Ingredients
- Parents
- Compliments
- Pumpkins
- Celebrities
- Parties
Instructions
When you are an early 20's female in NYC, all of the above are potentially problematic. Take the glaring example of pumpkin:
Why does this innocent gourd deserve such fiercely loaded judgment &, thusly, protection? You don't see my listing pattypan squash or zucchini or kabocha up there-- why do they get away scot-free?
I mean, the real reason is because I didn't go home to Ohio to have homemade Krieg's Itz the Berries annual kabocha frozen custard or Homemade Mitchell's Ice Cream's special zucchini fall flavor. SHIT no. I went home to get some PUMPKIN. TWICE. DAMN STRAIGHT. So that's why that's there. And also to provide a sweet transition to: parents.
Indeed, I flee-ed to the Cleve a few weekends ago, thanks to the extra time awarded to me by the national holiday celebrating massacres and a man compelled by Spanish greed-- thanks to it, but not because of it. No, I would've been forced to fly home whether or not I was able to spend more than 12 hours there. My mother made a bold move: she pulled her "I never make you do anything" card to require my presence at my cousin Kelly's wedding shower. A card that, sadly (really only for her), is 100% valid; my mom historically never makes me do anything. The closest she's come has been not letting me do something. I wasn't allowed to participate in both my high school senior spring play and the annual Lorain International Princess Pageant, which I'd wanted to do because this same cousin Kelly won 3rd Runner Up & thus local celebrity as the German Princess in 2003. Now, I'm not saying that the bridal shower of one of my top favorite cousins is not worth a card pulling. It's simply that you'd think my mom would pull this highly valuable, pretty much one-time-only card on, I don't know, her inevitable retirement party or making me move my crap out of her basement. Nope; she's selfless. And, even if I could only be in Ohio for 5 hours, I was to be at Quarry Hill Winery in Vermillion, OH at 1pm on Saturday.
Obviously, this meant that when I woke up Friday morning with a sore throat, congested head, and body aches, I was going to have to suck. it. up. I drank an entire 56 oz jug of orange juice that day. I also performed in an improv show downtown that started at 10:30pm and then got to bed at 2am, with my alarm set for 5:50am the next morning.
Now, don't hide what you're thinking-- "if you couldn't breathe out of any nostril, barely got through work, and felt dizzy in Candy Land all day, why on earth would you go perform in an indie improv show in the East Village?!" No one was making me do it. However, one does not simply bail day-of when they're part of a 7-person team and 2 people already said that they couldn't make it days ago. Also, it was in a really great venue, OK?!
But still.
I successfully wake up at 5:50am, though mainly because I can't breathe. Zombie-like, I travel train & bus from Queens to New Jersey to my gate just as boarding began, which is fine since I fly standby and we get the leftover seats. Unless... there are none. In a haze, I sit there wondering why my name isn't being called, until I finally notice the crowd of others waiting.
I dedicated myself to <4 hours of sleep and a trip to New Jersey but DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER to check the flight availability before I left the house? Honestly, at this point, I don't know who I am anymore (though that could've been the snot and lack of sleep). The 67 available seats-- that there were yesterday at 9pm, clearly the most relevant time to now-- are now 2 seats, and instead of being 3rd I am now 25th on the standby list. But they (my dad) don't call me the Luckiest Pass Rider in the World for nothin'. Oh, right; that's who I am: Economy Plus on an impossible flight.
Ohio ETA: 10:50am
My bed ETA: 11:35am
Departure for wedding shower ETA: 12:30pm
Shower at a winery with homemade apple cider sangria: 1 to 5pm
Pumpkin frozen custard + farm apple stand ETA: 5:15pm
Comcast On-Demand so I can finally watch "Mr. Robot" ETA: 6pm
Sleep: 9:30pm
10:00am: WE'RE GOING TO A MOTHA-F*#$IN' ISLAND
Oh, you thought that after exhausting my sickly narcoleptic body through 3 hours of sleep, a flight, a 40 min nap, and 4 hours of pure adrenaline partying that I'd not be expected to go to "the Key West of the North" in the middle of October? Then you must've forgotten my mother's card. Ah, yes, when you wrap it all together, my mother was using her untapped parenting power to force her 24-year-old square & stuffed-up daughter to party non-stop.
At 11:15am, we board the Miller Ferry to Put-In-Bay Island, the "crown jewel of Lake Erie"-- indeed, the Key West of the North. Other than being the favored locale for the Scherach & Rupp families (mine) to drink and eat (mainly drink) in a marathon-like fashion, PIB actually holds awesome historical significance. I grew up thinking that Oliver Hazard Perry's famous Battle of Lake Erie won the War of 1812, but now I'm not sure if that's true. It was a major battle, though, and it was from the harbor called Put-in-Bay that Perry sailed to defeat the British fleet and gain command of Lake Erie. Perry was one eloquent dude, and through this battle he gifted America with "We have met the enemy and they are ours..." and the less widespread "Don't give up the ship" that was printed on his battle flag, which I think is pretty badass-- and which PIB's Perry's Monument has printed on a lot of T-Shirts and tote bags, so sue me if I want one.
Adult children know when to power through. I don't drink the traditional starter/breakfast drink of a Bloody Mary stuffed with a pickle and meat stick at a dive called Joe's Bar. I do drink a hot mulled spice wine at the boiled down Oktoberfest, as Oktoberfests on a summer destination island of 138 permanent residents on a Sunday football afternoon tend to boil down to. At one point, I become so focused and intensely enraged at this bigoted, white-haired redneck (I'll say it if it's true) singing and playing guitar on top of a round bar fully surrounded by Cleveland Browns-clad Ohioans cheering him and his backwards insensitive jokes on... so intensely focused probably due to my cold meds. Yet, in the spirit of a family wedding shower, I hold back from interrupting his act and possibly angering a crowd of tipsy Midwestern football fans. Sometimes you have to hop into a 10-person golf cart, sip a mini plastic cup of wine, and let it go.
I not only survive but also feel surprisingly better; must be that fresh lake water air. I wake up for the last hoorah-- being fitted for a bridesmaid's dress for cousin Kelly's sister (also known as my cousin)'s wedding. Then, my mom and I stop at the "nice" mall before going to the airport, and if you were wondering where the other ingredients were coming in, they occur here.
Parents: While sitting at Panera, my mom asks if I've been flossing. If not, I should, because my breath smells; she barely got through our order at the counter. Thanks. Also, I'm to "stop it, with your hands." I've got this sub-conscious twitch with my right hand that I've been trying to lessen, but leave it to one's mother to stomp it out without any explanation other than a firm "stop." Walking around, my mother notes that I am wearing 2 different socks, which my dad had already managed to mention within an hour of my being home two days ago. With different different socks.
Compliments: While on the phone outside of Teavanna, where my mother is purchasing some Oprah Chai Tea only because it's on sale, because it is UNREAL expensive, a young woman smiles at me and quietly offers, "I love your outfit." I'm taken aback by a few things:
1. her confidence to say something not 100% direly necessary to a stranger; 2. her unknown reasoning of why this kind thought was important enough to interrupt my phone call; and 3. that someone complimented my entire outfit. I am not an icon of fashion and this was so important enough. I smile a slowly formed (due to shock) smile and thank her genuinely.
The next compliment I receive from a stranger-- I forgot that that must happen a lot in Ohio!-- is at the Cleveland Airport. It's been a textbook beautiful, sunny, perfect day thus far with my mother and the dress and the mall, so when the middle-aged TSA security agent who checks my boarding pass and ID looks from my ID to me and says, "You lowered your ears... It's cute!", I bumble through initial shock, again, to a "thank you, " smile, and laugh. As my chuckle begins, though, I realize how freaking weird & potentially inappropriate it is for this TSA agent to tell me that my haircut is "cute," but at that point I'm taking off my belt and shoes for some other guy.
This is fine; I excuse it on the basis of this is Ohio and things are different here than in New York, where I typically yell obscenities or shout "Shut up!" to any male stranger who says anything complimentary to me. The other day some jackass young guy was loitering in the Duane Reade check-out area. I couldn't get past him, so we did that fun little dance, which he soundtracked throughout with his creepy, "Oh, hello," "You wanna dance?" and "Hey, good day to you, too, beautiful"-- shit like that. As I finally got around him, I yelled, in front of a long line of customers, "Shu-ut up!" over my shoulder and proceeded to pay for my bag of pretzels. I'm not proud of how much I shout or swear at catcallers in public, because that's honestly not the best way to handle the situation-- but, for this shy Grandma-like Midwestern gal, that's simply what comes out.
Celebrities: An angel from my improv class is a swing (like an understudy, but for many character tracks) in "Hamilton," which is currently the hottest ticket on Broadway in years-- sold out until at least January with those tickets at $200+. It tells the story of Alexander Hamilton using rap and hip-hop, told by a non-white cast, and one isn't to listen to the soundtrack before watching it onstage. It is nearly impossible to see, and I had fully accepted I'd see it in, like, 2 years. But this talented angel happened to be on that night, so he offered my class a few standing room tickets for FORTY DOLLARS. I'm still in shock that I saw it and had such a great view! Anyways, back to the important part: He takes the 3 of us who attended backstage, where I see my female friend who is a swing, and. Also. So You Think You Can Dance Season 3 finalist Neil Haskell, aka also a swing who was on that night, aka also the high school celebrity crush obsession of my friend Lindsey and me circa 2007 to 2009. One never imagines they'll meet their first celebrity crush and I'm now standing 10 feet away from him. It was, honestly, bafflingly funny and unreal to me, because when we were "obsessed" with him, we were 16 and never dreamed of meeting him, so that gave us permission to be silly and playfully dramatic about it. But there he was.
And then. Then suddenly there also was. In addition. JENNIFER ANISTON.
Perhaps you don't know, but I am, not playfully, obsessed with "Friends." It was monumental in my formative years. As I've mentioned before, I timed out the completion of the 10 DVD box-sets from 7th grade to my high school graduation, so that as I was leaving my best friends at the finale of our childhood, I would simultaneously watch the "Friends" finale with my best friends at a party; I'd had it planned for years. It was an emotional mistake that will forever embed "Friends" into every fiber of being of my adolescence. Without any agency of my own freewill, "Friends" will always be my favorite show and Jennifer Aniston one of my favorite actors.
Imagine being flanked on the same stage by two people who, on two totally different levels of celebrity, were strangely both largely emotionally tied to your high school years. Lindsey was also my "Friends"-watching confidant, so I began sending strong SOS signals to her from my beating heart. I felt like I was going to puke, in my own little world, unable to hold a conversation. I walked over to my female swing friend and her boyfriend-- also my friend-- and told them what was going on with my body/mind/vomit. She says,
"Oh my gosh! You have to tell him."
Both her boyfriend and me: "NOOO."
She proceeds to say that "OMG he's so weird, he'll love it, you have to, when else would you ever get to blah blah blah" and of course she's right-- why the hell not? Since she walks over to get him from the other side of the stage, I know she's definitely already primed him. When they all try to be civil and introduce me like I'm a normal person, I shake his hand and then cut the crap.
"OK, so, just being honest/just so you know/you should know (I blacked out, I don't know), you were my first ever celebrity crush."
Continue black out. All I remember was mentioning Lindsey and spouting a few unnecessary lies, such as that I was 14 that summer and that it was the first reality show we'd ever watched-- as if these made it more innocent-- and also as if that would make it less awkward-- as if it even needed to be awkward. I distinctly did say, "It was a weird summer."
I didn't meet Jen, but I didn't want to; it wasn't my time. Not yet. But Neil Haskell, hottie of 2007 to roughly 2009, did ask me where I studied improv, twice, and took a picture with me where I was trying to make some sort of cool ironic face but instead look like I'm crying.
Anyone keeping a scoreboard of how difficult it is to be a 24-year-old white lower-middle-class female in a big city, that's another tally in the Inconsequential and Annoying category.
What this recipe shows is that my parents, though states away, are still so actively involved in my life that they can smell my breath and force me to suck up a cold for family time; that, despite popular belief, young women can be intelligent and still love pumpkin; that discerning how to react appropriately to compliments from strangers is a complicated and difficult issue for young women; and that, at this time, I am not emotionally fit enough to meet celebrities on the spot. It appears there is learning and growing to be done!
