Wendy's

So, I worked at Wendy's for about three months while I was in high school. It was a pretty terrible job in all the ways you'd imagine. But my store manager had a special humiliation lined up just for me: every Saturday, I had to dress up as Wendy and hand out balloons. When I asked why no one else ever had to don the itchy, yarn Wendy's wig and put on her pinafore, the manager said, "You're the only white girl working here. Does Wendy look black to you?" Well, he had a point. But still!

Anyway, on the way to Atlanta a few weeks ago, my friend and I stopped at Wendy's for lunch, and I got to relive a few fond memories of my Wendy's days:

Cap'n Slappy weighs in on hooks

As some of you might recall from an earlier post, my stepmother, Faith, is a loyal fan of Cap'n Slappy, who founded International Talk Like a Pirate Day and writes his own extremely entertaining advice column. Well, when Faith read the question I answered about the hook, she just knew the Cap'n would have an opinion, so she passed on the question, and my reply, to him. See what he has to say! When you get there, scroll down a ways...or just read the whole column.

Crafting: a Labor of Love

Two excellent questions await my response, but I proved too lazy to answer them this weekend. So, for now, I'll instead regale you with Tales of a Very Short Road Trip.

My friend Tina and I decided to take a mini (or maybe micro) road trip on Labor Day to a nearby town known for its stately Victorian homes and quaint downtown. One of the downtown attractions is a refurbished warehouse, partitioned into booths that display the wares of local craftspeople. In fact, not just craftspeople...this place bills itself as "yesterday's architecture, today's artisans."

Well, I'll leave it to you to determine whether the offerings qualify as artisanal.

Yes, indeed, that's a hand-made Elvis knick-knack box.

Tina, looking very stylish in this lovely hair bow.

You know, Tina, Dawn, and I are planning a trip to Rome. Maybe the chic rolling bag, above, will come in handy. Or this special purse, as Tina demonstrates with her cab-hailing pose:

But, then, these are nice, right? Dignified pictures of someone's great grandparents, perhaps?

Nope. Wrong. When you shift your head from side to side, Maw-maw and Paw-paw morph into this freak show:


After hamming it up throughout the store, snapping pictures and giggling like little girls, we were somewhat chagrined to find this sign tucked away amidst the Barbie doll fairies:


Yikes. At first I brushed it off, figuring that this sign was just a ruse to put off would-be shoplifters, but then I noticed a huge monitor that was, in fact, being monitored by a salesperson in the front of the store. Fortunately, because the views from about 12 cameras appeared on one television screen, no one picture was big enough to do justice to our antics.

And, finally, on the way back to Durham, we stopped at a grocery store, where I was sorely tempted to purchase this magazine:

I mean, I've been fed up with squirrels digging up my impatiens, so maybe this would be the perfect subscription! My birthday's coming up in November, hint hint.

What other advice columnists say

A friend and reader sent this to me. I'll try not to follow this example, even though it made me laugh.

It's been too nice to blog.

This weekend's weather was a mid-summer gift. High of 84, low in the upper 50s. In July. In North Carolina. It's this type of climate that used to make me pine for Seattle or Portland every summer before I decided my mental health would probably suffer during their rainy seasons (all three of them).

At any rate, I've been away and I haven't quite gotten back in the swing of things. Heather Havrilesky, who writes a hilarious column about t.v. for Salon, said something that rings so true for me: "My personal rule is, if I don't sink into a major existential crisis when I get back from vacation then I wasn't gone for long enough." This happened both times when I returned from Ireland. I moped and shuffled around my house, listening to nothing but traditional Celtic music, drinking hot milky tea, scanning on-line dating sites for men named Seamus, and setting the AC low enough to pretend I needed to bundle up in my new Blarney woolen throw.

A week in St. Lucia wasn't long enough to set off a crisis. (For better or worse. On the one hand, I'm glad not to be full of existential angst; on the other, I wouldn't have minded being gone longer). But I did get out of the habit of writing.

I'm getting back to it, though, and I've got a question to answer. So stay tuned. In the meantime, here's a shot of the Caribbean from the plane.


And one of the Pitons, St. Lucia's signature site:


One of The Black Pearl, allegedly featured in "Pirates of the Caribbean":



And, finally, one of a little fishing village on the island's east coast:

Crispy around the edges

Quick update from St. Lucia: Though slightly burned in typically-ignored spots, my SPF 30 and 55 sunblocks seem to be doing the job. Have yet to find a hat for my huge noggin. Fortunately, I brought an old baseball cap, which I was desperately hoping not to resort to. Dorky though I may look, at least my face isn't fried.

