety, then for the safety of everyone else around you.

And make sure you find a doctor you trust, a doctor who goes above and beyond the usual "let's see if you're still 20/20." It's certainly worth the extra cost, believe me.

Adventures in New Eyeballs

On my fifth birthday, I put on my first pair of a glasses - a large, dorky plastic frame that was too large my face. A few weeks ago, the Boyfriend Unit and I decided to proceed with implantable collamer lens for my eyes - an ultra-thin lens that is inserted into my eye, behind the iris.

Wednesday
Six o'clock in the morning
Wednesday morning saw us at the outpatient surgery center where my doctor (DK, for short) performs surgeries out of a few days each week. Six a.m. is way too early to be conscious, never mind arriving at a surgery center, preparing to have your eyes cut into.

We got there before the center even opened, along with a few other patients. Once the center opened, I was quickly checked in and brought to the pre-op "room," which consisted of horribly-patterned room dividers and toe-chilling temperatures. I went through a few rounds of "What is your name? Why are you here? What is your birthday?" Questions to make sure I knew what I was getting into, patient identity check, all that jazz.

After I changed into the unflattering hospital gown, an I.V. was put into my right forearm, but not before my right hand was attempted. What can I say, I have odd veins. They checked my blood pressure and pulse (both near perfect!). My temperature was normal, too.

I met with the anesthesiologist, and he asked me the same round of questions, and let me know I wasn't going to be completely knocked out, but I wouldn't care either way what happened. I made a joke that I would prefer to be knocked out completely, and he said he would see what he could do.

After he left, the nurses brought Colby back to keep me company while I waited to go back (I was the first in "line," woo!). We waited around until 7:15 a.m., my scheduled surgery time, and then they wheeled me back into the operating room. I remember seeing a large "LATEX ALLERGY" sign on my operating room door. Latex makes me itch.

7:15 in the morning
I don't remember much of the surgery, I remember being wheeled in, talking with the nurses, DK coming in, and gunk being put into my eyes. I remember some pain in each eye, as DK cut into them, and me hissing in pain. I remember him telling someone I needed more anesthesia, then blissful nothingness.

8:30 in the morning
When I came to, there were a few nurses standing around, making sure I was okay, getting me some canned orange juice and crackers. They helped me get dressed, then I was hustled out the door in a wheelchair. The Boyfriend was waiting for me outside the surgery center, car all ready to go. He said I came out of recovery looking all lost and confused, aw.

My post-op instructions were simple - sleep with plastic protectors over my eyes, don't lift anything over 5 pounds, don't bend over, don't get water in your eyes until OK'd by DK.

We left the center and went to grab some food, since crackers didn't do much for my empty stomach. I-HOP was close-by and off we went. After we got a table and ordered food, I went off to the ladies' room to cool down - their A/C was broken and their fans weren't working. I remember standing in front of the mirror, then thoughts flashing in my mind like a vivid, psychotic dream. Awaking on the floor of the bathroom, staring up at the underside of the sink, I was confused as to why I was there.

I stumble back to the table, and a waitress, having seen me looking all pale and sweaty and hearing that I just had surgery, moved us to a cooler area. I manage to eat some eggs and pancakes, but bacon and hash browns were beyond me. We pay, and head on home.

The surgery center ordered me to sleep with these plastic shields on my face - they were circularish, and with gauze underneath and tape holding them in place, I had a fashionable mask on for my beauty sleep.

Four o'clock in the afternoon
When I awoke, we went in for my follow-up with the doctor. The pressure in my right eye was high - 54, compared to 15 in my left. I was given some drops to reduce the pressure, and some pills to take that night and the next morning.

Thursday
Ten o'clock in the morning
The next day, I slept in, made some breakfast, and hung out while the Boyfriend worked from home. I went to go lie down because my eyes were starting to hurt, but I couldn't sleep, the pain kept increasing. The Boyfriend called the doctor's office while I stood around whimpering; we managed to get me dressed and out the door in record time.

