W.A.G. #5: Biebermania

Hello there! I realize that I had a WAG post very recently, but something came up at the gym today that was just a-begging to be written about. I was working out and watching MSNBC, eschewing my normal "4 miles + ANTM marathon on Bravo" routine to try and make myself into a knowledgable skinny gym bitch, rather than a regular s.g.b. And boy oh boy, did I learn a bunch. I learned that some football player I've never heard of was arrested, that some conservative newspaper in LI juxtaposed a picture of the Obamas with this one from Sanford and Son, and that some people are standing outside the White House reading the entire bible, in unison and without breaks. Scintillating news. But then, the anchor tells me that coming up next is a story about a viral video of a Justin Bieber interview that went badly wrong!!!!! Excitement.

(Side note: the image they showed with this little teaser was actually a picture of David Boreanaz. Good reporting, peeps.)

For those of you who don't know, Justin Bieber is the tween pop sensation who can't even have an actual concert because his fans keep rioting just to get close to him. His tweets (which seem to be of enough general interest that the NYT writes stories about them) now tend to deal with chastising these crazypants. Example: 

"The airport was crazy. NOT HAPPY that someone stole my hat and knocked down my mama. Come on people."

In my day, tween girls just screamed in high pitch voices and waved signs, maybe jumped up and down a bit. Knocking down his mama? That is not cool, ladies. Not cool at all. Now I don't know very much about JBiebs beyond what I learned from YouTube, most specifically this video (which is so awesome that I just HAD to share). I mean, I think when I was three I was reading "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" and listening to the Classical Kids collection, not having my mind corrupted by some Justin-Timberlake-in-the-making. Good job, mom and dad - I don't say this often, but well parented. 

Ok, so we're back to the present. It turns out that this interview had nothing to do with David Boreanaz, sadly, but lots to do with German and the sad state of education in America today. (For the last viral video dealing with this important topic, see this fiasco.) Watch and enjoy:

Clearly JBiebs needs to read this blog, because then he would learn that not only do we use the word "German" in America, it's one of the best words ever. I do hate to break it to you, Bieberama, but no matter how much you like basketball, that's not what Bieber means in "German."  Basketball is called "basketball." Shocker. And Bieber roughly translates to "go back to school, you weird little chipmunk boy." 

So learning about languages is important, folks! And school yo' chilluns, so they can grow up to be real live peepull like yous and mes.

CBSH Part Two

Hello again ladies and gents! It's time for installment #2 of "Commie Bastard Story Hour." This segment is entitled:

Sunlight and Healthy Eating Are Now Illegal

I left this story off on the very first day of my first visit to Russia. While that was my only experience of physical violence in the Motherland, the trip did not improve from there. It was snowy and people were mean and growly. Biiiiig surprise, right? Let me show you an excerpt from my emails to friends during this time (lack of capitals due not just to general laziness but to Russia gradually sapping my will to live - when you're contemplating suicide, suddenly capital letters lose their importance):

it is snowing and dirty here. i mean really dirty. people smoke cigarettes constantly and then just throw them on the ground. and the cars let off black exhaust. and people drink beer at 11 am and throw the beer bottles on the ground or in the river. we walk a lot every day because the metro stations are really far apart and the bus system seems to have neither rhyme nor reason (or a map, which would definitely help). the worst is that everything is in cyrillic and the only word in english russians seem to know is "no." it took us three days just to find this internet cafe (internet at the hotel costs about 10 dollars for half an hour, and you can only use it in the lobby which is filled with smoking men who look like mobsters and seem to have nothing to do but drink and stare at you).

Oh man, I had forgotten about that hotel lobby. Those men were so so so stereotypically Russian. They all had leather jackets and beer/vodka bellies and they all had tall skinny blond mistresses who wore miniskirts and knee-high leather boots despite below-freezing temperatures and 6-inch deep snow/puddles. I would hate them too, except somehow they all seem to eventually morph into short fat middle-aged ladies with fur coats and 18 shopping bags, so I figure it's even. The rest of the emails I sent were in a similar vein, mostly complaining about how I hadn't seen the sun in two weeks and I could feel my heart hardening from all the fatty and deep-fried foods they seem to guzzle over there.

This prompted one of my most hilarious friends (codename: TwigOnTreeTrunks aka TOTT) to email back with this gem:

Russia sounds gritty and raw, like a modern day Wild West, where the only justice is street justice.

While I feel that this statement completely over-romanticizes my Russia experience, I had to include it because TOTT is one of my favorite people in the world, and it taught me that apparently even when I'm describing my complete misery, it can come across like a Clint Eastwood movie. So if that's the impression you're getting from the CBSH, correct yo'self fools! That is not the way it went down.

So cut to week two of Hatter's Russia tour. I hadn't seen a vegetable during that entire time (other than beets and cabbage, which I do NOT count as worthy of the name vegetable. I mean, you don't see either of them cropping up in the multitudinous cast of Veggie Tales, do you?). I was craving something fresh, not boiled or fried or baked. So, I trekked through the snowy streets of Moscow to find a supermarket, and I found a bin with the most beautiful delicious looking apples I have ever seen. In hindsight I realize that these apples may have looked more like this, but I was so starved for the crisp juicy taste of a piece of fruit that I probably just didn't care. At any rate, I selected the plumpest prettiest one of these and brought it to the checkout. And guess what? That apple cost 450 rubles. Now I happen to be relatively quick when it comes to converting between currencies, but I was for a second unable to believe my own calculations.

Here's how it works. There are 30 rubles to the dollar. If an apple costs 450 rubles, the apple is 15 dollars American. FOR ONE APPLE. I was so desperate I would have paid quite a lot of money, but I draw the line when some cheating scheming Russian supermarket a**hole tries to pay for his next carton of cigarettes with my hard-earned apple money.

