Complaining

This is my cat, Madeleine Albright, in her official sleeping position. She chivvies under my arm while I read my catalog, then sleeps there all night. She’s seven years old and only weighs about six pounds. And she’s spiteful. She gets me.

First, let me say this. I am having a hard time not being absurdly pissed off that I’m stuck in Texas while my sister, who I know for a factual fact does not care at all about Dave Barry, gets to go meet him, along with the rest of my family, even though he’s been my literary idol since I was seven, and she probably can’t even name three of his books. But plane tickets are expensive, so I will stay at home and keep doing such intellectually stimulating things as studying for a standardized test. Because I have to take one next week.

Why? Because my school orientation is next week, and they’ve determined that my ACT score, which was great, and my AP test scores, which were perfect, do not count since I took them in high school. Awesome, right? It’d be fine, but I’m starting to feel pretty nervous about the whole school thing. People keep telling me that I’m going to meet people who have the same passions as I do when I get to school. People like me. But I have a hard time believing it. Believing that I’m going to walk through the door, look around, and breathe a sigh of relief because I’m surrounded by people who will “get” me. Am I supposed to believe I’m going to show up and see people who bake artisinal bread wearing too much eyeliner and cycling shorts? That I’ll finally meet someone else who flips with equal appreciation between Mario Batali and the Daily Show? That there’ll be another person there who is simultaneously training for a marathon AND acknowledging the fact that if they were stranded on a desert island and someone offered them a case of nutritionally complete meal-replacement bars or a single Nestle Lion Bar they would pick the Lion Bar every time? Will there be other girls who take it EXTREMELY personally when a cake falls in the middle, but feel no sense of responsibility whatsoever to change the oil in their cars? People who can drink English Breakfast to pump themselves up for a night of slamming cheap beer? People who fall asleep EVERY SINGLE NIGHT with the King Arthur Flour catalog in their arms, but are equally intense about watching the Broncos each week. People who have worked as a Hooters girl, a construction project manager, a financial analyst, and found the only common thread between these jobs is that they have, at every workplace, “won” at potluck? Are they going to be like me?

My guess is that they’re not, although that could directly be attributed to the dark cloud that’s been hanging over my head at the thought of missing out on Dave Barry.

Okay, I have to go finish canning my tomatoes so I can get to kickboxing on time. And no, that’s not a joke.

7 thoughts on “Complaining”

  1. I’m thinking about running off a copy of your whiney-ass blog to show to the man tonight, just to give his 50-something ego a boost. I’d have to attach a picture of you that didn’t show you sticking your finger in your mouth, though.
    Of course Laurel loves DB – all Thomsons and Bakers do. It’s genetic. Go bake a pie. Momma
    P.S. You were the first one I invited, btw.

  2. Keep faith TSC! I went back to school to do a post grad in my late 20s. My peers were all in their early 20s, which shouldn’t be a big deal but….was. I made jokes about how they were my cougar cubs and I felt like a half-dug dinosaur. They respected that I had varied and different life experiences from them, and somehow we found our way. Now a whack of them are some of my best/tartiest mates – even if they do get excited about the NKOTB concert while I’m listening to Cat Power, and they look at me aghast when I haven’t heard of the latest ‘cool’ website. The differences are what give us charm. You’ll find your way.
    Good luck!

  3. You have to have ACT and AP scores for culinary school? That’s crap, you should just have to submit a pie or something.

    Oh, and you had a potluck at Hooters? I’m not a big potluck fan in general, but Hooter’s potluck? Sounds iffy to me. I thought the only thing Hooter’s managers were interested in was sexually harassing the waitresses.

  4. Hey, Spiteful- That’s the best writing I’ve seen in a blog in eons. YOU are going to be an awesome food writer someday when you get through all the school stuff… you had me LOL (even though I usually eschew that particular TXT shortcut). Thanks for falling asleep with our catalogue; I fell asleep with it the other night as I was proofing the holiday issues. And good luck at school, OK? I agree – that standardized test stuff is BS. Bet they ask you some weird question like how many 2″ servings in a 9″ x 13″ sheet cake… uh duh. Stay cool – or warm, as the case may be. – PJ Hamel, King Arthur Flour baker/blogger

  5. Mom: All of our family members love Coors Light except for her, so why would this be different?

    Tina: I can tell you with no sense of sarcasm at all that what I really WANT is tartier friends. I just figured that there would be no good, hot, tarty friends in San Antonio. Maybe they’ve been just hanging out at the culinary school all this time. I’ll let you know after orientation on Monday. Thanks for the boost, though!

    Kristen: Yeah, we had “wing-offs.” Our manager was really nice about it, too. He just said that since we had plenty of wings, that we could be in charge of the breasts. Isn’t it sweet that he thought of those of us who prefer white meat?

    PJH: You have no idea how flattered I am to have had you stop by. Seriously. I read your blog, read your catalog, and am highly impressed. It’s the food blog equivalent of a high school garage band having Brett Michaels stop by to tell them they rock. Brett Michaels pre-Rock of Love, though, not post. High school garage bands are much cooler than he is now. And they have more hair.

    I guess what I’m saying is that I kind of want to BE you when I grow up, and that I didn’t know you could be a test baker, a food blogger, AND a proofreader in one job. It’s like someone has just told me that there’s meaning in the universe. Because if there’s one thing I love, it’s writing about baked goods I’ve made. But if there’s another, it’s spelling.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *