Evalu-hater

Tomorrow my spin class is getting evaluated. And when I say “my spin class,” I mean me—I’m getting evaluated. That means my manager and some corporate ‘big wigs’ (do they have big wigs at gyms?) are going to crash my class and critique my every cue. (That’s gym lingo.)

I’ve never been evaluated before but I’ve witnessed other people go through it. These experiences have taught me that there are two ways I could approach this:

1. The Mrs. Hayes* Way (not her real name):

My fifth grade English teacher started prepping us for her evaluation about three months prior. She said that the day the evaluator came we were going to learn about nouns (which I’m pretty sure we covered in third grade). So she spent the next three months teaching us about them. By day two we had it down: person, place or thing. Got it, Mrs. Hayes. Can we move on?

No. She gave us lines: “Elsa, when I ask you what an example of a noun is, you’re going to say “airplane.” Don’t say “the library” because that’s what Tasos is going to say.” You can imagine her panic when, two days before, Tasos forgot his noun. “Fine, just don’t say anything! Keep your mouth shut! Elsa, can you say airplane AND library?” I told her I wasn’t sure I could handle all that. I mean one was a thing and one was a place. Or was an airplane a place AND a thing?

She revoked my lines, too.

A few days before the big event, she redecorated her whole room in a noun-theme. There were people, places and things covering the walls. Then she even wrapped the door with butcher paper and wrote in bubble letters: WHAT IS A NOUN? A PERSON PLACE OR THING!!!!!! GOAL TODAY: MASTER THE NOUN!!!

On the day of the evaluation, she stood by the noun door and greeted each one of us as we entered. Of course she didn’t call us by name because she didn’t know our names. But luckily, she taped name tags to our desks. This wouldn’t be weird except that we weren’t her homeroom; we were only there for an hour a day for English.

That day we were all on our best behavior for the evaluator (I think Mrs. H might have even told us what to wear) and I’m sure our teacher got a stellar score.

And we all mastered nouns that year (but nothing else).

2. The Office Space Way:

I could pull a Peter Gibbons and show up late, put my feet up on my bike and tell the Bobs, “It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just that I just don’t care…If I work my ass off and the gym gets a few more members, I don't see another dime. So where's the motivation?”

Now if I go the Mrs. Hayes way then I need to prep my class by telling them to “woo-hoo” and give them all specific lines like, “Man, Elsa, your class is so awesome, I’m going to tell all my friends and family to sign up for gym memberships and I’m going to get five years of personal training!” I’ll also have to stay up all night, decorating the spin room with motivational cues like, “Earn your recovery!” “Challenge yourself!” and my favorite, “Keep your seat over the seat!” (Okay, that’s really a “form cue” but I just like to say it.)

If I go the Peter Gibbons way I don’t really have to do anything. That sounds better.

They might be impressed by my honesty and if they’re not, I’ll just wow them with my knowledge of nouns.

Have you met our travelin' friends?

On our various travels we’ve made a lot of friends. Okay, we haven’t really made friends so much as we've met some kooky characters. Here are the ones we don’t have pictures of:

--Booger Girl: The girl by the pool in St. Thomas who was interviewing for a sales job at the hotel. As she told us about it, she had a booger hanging out of her nose. I said, “I hope that when she goes into that interview she wipes her nose.” Then Frank said the funniest thing I've ever heard:, “I hope so too. If not, the interviewer is going to say, ‘you know, we’re not selling boogers here…’” Cracks me up every time.

--Nathania: We were in Cabo at this cool B&B, The Bungalows. We accidentally got this two-bedroom bungalow so when the owner overbooked, he asked if this girl, Nathania, could stay in our extra room. Frank agreed without asking me. (read: Nathania was hot.) Apparently she was traveling alone because her friend had met a Mexican guy and left her to go meet his family. She was quite the trooper, though, and said she wouldn’t let it spoil her trip. She meant it. We ran into her at a bar later and she was dancing, surrounded by guys. We said, “Hey, Nathania!!” She was all, “Wassup? Hey, everybody these are my roommates!!” She didn’t come home that night.

Here are the ones we do have pictures of:

Weatherman and Wife: We met them in St. Thomas. I just remember that the guy is a weatherman and they like to dance. Maybe somebody will recognize him.

Crazy Lady Hitting on Frank: Same night—she asked Frank to fix her shirt. He was very against it, as you can see.

Barbados Bob: I just remember that he was traveling alone from New York and we kept running into him everywhere. Too bad this wasn’t Cabo. We could have fixed him up with Nathania.