Now I ...totally... understand, what with the 8 bajillion acres of Russian farmland available, it must be hard to grow apples or broccoli or cucumbers when you have to keep your entire population fully stocked with french fries and vodka. I mean, that's a lot of potatoes. But if you're going to force me to be fat and drunk, could you at least let me be a happy drunk with a 1 dollar apple every now and then? Of course it should come as no surprise that the answer to this question is a resounding NYET.

And that's reason #2 why I will hate Russia until my dying day. All I got out of that trip was indigestion, a vitamin D deficiency, a muffin top, frostbite, and deep depression. What a country.

W.A.G. #4

Guten Tag, lovely readers of SUWA. Yes, it is that time again: WAG time! This week's word was inspired by my recent flirtations with Alzheimer's. I'm going to take you on a little trip down Mad Hatter's Memory/Nostalgia Lane. Cut to 13-year old Hattie on a trip to Austria. Momma and Baby Hattie are touring the streets of Salzburg, getting their first taste of German, when what should they stumble upon but something called "Mozarts Geburtshaus." And it should come as no surprise to any of you that this is the WAG of the week: Geburtshaus.

So what in the world is a Geburtshaus? Well, it is both literally and in reality a "born-house:" it is the house of one's birth. Or I guess the house where you grew up if you weren't physically shoved out of your mother's vajayjay there. The reasons I like this word are manifold:

1) Y'all know how I feel about the German passive tense. It's just so Gott verdammt funny.

2) You also know how much I looooove portmanteauing. The Germans do it better than anyone in the world, and for their dedication and willingness to mash pretty much any combination of words into one, I salute them.

3) How in the name of holy heck is a Geburtshaus a concept that anyone felt needed a special name? I can just imagine the conversation between the people putting up those fancy golden letters.

"Hold your Pferde, Johann, this is getting kinda crazy. Couldn't we just call it a Haus?"

"Nein, Werner, we must be as descriptive as possible with our words! Just calling it ein Haus is so boring! We shall have Geburtshäuser and Sterbehäuser (I am not making this Scheiße up) and maybe even Erstkussenhäuser (first kiss houses? I may have made that one up, but I also wouldn't be surprised if that turns out to be real)."

"You're so right, Johann! This system is so much besser! Jawohl!"

Oh Germany, how I love you. Danke, my friends. Danke.

No I Will NOT Have a Nice Day, Thank You Very Much

So during our relaxing vacay from the dog-eat-dog world of noncompetitive blogging, Hattie and I decided that we needed a way to ease the burden of providing you with pearls of wisdom and hi-larious anecdotes on a daily basis. Why not devote one day a week to something totally random, we thought, something that wouldn't further tax our poor, battered minds? And then after a few more glasses of Franzia (Sunset Blush, if you're buying) we came upon a solution. A solution that will heretofore be known as:

Top Five Friday

Regular worshipers at the temple of SUWA know that we are of the kind who like to make ourselves little lists. We don't have a problem or anything, it's just a casual thing, I swear, NO YOU SHUT UP. Awkward.....(This just reminded me of something one of my friends from college used to do in these kinds of situations. Whenever something awkward happened he'd do this one-handed lame robot motion ((and by lame I mean crippled, not moronic, obviously)) and say in a really slow voice 'Awwwwkieees.' Personally I cannot think of any better hand gesture/inappropriate ritual to mark awkward occasions. I'm trying to get Awkies to make a comeback. I'll keep you guys posted.)

So. Anyway.  Every Friday we'll be coming at you with a top five list on a topic of our own choosing, enumerating for you the quinticulous attributes on a particular topic. This week it's

The Top 5 Stores Against Which I Currently Have A Vendetta

5. American Apparel

If you were here at the beginning, dear reader (s), you may remember the little lesson that Hattie gave us all on why leggings are not pants. If I had to teach Leggings Are Not Pants 101 at the junior college, and the dean gave me barely enough money in my budget for an 'educational' school trip, I would take those lifelong learners to American Apparel for an up-close and person lesson in What Not To Wear. Literally every item in their store is either a) a pair of leggings pants, b) a 'dress' (read: slightly longer than average shirt) designed to be worm with leggings pants, or c) a bodysuit comprised of a skintight top and a pair of leggings pants attached at the waist.

American Apparel tries to act like they're the hipper, edgier, black sheep cousin of store like Gap, when really they're the trashier, spandexier back country cousin of stores like The Limited Too. Just look at what they suggested we wear for Halloween. If that doesn't stand as a stark warning, I don't know what else to say to you.

4. Macy's

Macy's is a complicated place. On the one hand, it's an American retail institution and I feel that as a proud New Yorker I should give them a little (fake) respect, but in the end I can't because they are just too shitty a store. They routinely break one of my cardinal rules of retail: if someone comes in and tries to buy something with money,  give them service and/or a good in exchange. I believe that Hattie touched on this issue briefly in her MH v. Russia post yesterday, and I have to tell you that this practice is sadly not relegated to vodka-soaked communist empires. I cannot tell you how many times I have gone to Macy's and had approximately the following conversation 'Excuse me, I'm looking for...' 'WHAT do you want?' 'Um...I'm uh...looking for jeans?' 'Yeah, AND?' 'Um...where are they?' 'HAH! This whole floor has jeans. Just look around.' Look lady, I get that you have better things to do all day than stand around and get paid to help people find what they're looking to buy...OH WAIT THAT'S EXACTLY YOUR JOB. Never mind.

It's not just the salespeople at Macy's that make shopping there an unholy experience, it's the physical nature of the store itself. It seems to be forever in a state of reorganization, with clothes and home goods strewn haphazardly all over the place as if the Mongols just got came through raping a pillaging and shopping for prom. Also Macy's is just...dirty. Every time I'm there there seems to be a fine layer of dust or soot or maybe broken dreams coating the whole place. About the only thing I like about Macy's is the basement, and that's only because there are pretty shiny things down there. True story though: when Hattie and I were apartment hunting we hatched an Elaborate Plan^TM to move into Macy's Basil E. Franweiler style and live there rent-free. It's really close to my work and to K-town, which were two of our core neighborhood criteria, and they do have all of the essentials. Luckily we found ourselves a great apartment because I'm not sure I'm ready to make up with Macy's just yet.

