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Archive for the month “April, 2012”

Pickles: The Duck Sauce of Sandwich Shops

This post is going to be short and sweet.

Some of you will feel me, some of you will just shake your head. But bear with me.

You read the headline.

There is a very accurate stereotype that if you go to a Chinese food restaurant– practically anyone, there is an unspoken rule to all employees to give take out orders only TWO packets of duck sauce, but an unlimited number of soy sauce packets.

It’s annoying, because everyone loves duck sauce and wants to slather it over everything.

I like one packet for just one egg roll. How am I going to possibly get the flavor I desire on the rest of my pork fried rice (a pint or quart worth?).

Somebody enlighten me.

But to the defense of many Chinese food restaurants, you will usually get additional duck sauce if you ask for it specifically. In some instances, holding fast to stringent inventory rules and skyrocketing prices (I presume), or the impending extinction of ducks from which the sauce is made, you may still only get two more packets after you’ve asked nicely. And then you’ll get the  “you better not ask me for more or this will come out of my paycheck” look.

Anyway, I feel that sandwich shops have implemented this same unjust rule against the public, specifically regarding pickles.

That’s damn right, I said it.

I’ve been to a couple of sandwich places, and almost started a riot after ordering a sandwich and not getting my obligatory pickle spear.

I’ve even walked back into a spot and demanded it.

I love the way some places will wrap the pickle separately, but also inside the same wrapping as the actual sandwich. It’s like a lovely little present. When I’m working all hard and ready to have my midday sustenance, I want my lovely green gem of a pickle.

Pickles must be important. Some restaurants sell them separately out of massive jars, in case you have a hankering and that’s all you wanted. My mom tells me of the days of her youth when even the neighborhood ice cream/candy man would sell whole, large pickles.

I even just sent a tweet to one of my favorite restaurants who serve really great sandwiches, soups and most importantly pickles. And they wrap them up just the way I like it.

29tolifeblog: @panerabread I know I ordered 1/2 sand, 1/2 soup, but I can’t still get a pickle too? I’m hurt by this… I really like the pickle.

I’m still waiting for an apology and a minimum of a $10 gift card for pain and suffering.

One day I did seek justice and got my sweet revenge when I got the offensive sleight of no pickle spear with my deli sandwich.

The price-gauging restaurant in my office building (which also serves Chinese food) did this to me a few times. One time I was so irate, and I had had enough.

I went back, demanded my pickles, then with rebellious triumph, snatched a fist full of duck sauce on my way out.

Now we’re even…

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You’re Too…Local

I am a serial long distance dater.

So much so, I told a friend/pseudo suitor, he was in fact, “too local.”

I haven’t had a same city relationship probably since 2003.

I haven’t had a same state/timezone relationship since 2006.

Even the men I’ve decided to date casually or spend time with, they have always lived far away.

The local men never last.

I think I’ve figured out why.

Being a long distance lover, you live for those weekend getaways. There’s an excitement attached to hopping on a plane and leaving your mundane world behind for the arms of your lover/love.

You get gorgeous, you shave where you are supposed to.

You smell good, you can’t wait to see them, they can’t wait to see you. You’ve planned your best outfits.

You normally have great dates planned, fabulous dinners, taking in the sites of a city that’s not your own.

Then you part ways, until the next time.

Usually because of the expense of flying, even the most spontaneous of visits are planned at least three days out. Which is enough time to get oneself together, do any cleaning, etc.

Even though I’m trying to have better habits when it comes to cleaning or getting rid of clutter in my house, I’m not as prepared for unexpected company as I’d like to be and it makes me a bit ashamed and uncomfortable. Even when I’ve cleaned from top to bottom I have some kind of disorder/insecurity that makes me think my visitors still won’t think it’s clean enough, even though I know it’s clean.

I never want any man I’m interested in to think I can’t keep home, but because I don’t have a lot of company very often, sometimes I’m not as vigilant on keeping everything perfect.  So I have to be in control of visits if I’m dealing with a local man. He can’t come over unannounced and not unless I think my house is right.

Meanwhile, there’s a part of me that’s like, I don’t live in filth and anyone who likes me should understand I work everyday and drive a total of nearly two hours each day for my commute. I’m not Suzie Homemaker. Take me and my home as I am.

I’m eclectic, I have lots of books and magazines, most of which are in shelves but can end up in various parts of my house. I sometimes have inspiration boards and tee-shirt stuff everywhere in my living room.

So am I scared of commitment? No, just scared of someone being all up in my space and face and suddenly realizing I’m not really as wonderful and put together as they thought (and as I advertised). Keeping up appearances is tiring and I need someone to see through all of that and think I’m the best thing since sliced bread.

That was my biggest fear when I was engaged. I was scared, he’d eventually declare false advertisement. Bear in mind, I think I was the most real I had ever been in a relationship with him. He saw me sick, he saw me in grief, he knows I can eat like a linebacker and blow up a bathroom.

But according to married folks, everyone is going to declare false advertisement at some point anyway. Everyone is going to say what they signed up for isn’t what they thought they signed up for.

I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

Local fellas….eh, I still don’t know about yall. You’re just too close… Can’t let yall catch me slippin.

Hips (and Boobs) Don’t Lie

Ambro/freeimages.net

I apologize in advance to my male readers, but stick around. This may be helpful.

It was time.

No, it was past time.

Some of the bras and panties I have in my collection, are old. On top of that, I’ve gained weight.

Some of my bras aren’t that old, but just beaten up from me doing what I’m not supposed to by washing them in the machine and drying them. (I’m lazy)

Usually, I care about my underwear game when I’m involved, but right now, I’m solo.

But it really shouldn’t matter. Whether I’m prancing around for a guy, or in my mirror, I should have on the right drawers! Old, ill-fitting bras and panties are just wrong and will make your clothes look unflattering. Everyone needs to seriously take a page from plus-sized models. They get it totally right. They never look bulky in clothes or when modeling underwear, because they are wearing the right size.

So the point of this post really is to share with women, that even if you are pissed you gained weight, or you are excited you lost weight and you are being cheap and waiting to buy new stuff til you get to your goal weight, please get the correct size bra and panties and the correct size jeans.

These are the areas you do not want to fudge. Stop being uncomfortable. You know you feel like a fool, once disrobed, with all those red marks all over your body, outlining where your clothes were embedded in your skin the entire day.

Dresses, you can lie to yourself.

Certain tops, you can lie to yourself.

But please, please, get the correct size jeans and bras and panties.

Jeans, it’s tough. Because going a size up for some people means surrendering to the truth, that you put on a few pounds. To some, it also means it’s a slippery slope to going up another size six months later.

But it doesn’t have to.

God, I remember a few years ago the fit of rage I went into when I had to buy my first pair of size 10 jeans.

I was damn near emotional.

Now I wear a size 12 jean, and now I know enough is enough. But I’m not going to wear certain size 10 jeans I have because it’s just straight up unflattering. Do I want to go to a 14? Hell no. The buck stops here.

The quickest way to becoming a size 14 is being a 12 and wearing a size 10. You’ve completely lost your sense of what fits properly and what your actual size is. It’s part delusion and part denial, which may make you eat more because you feel like crap because your clothes don’t fit, but you are too scared to wear your correct, albeit larger size.

But don’t believe the hype.

Keep it real, keep it accurate, and stop going out looking crazy.

Even while shopping for my new bras, there was a voice that said, “You are starting to work out again, you are wasting money.”

Then I had to shut up that voice and say, “I didn’t lose that 20 pounds yet. I need to wear the right undergarments right now, so I can feel good about how I look right now.”

I read a recent article in Lucky magazine (one of my favs) about how women are often wearing the wrong size and all they have to do is usually go up a cup and go down a number. I love the “pour and shake” method in the fitting room, to make sure your sweater puppies stay put.

Hot damn, they were right. I never pictured myself as a D cup, so I faithfully stuck to the C. D’s were for the big-boobed chicks. I’m not a big-boobed chick, or so I thought. So, I let my D cup boobies slip out my damn C cup bras, feeling uncomfortable and looking crazy, because I was in big boob denial. Keep in mind I know for real, for real big-boobed chicks who read this blog and will probably have a good laugh at my recent discovery.  

One friend, I actually wore one of her cups on my head in college. This friend has always believed in wearing a good bra, and spending good money on it. She’s totally right.

So good-bye and good riddance to my ill-fitting undergarments. Thank you for your service. I officially deem you, retired.

Lucky has a number of articles on the topic.

http://www.luckymag.com/blogs/luckyrightnow/2012/03/six-tips-for-finding-the-perfect-bra

http://www.luckymag.com/style/howto/2012/04/how-to-find-the-perfect-bra#

Livin La Vida Beyonce

I’ve got to hand it to this chick.

She keeps folks wanting more and when she gives it, she doesn’t disappoint, but still manages to do it on her own terms.

Folks have been itching for a glimpse into Mrs. Carter’s personal life for several years now, and finally she gives us a taste…well sort of.

I probably viewed at least 40 pics on her new tumblr site, that according to other blogs I’ve read was a collection of photos to celebrate her 4th wedding anniversary to Jay-Z. But I’ve just seen mostly photos of Queen Bey.

They were all fabulous. Even the ones where she was wearing little or no makeup (thank you for keeping it real).

Even the random non-Bey photos of things like flowers or a tree branch that formed the lowercase letter b, or hers and jay’s initials written in the sand from some awesome locale were cool in my opinion.

This was the one time, I kind of felt like I got an insight into Beyoncé’s quirkiness and humanness. I’d totally stop and take a photo of an L shaped vine in a heartbeat. I particularly enjoyed the photos she took with her sister Solange. I just saw my sister (and nephew) this weekend, and I didn’t take any photos with her! Shame on me.

I dig this tumblr page not because Beyoncé is all fabulous and having experiences I will never have (Jealous much? Kind of.), but I dig it because it tells me we all can live our versions of la vida Beyoncé, if like her, we take in every moment.

Like for real.

From these photos, I don’t sense that she’s flaunting her extravagant life (world travel, yachts, etc…) but instead giving thanks for it by recognizing she clearly does not live the ordinary life.

Now, I’m not going to stop and take a picture of everything or have folks take pics of me everywhere I go, but taking photos of moments awesome and mundane to remember and document our lives is a must. Being 80’s babies, I think both Bey’s parents and mine went nuts with cameras and photographing, then video recording everything.

Personal cameras and advances in photo printing during that time really paved the way for digital, and probably contributed to the popularity of Facebook and why a lot of people can’t even think of taking photos without posting them to Facebook immediately after.

My generation and the generations after have always loved the camera. No wonder we are so self-centered…

I still pull out photos from college, vacations, and most recently my 30th birthday and I swear, I look just as vivacious, sexy and happy as Beyoncé with a fraction of the bank account.

It’s a life well-lived, and I can’t wait to do and see more… and take the pictures!

Workin It Out

Well thanks to a little nudge from one of my dear friends and a great living social deal, your girl has signed up for a 3-month gym membership and two personal training sessions for the jaw-dropping price of $19.

Yes.

So even though I had excuses up the wazoo, including having to drive a little bit out of my way, $19 for three months, it’s practically free.

It’s time to lace up the sneaks, and get er dun.

The gym chain itself appears to be no frills, no fancy extras (like a swimming pool or juice bar). Just a lot of machines, so, if you aren’t using a personal trainer, people who benefit from this kind of gym are people who already feel comfortable with equipment and are very self-motivated (if they don’t get personal training).

The friend who put me on to the deal was talking about us going together.

It’s weird, but when I go to the gym, I operate better alone unless I’m with my homie who was a former college soccer star and who pushes me to near exhaustion.That chick is in the gym everyday. She’ll even go twice a day if something is on her mind or bothering her.

No diss to my girl, but when I get in my zone, I go for it.

I don’t want us to be just chatting walking at a level 2 on the treadmill. I usually have a plan.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I bring you Kanye’s workout plan. Who knows, this summer with my new bod, I may pull a baller or shotcaller. Even if I don’t, I’m going to love how I feel regardless.

 

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