by Kelly Forzaglia
I. Dear Noni
February 3, 2015
Boy, a weatherman can really make a living in North Carolina; he probably gets quoted more than the Bible around here. Though, while I may think that the weatherman’s climatological guidance is questionable, the good news is that at least we have the groundhog. Because we, intelligent and progressive beings, who created electricity and discovered gravity can’t possibly have the wisdom of a glorified squirrel, who literally lives in a hole in the ground.
And do you know how many groundhogs exist in the world? Why is it that only Punxsutawney Phil gets recognition for the magical powers of weather prediction? What about the baby groundhogs that he breeds? I’ll bet you that at least they have the same magical powers as he does? Plus, his magic had to come from somewhere which means that he is not the only weather-omniscient root-dwelling rodent. Thank goodness he was discovered by the common public who has no such powers as the Great Punxsutawney Phil! How amazing is this small brown creature who can predict future environmental trends? Let’s worship him and name the second day of February after him! He whose intellect precedes us all must yearly predict weather patterns for thou cannest not do it thyself! With all our tools and tests and data… shame on the human race, for the groundhog knew all this whole time. He’s probably just constantly shaking his head at us when the Mayor puts him back in his hole, whether because he knows he’s got us hoodwinked or because he has no idea why we Simba-raise him randomly once a year, who can know.
It’s good that you live in Florida though, because all the trees here are dying because winter is coming to kill us according to the omniscient ground rat.
March 30, 2016
I’m jealous of your feasting, droll as it sounds. I am too easily convinced of anything if there’s a promise of free food. Even if it means listening to Psychologists with PhD’s giving extensive speeches about their lifelong studies on the human cortex. But I bet that could actually be rather intriguing. Have you heard of David Foster Wallace? I listened to his speech “This Is Water” and found it completely pretentious yet extremely insightful. He’s some sort of disturbed Philosopher/Writer but his troubles have certainly led to some unique insights.
Anyways, now it’s way too many days until Fall and there’s no use counting down of course, because saying that there are over 100 days until Fall is the equivalent of saying that you can have all the Golden Oreos you want but you have to go get them.
From Wal-Mart.
Of which is not in walking distance.
And hence takes gas.
And money.
Of which is also not readily available.
So, yes: Theoretically I can have all the Golden Oreos I want, but in reality, I cannot.
A countdown is only advantageous if the holiday/event/day in question is less than fifteen days away, I think. Maybe thirty for the really optimistic people. As is saying that you can have as many Golden Oreos as you want is only advantageous if they reside in the fridge at your house.
Speaking of things I want but can’t have,
II. The Coffee Cup Diatribe
Now, normally I hate coffee from anywhere besides Starbucks. There must be some unofficial rule that says bitter coffee is cool and anyone who thinks otherwise is therefore uncool. But that’s just foolish. I can count on less than one finger the number of places I’ve been where the coffee is both A. Not Starbucks and B. Delicious. Every plaid-shirted-mountain-music coffee façade has had bitter and tasteless portions of coffee that are far too large for even the most devoted coffee drinkers.
And, again with the cups.
Don’t get me started on the cups.
And the saucers? Really.
Why are they there other than to create an auditory signal to everyone around that no, I am not confident about carrying this to my table, thank you for listening. So, you’re going to give me a cup-shaped mini plate to hold what? A chocolate chip? That porcelain cat food dish isn’t going to save my coffee from spilling all over my lap. If the cup brim wasn’t so wide and over-filled with glorified hot water and flavorless foam then I wouldn’t need a saucer even if it did work. Perhaps if these places were to sell good coffee, their profit margin could afford them plates that were actually proportional to the cups. Or better yet, just be normal and serve the coffee in a disposable paper cup or with a recyclable sleeve if you’re so worried about the turtles.
And it’s happened to me on multiple occasions. It’s not like one time somebody tried to be avant-garde and it backfired, it’s everywhere nowadays. The first time it happened to me, I ordered coffee, right? Like a latte or something, I don’t know, I just wanted some coffee. Well, they gave me the largest cup there, and it tasted like bug spray, and I probably added sixteen packets of stevia (which was definitely living a better life as a plant than as a drink sweetener) and there was still no hope. Plus, they filled the drink all the way to the top so the slightest movement jolted half the coffee onto the stupid mini plate –as if a plate that’s the same circumference as the bottom of the cup would actually help you steady it or catch the caffeine that you just paid nine dollars for, as you climb two flights of narrow stairs. Why are there always narrow stairs?
It’s not classy. It’s not chic. It’s not indie. It’s not cool.
It’s dangerous and counterproductive and disappointing.
So that’s why I go to Starbucks; it’s sweet, it’s the perfect temperature and they use lids! Unlike those nonsensical people who think that ceramic mugs the size of my face are practical. Lids. Lids are practical. Not hollow bulbs that can double as hats on a rainy day or as swimming pools in mid-July. Lids. And they’re really just shooting themselves in the foot. I want the contents in my mouth not on my thighs. That’s sort of why I bought it . . . to ingest it, not watch it waterfall to my feet. That’s the point of secure surfaces and bowls with restrictive sides, to contain my food as I go through the process of ingesting it. Not to play ‘Will This Substance Stay In Its Container As You Walk?’ every time I want a drink.
