Tag Archives: story

Cronut Crack

9 Feb

cronut

 

I screwed up.  I screwed up bad, yo.  Yesterday I slithered through the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru for an iced coffee and saw that they had croissant donuts on the menu.  So I was like, “Don’t mind if I do!”  And I did.  Oh did I ever.  I know, I know.  I’m a little late to the party.  I mean, they’ve been around for what….4 years now?

Now ya’ll know I make fake pastries and sell them on the internets…so I was already aware of Dominique Ansel’s Bakery in New York.  (I try to use real food as inspiration.)  But somehow I totally missed the fact that he’s the one who actually invented the Cronut.  I vaguely remember seeing something on the Today Show about long lines trying to get some donut hybrid thing, but I didn’t pay much attention.  I don’t do chatty early morning talk shows. Also, I try to stay away from fads until they are no longer fads.

But I’m here to tell you right now this very moment that I am unequivocally addicted to the Dunkin Donut Boston Kreme Croissant Donut like a squirrel on smack.  This morning I went creeping up in there like a Ninja.  They totally remembered me.  I’m like that crackhead that circles around the block and comes back trying to act like he someone else.  Only I’m not someone else.  I’m just an aging woman with a bad back and no shame.

My kid can never find out about this.  Like ever.

 

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Disco Seashells

18 Aug

I’ve always had a hard time saying the word, ‘seashell’.  I tend to say ‘sheshell’ before rapidly correcting myself. If the person I’m speaking to chuckles, this thought immediately runs through my head:

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Anyway, seashells have been piling up around here for the past few years and I’ve been at a loss about how to handle their business.  I mean, I’m not exactly a fan of seashell crafts and bathroom bowls.  Not that there’s anything wrong with those things.  It’s just a personality quirk of mine.  I also have a hard time controlling myself around decorative soap when I’m a guest in someone else’s home.  The sight of stamped soap balls  all nestled in a glass dish make me want to immediately soil my hands so I can furiously scrub them with the fancy soap balls.

Back to the sheshells.  (I totally just accidentally misspelled that word and I’m not correcting it to prove my point.)  I blame that song, ‘Disco Inferno’ for my irresponsibility and lack of remorse when it comes to glitter.  Seriously.  You give me some Mod Podge and flocking glitter and I’ll make it look like Elton John moved in.  All over the place.

So putting glitter on seashells should be no surprise to anyone; however, I’ll deny that I had anything to do with glitter being all over my kid’s homework.  Like I said.  Irresponsible.  You know that look people get when they come face to face with a resident of crazy town?  That’s how my daughter looked at me when I proudly showed her my day’s work.  Like side-eyeing Chloe.

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Her look became even more concerned when I started laughing so hard that tears were coming out. I totally amuse myself.  Like when I slightly edited this Chloe pic to make her look less concerned and more disgusted.  I laughed so hard that the cat went skidding out of the room.

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The disgusted look came when I said, “Hey man.  Put your ear up to this shell.  You don’t hear the ocean.  You hear disco music.”

Oh c’mon.  That was funny.

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Crime and Parenting

30 Sep

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My ten year old daughter watches the morning news.  I know, I know.  But we drew the line at her drinking black coffee while watching.  That counts for something, right?  If the TV is on cartoons while she’s getting ready, she’ll be like, “Yeah, I’m gonna need the news before we go any further.”  She’s always been a nosy child.  Her Dad and I are always right there to answer any questions she may have.  And trust me.  There have been questions.

But last night I found myself trying to explain capital punishment to her.  The reason being, she caught wind of Kelly Gissendaner’s pending execution.  If you’re unfamiliar with the case, Gissendaner was the only woman on death row here in the state of Georgia.  She was sentenced to death after a jury found her guilty for convincing her lover to kill her husband.  The guy who did the actual stabbing will be up for parole in 2022.  Gissendaner was scheduled to be executed at 7:00 pm last night but her legal team went into an appeal frenzy and the execution wasn’t carried out until 12:21 a.m. this morning.  My kid supported the appealing.  “It’s not fair to die if the other killer guy isn’t dying too.”  Kid rationalizing.

When she asked what capital punishment was, I gave her the whole “eye for an eye” explanation.  But  you could clearly see her trying to process all of the contradictions that surrounded it.  I myself struggle with the whole thing.  I wanted to make sure she understood that legally ending someone’s life was not something to be taken lightly.  It wasn’t Twitter entertainment.  It was also not an excuse to stay up past bedtime.

I questioned my parenting skills when I saw her run to the kitchen for snacks, informing her Dad, “Hey man, I gotta go.  This whole peeling process is heating up.”  We told her it was bedtime.  She told us there was one more appeal pending in the U.S. Supreme Court.  We said we didn’t care.  She said we should.  We said we were the boss.  She said she had a right to an appeal.

While most days I completely fail at parenting, this morning I’m fairly sure I made a good parenting choice when I decided not to say, “Hey, they executed that woman last night” on the way to school.