3. Meijer's

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of living in the Midwestern United States, let me give you a brief tutorial. Meijer's is basically like Wal-Mart Supercenter or Kroeger's or Target Greatland; they sell all the regular stuff and then they have a full service grocery store as well. When I lived in Detroit I would make a Meijer's run once every two months or so (read: whenever my parents/friends/saviors came to visit) and stock up on the essentials. Since they don't have Meijer's in the New York Metro Area (thank GOD), I can probably retire this vendetta, except that every single time I think about the following experience I want to sucker punch all Meijer's employees individually and collectively, so I think the wounds are still somewhat too fresh. Let me a-splain.

On my first trip to Meijier's my mom and I bought a bottle of vodka. I had just moved to the big 313 and we were going to unpack us some boxes and drink us some martinis in my swanky new apartment. Since I had exactly nothing in my brand-new pad we bought a fair amount of groceries, and as a result didn't notice amidst the piles of toilet paper and canned soup that the vodka still had it's adorable plastic collar on, until we got back to my apartment. You know those collars, the kind of 'security device' they put on the liquor so you can't take it out of the store without paying. Maybe those things are effective at deterring potential vodka thieves from enjoy the rewards of their ill-gotten gains, but they are also effective, let me tell you, at deterring people who actually bought the vodka from enjoying it. Needless to say mom and I were a little bit bummed. But no worries, we figured we'd just take it back to the store, show them the receipt, and have them remove the thing. God knows I've had to pull that maneuver before (Woodbury Commons anyone? anyone?). On the way back to Meijer's we noticed another Meijer's, and decided to pull in and see if they could take the damn thing off, thereby cutting our little trip short and bringing us just that much closer to martini time. Big. Mistake. First of all, when we get into the store, the alarm goes off (due no doubt to the plastic collar). The appointed Meijer's 'greeter' then comes over to see what this middle-aged white lady and her daughter are trying to get away with, the full force of fury in his eyes. Seriously? I just walked into the store, a), and b) does it really look like we're here to trey and make off with the $5 Tees? Honestly.

Anyways, I casually explain to him that no, we are not here to rob you sir, we merely would like to be able to drink our spirits in peace, and I ask him if he could kindly remove the plastic thorn stuck in our metaphorical craw. He takes the bottle, makes us wait for approximately three days, and then comes back and says 'Sorry ma'am, but we don't sell liquor in this store.' Uh...I'm pretty sure I bought that from you guys, and to prove it here is my little piece of paper with the price on in and my credit card information and everything. Look it up. No no, he informs me, Meijer's sells liquor, just not this Meijer's. U-G-H. First of all, now we have to go to another Meijer's , and second of all, if you don't sell liquor in the store then WHY DID YOU HARASS ME FOR SHOPLIFTING THIS BOTTLE WHEN I CAME IN??? Wasted, wasted, wasted time. This should have been a clue that this night was not destined to end well, but we were pretty thirsty so we hopped in the car and went back to the original Meijer's from which we bought the vodka, thinking that surely they would be able to crack it for us. Right? RIGHT??

No. F*cking. Dice. When we get there we set off the alarm again (of course we do), and I have to explain to yet another person what in the hey-ho is going on here. I show her the bottle, show her the receipt, and in my nicest grown-up voice ask her if she could pretty please open our little bottle for us. This crazy bitch looks me straight in the eye and goes 'No. We don't take those off here.' WHAT??? You guys SELL THIS in the back of your store!!! I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE!!! Are you telling me that you purposely sell people liquor with these retarded child-proof locks yet don't have the capability to remove them?? SERIOUSLY?? Seriously. Sorry, she tells me, we can't take that off. You're going to have to go to another store. At this point my mom said 'F*ck this shit, let's just go home and drink the Martini & Rossi straight up' to which I said A to the Men, and we got the hell out of that bag of crazy.
The real turn of the screw? That stupid collar just came off like three days later.
F*cking Detroit.

2. Au Bon Pan

Sigh. This one is hard for me to talk about. The thing is, I used to like Au Bon Pan, and under normal circumstances I probably would have gone on liking them, except for this one isolated incident which I am about to relate. Warning: if you like ABPand would like to continue eating there, I recommend you skip this and move on to #1. So a while back I was working downtown, and it was right near an ABP, so I would usually stop by there to get my morning coffee. Now for those of you who don't know, at ABP there are cups, and there is a big carafe of coffee, and you usually pour your own coffee yourself, pay, and be done with it. On this particular morning though, I had the barista pull me a-something special from behind the counter because, as I recall, I deserved it. This turned out to be the worst move I could ever have made. Off I went to work, sipping my exotic drink and having a grand old time.

Let's jump ahead a little bit here, to about half an hour later when I had finished off approximately 2/3 of my hot beverage and was sitting at my desk, dutifully working away like the little busy bee I am. I go to take a hearty swig, when all of a sudden I feel something oddly solid going in my mouth. FYI I am literally gagging as I write this, four years later, that's how traumatized I was by this experience. Anyway, soldiering on. So surprised and shocked am I by this unexpected sensation that I do a totally reflexive spit take right there, all over my desk, my computer, and the wall. You know that old joke, what's worse than finding a worm in your apple? Well let me adapt that a little bit: what's worse than finding a worm in your coffee? Finding half a cockroach in the coffee you've just spit all over your office.

...

...

Okay, I think I'm okay. I had to have a little shudder moment as I relived that experience. In case you can't comprehend the enormity of this violation, let me break it down for you: 1) Au Bon Pan put a cockroach in my coffee. 2) I drank 2/3 of said coffee totally unaware of the prize waiting at the bottom of the bag. 3) Somehow said cockroach broke into pieces in said coffee. 4) I HAD PIECES OF THAT COCKROACH IN MY MOUTH. SHUDDERSHUDDERSHUDDER. To this day I am totally and unequivocally grossed out just thinking about the fact that this is an actual thing that happened to me. I would really like to forgive ABP and move on with my life but I just...can't. You guys know how I feel about roaches; I just don't think I'm ready. I need time. I need space. And right now what I need is five gallons of Listerine. Ugh.