When we arrived, we were quickly shown to a room and another doctor came in to check on me (DK was still in surgery). The pressure in my left eye was incredibly high, so they put in a couple rounds of drops every 30 minutes to bring it down, then let us leave for lunch once the pressure was temporarily stabilized.

Three o'clock in the afternoon
DK was back from surgery when we came back from lunch, and he looked at my eye as well. Apparently my left eye wasn't draining properly, which was increasing the pressure. When they originally put in the ICLs, they had cut small drainage holes into my iris, since the ICL was blocking it. The drainage holes in my left eye hadn't gone through all the way, like a stopped pipe.

The decision was made to create some more "pipes" in my eye inside the center - they had a laser machine that could do it in about 10 seconds. The room where the laser was housed was small, smaller than a closet - just a chair, a stool for the doctor, and the machine. I rested my chin in the laser machine, DK put some weird, big contact lens-type thing in my eye (to magnify it), and then looked at a green glowing light and SNAP, the laser was shot into my eye for a fraction of a second.

The first time he did it, I managed to move completely out of the way since the SNAP scared the daylights out of me (hey, I'm faster than a speeding laser!). I stayed put for the other 4 laser snaps, and DK applied pressure to my eye since there was some slight bleeding.

He gave me a few minutes to recover, and I started getting hot and nauseated. The Boyfriend went to go get me a cold rag, and that's when everything went to shit. I remember staring off at a random point in the room, the desk light getting bright, everything else getting dark, then lucid images bombarded me. Next thing I know, the Boyfriend is nudging my arm, saying my name over and over. I look over at him, wondering why he was here, why I was in a chair, it felt so surreal. He asked me if I knew my name and his name, which I did.

I remember hearing people move around outside the room, someone ordering a call to 911, then DK came back in the room, requesting a stethoscope, as my pulse had dropped drastically.

When I blacked out, the poor Boyfriend unit was scared out of his mind. Apparently one of the office staff noticed I was sitting odd in the chair, and he tells me I was seizing/convulsing a bit, plus my face was blue ("interracial Smurf," as he put it later) and the rest of me was white as ice.

I remember blacking out a couple more times, for only a couple seconds at a time, but the Boyfriend didn't see those, he only saw me staring off into space like nothing existed.

That was the scariest time of my life. When they moved me into a wheelchair when I was a bit more myself, I remember wanting to move my legs, but I didn't have any control over my body. When I spoke, my voice sounded odd, it didn't sound like me speaking.

They wheeled me into another room, got me into an examining chair and leaned me back. DK sat by my side the entire time, along with the Boyfriend. I stayed there for about an hour, slowly coming back into my senses. One of the nurses brought me some Coke to bring up my sugar.

So what happened? We think it was a variety of things. Apparently, if you apply enough pressure to your eyeball, your blood pressure and pulse will drop (since your eye is connected to a heart nerve), and it will make you pass out. Combine that with the pills from the day prior which had severely dehydrated me, and the lack of food (breakfast and a cinnamon swirl coffee cake from Starbucks), it was a recipe for disaster.

Five o'clock in the afternoon
After I recovered, I went home, with instructions to call if anything came up - DK even gave us his cell phone number to call anytime. The evening passed peacefully, with the Boyfriend and I going to bed at 8 p.m.

Friday
Nine o'clock in the morning
Morning came and went, with my left eye starting to hurt. Since we had an early morning appointment, we headed to the doctor's office, where we found out the pressure was up in my eye again.

DK wanted to do the laser treatment again, this time without the contact lens-thing, hoping that the lack of pressure would keep me from passing out. I immediately started to panic, badly, and DK and his staff brought me some food to eat so I could take a Xanax and relax.

When they brought me into the laser room again, I started to panic even more, even with the Xanax. DK did it as quickly as he possibly could and gave me some time to recover, but I started getting sweaty again, and nauseated. The Boyfriend grabbed my water and started applying it to the back of my neck, but it wasn't enough. I emptied the contents of my stomach into a small wastebasket.