Cruisers: These were our dinner companions on our Cruise:

--“The Bank” People: Lady and her son across from us. They’re from Oklahoma and the woman kept talking about “the bank.” She’d say, “We came with some people from the bank” or “We’re supposed to be sitting with the bank…” Turns out the kid had worked at the local bank and the ladies there asked if he and his mom wanted to come with them on the cruise. But it was sort of last minute so they didn’t get the same table as them. We ran into them everywhere and we never saw “the bank” people.

--Khan and Khan Jr: The couple next to them. He’s way too old for her and he reminded us of Khan on King of the Hill. We called her “Khan Jr.” because that’s what Khan’s daughter’s name is on the show.

--Hurst Couple: Okay, this couple had just gotten married but the way they met was weird. His name was something common like Jeff Smith. She sent an email to a guy she knows named Jeff Smith but accidentally sent it to the wrong Jeff Smith. They started talking anyway and somehow that lead them to the altar and then to our cruise. We call them the Hurst couple because that’s where they’re from. They said, “Since you’re close, we should get together!” I just send another Frank and Elsa. I figure these two won’t know the difference.

Cancun Compadres: I don’t know who these people are. They just jumped into our picture.

China Freedom Fighter: This is my favorite picture ever. Frank went to China, climbed this mountain and at the top there was this little village where people had rarely seen Americans. This Chinese man asked Frank and his friends to talk to his son so he could practice his English. When they took this picture the little boy just spontaneously made the peace sign.

And why is Frank wearing a random bandana? That’s a whole other story.

I hope you enjoyed meeting our friends from around the world. I also hope you have the privilege of meeting interesting people on your travels. But always remember to check your nose before you talk to strangers. Because, come on, "we're not selling boogers here."

Bachelor Brain Busters

I love The Bachelor. I’ve watched every season except for the one with that old fisherman guy. And I even watched a little bit of that. I used to be part of a group in Austin whose sole purpose was to get together and watch 25 women feel “a real connection” with this random guy. We called it “dinner club.”

So after watching 27 seasons of The Bachelor, I would think I’d be an expert. But still…many aspects of the show continue to perplex me:

Would it be possible for anyone to NOT like the Bachelor? Sure, they pick nice-looking, successful (minus Charlie O’Connell and Bob Guiney) guys so, of course, a lot of the would-be Mrs. Bachelors should swoon. But every year they have 25 girls. And 25 girls times 42 seasons…well, that’s like…thousands of girls who say “yes” to the bachelor. It makes me think that ABC could pick the Star Wars kid from YouTube as the next bachelor and 25 girls would say, “Of course I’ll accept this rose!”

What Happens Right After the Bachelor “Proposes?” I got out the smart quotes for the word “proposes” because they rarely do that anymore. They give the girl a plane ticket or worse…they give her a ring that she has to wear around her neck or on her toe or something. But right after that…does he have to ask her what her last name is? Does he have to program her number into his cell phone? Does he ask her where she stands on the Neil Diamond issue?

How does he not know who he’s going to choose on the final day? So the final day comes and they drag the episode out for about six hours: girls crying, girls doing their hair, girls doing their make-up, bachelor buying the ring, bachelor doing his hair, girls crying, girls standing, girls waiting, more crying. During all this they cut to the Bachelor several times and he always says, “I honestly don’t know who I’m going to choose.” But the finale is three hours away! If you don’t know by now, then I’m gonna take a guess here that neither of those girls is “the one.” And what happens later when the girl you chose is watching it with you and she sees that you were torn right up to the last second? This brings me to my next question…


Why do Bachelors always end up alone? So the idea is he has 25 girls to choose from. They all want him. Bad. They seriously bawl and get hysterical when they don’t get roses, even if they’ve only known him for half an hour. In the end he inevitably chooses one of them and a few months later they split. Next time we see him he says something like, “I’m still hoping to find love.” Hello? What about those 24 other women? Start going down the list, dude! I know what you’re thinking: “Those women don’t want to be his sloppy seconds.” Yes. Yes, they do! Heck, they’d be glad to be sloppy sevenths!


Why is Chris Harrison there? All he says is, “Ladies, (insert Bachelor Name here), this is the final rose tonight.” Last night Frank said, “How many roses does he have left?” And I was like, “Don’t worry. Chris will tell us!” So maybe we DO need him after all.

Thus concludes my Bachelor conundrums. Oh, and this season I’m totally rooting for Sadie, the virgin. Frank likes her too but says that the Bachelor should tell her to go home, grow out her bangs and come back and try again next year. I told him, “Duh! Lorenzo is not going to be the Bachelor again next year! They'll get a new one."