1. Molten Brown

Molten Brown. What can I say. As much as I hate retarded merchandise, as much as I cannot stand apathetic salespeople, dirty aisles, and outlet mall shenanigans, my ninth circle of retail hell is reserved for the lowest of the low: the store that tricks me into thinking it sells chocolate and then sells something totally different from chocolate. I know, I know. It's a sad, sad world out there. Back in the good old days there was only one offender in this category, the good ol' L'Occitane. Take one look at their exterior and tell me that at first glance it doesn't look like a quaint little French chocolatier/bistro/charcuterie. Don't lie, you know it does. The first time I ran up against this place I was mildly pissed off/disappointed to know that I wasn't getting any free truffles. HOWEVER, L'Occitane's saving grace is that is has giant-ass windows, so as soon as you get even remotely close you're like, oh snap, soap, n/m, and you move on. Case closed, problem solved.

NOT SO WITH MOLTEN BROWN. I first became aware of MB when they set up shop a little ways away from Sparks' and my apartment, back in the day. I noticed them because a) they are called Molten Brown. How does that sound like they sell anything else besides chocolate?, b) the entire front windows of their store were covered in luxurious chocolate-brown patterned decals that both completely obscured the view of anything inside AND gave the exact impression of designer truffles a la Max Brenner or MarieBelle. It was like they were begging me to come in for free samples, which of course, I did. And do you know what they gave me. HAND LOTION. Because this is a store that sells BEAUTY SUPPLIES. NOT CHOCOLATE. Now I know I'm not alone on this; I have run it past several scholarly authorities and they all agree that Molten Brown is pulling a dirty, dirty trick. It is one thing to promote clear skin and silky hands, but it is another thing entirely to lure people in under entirely false pretenses and then try and improve their personal hygiene. Until Molten Brown either changes their name or starts selling chocolates, I refuse to bear witness to their low brand of consumer trickery. Shame on you, MB. Shame. On. You.

Россия ненавидит меня так, я ненавижу Россию

Privyet, my little Kartoshkas! I've been hinting for a while that I would tell you about why Russia and I do not get along. The title of this post means "Russia hates me so I hate Russia," and I consider this a very accurate statement of the situation. In the course of my life I have had to travel to Russia three times, which was at least four times too many. Yes, I said that right - Russia has screwed me over so consistently that I think I deserve not just my lost time back, but an extra free trip to somewhere awesome. Or really, anywhere that's not Russia - I would take Siberia, industrial New Jersey, you name it. My beef with Russia is as fat as a Kobe cow, having been constantly massaged by sociopaths and force-fed a beer brewed from pure spite. I have so many "Listen to what those Russian a**holes did to me" stories that I don't even want to cram them into one post. So I hereby start a "Commie Bastard Story Hour" mini-series. This segment is entitled:

Not-So-Innocent Bystanders

The scene: St. Petersburg, Russia. Winter 2007. I had been really excited for this trip, especially since right beforehand I was in Gdansk, Poland - which up to that point had been my least favorite place in the world. Things changed so quickly; let me tell you why. My mother had come along, and we got there a few days early so we had time to tour around. Our first day, we decided to go visit the crown jewel of St. Pete, namely the Church on Spilled Blood. Clearly that name should have warned me off - I mean seriously, who are you kidding people? - but I was really excited because of those awesome onion domes, plus there's a Russian knick-knack market right nearby. Russian tourism highlights: check and check.

So, Momster and I made it through the St. Petersburg subway system, despite having had several unfriendly interchanges with hotel staff, subway staff, and convenience store clerks, all of whom seemed offended that we wanted to pay them money and then receive a good or service in exchange. Paaaardon me, surly old Russian man, for trying to pay you for that bottle of water. I didn't realize speaking slash existing was considered rude in your society. By the time we got back out onto the snow-covered Russian streets, I was already beginning to regret learning the Cyrillic alphabet so I could find my way around. Clearly it would have been better to just hide out in the hotel and eat Top Ramen.

Unfortunately the advantage of hindsight is of no use without being combined with the ability to time travel. One day, one day. Which leaves us freezing and disoriented on a street corner trying to find our way to the aforementioned church. (Side note: isn't aforementioned the coolest word? I like mentioning things just so that later I can refer to them as aforementioned.) I was trying to read the map, when I felt a sharp pain on my leg. I looked around, and I saw an old man with a cane who had clearly just whacked me as hard as his feeble little borscht-and-vodka-fueled arms could manage. I foolishly assumed that this was some sort of mistake, and that as I made eye contact I would get some sort of sheepish apology. (Remember, this is BEFORE Russia destroyed all optimism and faith in humanity in my soul) Instead, he narrowed his eyes and growled at me, all while hobbling slowly past. And he maintained eye contact until his head was rotated by approximately  175 degrees.

The only conclusion I could reasonably come to was that this man hated maps. Or women. Or street corners. Or potentially some lethal combination of these factors. OR, what is most likely and infinitely sadder, is that he just hated Russia. So much so that he would take his anger out on an innocent and stunningly beautiful young bystander, prior to going home and drinking himself to death. I would say that I pity him and therefore forgive Russia for this incident, but when you hear the rest of my tales of woe, you will see why that is not the case. Until next time!

HAIL! TO THE VICTORS VALIANT

And...we're back! Did you miss us, dear reader(s)? Of course you did. We missed you too, but we had to take a little vacation due to work and other things, which normally I would go into but blah blah I'm going to skip all that  right now because at this very moment I have some incredelicious news to share with you:

WE WON TRIVIA LAST NIGHT!!!!!!