I hate throwing up, it is one of the most unpleasant things in the world, and it is even more humiliating to do it in front of your significant other and people you don't know. The lack of control over your own body is scary.

I started to feel better after my stomach was emptied, though I was still sweating like a pig. DK was looking into some other options for me, and while he was doing that, his assistant K came in to see how I was doing. I have to give her credit, sitting in a small, dark room with a smelly trashcan, trying to calm someone down. She isn't a nurse, she schedules all of his surgeries and takes care of the paperwork; that made it even more touching.

DK ended up making arrangements for me to go back to the surgery center to get prepped, while he finished up with some other patients. K has specific instructions for me - I only had Coke to drink; which was technically true, as I had thrown up everything else (Coke was brought to me while I was waiting on DK, to bring up my blood sugar).

We head on over to the surgery center, and I get checked in. All the nurses were wondering why I was coming back two days later, what happened, etc. They were all so sweet - one of them gave me a hug for good luck, and another told me I was her hero for getting the lasers in my eyes twice.

12:30 in the afternoon
After I was prepped, I.V.'d, everything, the Boyfriend was brought back and the waiting game began. DK came by after about half an hour to an hour later (the time is a little unclear to me, I fell asleep a few times). Then, surgery time!

A different set of nurses wheeled me back, a young woman and an older woman - the older nurse was mothering the younger nurse, as she was pregnant and couldn't squeeze into tight spaces. The operating room was colder than Wednesday, even with four blankets on, my teeth were chattering.

One of the nurses put on the heart monitor sticky-things, a pulse monitor and taped my head to the table  (I didn't remember that from Wednesday...), and more goo was put into my eye. Then blissful nothingness again.

When I awoke, the Boyfriend was waiting for me. Apparently I kept asking him the same questions over and over again, like how long he had been there, was he waiting for me, etc.

This time, recovery was a bit different. Since I was the only eye surgery that day, I had more time to recover, and strangely enough, I couldn't stop sneezing. One of the nurses gave me a Benadryl and two Vicodin, and off we went, back to the doctor's office.

One o'clock in the afternoon
My left eye was draining well, it was still a bit fuzzy from the day before (leftover blood in my eye), but that would pass in time. We're all hopeful that no more surprises pop up, knock on wood.

Conclusion
All in all, it's been a very tiring few days - from the lasers to the emergency surgery, to not being able to wash my hair until Thursday night (after washing it on Tuesday), but I was extremely lucky to have DK and his staff there for me, they were truly wonderful, caring and compassionate.

And I was oh-so-fortunate to have the Boyfriend at my side, 24/7. He was my rock when I was panicking, my helper when I needed objects lifted, and my crying post when it was too much to bear.

Would I do it again? Most likely, it has been a joy to wake up in the mornings and not have to fumble around for my glasses, or worry about a cold A/C fogging up my glasses, and so much more.

The problems I experienced are rare, most people just have a bit of pressure increases, etc. I had some problems with my eyes beforehand, and that might have contributed to it. If you can't get LASIK or PRK done, I would definitely suggest ICL, and if you are in the Raleigh, N.C., area, definitely use my doctor. Don't skimp on the money for that type of procedure, because you get what you pay for. I paid a little bit more and got the best staff in the world.

Bottom of the Totem Pole

I recently started a new job in a new state, and while the work is interesting and my coworkers are nice, I find myself missing the feeling of working with a small department or office, knowing the names of everyone's children, joking with their spouses, etc.

I know, this will come in time, if the position pans out - I'm just a temp right now.

Working with people who you've shared trials and tribulations, inside jokes about people, places or things, it's hard to find. It makes work more enjoyable, makes the time pass more quickly, and the horrid customers more amusing.