And Star Wars YouTube kid, we're all pulling for you!

Monday Musings

It’s raining. Everybody who was indoors this weekend probably said, “We sure need it,” cause that’s what everyone says when it rains.

But you know who didn’t say that?

Brides who had planned an outdoor wedding and had to go to their “plan B.” Nine months ago they were probably choosing the beautiful park site and asked the person in charge, “What do we do if it rains?” The person said, “Oh, we have a covered building over there. No big deal.” And of course the bride thought, “Oh, good. I have a back-up plan.”

But then the day comes and it rains and everybody’s crammed in this tiny, gross shed. When it comes time to do the toast the best man says, “How ‘bout this rain? We sure need it.”

And who else didn't say that?

Campers. That was us this weekend. I was on assignment at Possum Kingdom lake so we decided that would be a good excuse to take our annual camping trip with the Loyds.

This was last year:

This was this year:

Poor Loyds. Their “Embassy Suites” tent leaked! Our “Motel 6” didn’t do much better. It’s a really gross feeling to be wet and cold for almost 24 hours.

And did I mention my assignment was to write about water sports? We did get in a quick boat trip before it poured:

Possum Kingdom is beautiful and I recommend it to all campers and water-sports lovers. But if you’re gonna go when it rains, get yourself a plan b.

Or at least a tent that doesn't leak.

Never Let ‘Em See you Sweat

If you ever hear me call Frank, “Sweat” or hear him say, “Oh, that was sweat,” there’s a good reason: Frank can’t spell.

He replied to an email from me in 1999 and I guess I had said something nice to him so he wrote, “That was sweat.” Of course, he meant “sweet.” I, being the spelling bee champ of 1988, mocked him.

I told him that I would start calling him “Sweaty” because a). it sort of sounds like “sweetie” with an Alabama accent and b). he’s a pretty sweaty guy.

I didn’t know then that “sweat” would become the most common word in our relationship vernacular:

Seven-and-a-half years later I still call him “Sweat” or “Mr. Sweat” or “Sweatonio” or “Sweaters.”

We replace words in songs with it like “Did you ever know that you’re my sweaty? You’re everything I would like to be…” or “Welcome to the Sweaty, we got fun and games…” or “I’m bringing Sweaty back…them other boys don’t know how to act.”

Sometimes after church we’ll have a song stuck in our head and we’ll accidentally sing something like, “Seek ye first the kingdom of Sweat…” and then one of us will say, “Wait! You can’t replace God with Sweat! That’s blasphemy!”

Whenever someone does something nice, cool or thoughtful we say, “Oh, that was sweat.”

He now calls ME “Sweat” or “Mrs. Sweat” or “Sweatonia” or “Sweater.”

We try to keep all the “sweat-talk” to a minimum when we’re around other people but sometimes it just slips out. I rarely call him by his name and I’m not even sure he KNOWS my name!

So I’m just warning you of this in case you’re hanging out with us and one of us launches into, “Oh, we’re halfway there…oh-oh, living on a sweat!”

Hmmm…I just replaced prayer. That WAS NOT very sweat of me.

Ode to the Omelet

I’m over smoothies. I’ve moved on to the omelet.

“But Writinggal, an omelet and a smoothie are not even in the same genre!”

Oh, but they are. To me, they’re both smorgasbords and I LOVE a good smorgasbord. You see, ever since my palette change I like to eat foods that involve a lot of, well, food.

So with the smoothie I had the blender and I could take anything from the fridge and throw it in there: bananas, yogurt, milk, Kashi, strawberries, blueberries, cherries, flax seed, ice, orange juice. I’d really just stand in front of the fridge and think, “Hmmm…could I put some pimento cheese in there?” It was like the blender was my blank canvas.

Now it’s like the eggs (or Egg Beaters—had to switch because I was eating so many) are my blank canvas. I think it started when I went to brunch with my sister in Houston and the place had a salmon omelet. I was like, “You can put salmon in an omelet? That’s freaking awesome.” It also had this green, creamy dressing on it which reminded me of my fave Green Goddess dressing. So when I got home I tried to reenact it.

I decided to add green onions because I put them on everything.

(Quick Sidebar: I used to not know what green onions were. When a recipe called for them I would go to the onion section and say, “White, yellow, red…I guess they’re out of green.” Frank was with me one time and I told them how they were always out of green. Then when I was on another aisle he came over and was holding these long, green-bean looking things and said, “Elsa, the sign said that THESE were green onions!” We were both perplexed. When I got them home, cup them up and caught a whiff of them, I called my mom and said, “So this is what’s in chicken salad!” Now I consume a bushel a week. Do they come in bushels?)