Holy Moses, I'm still so excited and it was a whole fourteen hours ago. Maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but this may be the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. Don't judge; I'm just being honest. As has been well-documented, I have been desperately awaiting the day when I can march up to Trivia Dave, swagger in step, and claim what has been rightfully ours for lo these many months. We go to trivia literally every week. We practically keep that bar in business. WE DESERVE OUR $50 AND OUR PRIDE.

At this time I would like to take a moment to thank all those who made this victory possible:

-Our crack team of trivianauts: the Mad Hatter, Sparks, Wheelhouse a.k.a. Trivia Team Captain [EDIT: a.k.a. Iridium], New Guys 1 & 2, Round 2, Showoff, Fuzzy, and MCAT. Hey, it's not my fault they all have hippie parents.

-Kevin the Bartender, for getting rid of all that crap on his iPod and providing us with possibly the easiest music round ever.

-Trivia Dave, for  inventing trivia. 

I would also like to apologize to Peter Frampton for calling him alternately, Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. Sorry, sorry all around.

The Worst Thing We've Ever Seen

Well. Well. Well well well well well. I have had an experience, let me tell you. If Marchie hadn't gone through this ordeal with me I would be really unsure that it happened at all. I don't know if any of you have had your eyes and ears (not to mention brain) simultaneously raped for three hours, but NOW I HAVE. If you were worried about my questionable mental state before it just might be getting on time to call in the authorities, because I think something may have snapped.

So. The other night, Harester and I had the misfortune of getting free tickets to a concert. I say misfortune because a) this concert sapped my will to live and b) had the tickets not been free I NEVER would have gone, and would presumably still be the happy-go-lucky lass I was just a few days ago.

The concert was by "The Trans-Siberian Orchestra," which as far as I can tell has nothing to do with Siberia. Some brief Wikipedia-ing informed me that their specialty was "rock versions" of classical music and live shows filled with pyrotechnics and lasers. Sounds crazy, but not necessarily bad - and again, let me stress that we went to see this for free. While we were waiting to go in, we noticed that the crowd was made up of three distinct groups:

1) Late-thirties heavy-metal-type dudes, complete with long hair and beards and plenty o' leather.

2) Families with children, presumably hoping to sneakily instill some culture in their children while they're distracted by a laser show and fog machines.

3) Middle-aged Russians. I assumed that they made the ridiculous mistake of assuming that the concert had something to do with Siberia and were in for the surprise of their lives, but my personal Russia expert told me that it "actually just sounds like something Russians would be into." Go figure, that place is crazygonuts.

Why we didn't take one look at that hot mess and immediately run for the hills (and when I say hills, I mean watching Bravo marathons from the comfort of the couch) is beyond me. I guess you learn something new every day. Hokay, lesson learned, we're idiots, moving on. We took our seats and the show (entitled "Beethoven's Last Night," btw - yet another bad omen) began. And what a beginning! A dude wearing what looked like an all-black pirate's costume walked onto the stage and yelled "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!" with an excess of dramatic flair. People in the audience hoot and holler and express their appreciation while Marchie and I giggle nervously. He then starts narrating this story about the night that Beethoven died and how he had just written his tenth symphony and then the devil appears and wants him to trade all his music for his soul and then Fate takes him back through his life so he can see all his mistakes and whatnot. Whooo I had to do that fast or it might start egg-beatering my brain again. This narration (complete with ridiculous voices) was interspersed with a man who looked only vaguely like Beethoven singing long stupid sentimental songs about whatever the narrator just talked about. There were also occasional rock/metal orchestral performances of Beethoven's music, which was BY FAR the best part of the show. That should tell you something. I can't even begin to go into the whole thing, so let me give you some highlights:

1) The orchestra played several Mozart pieces, presumably hoping that the audience is too dumb/Russian/drunk/stoned to know the difference.

2) Every time any key words came up, the screens behind the performers would show GINORMOUS clip art images circa Word 97 of whatever they were talking about. Example: "Mephistoooooophhhhelesssss!!!" --> pixelated clip art of the devil complete with bright red eyes.

3) Part of the narrator's script: "She was his beloved! It was an immortal love." Cue random clips from the movie Immortal Beloved starring Gary Oldman running across the screen. Subtle, guys. Realllll subtle.

4) Crazy Japanese electric violinist running around while playing Mozart's Requiem and kicking the air. You made the show by far, my friend. Thank you for providing me with the five minutes of true entertainment in that 3 hours of hell. (Oh yes, did I mention this show lasted 3 F***ING HOURS??? How could they think that was acceptable?)

5) Blindingly painful bright yellow strobe lights. I honestly was hoping that they would trigger a seizure before my retinas were completely burned off.

6) Random lady dancers doing high school talent show type routines that mostly involved swinging their hair around in circles.

After about two hours of this, the narrator came on the stage and said "I bet you thought it was OVER, didn't you?" This was when I started to weep with rage - on the inside of course. I'm a classy lady - I'm not about to let a bunch of long haired 80's rejects see me cry. After another half hour of "plot" and terrible songs, they finally stopped. The main TSO dude introduced every single person in the group (there were about 10 million of them), and I began gathering my things. Time to go drown my sorrows in ice cream, right? Not. One. Tiny. Motherf-ing. BIT. "Are you guys ready to have a little fun?" (So were they not planning on the previous 2.5 hours being fun? If they were aiming for brain exploding torture, then I guess I owe them an apology - nicely done, gentlemen.) "We'll be playing a couple songs for you from our album 'God Help You All You're Stuck in This Hellhole!'" And that's when I learned that in Siberia, "a couple" means five. And let me tell you, it was ......magical...... (the extra sarcastimarks are on purpose, my friends. HOO boy.)