Additionally, I'm finding it hard to be at the bottom of the totem pole again, in a position of not knowing anything, of having to ask questions about even the most basic policies. I know, I know, that will go away in time, as I learn and grow, but it's frustrating in the meantime.

It's a different environment where I work, too. At prior jobs, while the locations were owned by a larger corporation, we had a lot of autonomy in our policies, what products we sold, etc. Now, I'm working for a large corporation, one of the Fortune 500s, and I am still getting lost in the maze of interconnected buildings and red-and-purple-and-green decor.

I do enjoy my job, it's a completely different industry than I have ever worked in, but I am able to use skills I learned at previous jobs (customer service, invoice analysis, etc.) to my advantage. The Corporation is adamant about breaks, even though it is not required by state law, something which some prior jobs saw as a detriment to company profits.

In the end, I am glad to be gainfully employed again, and at a company I actually enjoy working for. Plus, no customers!

Thoughts about Mötley Crüe & KISS in concert

At the end of July, the Boyfriend and I went to see Mötley Crüe and KISS live at the Time Warner Pavilion in Raleigh, N.C. We had great seats, in row P, and the weather was decent for summertime in the South. Rained in the very beginning, but since the pavilion was covered, we just felt a cool breeze. I felt sorry for everyone camping out on the grass, though.

The opening band, The Treatment, was energetic. I'm afraid to admit I couldn't actually understand any of their lyrics, but the songs had a good beat. The lead singer made me feel very old when he announced he was under the legal drinking age in the U.S., but oh well.

At times, I felt a little over-dressed for the concert, as I was wearing a green cotton skirt and black top, and a lot of the concert-goers were sporting mullets, ripped shirts or wife-beaters (if they were wearing any tops at all), the usual "I'm in the Deep South" attire. But at other times, I felt quite normal when I spotted fishnets, over-the-top pink hair and leopard print tattoos. It's not enough that the pattern has to invade everything from couches to baby clothes to dog collars, no, we have to sport it permanently. In bright colors.

The Crüe's opening was interesting enough, a large clock counting down until the big entrance, and the band walked through the pavilion in a procession of scantily-clad dancers, theatrics and banners reminiscent of my (brief) college days.

Crüe was entertaining enough, they went through their repertoire of familiar songs (at least, I believe they did, not being a big Crüe fan). It seemed the lead singer was a bit confused and forgetful, and kept making up words to go along with the beat. Either that, or he was under the influence of copious amounts of drugs and was seeing shiny butterflies everywhere. I will give him credit, he did know his newest song quite well. Of course, it is about a favorite topic for most rock stars, movie stars and porn stars - Sex.

I was quite impressed with their two dancers - the sheer amount of muscle needed to go up and down the chains and hang themselves in the air was really quite impressive.

When the drummer decided to do his (somewhat?) trademark drumming-upside-down routine, the crowd went wild. He found a volunteer to go with him on one song (amusingly enough, a Red Hot Chili Peppers' song). The volunteer reminded me of an older Bruce Willis, and it made his day, nay, his year to go up there with the Crüe's drummer.

Overall, Mötley Crüe had a performance full of lights, dancing women, and sparkly things. It was missing actual, live musical talent (well, the lead singer), but the show was eventful.

During intermission, the Boyfriend and I were subjected to a rather unique woman we called "Chatty Cathy." Chatty Cathy was an older woman, late 60s, early 70s, and thought the Boyfriend was her new best friend. She would talk to him during the concert, even if he couldn't hear her, or talk incessantly to herself. We learned many things about Chatty Cathy that evening, like she loved Toby Keith and Eminem and was a groupie of a local(ish) metal band. Oh, and she enjoyed dancing in white tights and a short red dress.

I was able to avoid most of her babbling when the Boyfriend went to get us a pretzel and drinkage, as I am partially deaf in one ear. Unfortunately for Chatty Cathy, it is my right ear I am deaf in, not my left (as I had informed her), but... Mea culpa.

The couple sitting to my right were quite amused by her as well, to the point where they were snapping pictures of her while she was dancing.

A stagehand for the Crüe operated a water gun into the crowd every now and then, rather refreshing since the high for the day was in the upper 90s. During one such time, the annoying woman in front of us (you know the type - standing on her chair, blocking the view for everyone, etc.) was trying to protect her hairdo from the gun by hiding under a rain jacket. The Boyfriend is an evil one, and kept gesturing to the stagehand to aim for her. He obliged, but not after aiming for the Boyfriend first. I think he felt it was worth it, the woman was soaked from head to toe.

The Boyfriend glaring at me during intermission

When it became clear KISS was about to go on, a low murmur started building in the crowd. "This is it! This is what we've been waiting for!"

The band had a theatrical entrance, lowered from the heavens, like the human gods to us mere mortals. There was more smoke and lasers in KISS's entrance, compared to the Crüe, and a lot more spandex.

Where people would talk a bit during Mötley Crüe's set, they were almost reverential as they sang along to every. single. song. during KISS's performance.

You could definitely notice the difference between Mötley Crüe and KISS - while I had trouble understanding the lyrics for the Crüe, I could definitely make them out for KISS. They were also more...energetic, they made the show about themselves (and their logo), rather than fancy lights and dancing girls.

We left before KISS finished their set, my feet were killing me, the Boyfriend was tired, and we wanted to avoid the traffic and the like from the mullet-bearing crowd.

I had some reservations about attending a concert, I'm not one for big crowds or loud music, but overall, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The music and energy pulled you in, I found myself moving to the music, or bouncing in my place, even to songs I didn't know.

And it was quite fun to people-watch, I tell you.

{Recipe} Pink Lemonade Bars

I love cooking, especially desserts. Cakes, cookies, cupcakes, you name it. This recipe is a bit unusual for me, as it's very lemony and very sweet, but I quite like it.

And yes, that is Stormy in the background!

The original recipe was found on Dine & Dash (link), and my comments regarding the recipe are below.

Ingredients

Crust

• 4 sticks (2 cups) butter, softened
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 4 cups flour
• 1 teaspoon salt

Lemonade Topping

• 6 large eggs
• 1 cup lemon juice (I used juice in a can)
• 2 tablespoons lemonade powder (like Country Time)
• 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
• 1/2 cup flour
• Red food coloring
• Powdered sugar

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350ºF and grab a 12x18 cake pan or jelly roll pan.
2. Cream together butter and 1 cup granulated sugar. Slowly add salt and flour, mixing until a soft dough forms.
3. Press dough evenly into the bottom of the prepared pan. Note: This might be a bit difficult, since the dough is very sticky. I ended up using a spatula to smooth it around.
4. Bake for 30 minutes or until slightly brown on top. Remove from oven and allow to cool.
5. Reduce oven temperature 325ºF.
6. Blend eggs and 1 1/2 cups sugar until fluffy and smooth. Add lemon juice, lemonade powder and food coloring until desired color. Add flour slowly, and continue stirring until well blended. Note: This might take a few minutes. Mixture will be thin and runny.
7. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes or until firm. Note: Mine bubbled and fizzed a bit at the top as soon as I put it in the oven.
8. Cool completely and sprinkle with powdered sugar.

The lost art of common courtesy

I love talking to people -- friends, coworkers, random strangers. I'll chitchat with the guy at the burger joint about a trip to North Carolina; commiserate with the cashier about unruly children and complain about the weather with a random customer.

One thing that pops up more and more these days is a lack of simple and common courtesy. It's not taught by a majority of parents, dropped from schools and completely forgotten in the workplace.

I'm not that old, I actually just hit a quarter of a century a year and a half ago, but observing people my age and younger is completely painful. I'm not even going to touch the topics of constantly texting, either in a formal restaurant or while driving, or the obsession with vapid television stars and who they are currently in bed with. Those things are trivial, honestly.