So after the green onions I added cheese and jalapeños …and of course my canned salmon. It was, as Rachael Ray would say, yum-o.

And when I like something I have to eat it every day. So I started adding to it: basically, any vegetable that I had in the fridge I would throw in: onions, mushrooms, zucchini, celery, tomatoes…I really wanted to incorporate my spinach leaves so I put them on the bottom:

My omelet gets so big I can barely fold it! Yesterday I got really adventurous and threw in baby carrots--not completely awesome in an omelet.

Tips from Thea asked me yesterday, “Would you ever throw in some leftover lasagna?” Don’t be silly, TfT…but I might throw in some ricotta cheese…or maybe some ground beef…and the tomato sauce wouldn’t be bad. Okay, a lasagna omelet would be pretty yum-o actually!

But a lasagna smoothie? I’d have to draw the line.

Unless it had green onions in it.

WWJD? Sell advertising space!

You may think that sitting on the floor of a cash cube, chest deep in wrinkled, fake money was the low point of my career but it doesn’t even come close. It’s like twelfth to last. Moments that rank lower include the Sonic dumpster debacle of 1995 , the whole summer of 1994 at Michael’s Arts and Crafts and trudging through mud at NASCAR to check on mini-donuts in 2002.

But the lowest of all was my first job out of college. We’ll call it the eight months of selling newspaper ads to people who had no money to buy newspaper ads. It was like trying to sell ice to Eskimos. Or shoes to Britney Spears.

Common rebuttals included, “Is it more than $50?” and “What’s the smallest ad you got? I’ll buy a 1 inch x 1 inch ad and I’ll run it one time. Then we’ll “test” it and see if a bunch of people sign up for karate classes…oh, and I want to include 200 words…”

The worst part (as is the worst part of most jobs) was my boss. We’ll call him Max. No, Max sounds too cool. He wasn’t cool. He had bright blonde hair and thought he was cool but he was the most obnoxious, slimiest, sales guy ever. We’ll call him Don.

Did I tell you that Don drove a yellow corvette?

And the worst part…he wore a WWJD bracelet. I’m not saying it’s bad to wear that bracelet but if you’re gonna wear it, you better be on your best behavior. My friend at work would say, “Does Don look at that every day and say, ‘What would Jesus do? He’d sell advertising space!’”

He gave me daily pep talks about how I could be a better salesperson. These included analogies to Xerox and Coke. “Yes, Don, I agree,” I’d say. “If I was selling copy machines or sugar drinks I’d be a great salesperson. Nobody wants your stinkin’ newspaper ads!” Okay, that’s not exactly what I said but whatever it was, Don decided that he needed to crack the whip on me.

He told me that every day I had to bring back 15 business cards from people I had visited. But these people didn’t have business cards! We were out in the country; they were lucky to have cash registers! My same friend at work who mocked the WWJD bracelet suggested that I go to a local restaurant and grab the fishbowl full of business cards from the hostess stand. We chuckled at the idea of me walking into our office with the fishbowl and plopping it on Don’s desk.

I think that may have been the only time we laughed at that job.

Since I knew nobody wanted to buy ads and I couldn’t get any business cards, I’d just spend my days at the local mall. The knick-knack-figurine store at the mall had once bought an ad from me so I figured if anybody asked, I’d say I was just visiting them. And I did visit them…but then I’d just window shop (couldn’t really shop because I didn’t make any money seeing as I didn’t sell any ads).

But then that plan backfired when a guy at the knick-knack-figurine store that I visited every day thought I liked him and asked me out. I had to get out of there. I was becoming a mall rat. And I hadn’t even snagged a fish bowl yet!

So after eight months of pep talks, scoldings, driving around aimlessly and getting doors slammed in my face, I walked into Don’s office and told him I was quitting to work at an advertising agency.

He told me I’d starve.

I said, “Well you know what? That’s what Jesus would do!”

Interruptive Messaging

I’d say I’m pretty hip to the technology scene. I mean, I email. I don’t text message because I don’t like to use numbers to spell words. Personal preference.

And I’ll just go ahead and say it: I will never be an IMer.

When I was working in Austin the whole office IMed. They even IMed with clients. In fact, me not being on IM was very inconvenient to them, so they told me.