Something Has Gone Wrong

I think something is wrong with my brain. This is not a drill, people - I'm actually concerned for the wiring in my head. Or maybe the bloodflow? I don't know what exactly, but I search my face for signs of stroke every day. F.A.S.T. baby - face, arms, speech, and time! That last one isn't a symptom (I don't know what that would entail - losing the ability to tell time? That's probably more serious than a silly ol' stroke, dontcha think?), it just means that if you're having stroke symptoms YOU HAVE NO TIME. As the National Stroke Association website informs me, "Call 911 or get to the hospital fast. Brain cells are dying." Yikes.

So let me tell you why I'm on stroke alert. A couple months ago, I went in to sign my new employee contract, all optimistic and starry-eyed, full of the hope that I would soon be on my way to making six figures while only working part-time. Oh, two-months-younger-Hattie, you're so cute and naive. Anyways, in the course of filling out these forms, I had to write in my social security number. I'm hopefully not exposing myself to identity theft when I tell you that my SSN starts with a 5. (OK fine, since you'll probably figure it out based on that information, yes. Yes, I AM Jessica Alba. SUWA's veil of anonymity has been lifted. Now let's move on.) Why did I tell you that seemingly rando factoid? Because when I went to write the 5, I realized I didn't know how. I realize that sounds weird, but bear with me - it's even weirder than you think. First I wasn't sure in which direction the 5 was pointing. I kept trying to picture it and I could not for the life of me figure it out.

At this point, I started to get seriously concerned that I was going to have to go back to the HR lady and  confess that I was physically unable to write down my SSN, but that I would still very much like to be hired despite the clear signs of advancing Alzheimer's. I mean, I'm sure everyone has an embarrassing experience like that at some point in their lives, but I was really hoping it wouldn't happen quite this soon.  Luckily, some student had left their scrap paper behind, and I found a 5 that I could use for reference. Then a second problem arose: I have NO idea how I write 5's. Do I do the top crossbar first and then the bottom? Do I do the bottom then the top? Do I make it in one stroke like a funky-shaped "s"? This is a literal transcription of the thoughts running through my head. I was sitting there paralyzed for about 2 minutes while I was trying to write a 5. To this day, if I actively think about writing a 5, I get kind of confused.

To be honest, as ridiculous and vaguely aliens-kidnapped-me-anal-probed-me-then-brainwashed-me-esque this was, I probably would have just let it go and not been overly concerned. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, how many times will I have to write 5s in my life? Only a few million, right? Big f-ing deal, I can adjust. However, the other day I had a new "my brain is broken" experience that weirded me out yet again. We were at trivia, and naturally the conversation devolved to the point where Harester told me to draw something and I created a kindergarten sketch of whatever was requested. Here's how that ended:

Harester: "Draw a cow!" (Technically she said "the nitrogen cycle" - it's a long story.) In case you can't remember, a cow (as I can draw it) looks a-like a-this:

Hattie: "Oh man, I can't remember how to draw a cow! Oh well, I'll give it a shot."

Hattie draws a pig. (Which I didn't think I could draw, either.) Seriously, this is what came out:

I was really really trying to draw a cow. I don't know how it happened, I was thinking about a cow and all of a sudden I looked down and there was this cute little piggy smiling up at me. Why the face? Obviously some crazy circuits have gotten crossed in my brain. Seriously, what happened? What's next, I forget how to tie my shoes and have to use Velcro? 

Now, I've read my share of Oliver Sacks. I know that weird things like this happen to people all the time and it's usually a lot worse. And sometimes they just go away, and sometimes you just have to learn to live with it. Unfortunately, I've also watched much much more than my fair share of House, and if I've learned anything from that show it's that Hugh Laurie is a master of his art. But ALSO I've discovered that tiny little problems often mean that you have parasites swimming in your bone marrow or your cat has fleas that are secretly giving you cancer. So now I don't know whether to freak the f*** out and run to the hospital or call OS and be like "Hey buddy, have I got a weird little story for your next book?" Either way, if I suddenly start typing "flibbertigibbet" instead of "the," maybe it's time to call in the professionals. Keep your eyes peeled for signs of more trouble...

The March Cake, Part V: The Sting

SURPRISE, BITCHES! I bet you thought this was going to be a Marchie-only week! Wrong wrong wrong, here comes Hattie with a twist ending (everyone's favorite kind, right?). So as you've seen, Marchie's pretty much a bakery/cakery wizard, and my contribution to the whole cakesy process mainly consisted of photography and eating bits that fall off (with the exception of some potentially-questionable artistic advice). While I consider myself to be in most matters smarter than the average bear, I am pretty much hopeless when it comes to all things domestic. I mean, I can bake a mean chocolate chip cookie (Nestlé Toulouse, anyone?), and I'm a master when it comes to the food-consumption angle, but that's about my limit. Cut to last weekend. Harester was doing her best to cheer me up after a tough day, and let me tell you a story about that. It worked. BIG TIME.

Step one: cook duck legs. Cook potatoes in duck grease.

Step two: serve above to sad Hattie, who quickly becomes much less sad and very full about the tummy area.

Step three: inform Hattie that there are numerous leftovers from Br'er Rabbit's b-day.

Step four: tell Hattie she can make a cake with said leftovers. ANY WAY SHE WANTS. Mildly sad Hattie is now happy.

Yes indeed, baby Hatter was allowed to play house using cake and fondant and buttercream and yummy-ness, and you will be witness to the incredible results! Regard these photos:

My ingredients and implements!

Layers! (white icing and strawberry filling in between)

Buttercreaming the exterior while fashionably be-jeweled.

Buttercreamed!

A flower I (yes, I aka me aka Hattie) made out of fondant, after multiple coaching sessions by Harester.

My two fondant layers added! Can you tell what it's going to be? OH THE SUSPENSE...

Piping frosting. That's right, my cake was a piece of cake! Clever, right? 

Obviously I wrote "Hatter Rox" on the outside in fondant letters, and then bedazzled them with frosting. What other choice did I have?

Beautiful detailing, no? 













And that's the story of Hattie and her cake. Much much much help was given from Resident Cake Expert M. Hare, of coursity course. I'm working my way to baking greatness, one cake slice at a time!