It's an hour and a half drive from the airport to the hotel, and my cab driver was a great tour guide. The island is lovely and green, with mountains, banana plantations, rain forests, rocky coasts on the eastern side, and sandy beaches with turquoise water in the west.

Work starts tomorrow, for three days, and then a bit of vacation. I'm hoping to arrange an official tour, but if that falls through, I can always call the cab driver and plan my own day trip. He knows his stuff!

Durham's got cojones

On Saturday, a friend and I attended the "Durham Rising" event, a celebration that marked the end of a long downtown revitalization project involving realigned streets, brick sidewalks and public squares, new trees and decorative streetlamps, and a general hope that downtown Durham is on its way to becoming hip and vital.

As part of the festival, the city officially unveiled an enormous bronze sculpture of a bull, our city's mascot (we're the Bull City, home of the Durham Bulls, etc.).


"What a handsome bull," I thought, filled with beer garden-induced civic pride. And then the man in the blue shirt stepped aside, revealing the bull's bullish attributes.


Sure, I know it's totally juvenile to note just how anatomically correct our bull is, but how could you not? I wasn't the only one noting, believe me. There were plenty of snickers and shy pointing.

But when I got done having a chuckle, I couldn't help but feel warmly toward my oft-maligned city. In a region where public art is derided as a waste of money, and anything more risky than a bronze acorn draws outraged criticism (heh hem, like Raleigh's snub of renowned Spanish sculptor Plensa), it took, well, balls to embrace this sculpture as the city's icon. And if there was ever a city that thought of itself as ballsy, it's New York, and even its famed Wall Street bull can't compare.

Chinqua Penn Dwarfs

On Saturday, I took a mini road trip to the lovely Chinqua Penn Plantation in Reidsville. According to our tour guide, the plantation has been featured on A&E's America's Castles and listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It's a 27-room English countryside mansion filled with elaborate furnishings from 30 countries.

Unfortunately, photography isn't allowed inside the house, so I don't have pictures of the 15th century Chinese frescos, or the Louis the XVI Chippendale style furniture, or the 700-year-old East Indian marble relief. All of which I highly recommend seeing.





However, I was able to photograph these unusual and slightly unsettling statues. (Perhaps the implicit message is "don't smoke or your growth will be stunted"?)

False advertising

As I've mentioned before, I'm not exactly handy. But my utter lack of competence was revealed last night, as I attempted to assemble a screened gazebo in my backyard. To be fair, I'm fully aware that dexterity with tools is not one of my strong suits, so I've put off purchasing one of these things for years, waiting until I found one that didn't require five different kinds of wrenches et al.


Here are some images from the box of the item I bought.

Hmmmmm....an "Instant Up Garden Gazebo." Yes, "instant up" is just what I need!

And just to reinforce the alleged ease with which this garden gazebo can be assembled, to lull you into thinking it practically assembles itself, there's this:



"Easy set up. No tools required. Takes MINUTES, versus HOURS." And look at that, one fairly slight woman, who is not only not sweating and cursing, she's smiling as she sets this up alone, presumably minutes before her party guests arrive. (She's not wearing an outfit like the ripped jeans and threadbare t-shirt I reserve for yard work.) This is it, I think to myself, this is the gazebo I've been waiting for all my life.



Easy set up my ass! I'm here to tell you, that it took me and a friend a total of two hours to assemble this thing, and there was sweating and cursing. Later, as I stood in my yard admiring our handy work, I noticed one little thing amiss. So I pulled out my ladder, set it up on the none-to-stable patio flagstones, climbed to the top, and proceeded to fiddle with the roof, only to snap two pieces of the frame, as if it were made of toothpicks. And this was the result.

I will admit: I cried. I ranted and raved. But in the end, I'm very lucky, because I had several wonderful friends offer to help me disassemble it, load that f-er right back in my car, and put up whatever garden shelter I should choose as a replacement.

Sigh.

I've been Googled

Not to make anyone paranoid, but I know a few things about you HTT readers. Of course, this comes as no surprise, as I know most of you personally. But I also have a web tool that compiles statistics like how many people visited the site, how many page views the site got, etc. And because I am a total goober-head, I check these stats frequently. This tool also tells me the operating system and browsers you use, as well as the "referring sites." For those of you who don't speak web (and I include myself in that illustrious group), I gather "referring site" means the site from which you've navigated to HTT. Now, often this information isn't very illuminating, as the majority of the visits are simply listed as "direct hits," or people who just typed the HTT URL into their browser or have the site bookmarked (there is no IP address or any other anonymity-busting detail).

But from time to time, I'll be able to tell that someone came to my page after finding it on Google, and the search terms that have brought them to HTT are often amusing.