Don’t judge me.

For Shame, Target. For Shame.

13 May

 

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What do they say…imitation is the highest form of flattery?  That’s a heaping pile of feces.  That may have been true at one point, but in this commercially greedy society, imitation is more akin to back-alley robbing.  Take Target for instance.

Earlier this month, Melissa Lay found out she’d been back-alley robbed by Target (which shouldn’t surprise us considering their logo is a target.  That you shoot guns and arrows at).  Melissa opened an Etsy shop last year so she could sell her originally designed, insanely cool t-shirts.  Her friend gave her a call to let her know that Target had her exact same t-shirt for half the price.

Let me digress a tad.  If I had been that friend, I would’ve been on my cell, making a scene.

“OMG!  Dude, I’m down here at Target and how ’bout they stole your shirt?!  Yeah, I’m serious!  The one with the flag!  Exactly the same only theirs is made in Guatemala.  Oh this is b.s..  I’m gonna go find the manager.  Oh yes I am!  Don’t worry.  No one will get slapped.  Too hard.”

Now when I say they ripped off the design…I mean THEY RIPPED OFF THE DESIGN!

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The only difference I see is that Target’s shirt looks like it took a beating on the boat back from Guatemala.  You can find a more professional and detailed version of the story HERE.

I mean, hey.  People have been stealing other people’s ideas since the candle was invented.  But be cool about it and give that artist the credit!  Melissa contacted Target’s corporate headquarters in Minneapolis and do you know what they said?  We encourage you to write us a letter outlining your complaint.  Seriously?  Outlining your complaint?  How ’bout Target sucks?

I can only hope that a very generous team of ethical lawyers hears about this and takes Target to the woodshed.  If not for anything but the beating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Homeless Man Did My Taxes

15 Apr

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And I did exactly that.  I considered my past math grades and opted for complete and total irresponsibility.  It doesn’t make me proud to admit this.  My only excuse is that is was the late 90’s and I was still in my 20’s.  A very wise person once told me, “You can screw up all you want in your 20’s.  Once you hit 30, there’s no more excuses.”  That meant I was still covered under the umbrella of acceptable unacceptable adult decisions.

You know those stories or movies that start out with, “It was a dark and stormy night”……cue thunder and lightening effects.  That’s exactly the type of intro that suits the April 15th tax deadline I’m speaking of.  I’d refer to the exact year, but alas….I cannot recall.  The main post office looked like a rave without the mollys.  People were sweating with crazed faces and for a split second I started to have a good time.  Until I remembered that I hadn’t even begun to do my taxes.  I tried to look non-chalant while in panic mode.  Like I was there to buy a stamp or something.  Then I saw him.

He was standing in a corner with his arms crossed watching the chaos with a grin on his face.  A large camping backpack that looked to be everything the man owned sat on the floor at his feet.  I try to avoid making eye contact with most people.  I find that when I do, I’m often asked to run an errand or pay a bill.  So it was quite by accident when the man and I locked eyes.  Not in the romantic sense.  More like when a krill makes eye contact with a whale.  I saw him start to saunter my way and realized I’d quite literally backed myself into a corner and he knew it.

“Here to file your taxes?”  Oh, he was good.

“No.  Well, I am.  After I finish doing them.”  I waved my W2 around in the air.

His eyebrows slightly raised and it was obvious that this wasn’t the saddest case of adult negligence he’d seen before.

“You want me to take a look at them for you?”

Now.  The normal response to a homeless man asking to take a peep at your financials would be to gasp in horror and back away quickly.  Not me.  I tossed him my W2 like a hot potato, totally agreeing to a possible future identity theft.  He motioned for me to follow him to the rack ‘o forms where he commenced to grabbing what I hoped to be the appropriate paperwork.  He motioned again for me to follow him only this time he was headed outside.  I’ve learned to trust my primitive Fight or Flight response and I was completely at ease as I followed him like an ignorant child behind the Pied Piper.

“I figured it’d be quieter out here.  You look like crowds make you nervous.”

Perceptive.

He fished a pencil out of his pocket and sat on the curb.  It was obvious he knew exactly what he was doing.  After about 15 minutes it was even more obvious he had found a way to stick it to the man.  He was done in less than an hour.

“So that’s it?  We’re done?”
“We’re done.”

By that time the crowd had thinned and only the desperate remained.  I mooched a couple of stamps and dropped the whole experience into the chute marked “PLACE COMPLETED TAX FORMS HERE”.

A wave of relief washed over me and I turned to thank the man who had saved me from a potential audit and possible jail time.  But dude was gone.  Just like that.  About a month later I got the largest tax return I’d ever received.  I choose to believe everything was legit.  I often wonder about that man.  His intelligence was obvious and there was no doubt an interesting story behind his choice to wander in lieu of setting down roots.  I wonder if he thinks of me around this time of year?  That ignorant girl with blind faith and wicked abandon.  I think we’d totally be good friends.

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