becky haycox

Tag: postaday2011

  • food, you lied.

    Liar. You liar.

    Trader Joe’s Santa Fe Style Chicken Flatbread Wrap. You were located next to a handwritten sign advertising you as “Easy to Eat!” That is a lie, a lie, a baldfaced lie.

    Finely chopped ingredients. Not a wrap; the tortilla is thick and folded, more like a taco. This allows the finely chopped ingredients to spill out both sides.

    The dipping sauce is very thin and watery. It is contained within a cup that does not have a resealable lid.

    There is no way to store any of this thing without it getting everywhere. There is no way to eat this thing without it getting everywhere. Two dipping sauce-covered thumbs down.

  • more than some feelings

    When I was in my early 20s, I struggled to pull myself out of the chaos of my younger life and push myself into a more responsible adulthood. I was not sure I was going to succeed; I still was haunted by past traumas and was pretty lost and lonely while trying to get to my feet.

    I remember walking up Fillmore towards Haight one weekend afternoon. Out of a coffee shop, Boston’s More Than a Feeling was blasting.

    This was unusual for the time. The concept of “ironic hipster” was decades away, and (from where I was at least) there was absolutely no embrace (ironic or not) of so-called classic rock from that icky arena-rock era. Most of us young, poor, white pseudopunks were still suffering the hangover from having to endure high school experiences soundtracked by Boston, ELO, Kansas, and the like. Blerg.

    As I walked by the coffee shop, I remember distinctly being hit hard, hearing that sound, like it pulled the energy and well being right out of my soul. I’m sure, up till that moment, I hadn’t heard More Than a Feeling since it was on the charts, and so I was steamrolled by all the negative memories that the song and the era invoked.

    I was bummed out all day. I feel so bad for that young Becky. Little did I know that memories get smoothed over and replaced by other memories; that I would hear More Than a Feeling hundreds of times hence, which would remove its power to hurt me. Annoy me, but not hurt me any longer.

    Little did I know that the vividness of the bad teenage years would all but disappear, that my life would improve so quickly and profoundly that it would take my breath away.

    Little did I know I would soften my militant stance that I had towards just about everything, that I would find the middle road, that I would feel sad when Boston’s lead singer killed himself.

    Little, so little, did I know.

     

  • from the kitchen of miss zoober

    I went to Highlands Junior High school in New York. My seventh grade Home Ec teacher (and eighth grade typing teacher) was Miss Zoober. Probably her name was spelled Zuber, but that’s not as fun.

    I appreciate her training. I learned how to sift and measure flour, to properly set a table, and some odd (to me) suburban recipes. My mom, even though she was of the perfect age, did not know any of those fabulous Americana foodstuffs that I love, ironically and non-. Casseroles with potato chip toppings, freaky Jell-O desserts — you get the picture. Miss Zoober knew lots of them.

    Here’s one. It just popped into my (hormone-ridden) mind and I might have to make it, just for old time’s sake.

    Miss Zoober’s Gooey Cinnamon Morsels

    Ingredients:

    • A tube of that croissant roll dough that you break against the edge of the counter to pop open.
    • A bag of marshmallows.
    • Butter.
    • Sugar.
    • Cinnamon.

    Directions:

    1. Preheat oven to hot.
    2. Melt butter.
    3. Mix together cinnamon and sugar.
    4. Dip the marshmallow in butter then roll it in the cinnamon/sugar mixture.
    5. Peel off a flat triangle of the croissant dough.
    6. Starting at the large triangle end, wrap the marshmallow in the dough.
    7. Make a bunch of these and stick them in a lightly-greased pan.
    8. Maybe brush the tops with some leftover butter.
    9. Put it all in the oven. Bake it.
    10. Let cool a little. Bite, marvel at the fact the marshmallow has magically disappeared! Say a happy thanks for good old mid-century American cookin’!

  • eh, silver’s better than bronze, at least

    I am surprisingly busy at work today and my friend-slash-boss and I have been sweating a big project that’s involving a lot of coordination, thought and (scariest of all) dependence on a bunch of volunteers. I haven’t been as nervous about the project as my colleague-slash-director, who has been having stomach pains over it all. However, this gave us a much-needed laugh.

    Right after work I’m off to a recognition party for a local paper’s reader’s poll. Over the past few years, our improv company has won second place in two categories (best comedy club, best theater group). I’m fine with second place — it was a bleak year, the time we came in third, placing after a place that closed down and one that hadn’t opened yet. And at this event there will be snacks and drinks and Boyfriend, so the silver is not so bad.

    Oh, the theme of this post just came to me!

    “We’re Number Two! We’re Number Two!”

  • boomerbashing

    Violet and I had a pretty perfect day on Sunday, since it involved pedi foot care, Rice Crispy Treats, and lots of lots of gabbing.

    One of our favorite topics to discuss is the Baby Boomers and their continuing influence on America. Oh, and how annoying they are. This, of course, is not to bash directly my siblings, all of whom are Boomers. It’s more about the “Old Guys Rule” culture, aka the Golden Boomers. I’m apologizing to you, Violet, for making you watch this atrocity, the icky distillation of what we were talking about:

    [direct link]

    Then there’s the other thing, this feeling that the Boomers, once they realized that their numbers and their idealism weren’t going to change the world, just kind of gave up. There is effective legacy, sure (thank you, feminism!) but. But.