Wouldn't it be nice if we were all as poised as Jen? As financially independent as Jen? As trained at taking compliments as Jen? As not required to go to events when she's ill or tired as... Oh, no. Jen's life is not perfect. And if I want to be a successful and respected actor like her, that means that partying even when I don't want to doesn't have an end in sight...
Better get me a Bloody Mary with a meat stick.
For a taste of what PIB is like when I'm not sick, here are different shots of my mother and I eating and drinking in the span of 1 day:
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| Yeah, this article interesting, click it.. |
Why does this innocent gourd deserve such fiercely loaded judgment &, thusly, protection? You don't see my listing pattypan squash or zucchini or kabocha up there-- why do they get away scot-free?
I mean, the real reason is because I didn't go home to Ohio to have homemade Krieg's Itz the Berries annual kabocha frozen custard or Homemade Mitchell's Ice Cream's special zucchini fall flavor. SHIT no. I went home to get some PUMPKIN. TWICE. DAMN STRAIGHT. So that's why that's there. And also to provide a sweet transition to: parents.
Indeed, I flee-ed to the Cleve a few weekends ago, thanks to the extra time awarded to me by the national holiday celebrating massacres and a man compelled by Spanish greed-- thanks to it, but not because of it. No, I would've been forced to fly home whether or not I was able to spend more than 12 hours there. My mother made a bold move: she pulled her "I never make you do anything" card to require my presence at my cousin Kelly's wedding shower. A card that, sadly (really only for her), is 100% valid; my mom historically never makes me do anything. The closest she's come has been not letting me do something. I wasn't allowed to participate in both my high school senior spring play and the annual Lorain International Princess Pageant, which I'd wanted to do because this same cousin Kelly won 3rd Runner Up & thus local celebrity as the German Princess in 2003. Now, I'm not saying that the bridal shower of one of my top favorite cousins is not worth a card pulling. It's simply that you'd think my mom would pull this highly valuable, pretty much one-time-only card on, I don't know, her inevitable retirement party or making me move my crap out of her basement. Nope; she's selfless. And, even if I could only be in Ohio for 5 hours, I was to be at Quarry Hill Winery in Vermillion, OH at 1pm on Saturday.
Obviously, this meant that when I woke up Friday morning with a sore throat, congested head, and body aches, I was going to have to suck. it. up. I drank an entire 56 oz jug of orange juice that day. I also performed in an improv show downtown that started at 10:30pm and then got to bed at 2am, with my alarm set for 5:50am the next morning.
Now, don't hide what you're thinking-- "if you couldn't breathe out of any nostril, barely got through work, and felt dizzy in Candy Land all day, why on earth would you go perform in an indie improv show in the East Village?!" No one was making me do it. However, one does not simply bail day-of when they're part of a 7-person team and 2 people already said that they couldn't make it days ago. Also, it was in a really great venue, OK?!
But still.
I successfully wake up at 5:50am, though mainly because I can't breathe. Zombie-like, I travel train & bus from Queens to New Jersey to my gate just as boarding began, which is fine since I fly standby and we get the leftover seats. Unless... there are none. In a haze, I sit there wondering why my name isn't being called, until I finally notice the crowd of others waiting.
I dedicated myself to <4 hours of sleep and a trip to New Jersey but DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER to check the flight availability before I left the house? Honestly, at this point, I don't know who I am anymore (though that could've been the snot and lack of sleep). The 67 available seats-- that there were yesterday at 9pm, clearly the most relevant time to now-- are now 2 seats, and instead of being 3rd I am now 25th on the standby list. But they (my dad) don't call me the Luckiest Pass Rider in the World for nothin'. Oh, right; that's who I am: Economy Plus on an impossible flight.
Ohio ETA: 10:50am
My bed ETA: 11:35am
Departure for wedding shower ETA: 12:30pm
Shower at a winery with homemade apple cider sangria: 1 to 5pm
Pumpkin frozen custard + farm apple stand ETA: 5:15pm
Comcast On-Demand so I can finally watch "Mr. Robot" ETA: 6pm
Sleep: 9:30pm
10:00am: WE'RE GOING TO A MOTHA-F*#$IN' ISLAND
Oh, you thought that after exhausting my sickly narcoleptic body through 3 hours of sleep, a flight, a 40 min nap, and 4 hours of pure adrenaline partying that I'd not be expected to go to "the Key West of the North" in the middle of October? Then you must've forgotten my mother's card. Ah, yes, when you wrap it all together, my mother was using her untapped parenting power to force her 24-year-old square & stuffed-up daughter to party non-stop.