So one day I agreed and let one of the recent college grads set me up on it. The first thing we did was pick out an Avatar for me. I didn’t know what that meant but it took us like half an hour to finish it. We had to find the perfect face, hairstyle, head scarf, earrings, sunglasses…apparently it’s all about accessorizing with Avatars. When we were done I said, “I think I sort of look like a drag queen.” She said, “Oh, that’s okay. You change it like, every day anyway.” Huh? I’m going to spend 30 minutes each day outfitting a virtual me? I don’t even spend that long dressing the three-dimensional me.

She then sent out this announcement email to the whole company saying, “Elsa is FINALLY on IM!! And look at her Avatar; it’s too cute!!”

Suddenly, I started getting flooded with IMs. I would try to respond and then more would come. It was different than email; I didn’t feel like I could ignore them. I think they know if I’m there or not. It’s very big brother, the whole thing.

I gave it about two hours and then shut it down and never opened it again. That was the most unproductive two hours of my life. All I accomplished was picking out three different hand placements for my Avatar.

So now I’m accidentally signed up for the IM that comes with Hotmail. I even have a little man at the bottom of my screen that tells me when people sign in. Yes, Jane, I get a little pop up that says you’re online. Same goes for you, Amy R! One day someone did IM me from it. I wrote back and said, “I don’t really IM…” She said, “Then why do you have MSN Instant Messenger?” I told her I had no idea.

Someone else IMed me and asked me some random question. I wrote back and then went back to work. But then they popped up again. It felt like someone was tapping me on the shoulder every five seconds! Who wants that? I answered the second question and then clicked out of the whole thing. I’m not sure but I think that might be the same as slamming a door in someone’s face or hanging up on them. If that was you, sorry about that.

I like to be able to choose when I want to respond to someone. And I like to have the option to not respond at all.

And speaking of options, check out my new Avatar:

Monday Musings

I always give the Aggies a hard time because their cheers sound zombie-ish and freaky. Plus, I don’t get their awkward hand gestures or how that translates into encouraging your football team. But still, at least they’re creative and cohesive.

We Texas fans can only get together on one cheer and it goes like this:

One drunk guy: TEXAS
Everybody else: FIGHT
ODG: TEXAS
EE: FIGHT
Repeat two more times and then go into:

ODG: OU
EE: SUCKS
Repeat loudly three more times and then…

ODG: OU
Some of the crowd: Sucks

ODG: OU
About three people: sucks

Another fun fact: We like that cheer so much that we even do it when we’re not playing OU.

Since the State Fair is in full swing, Frank had a hankering for some fried corny dogs. Luckily, I just bought a box of mini ones at the store (had a coupon) and of course, we have our trusty fryer. Now it takes about three mini corn dogs to equal one regular corn dog but Frank kept saying, “I’m gonna go fry up some more!” And I would say, “Haven’t you had enough?” And he’d say, “But they’re mini!” So I think he ate the equivalent of 17 regular corn dogs.

And when we were done with the canola oil did we dump it in the sink? NO! Cul de Sac Carrie had a spare coffee can that I now keep under my sink! Her mother was in town and she gave me a whole list of other things that can’t go down the disposal:

Green onions
Banana peels
Coffee grounds

Oh, and speaking of mini, have you ever had a Krystal?

Quick childhood memory:
When we used to go to Memphis to visit family it was big treat to get Krystal burgers. They’re little, like White Castle.

Back to present day:
So when we got our house here in Dallas we noticed there was a Krystal really close! We could go all the time! Have we ever gone? No! In fact, when we were in Atlanta two months ago, I saw a Krystal and said, “Oh, a Krystal! We have to stop and get mini hamburgers!” Frank said, “But we have one right by our house.” I almost wish we didn’t have one because I like how it used to be a traveling treat.

My point? We had Krystal this weekend. It was Frank’s first time. He thought they were too oniony. I loved them!!


I’ve got a new nickname:
I’ve been waiting on this magazine to pay me for an article that I wrote three years ago. Finally, 1,000 days later, the check arrived this weekend. Woo hoo!! I ripped it open. Amount was right…address was right…but something wasn’t…

Instead of making the check out to Elsa Simcik, they made it out to Evergreen. Yes, Evergreen. Where they got that, I don’t know. But I think I’ll stick with it. It sounds earthy.

Speaking of earthy, we FINALLY planted flowers in our front yard. We went with pansies. When we were discussing our garden with the Home Depot landscape expert I accidentally called them “panties.” Then I started giggling. A lot.

Happy Christopher Columbo Day!

The Cash Cube Chronicles

Speaking of circuses, I’ve spent some time with my fair share of carnies.