    My dear friend Ukulady captures it pretty damn well:

    These are times [of] Resignation mired in Capitalism. “Shrug, sigh, oh well, the ’60’s movement didn’t work; there’s a serious water problem, toxic-waste everywhere, politicians have learned nothing from the last 1000 years, human genes will either mutate & get with the program or die-off, so I may as well make some money so I can afford to live in a non-polluted part of planet earth….Mmmm, French Fries…”

    Eh, who am I kidding, most of us have given up, Boomers or no. By the way, I’m a 13th Generation-er, not a late-age Boomer, thank you very much.

  • old school scandals

    The New York Times is satisfyingly dishy today, the way gossip rags strive (but fail) to make one feel.

    Firstly, Forty-seven-year-old interviews with Jackie Kennedy are being released and lordie she does not hold back. Indira Gandhi she calls a “prune,” MLK Jr. she calls a “phony”. And:

    Of Madame Nhu, the sister-in-law of the president of South Vietnam, and Clare Boothe Luce, a former member of Congress, she tells Mr. Schlesinger, in a stage whisper, “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were lesbians.”

    Read, and listen, here. I can’t wait for the whole shebang (so to speak) to be released Wednesday.

    Secondly, Elizabeth Taylor’s possessions are going to be auctioned off in New York in December (field trip, anyone?) The slideshow is mouthwatering. Witness one caption:

    There are the hot pants, lacy and scattered with daisies (at left), that she wore in 1971 to celebrate becoming a grandmother at the age of 39.

    New York Times: “Grey Lady,” indeed.

  • remembrance

    I don’t have much of a story for the archives, saw it on TV like everyone else. My roommate (this is in San Francisco) called me from downstairs and just said “I think you should turn on the television.” Most everything had gone down by the time I tuned in, so I remember how long it took me to get what the hell was going on.

    In fact, it took me a longer time than most to really absorb how bad it was. I walked to work in the late morning, puzzled by the utter desertion in the streets, shocked to see all the “out” messages on the employee status board. In fact, the only person at work was an Englishman who came in so he could watch the BBC on the internet. I left. It was supposed to be my last day at work. I was starting a brand new job the following Monday.

    Then I went home and cried, watched television, and wondered what was to become of us, just like everyone else.

  • that’s it. period.

    I am grateful for the app on my phone with which I can track my lady cycle, and all the symptoms, circumstances, emotions that go with it.

    The app now can tell me, with impressive accuracy, when different hammers are going to come down. Like, the moods. And the danger, fertility! moments. And, yes, the blood.

    I am glad I glanced at the app yesterday, so the past 24 hours made a lot more sense. Some events that would’ve been puzzling, otherwise:

    • In N Out burger and fries for breakfast!
    • Racing-heart insomnia!
    • Crying while looking at a picture of myself from the 90s
    • Tiny man stabbing at the back of my eye
    • Dizziness while hearing a relatively mild story about the fur trade
    • Tongue having weird taste to it
    • Inability to eat anything today but Trader Joe’s Chocolately Cats Cookies for People
    • Weirdly early to all my appointments
    • Nausea in my fingers

  • full commitment

    Improv scene at the Labor Day improv festival

    This is a picture, taken by the amazing Brittney Green, during our Labor Day weekend improv festival. The scene (all made up on the spot, of course) is from the little-known musical version of “Fight Club.”

    This is such a fantastic picture. There are improvisers from five different cities on stage, several who were strangers to each other before the festival. There’s a 30-year range of ages up there, too.

    Yet look at the teamwork in this scene. It is not easy to depict physical conflict convincingly and safely. It sure looks like John gave Tony a real shot, but it was all acting and beautiful movement work. This portion of the scene was probably in slow motion.

    Every person in the scene is fully committed, working together to create drama and cohesion. Not to mention most everyone was singing at this moment.

    I remember feeling a lot of pressure in the scene, since I don’t really know the plot of “Fight Club” and was trying to support well but unobtrusively while the main characters worked it out. I also was nervous, as I always am, when there are a lot of people on stage. But here’s proof positive that I was paying attention!

    It’s rare that I can voluntarily conjure the thrill of pure magic that improv can be for me, but this picture makes me feel it. A rare still image that managed to capture it’s all about.

  • labor day telethon utter batshit craziness

    Since Labor Day (and the unofficial end of summer, yes yes yes) has just passed, I thought I’d share with you some nuggets from a very, very rich vein of gold on YouTube — clips of the Jerry Lewis MDA Labor Day Telethon.

    There are so many moments, my heavens, truly a motherlode. I’m going to wade in and just feature one especially batshit crazy year from many batshit crazy years: 1976.

    Hey, want to see Cher with an afro, performing “Dancing Machine” with the Jackson 5? Okay!

    [link]

    How about the reunion (supposedly the first in 20 years) between Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin?

    [link]

    As my friend Curtis said: “wow, you can practically smell the smoke, scotch and sweat (not to mention all the homoerotic/homophobic man smooching).” So true. And I am fascinated by Frank Sinatra’s complete inability not to dominate the spotlight. Such a natural bully. It’s also interesting to see Lewis, who was apparently truly surprised, process the ambush and figure out how he’s supposed to react.

    And this one? Well, this one just makes me (continue to) hate our Monsieur Lewis. Even when I was little, I remember filling with rage when watching his movies — so stupid, that stupid man-boy! Now, I suppose I can lighten up, since he’s one of the last weird ones standing from that weird mid-century era of American show business. But GOD, what a dope.

    [link]

    And I can’t, I cannot, I just can’t stop watching these. More next year!