At 11:15am, we board the Miller Ferry to Put-In-Bay Island, the "crown jewel of Lake Erie"-- indeed, the Key West of the North. Other than being the favored locale for the Scherach & Rupp families (mine) to drink and eat (mainly drink) in a marathon-like fashion, PIB actually holds awesome historical significance. I grew up thinking that Oliver Hazard Perry's famous Battle of Lake Erie won the War of 1812, but now I'm not sure if that's true. It was a major battle, though, and it was from the harbor called Put-in-Bay that Perry sailed to defeat the British fleet and gain command of Lake Erie. Perry was one eloquent dude, and through this battle he gifted America with "We have met the enemy and they are ours..." and the less widespread "Don't give up the ship" that was printed on his battle flag, which I think is pretty badass-- and which PIB's Perry's Monument has printed on a lot of T-Shirts and tote bags, so sue me if I want one.
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| <3 |
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| There's nothing like drinking Pink Catawba Wine, of the Catawba Islands of Lake Erie, in convenient plastic cups. |
I not only survive but also feel surprisingly better; must be that fresh lake water air. I wake up for the last hoorah-- being fitted for a bridesmaid's dress for cousin Kelly's sister (also known as my cousin)'s wedding. Then, my mom and I stop at the "nice" mall before going to the airport, and if you were wondering where the other ingredients were coming in, they occur here.
Parents: While sitting at Panera, my mom asks if I've been flossing. If not, I should, because my breath smells; she barely got through our order at the counter. Thanks. Also, I'm to "stop it, with your hands." I've got this sub-conscious twitch with my right hand that I've been trying to lessen, but leave it to one's mother to stomp it out without any explanation other than a firm "stop." Walking around, my mother notes that I am wearing 2 different socks, which my dad had already managed to mention within an hour of my being home two days ago. With different different socks.
Compliments: While on the phone outside of Teavanna, where my mother is purchasing some Oprah Chai Tea only because it's on sale, because it is UNREAL expensive, a young woman smiles at me and quietly offers, "I love your outfit." I'm taken aback by a few things:
1. her confidence to say something not 100% direly necessary to a stranger; 2. her unknown reasoning of why this kind thought was important enough to interrupt my phone call; and 3. that someone complimented my entire outfit. I am not an icon of fashion and this was so important enough. I smile a slowly formed (due to shock) smile and thank her genuinely.
The next compliment I receive from a stranger-- I forgot that that must happen a lot in Ohio!-- is at the Cleveland Airport. It's been a textbook beautiful, sunny, perfect day thus far with my mother and the dress and the mall, so when the middle-aged TSA security agent who checks my boarding pass and ID looks from my ID to me and says, "You lowered your ears... It's cute!", I bumble through initial shock, again, to a "thank you, " smile, and laugh. As my chuckle begins, though, I realize how freaking weird & potentially inappropriate it is for this TSA agent to tell me that my haircut is "cute," but at that point I'm taking off my belt and shoes for some other guy.
This is fine; I excuse it on the basis of this is Ohio and things are different here than in New York, where I typically yell obscenities or shout "Shut up!" to any male stranger who says anything complimentary to me. The other day some jackass young guy was loitering in the Duane Reade check-out area. I couldn't get past him, so we did that fun little dance, which he soundtracked throughout with his creepy, "Oh, hello," "You wanna dance?" and "Hey, good day to you, too, beautiful"-- shit like that. As I finally got around him, I yelled, in front of a long line of customers, "Shu-ut up!" over my shoulder and proceeded to pay for my bag of pretzels. I'm not proud of how much I shout or swear at catcallers in public, because that's honestly not the best way to handle the situation-- but, for this shy Grandma-like Midwestern gal, that's simply what comes out.