When I was in the advertising world, it wasn’t all Amanda on Melrose Place. In fact, instead of being known as the “hot blonde/short skirt/tough-talkin’ girl” I had another, not-so-flattering nickname.

This is the story of how I became known as “cash cube girl.”

A client at Dell asked if I had any ideas for how he could motivate his sales people. I had just finished organizing an event for another group with a “Fear Factor” theme that involved me ordering 500 gummy tarantulas from a place in California, calling all over the country to find the perfect airplane barf bags and running around various grocery stores demanding all their tubs of chocolate pudding. Since I wasn’t about to suggest anything as complicated as that (the gummy tarantulas sat in my cubicle for about a week), I told him that at the end of that particular soiree, we had a cash cube. Would he like one of those?

Now you know what I’m talking about. Someone gets inside, money swirls around, everybody cheers. It’s minutes of fun. He liked the idea. I called the cash cube place. Had the carnie deliver it; pick it up. It was all very “turn key” as we used to say in advertising.


Well, the client loved the cash cube—a little too much. He called again and this is how it went:

Cash Cube Lover (CCL):“The cash cube went over really well. I think I’d like to have it come out here every Friday for three months.”

WG: “Um…okay. I’ll call the carnie guy and see if we can get a good rate for that.”

CCL: “But the thing is…I think it would be better if, instead of just putting it in one place, we moved it from sales group to sales group…there are six…and they’re on different floors.”

WG: “Okay…I think the carnie could do that.”

CCL: “But here’s the other thing: I don’t have time to facilitate the whole thing. Could you come out with the carnie and kinda be like the MC?”

WG: “But the carnie could do that.”

CCL: “No he couldn’t. Only you can. You’re the best, Writinggal!”

Okay, he didn’t say that exactly. And even though I told him the ad agency would charge him hundreds of dollars for me to go out there and play Vanna White every Friday, he insisted.

So for the next three months on Friday mornings my co-workers would see me running around frantically and say, “Oh, it must be cash cube day!”

Here were my duties as “cash cube girl:”

I had to go around to teacher supply stores and buy a bunch of fake money (whatever amount the sales people would “capture” was transferred into some account they had that was real money). Fun fact: Once I bought so much fake money that my credit card stopped working.

I’d meet up with the carnie and we’d wheel the cash cube around from floor to floor. I had to walk down the aisles yelling, “Cash cube!” so people would know to come out of their cubicles. They’d tell each other, “The cash cube girl is here!”

Once they were all gathered around I went over the rules:
“No crouching, no jumping and no biting! You grab the money and put it in the slot. Whatever makes it through the slot is yours.” Then the questions would come and I would answer:

“There are about five $100 bills in there, a few $50s, lots of $20s, tons of $10’s and even more $1s.”

“Someone won $500 at the last one!”

Then I would call them up, one by one, according to who sold the most servers, laptops, desktops, whatever. Sometimes the crowd wasn’t that enthused so I had to initiate the cheering and clapping. Sometimes they followed. Sometimes they didn’t. Then it was just me, jumping up and down and cheering while the crowd and the carnie watched me with pity.

I also had to play cash cube cop. Sometimes people would try to slip in more money after their time was up. Or sometimes they’d want me to count money that was halfway through the slot but not completely. When I wouldn’t allow it, they would sometimes boo me. I mean like forty people, loudly booing. Who boos the cash cube girl?

In between cash cube events I had to get in the cash cube and straighten out the fake money. Once, when I was sitting on the floor of the cash cube, chest deep in fake money, this girl walked by and said, “Elsa?”

It was a girl from my sorority. Nice.

I can’t remember what I said but I tried to make sure that the message she got was, “Yes, I did graduate from college and get a degree and I DO have a real job and this is just like a fun part of my real job but not my real job.”

I don’t think she got it. She just thought, “She’s the cash cube girl.”

In fact, after those twelve weeks nobody over there could see me as anything but “cash cube girl.”

Later I went to a meeting about a big interactive project and I felt everyone looking at me suspiciously. One of my clients whispered to me, “They’re all thinking, ‘What’s the cash cube girl doing here?’”

I announced, “Yes, I AM the cash cube girl. I’m here to say that during this meeting I don’t want to see any crouching, jumping…and definitely no biting!”

Cookinggal Gets Critiqued

Eight.

That was the highest rating Frank had bestowed upon a dish of mine until this week. It was for the pizza I made two weeks ago. An eight was unprecedented so I knew that meant it was really good.