The March Cake, Part IV: The Wire

I'm just going to jump right in here without recapping what I've done so far. Good? Okay

This is where things start to get wacky. Way way back in the planning process, before I knew that I was going to be creating a mash-up of BoSox and Slim Shady, I had entertaining the idea of making a topsy-turvy cake. I'd never made one before and given that this was supposed to be 'special' I thought I might give it a try. Once I realized what the design elements were going to be, however, I realized that this crazy concoction was not going to lend itself well to offset layers, and I scrapped the idea entirely. HOWEVER while I had moved on, Hattie was not giving up on the idea of whimsical bakering, and insisted that even if I was not going to carve the layers at a tilt, I should at least make them flared because, quote, round is boring, unquote. This was an example of POOR DECISION MAKING. You know how they say too many chefs spoil the soup? Yeah. Regrettably, here I am carving the cake into an un-boring shape:

In my own defense, that is a work in progress, but still. Still. This is a great learning opportunity for those of you out there who are no good at saying no. SAY NO. Anyways.

Once I had sufficiently defaced my previous hard work, I set about applying the buttercream. I mainly use buttercream to even out the shape of the cake and to provide a layer of sticky to which the fondant can properly adhere. Also it's delicious, so I like to use as much as humanly possible. Below is what the above disaster looked like, after being buttercreamed:

Don't worry, don't worry, I smoothed it out a little more than that.

NEXT STEP: Applying the fondant. Perhaps I should back that thang up a little bit. Let's start with: what is fondant? Well, dear reader(s), fondant is basically sugar that's been cooked into play-dough form. It's the stuff on the surface of wedding cakes that makes everything look smooth and even. You can make it at home, but I don't like to, so I buy it in five pound tubs instead. First thing is, you have to roll out the fondant on a work surface. Coincidentally, I have a ginormous wooden cutting board exactly for this purpose!

Please note that the fondant here is black. Not chocolate, black. My mom has a saying: no one want to eat a black cake. Which is too bad, because my mom was definitely coming to my brother's birthday party and that cake was sure as molasses going to be black. Take that mom! Once you have a good sheet of fondant, it needs to go on the cake, like so:

AHH! A GHOST! A SHEET ON A TABLE! A CAKEWRECK IN THE MAKING! No, no, and very very yes. Fondant behaves a lot like really thick cloth, so you have to smooth it out until it becomes a-like so:

Looks like a giant black pylon, no? Yum.

So at this point I have a confession to make. I was planning on posting the pictures of the final product today--it seemed like it was time, I mean enough of this already--but the truth is that I don't have them. My dad took all the final-stage photos and he hasn't sent them to me yet. Sad. Face. HOWEVER, in an attempt to achieve some kind of backward continuity to this crazy undertaking, I planned ahead and instead drew you a delicious cake. Read: doodled it during my class last night. Sigh. Who am I fooling, really.

And there it is. I promise that as soon as I obtain actual photographic evidence of this ...masterpiece... (NOTE SARCASTIMARKS PLZ THX) I will be sure to share. In the meantime, come back tomorrow to see how this crazy caper concludes. (with consonance. Ahahaha)

The March Cake, Part III: The Tale

Alright, so after being suckered in and assembling my troops, I got down to the dirty business of actually a baking cake. Since I only spend about 5% of the process actually baking anything, there's not much to say about this part: lotta mixing, lotta folding, lotta cleaning bowls. Hattie was impressed by the amazing edible egg whites, and I can't say that I blame her:

Egg whites are pretty much da bomb. Their superpowers include: delicious; nutritious; and the power to grow many times their normal size. I find that this last one makes for a good party trick, if you ever need to impress someone and you also happen to have some separated eggs, an electric mixer (or whisk, if you want to really show off and have guns of steel), and a bunch of people who are easily amused (holla!). At this point I also want to give a shout out to my main homie, KitchenAid standing mixer, without whom this whole endeavor would not have been possible, and because of whom my whole life is enriched immeasurably, each and every day. I love you, baby.

MOVING ON. As I mentioned yesterday, I planned to have alternating layers of chocolate and vanilla cake with strawberry filling, which means that I had to make two separate cake batters. For the vanilla I went with a plain white cake recipe, and for the chocolate I chose a German chocolate cake.

FUN FACT: Did you know that German chocolate cake is NOT thusly named because it comes from Germany, but rather because it was created by a dude named German?? The more you know...

Anyanyanyways, the main diff between the two cake batters (aside from flavor), for those of you interested in these finer details, is that the white cake rises mostly due to the above-mentioned Super Egg Whites, while the chocolate cake is all about steam. I'm just cracking eggs of knowledge all over everybody today! TOPICAL.

Because there were going to be two tiers, I made four different cakes: a 6-inch cake in each flavor, and an 8-inch cake in each flavor. And since I doubled the recipes in both cases, this resulted in a whole mess o' cake. The whole baking process took a couple of hours, and one I had them out of the oven and completely cooled, it was time to set about slicing those mothers up.

Firstly, I slice off the top of the cake, a-like so:

This provides the dual benefits of a) giving the cake a flat platform, and b) creating lots of extra cakey bits for Hattie to eat. [EDIT: That's just the kind of helpful helper-slash-photographer I am. Anyone else requiring similar services need only ask.] Next I slice each cake into layers. How many layers, you ask? Well since you're asking, I guess the answer is however many I damn please! Haha, jkjk, actually I just kind of eyeball how thick I want the layers to be and then I cut as many as I can fit. In the case of this cake that ended up to be three or four layers per cake:

There I am using my fancepantsy cake-slicer to slice the layers evenly. Cake-slicer and I have sort of a love-hate relationship, mostly hate, so honestly I really just included that photo to impress you with my crazy baking skills; actually I did most of the slicing freehand with a regular old knife. Bo-ring!

Jumping backwards in time a little bit, if you've been paying attention thus far you may recall that I was concocting a mysterious strawberry-sauce a while back but never finished it. I will address that little loose end now, as we have arrived at the making-all-kinds-of-fillings portion of our show. For this project I made three kinds of filings: white icing, buttercream, and strawberry preserve.

White icing is basically just sugar syrup into which I've incorporated some--guess what--egg whites.

Now if you've been reading everything I've written thus far (and if you have, god bless you), you may be wondering what happened to all the egg yolks during this crazy experiment; I've been all 'egg whites are le awesome,' so why don't the yolks get any love? I have one word for you, dear reader(s): buttercream. The process of making buttercream is (in my opinion) fun, but it's labor-intensive and time-consuming, so I'm not going to explain it in detail here. Suffice to say there's a fair amount of heating and cooling and whisking, and it involves a crapload of egg yolks.

Lastly, the ad-hoc strawberry filling gets made by first dumping a bunch more sugar on the already-saturated sugar/strawberry mixture from yesterday and then boiling the shit out of it. The strawberries get all tiny and sugary and delicious, and the liquid reduces to a delicious strawberry-flavored syrup which Hattie and I have a lot of left over and fully intend to incorporate into all manner of alcoholic beverages. You know, in case you were thinking of coming over.

Having all three handy, we move to the process of icing and assembling the layers. First goes on a layer of white icing, for flavor and also to help caulk the cake against the drippiness of the strawberry goo:

As you can see I am using Mr. Offset Spatula, my trusty gentleman friend. Next goes on a layer of the strawberry filling, and then another layer of cake (opposite flavor), and then another layer of white icing, and then another layer of strawberry filling, and then another layer of cake...this is the song that never ends...until all the layers are layered and we have:

Layer cake! As you can see the cake ended up having seven alternating layers when all was said and done; not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Alright kats and kittens, that's all for today. Come back tomorrow for the next episode of Way Out Of My League, when Hattie convinces me to do something CRAZY! You'll never see it coming!

The March Cake, Part II: The Hook

So how to begin with the caking making? Well typically I find it's best to start with an idea. LAME, I know, but it's true. Since this was my brother's 15th birthday, I decided I was going to try and make something that 'represented' him and his interest. Which naturally led to the question: what the hell does my brother like?

The answer to that question, dear reader(s) is: sports. The Junior Hare  is a big jock, so my first thought was to make a kind of amalgamated athletics cake, with different sports he plays or different teams he supports a la this cake, only a little less...holy.

This didn't pan out. Mostly because my brother is really only a fan of two sports (one of which is baseball) and one team, and that team is the Boston Red Sox. So instead of going with the whole sports theme, I decided to make a two-tiered cake with the bottom tier representing the BoSox (natch) and the top tier representing something else he's into like...I have no clue. So I picked up the ol' tellular cellophone and rang up my dad to ask him:

Me: Hey dad, what does my brother like?

Dad: He likes the Red Sox.

Me: I know that, what else is he into these days?

Dad: I don't know. He likes shoes. Why don't you make some shoes?

Me: Hmm...no. No shoe cake. What else?

Dad: He likes rap music. Can you do an Eminem cake?

Now at the time I thought this was the dumbest idea ever--how in the world do you make an 'Eminem' themed cake? Oh wait, here's how. I know I said I was going to bring dishonor on my ancestors, but that my friends, was never coming out of my kitchen, so I had to think of something else. In the end I decided that I was going to do the second layer in a manner that suggested Eminem. Yeah, yeah, I know, it still sounds like a pretty bad idea and if my stupid brother would just like Lost or something normal, I wouldn't have had to do it but those were the cards I was dealt and those are the cards I was going to have to play.

So to summarize:

+= Cake Concept

Yeesh.

Anyways, the next leg of our journey involves requisitioning the appropriate tools. I have a fair amount of baking paraphernalia already, but I needed a few extra things so I hit up my trusty NYC cake store, aptly named New York Cake. It's expensive, and they're surly and the customer service is terrible but if you're an amateur baker like myself then baby, they got what you need. I picked up a couple of things and, combined with my own not-unformidable arsenal, I assembled:

THE TOOLS OF THE TRADE

There you have an assortment of cake boards, stakes, spatulae, parchment paper (my bff), knives, pans, racks, pastry bags and nozzles, edible dyes, candles, and of course, about 20 pounds of fondant. From here on in Hattie gets the credit for the photography, and I will just say that Nigella Barker spent quite a little bit of time arranging these things in the most appropriately pleasing configuration on our dining room table. Just giving credit where credit is due.

As far as flavors go, I had talked to my brother and knew he wanted a Neapolitan (chocolate/vanilla/strawberry) flavored cake with the vanilla and chocolate manifesting as cake and the role of strawberry flavor being played by Ice Cream. I actually considered this idea for about five minutes and even did a little research (read:google image search) on tiered ice cream cakes, but after I scrapped that idea in a hurry. Instead I decided to make strawberry filling between the layers, basically a kind of homemade strawberry preserve. I didn't have a recipe so I kind of winged it, which in retrospect was probably completely retarded given this I wanted to at least start off like I knew what I was doing, but miraculously it actually worked out. Here is the March Hare's recipe for Fresh Strawberry Cake Filling:

-6 Quarts Strawberries

-All the sugar in the world

First hull and quarter all your strawberries, a-like so:

If you happen to be simultaneously watching The Millionaire Matchmaker so much the better. I'm not saying it necessarily improves the flavor, but it can't hurt.

Second, put your strawberries in a bowl and cover them with half the sugar. Let 'em sit like that in the fridge overnight while you contemplate early onset diabetes.

And that was how we ended Day 1 of Operation Death By Pastry. So far it seems not so hard, no? Don't worry, that's how I fool myself, too. Come back tomorrow to see me burrow even deeper down the rabbit hole (god, sometimes I'm so relevant it hurts)

Tomorrow: Bakin', Slicin', Stackin,' and Icin'