Celebrities: An angel from my improv class is a swing (like an understudy, but for many character tracks) in "Hamilton," which is currently the hottest ticket on Broadway in years-- sold out until at least January with those tickets at $200+. It tells the story of Alexander Hamilton using rap and hip-hop, told by a non-white cast, and one isn't to listen to the soundtrack before watching it onstage. It is nearly impossible to see, and I had fully accepted I'd see it in, like, 2 years. But this talented angel happened to be on that night, so he offered my class a few standing room tickets for FORTY DOLLARS. I'm still in shock that I saw it and had such a great view! Anyways, back to the important part: He takes the 3 of us who attended backstage, where I see my female friend who is a swing, and. Also. So You Think You Can Dance Season 3 finalist Neil Haskell, aka also a swing who was on that night, aka also the high school celebrity crush obsession of my friend Lindsey and me circa 2007 to 2009. One never imagines they'll meet their first celebrity crush and I'm now standing 10 feet away from him. It was, honestly, bafflingly funny and unreal to me, because when we were "obsessed" with him, we were 16 and never dreamed of meeting him, so that gave us permission to be silly and playfully dramatic about it. But there he was.
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| We were 16. Come on. |
And then. Then suddenly there also was. In addition. JENNIFER ANISTON.
Perhaps you don't know, but I am, not playfully, obsessed with "Friends." It was monumental in my formative years. As I've mentioned before, I timed out the completion of the 10 DVD box-sets from 7th grade to my high school graduation, so that as I was leaving my best friends at the finale of our childhood, I would simultaneously watch the "Friends" finale with my best friends at a party; I'd had it planned for years. It was an emotional mistake that will forever embed "Friends" into every fiber of being of my adolescence. Without any agency of my own freewill, "Friends" will always be my favorite show and Jennifer Aniston one of my favorite actors.
Imagine being flanked on the same stage by two people who, on two totally different levels of celebrity, were strangely both largely emotionally tied to your high school years. Lindsey was also my "Friends"-watching confidant, so I began sending strong SOS signals to her from my beating heart. I felt like I was going to puke, in my own little world, unable to hold a conversation. I walked over to my female swing friend and her boyfriend-- also my friend-- and told them what was going on with my body/mind/vomit. She says,
"Oh my gosh! You have to tell him."
Both her boyfriend and me: "NOOO."
She proceeds to say that "OMG he's so weird, he'll love it, you have to, when else would you ever get to blah blah blah" and of course she's right-- why the hell not? Since she walks over to get him from the other side of the stage, I know she's definitely already primed him. When they all try to be civil and introduce me like I'm a normal person, I shake his hand and then cut the crap.
"OK, so, just being honest/just so you know/you should know (I blacked out, I don't know), you were my first ever celebrity crush."
Continue black out. All I remember was mentioning Lindsey and spouting a few unnecessary lies, such as that I was 14 that summer and that it was the first reality show we'd ever watched-- as if these made it more innocent-- and also as if that would make it less awkward-- as if it even needed to be awkward. I distinctly did say, "It was a weird summer."
I didn't meet Jen, but I didn't want to; it wasn't my time. Not yet. But Neil Haskell, hottie of 2007 to roughly 2009, did ask me where I studied improv, twice, and took a picture with me where I was trying to make some sort of cool ironic face but instead look like I'm crying.
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| No, if I'd have known I was to need to make a good impression, I wouldn't have worn my box-like Limited Too jacket, thanks for asking. |
Anyone keeping a scoreboard of how difficult it is to be a 24-year-old white lower-middle-class female in a big city, that's another tally in the Inconsequential and Annoying category.
What this recipe shows is that my parents, though states away, are still so actively involved in my life that they can smell my breath and force me to suck up a cold for family time; that, despite popular belief, young women can be intelligent and still love pumpkin; that discerning how to react appropriately to compliments from strangers is a complicated and difficult issue for young women; and that, at this time, I am not emotionally fit enough to meet celebrities on the spot. It appears there is learning and growing to be done!
Wouldn't it be nice if we were all as poised as Jen? As financially independent as Jen? As trained at taking compliments as Jen? As not required to go to events when she's ill or tired as... Oh, no. Jen's life is not perfect. And if I want to be a successful and respected actor like her, that means that partying even when I don't want to doesn't have an end in sight...
Better get me a Bloody Mary with a meat stick.
For a taste of what PIB is like when I'm not sick, here are different shots of my mother and I eating and drinking in the span of 1 day:
 |
And this doesn't even show the winery.