“How chauvinistic/Harvard President/1950’s of your husband to rate your food, Cookinggal!” (is what some might say).

But since I’m trying to figure out what’s good and what’s bad, I WANT him to rate them. Plus, Frank is very quantitative so that’s the best way to get his true opinion.

So if pizza was an eight, what’s a really low score?

Farmhouse Chicken: Four



It involved baby carrots and I thought they’d soften when I cooked them but they were still hard and a little tasteless. So after Frank’s first bite he said, “It’s all right. Maybe a five.” He said the carrots were kinda throwing him off.

A five? That’s a tough one. Does that mean I should make it again or I shouldn’t?

He finished his first helping and then got up to get more. Ha. It couldn’t be that bad, I thought.

But then as he took the last bite of his second helping he looked up and said guiltily, “Um, this may be a four.”

“That’s not fair!” I said. “You said that because your last bite was full of carrots!”

Last night’s Jambalaya got a seven. (Spiciness always brings up the ratings. I could add Cayenne pepper to a piece of cardboard and it would probably at least get a three.)

But on Tuesday I received my highest rating yet—a perfect 10. What exotic dish earned the coveted reward? A filet mignon? Lemon-glazed salmon served over a bed of wild rice? An Asian-inspired wok concoction?

No. Chocolate Chip Cookies. And they weren’t even from scratch. They were the kind that you just drop the dough on the baking sheet and bake. Oh, and I’m not talking about the tube with the dough that you roll up into little balls yourself. No, this is the kind that has pre-cut cookies. It’s one step away from Chips Ahoy.

I made them for the painters who were painting the exterior of our house. I told Frank that I made them cookies and he said, “You gave them YOUR cookies?” (I don’t have a strong background in baking.) I told him that I followed Cul de Sac Carrie’s advice and took them out of the oven right before they were finished baking and let them continue to bake on the baking sheet.

The painters gobbled up the “galletas” in minutes. I knew I had a hit! Luckily I saved three for Frank. When he tried them that evening he kept oohing and ahing and saying, “YOU made these?!” Yes, I took the pre-cut cookie dough pieces out of the bag, placed them on the baking sheet and put them in the oven. Brilliant!

Frank said with his mouth full, “I give these a ten! A ten!”

What an honor. I have so many people to thank. First, the Pillsbury Dough Boy for providing the dough and directions, Cul de Sac Carrie for her baking-savvy tip, the tres hombres who sampled them first (way to be my guinea pigs, muchachos) and of course, my very supportive and very outspoken husband.

He’s lucky he liked my cookies. Otherwise I would have made him suffer with a little farmhouse chicken (extra carrots included).

Three-Oh-Two

Monday was my 300th blog. Why didn’t I say that on Monday? Or even Tuesday? Duh. I was busy gathering celeb comments about blogs 200-300!

Here’s what everyone is saying:

Nicole Richie


Hey, girl. I like the one about Smoothies. And the one about Blue Mesa. Oh, and the one about the cooking class.


Is that because they’re all about food and you never get to eat?



Um, maybe. Hey, how many calories are in a kernel of Kashi? Could I have half of one?



Ken Paves

Writinggal, baby, you’ve been so busy writing that you’re neglecting your mane. Do you know that all you have to do is get some hair extensions from the line that Jessica and I created and you would improve by like seven points?



What’s wrong with my hair, Ken?



It’s just a little restaurant week; don’t you think, Jess?


Definitely. But if it makes you feel better, I'm totally sporting shkirts now!



K-Fed


I liked it when you talked about Brit and her big boobs. I like them too. Both of them.




So how is it having four kids, Special K?




FOUR? What? Hold on. There’s Kori, Sean P, the new kid…that’s only three.



Um, what about Kaleb?



Dammit. I always forget that one. Hey, three out of four ain’t bad!


Hilary Duff

Hey, Writinggal!! I liked the one about the loop in Houston cause that’s where I’m from.




But you’re not Hilary Duff, you’re Haylie Duff.



Look, Hilary is really busy. I’m the next best thing. You’re lucky I didn’t send you Jamie Lynn Spears.



Hey! That’s my wife!



That’s your sister-in-law, K-Fed.



Dammit.

Steve, produce manager at Kroger’s

I like the one about shopping carts and of course the one about spinach because you gave a plug to my produce section. Thanks for keeping me informed about E. Coli outbreaks, Writinggal. But if you’re going to compare me to an actor, why can’t it be this guy?




My Grandma



What? Is this another question for your book? Aren’t you done with that yet? You better eat some grits.

Thanks for reading!

Extra! Extra!