For example, someone Googled "toughening up feet," and, I'm perplexed yet proud to say that HTT is the SECOND site on the list of search results.

Someone else Googled "wwmpd," and HTT comes up first!

And my favorite to date...today, someone Googled "htt gay truck stop" and, that's right, I topped the list again.

They're alive!!

Well, compared to how they looked about two weeks ago, these guys are pretty darn healthy. I didn't manage to kill them after all.

Still not a garden expert, but...

Not kid friendly, but you can dance to it...

This Neil Young question reminded me of something. I used to know a guy who once brought his 10-year-old son to a party populated mostly by adults. I was perversely proud of the fact that, thanks to my dancefloor request, this kid's favorite song for a few weeks of his young life was Prince's "Sexy Motherfucker." Fortunately, his dad had a good sense of humor.

Confessions of a Plant Killer

I planted these previously healthy salvia on Saturday. That's right, two days ago. It's no wonder I often think I'd have been better off getting a condo instead of a house with a yard.

Who names these roads?

We've all seen some funny street names around here, like Jones Sausage Road in Raleigh, which also used to boast a Jackass Road. Today, I was in a northern Durham neighborhood and was compelled to take this picture. I'm just saying.

Back in the saddle, and "HTT, my friend 'found' herself and has become annoying about it"

So, I took a few days off. The film festival was generally amazing, but it turns out my attendance didn't leave much time for blogging or advice giving. Then, I lost power for about a day and a half because of the crazy wind storm. I had to toss the contents of my fridge, but after watching four days' worth of films about man's inhumanity to man (to say nothing of news coverage about Virginia Tech), I was able to keep the loss of a few Lean Cuisines and frozen fruit bars in perspective.

On to my next letter....


Dear HTT,

I have a good friend who has become involved in a series of time-consuming, expensive workshops designed to teach her, as she puts it, how to make her dreams reality. I'll admit she has dramatically adjusted her outlook on life, becoming more direct about asking for what she wants but also revealing a lack of self-confidence I hadn't noticed before. When she doesn't get what she asks for, or when people simply treat her badly, she blames herself for not expressing her needs clearly enough.

One evening, in a state of what sounded like manic giddiness, she phoned to tell me she wanted me to take the same workshops. I declined (for the second time that week) and she pushed: "What's standing in the way of you realizing your dreams?" It was hard for me to say, but I told her I missed her and thought poorly of the workshops. She tried recruiting several friends in our circle, even offering to loan everyone the money for the fees. No one obliged, and once the series ended, she stopped recruiting.

Fast forward a few months. I'm making an effort to pretend she didn't violate our friendship (it felt like she did, anyway; did she?) and am having a hard time with her newfound directness. She recently emailed a large group of friends to reschedule a gathering she had organized ("Check your schedules for next month. I'm going to the mountains instead!"). I probably wouldn't have minded had she softened the request with a simple "sorry, this is the only weekend we could go"; instead, she softened it with "Please join us!" Surely it wouldn't be hard for me to tell her when I'm free next month, but I'm finding myself trying to concoct reasons that I'm busy every weekend. Any suggestions on how I might overcome my annoyance, accept her new happy self for who she is, and move on?

--Anti-dreamer

Dear Anti,

At one time or another, most of us enthusiastically proselytize about something, whether it’s an author we love, a cause we support, or the best nachos in town (The Federal). So, I can’t fault your friend for extending the initial invitation. The workshops changed her life. She wanted her friends to benefit from them as well. Fine.

But she continued pushing after you declined. Not fine. I imagine also that you bristled when she chalked up your disinclination to attend the workshops to some deficiency on your part. I would have.

And while I’m fueling the fire, I’ll add that I find it annoying when people self-actualize at the expense of good manners, as your friend did in cancelling your gathering. I had an acquaintance who frequently cancelled plans at the last minute, with no apology, on the grounds that she “needed to take care of herself.” It’s not like she had a dialysis appointment.

So, what to do depends on your capacity to forget and forgive. If you can let go of any lingering bitterness about your friend’s recruiting tactics, just focus on the present. If she does something that upsets you, talk to her. But leave her self-actualization out of it, even if you think her new philosophy might be a cause of her behavior. You aren’t going to win by likening the workshops to a cult or suggesting that they had a detrimental effect on her personality. She feels strongly that they helped her and could take your criticism as sour grapes or a lack of enlightenment.

If you remain upset about the way she pushed the boundaries of your friendship (and yes, I think she did do so), you might just have to air those grievances too. Again, I’d be careful not to criticize the workshops themselves, but instead address how you felt pressured by her insistence that you attend.

Depending on how long ago she finished the workshops, it could be that time will mellow the way she applies what she learned. For now, maybe some distance between you wouldn’t be a bad idea. If you don’t want to go to the rescheduled gathering, don’t make excuses about it. Just follow her model of directness and say, “why don’t you schedule it without me this time, and I’ll make the next one.”

Finally, since you and your other friends declined her invitation, your friend is sure to sense your disapproval. Whatever discussion you have with her will be better received if you can truly imagine ways the workshops—despite what you think of them personally—may have helped her.

Take care,
HTT

Family Reunion Part Deux

For years, every time I visited my mother in Sarasota, she'd suggest--like many good Floridian hosts do--visiting a theme park, and I'd assure her that I'd rather poke my own eyeballs out. Sarasota is a lovely city, and there is plenty of fun to be had there: botanical gardens, museums, the beach, pools, some great used-book stores and thrift shops, movies, boat rides on the bay, and John Ringling's beautiful Gothic mansion. I don't need to be flung against a bunch of strangers in a giant, spinning tea cup.

So, when my brother mentioned his proposal to my mom, her FIRST words were "And what was your sister's reaction?" When he confessed that it had been tepid at best, mom recommended that we all go on a cruise instead.

I briefly wondered if they were running a good cop / bad cop scam on me. Because normally, I wouldn't be all that jazzed over the idea of going on a cruise with my whole family, but compared to Disney World it sounds like heaven. At least on a big ship, I can find a secluded lounge chair somewhere; order some tall, fruity, rum-based beverages; and read a good book.

Family Reunion with The Mouse

My family, on my mother's side, is composed of the following members:

• My mother and her husband
• My brother, his wife, and their six children (ages 3 months to 8 years)
• My aunt
• My two cousins, each of whom is married and has one child under 10

My brother has cooked up an idea for a family reunion. Bless his heart. He is a genuinely good person who wants to create stronger connections among our small clan. He has proposed that we spend four days together at Disney World in Orlando. Four days. Together. At Disney World. He imagines that this will be a fun, bond-building adventure.

I do not. It somewhat pains me to be confronted with the reality that I am not this kind of person. To say that I am not into theme parks is an understatement. Rollercoasters scare me. I clam up and become oddly shy when approached by people in large, furry costumes. I don't like crowds. I love my nieces and nephews and am regularly charmed and awed by how they've turned out so far. But I have to take a power nap after spending four hours, never mind four days, with them all. The idea of standing in line for 45 minutes to get on Pirates of the Caribbean with eight children under 10, two cousins I barely know, and their spouses whom I know even less makes me anxious.

I hate to sound this curmudgeonly. I do! I would prefer to be an enthusiastic, theme-park loving, extended-family-embracing kind of gal. Maybe if I pretend I am, it'll take.

Good questions

It's an embarrassment of riches. I had THREE questions in my in-box this morning, which is an HTT record. Had I known that rambling about condiments would bring such great letters out of the woodwork, I might have started working my way from ancho chili paste to wasabi before now.

Stay tuned!

More on peanut butter

My quest for the perfect peanut butter might be over.

When last we touched upon this topic, I was upset that my favorite brand (Peter Pan Honey Roasted) had been recalled thanks to some pesky salmonella poisoning. I thought I'd discovered an adequate replacement in Jiff, also supposedly honey roasted. However, Jiff, while disease-free, tastes bland.

Turns out, if you shop very early in the morning, you have much more time to scrutinize the peanut butter selection. (Insomnia is good for something!) During my barely-post-dawn expedition, I found this brand:



Now you smooth peanut butter purists will scoff. But this brand boasts a hint of cinnamon and has raisins mixed right in! Yum! Granted, you're probably not going to want to use it in your spicy peanut noodles or satay sauce, but on a whole wheat English Muffin, it's heaven.

(Send questions, please, or next I start rating mustards.)

WWMPD

So, last night, I went out to meet a friend and a bunch of her coworkers at The Federal. The place was packed, between St. Patrick's Day and the NCAA tournament. One reveler we were with came back to our table from a trip to the bar where she'd taken a picure of a guy wearing this t-shirt:



(What up with this guy, above, wearing a cross AND a t-shirt about his penis?)


Anyway, her picture was a close-up, so you could only see the words, and I was curious about what kind of man would wear such a shirt. So, she promptly went off to find him and brought him back to our table. In fairness to him, I will say he looked a little sheepish (although not, to my mind, sheepish enough). I told him the shirt begged the question, "Well, what would it do?" and he mumbled, "it depends on the situation."

He told us his girlfriend gave him the shirt. None of us believed him. I mean, really. His girlfriend?