What I have a problem with is that most people today constantly interrupt anyone who is speaking, because their sudden thought is clearly more important than anything else anyone might say; they critique others for a lack of respect (waitstaff, cashiers, etc.), when a simple "please" or "thank you" never escapes their lips; and they always bring the conversation back to themselves, instead of inquiring about others.

Some of the best conversationalists I've ever had the pleasure of talking to were ones that listened, asked questions to clarify a topic, or simply just wanted to know more about a person. They shared information about themselves, but kept it light and engaging. They were genuinely curious about everyone they met, and left something behind at the end of every conversation - a smile.

Personally, I'm not the best conversationalist. I'm shy, I tend to forget the punchlines of jokes more often than not, and my sense of humor is a little off. I know I could ask more questions about people, become more engaged with them, but when I try, my tongue seems to stick to the roof of my mouth.

My complaint goes beyond the general public, though; people don't respect each other in the workplace anymore. Employees are abrupt or rude with customers, or vent their frustrations at them. Email etiquette is a lost art, emails sent out with a general tone of "What do you want? Why are you bothering me?" or sent out in cutesy colors or an entire paragraph in the subject line. Coworkers interrupt other coworkers while they are talking with customers, vendors or potential applicants.

We spend so much time concerned with ourselves, instead of engaging with the world around us, and treating others as we ourselves wish to be treated.

There is no one specific cause to the death of common courtesy, it's been on the decline for years, but it is still sad to see it go.

Errorists and Ytpos

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a stickler for grammar and spelling.

(C) Grammarly

Hypocrisy and chocolate-covered pretzels

My days and weeks are slipping by, as I search for a job and try to amuse myself in the interim. I have a lot of time to think, clean and find pictures in the paint on the walls, and I've come to a few conclusions:

• 7:30 a.m. is a great time to wake up, except that you are done with everything by 9:30 a.m.
• My neighbors don't leave for work until 10 a.m., all of them.
• I am committing adultery on my Mac by using a Windows machine during the day.
• The animals are trying to make a dog-cat hybrid out of their fur.
• I am a hypocrite (why did I type hypnotic...?).

It's the last conclusion that I'm having problems with. No one likes to admit fault within themselves, and when we do, we deny it, sugarcoat it, blame others for our problems. "It's not my fault I'm an alcoholic, my work drove me to it." "I only collect 10,000 Star Wars figurines because Tommy beat me up with one in the 5th grade." 

I babble on about acceptance, things could be better if we could just all get along, but really, I don't think these thoughts most of the time. I'm trying to do better, but as the Boyfriend pointed out to me earlier, those thoughts turn into words more often than I care to admit.

I could make excuses, it's so hard to find anything positive in this world of negativity, self-absorption and reality t.v., but really, I have only myself to blame. How can I escape the cycle if I don't work at it? I judge others based on their looks, their vocal inflections, etc., not for the quality of their character. 

The trick of finding one good thing in a person isn't the best course of action for me. I just need to train my inner sarcastic nerd to shut up for a change. 

Yes, I'm sarcastic. Really. I'm surprised you hadn't picked up on it.

It's pushed people away, kept them at arm's length. There have been times I could have made friends, but lost the opportunity because Sarcastic Me decided to come out of hibernation and voice her opinion. 

Stormy, the doggy bench

I was thinking a bit ago that I want to be like my dog. Stop laughing, I don't want to be a dog, I don't particularly care for fleas, fur and sleeping on the floor, but it's how dogs interact with each other and with humans that I like.

My dog Stormy is one of the sweetest and most laid-back dogs you will ever meet. Honestly, you can't annoy her - we've tried. Poking her, prodding her, picking up her paw and dropping it. She simply doesn't care.  She loves people, too. 

When we take her to the dog park, she has to make her rounds - she doesn't care about the other dogs, but she'll go up to each and every single person and demand pet-pets. She goes beyond friendly-dog, she acts like each new person is her best friend. 