But it’s not even just the coffee hipsters. I often find myself asking the question: ‘Where’s your common sense?’ in restaurants. See, the other day I was at a barbecue place (already I wasn’t expecting much, it was a barbecue joint after all; I half expected Styrofoam cups and plastic utensils) and I ordered a Pepsi. I love Pepsi. It’s my favorite. I always order Pepsi because it’s delicious and I love it. Why wouldn’t I order a Pepsi? I order a Pepsi.
Now, this also wasn’t your typical barbecue place. I can tell already because it was the type of place that had this modern, upscale name that didn’t tell you exactly what they served or whose joint it was. A true barbecue place hides no shame: this is ‘Joe’s BBQ Place’ or ‘Mo’s Barbeque Shack’. No mincing words as far as the ambiance: this is a shoddy, sticky, smoky backyard shed that you’d probably be afraid to go if it wasn’t still light outside –but the barbecue is damn good. This place, on the other hand, labeled its barbecue as ‘brisket’ and there were *options*. As if anyone knows the formal name for barbecue? I don’t really consider myself a southerner, but if I’m at a barbecue place in the south, I should just be able to say ‘Hi, I–’ and they bring me the same thing they bring everyone else –with a side of hushpuppies and a sweet tea whose sugar content could tranquilize a horse.
And that was the first blow. Reading the menu, I see that you can choose hushpuppies as a side? And I’m thinking to myself, what is this, Michigan? This is the South, what are you doing? I’ve been to Chinese restaurants down here where hushpuppies are just already on the table when you come in. I think it’s actually the only unforgivable sin to ask a barbecue place if they serve hushpuppies.
And that was just the first sign. Following this realization, as I mentioned, I ordered a Pepsi. Because I love Pepsi. And more importantly, I like Pepsi to be cold and delicious and bubbly like it is in every American television commercial. Particularly if I’m paying $2.50 for it. Which leads me to the personal offense of century: The presentation to me of a dented, unrefrigerated can of soda and fast-melting ice in one of those red restaurant cups with the calloused texture that they use in hopes that you’ll fall for the illusion of it being bubbly and fresh despite the very obvious reality that it’s not. I poured it in there, I know it’s flat and gross.
III. Rapid Fire
September 27, 2016
Ah yes, that’s a good idea: a rapid-fire list of things I have very strong opinions about but no one but you cares. For your consideration:
RE: Letter Writing Itself
I, unfortunately, identify with you on the whole “can’t seem to find time to write anything ever in my life” thing. It’s a struggle. Right now, I’m forcing myself to finish at least eight more sentences before I can even think about getting up to get a snack. Because I know I’ll get distracted by, like, the cat or the darkness in the color of the wood floors that I never really noticed before even though I’ve lived here for over five years.
But then you have people like Oscar Wilde who make you just want to die after seven pages. Like, I was reading The Picture of Dorian Gray for class recently, and there were paragraphs that extended for pages and were honestly just painful. And I had to read them. All of them. Every. Single. Word. Just for a ten-question quiz.
Maybe it was the Victorian language though. While I typically find it entertaining, Oscar Wilde taught me a valuable lesson in how to skip content and still get the main idea. I honestly felt like my eyes were army-crawling over boulders. I was begging the pages, “Please stop, I get it you have great sorrow.” My brain was shriveling up with every deep and emotional vow of confusion and sadness. He went on for at least four pages about how fine the jewels that he drowned his troubles with were. Where he put them. How he got them…
Summary of Dorian Gray:
Dorian: “Put the portrait in the attic, I don’t want to see it.”
Dorian: . . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
Dorian: Just kidding, I want to see if it’s worse – JUST KIDDING LOCK THE DOOR.
Dorian: I’m so mad. I’m going to destroy it like it destroyed me!
*Death*
Moral of Dorian Gray: Don’t sell your soul. As if that weren’t common sense.
RE: Rush Limbaugh
I’m glad that you explained that Rush Limbaugh was not a racecar driver. His name came up in my Civics class and I was very confused.
RE: Sports
I think I just witnessed Football history, but I’m not sure –I think if I had glasses, life would come easier to me. I always wanted them. That’s probably why Stephen King is so wildly successful– Oh, go Cowboys?
RE: Cats
I too wish I was a cat. Our cat, Chess, literally sleeps all day. He gets fed. He gets someone to clean his fecal matter. He gets fed again. And yet he has the audacity to complain about being stuck inside. Quit meowing at the porch, cat. You do not want to go out there. That’s where the responsibilities are. It’s not that great. Nevertheless, he still begs. As if he thinks all he would do is just chase birds all day and not have to worry about the hardships of survival and living.
My brother just watched Lion King 1 ½ for the third time and in that one, Timon and Pumbaa find that paradise that they call ‘Hakuna Matata’ and I thought to myself: If I were a meerkat, I would have zero responsibilities and I could sit around the tree of life and eat bugs all day.
Turtles are the ones who leave their offspring on the shore to figure life out. They literally try to *hide their problems in the sand* and no one has a moral quandary with that? Like, this turtle just buried its responsibility and ran away from it into the ocean. HOW is that ok?! If humans dug a hole in the ground and put their children into it to fend for themselves, they’d go to jail for probably, like, thirty-plus years or something. But if a turtle does it– Oh, that’s just nature. That’s just the circle of life.
That turtle needs to be held responsible for its decisions. I thought groundhogs had it figured out, Turtles are where it’s at. Lay low, act like you're too slow to do anything, and everyone will just let you bury your responsibilities in the sand.
Comments