I have an article in the paper today. That usually means I have to run by the store and buy up extra copies in addition to the one I get on my doorstep. I need these extra copies for my archives, to send to prospective editors and to send to my Writinggal groupies (i.e. my parents and grandma).

Today, though, the article is about my grandma. And it even has a picture of her in it. I imagined her opening the envelope with her one copy with all the relatives gathered around. They would inevitably call me and, after raving about my article of course, ask for their own copies. I started tallying up all the relatives and realized that I would need, like, 72 copies.

I don't know if you've ever bought a lot of something that most people don't normally buy a lot of, but I actually have a lot of experience in this area. So today as I drove from store to store, gathering up all the newspapers, I had to get pretty creative when people would ask me, "Why do you need so many copies of the newspaper?"

Some of my favorite responses:

"I LOVE the news!"

"Gotta stay informed!"

"I like to read all of them and see if there are any discrepencies."

"No, I don't sell them on the street corner for a profit."

"I have a lot of birds."

"I'm a paper mache-ing fool!"

Believe it or not, the "I have an article in it," is their least favorite so I usually avoid that one.

When I worked on the Mrs Baird's account I always had to buy a lot of sweet goods for one reason or another ("We ran out of donuts at the State Fair!" or "We need 175 cinnamon rolls for D.J. deliveries...stat!")

I loved it when I'd buy 50 cinnamon rolls and then have to ask, "Do you have any more cinnamon rolls?" The cashier would be like, "Um...I think you have enough."

Sometimes I'd buy an assortment of sweet goods: donuts, cupcakes, honey buns...I'd just pile them right there on the conveyor belt. And when the questions came, I had answers:

"I'm on an all-sugar diet."

"Are you kidding? These are awesome! I eat them for like every meal!"

"I heard that they might be discontinuing them so I'm stocking up."

"No, I'm not eating disorder girl. I'm Crazy Mayonnaise Lady."

When I worked on the Dell account, I had to buy a bunch of computer-stuff for a photo shoot. I know; you'd think our clients would provide us with this stuff but no, I had to call India and order it. So efficient. Come to think of it, though, the guy on the other end of the phone didn't wonder why I was ordering a bunch of Dell DJs. I guess that's not that weird.

But what is weird are the people that DON'T ask when I am buying a lot of something that people don't normally buy a lot of! Like sometimes I'll go to Barnes and Noble and buy seven copies of the same magazine and I really WANT them to ask. I want to tell them, "Oh, it's because I have an article in it! See? It's about how blueberries rule! There's my byline! I'll show you my credit card and prove it!"

Alas, they don't care. They'd rather me just say something like, "I'm going to stack them up and use them as a kitchen footstool."

I'll continue to come up with more clever responses for next time but right now, I'm buried under 72 copies of the newspaper.

Monday Musings

Frank and I hiked with some boy scouts this weekend while I was on assignment covering a state park. Big shout out to Troop 507 from Grand Prairie!

I like their motto: “Leave an area better than when you found it.” That’s funny; Frank was a boy scout and he doesn’t seem to think that rule applies to the bathroom.

If you go to check out a gym and it has a sign up that says “Final Day,” that sign was there yesterday and it will be there again tomorrow. I visit several gyms each week to teach spin and trust me, they ALL have permanent signs that say “Final Day.” Don’t fall for it.

You know how sometimes you’ll meet up with some friends and they’ll have another friend with them who is really obnoxious and hits on the waitress and won’t stop talking about his hat he just bought and even farts at the table?

That was this guy:

While he WAS entertaining, Leigh Ann looked much cuter in the hat:

No tail gate is complete without Cheetos:

Here is a short list of places whose names sound normal now but if you think about that first meeting when someone threw out the idea, the name seems really ridiculous…or ridonculous as Cami on Laguna Beach would say:

Marble Slab
Macaroni Grill
Crate and Barrel

It’s Yom Kippur, people. Do you know what it means? I didn’t either so here is the explanation so you can look smart in front of your Jewish friends.
Yom Kippur (Hebrew yom hakippurim, "day of atonement") is the most sacred holy day in Judaism. It falls on the tenth day of the Hebrew month of Tishri. Yom Kippur is a day of confession, repentance, and prayers for forgiveness of sins committed during the year.

Happy, Yom Kippur, neighbor Kerry "with a K!" (Don't worry; this pic was taken pre-YK):

The Bachelor starts tonight. This time they’re in Rome! How do you say “my eggs are rotting” in Italian?

I gotta go buy some spinach cause it's back, baby!!