I want that outlook - I want each stranger to be a potential friend, not someone to mock, not someone to distrust. 

In other news, I planned last night to be a little fun for the Boyfriend and I, as he has been studying for his CCIE. I'd picked up some white chocolate wafers recently, and I still had some candy dye from my last batch of peanut butter balls. 

Boyfriend didn't want to decorate, he said it would be prettier if I did it, so he was put to work getting the chocolate bags ready and picking out the colors. Well, not much picking out to do, since I was down to green, black, red, yellow and orange. The teal decided to turn the chocolate into one big, messy goop.

He was happiest when he got to eat all the rejects.

Kobe beef - the big lie

Click here to see the newest updates!

If you go down to your favorite burger or steak joint, chances are, you will see a Kobe beef burger on the menu. Americans buy it by the pound, thinking it is some delicacy, imported straight from Japan, and thus pay an exorbitant fee for the privilege.

Unfortunately, the Kobe beef in America is a lie.

Yes, the beef is a lie.

History of Kobe Beef

Kobe Beef • © Quimm

Kobe refers to beef from the black Tajima breed of Wagyu cattle, from the Hyogo prefecture in Japan. Before becoming a prized dinner, Tajima cattle were used as work animals in the rice fields as early as the second century. Due to herd isolation and feeding techniques, the cattle are now known meat with a well-marbled texture and tenderness.

To be considered Kobe, cattle must have been born in the prefecture and raised on local grasses and water, and must be a bull or virgin cow. From there, it is processed in a Hyogo slaughterhouse and held to strict government standards (such as weight, marbling ratio, etc.).

There are only 3,000 head of certified Kobe beef cattle in the world - and all are in Japan. According to Forbes, "The process is so strict that when the beef is sold, either in stores or restaurants, it must carry the 10-digit identification number so customers know what particular Tajima-gyu cow it came from."

Kobe in American Markets
In 2010, the USDA banned the import of any and all Japanese beef, due to an outbreak of foot and mouth disease. This includes fresh, frozen, whole, cut, boned or on the bone.

So what is the Kobe beef that your local steakhouse is currently selling?

Depends on the restaurant. Some restaurants simply call any higher-cut of steak "Kobe" and inflate the price. Other restaurants serve "American Kobe," which comes from Japanese Wagyu cattle imported to America and crossbred with Angus cows, or 100% Wagyu cattle themselves.

What makes those cattle different? Diet, first off. The Tajimi cattle have a special diet (which does include sake and beer), plus regulation and bloodlines. There are 100% Wagyu, percentage Wagyu, purebred Wagyu (which does not mean 100% pure), etc. Also, these cattle are fed whatever each individual owner wants to feed them.

Regulation in the U.S.
Quite simply, there is none. The U.S. does not recognize the Japanese's trademark on Kobe beef, so any Joe Blow is free to use "Kobe" on whatever beef he wants (or even pork! Chicken!). Some local cities/counties might have ordinances in place for false advertisement, but it is rarely enforced, simply because no one files a complaint.

So, next time you go out, skip the Kobe burger or hot dog and stick with an Angus burger. It's more likely to be legit, and less likely to infringe upon someone's copyright.

Sources and Other Reading Material
"American Kobe-style beef replaces the real thing," MSNBC, published Dec. 29 2005
"Bogus beef: Miami restaurants say it's Kobe, but it's not," Miami New Times, published Oct. 8 2009
"Forbes: No Real ‘Kobe’ Beef in U.S.," Investor Times, published April 13, 2012
"Food's Biggest Scam: The Great Kobe Beef Lie," Forbes, published April 12, 2012
"Kobe And Wagyu Beef: Final Thoughts And Clarifications," Forbes, published April 19, 2012
"Kobe Beef: Food's Biggest Scam," theKitchn, published April 27, 2012
"Fake Food: That's Not Kobe Beef You're Eating," NPR, published April 22, 2012
"Kobe Beef," Wikipedia, updated August 7, 2012