Sorry for that awful post earlier today, internet. I was in a terrible, terrible mood.
But then something wonderful happened! I got to go to an awesome barn and pick out some pieces of hardwood for whatever my little heart desires!
Okay, so technically I was there to help mi Madre pick out wood, but still. HOW COOL IS THAT??
So I was at work today, internet, as happens, and my boss asked me to clean a lobby area which apparently suffers from a chronic spider infestation problem, and as I was sucking the last of the baby spider nests into the sturdy little Shopvac I was given, I was feeling like a boss and idly wondered if I should put Spider Killer on my resume or at least my business card.
Then I realized I totally never put up a resumé to go along with the cover letters I wrote a while back, which is obviously why I was never contacted for a job.
If you’re wondering, all of the following things on this resumé are FACTUAL THINGS and if you want to give me a job (obviously) you can email me!
Cassandra. (I only have one name. Like Beyoncé. Or Cher.)
Facebook Page. Obviously.
-Spider Killer Supreme.
-Can tell a hare from a rabbit.
-Can grill an Awesome burger.
-Can properly index, cite, and footnote in a variety of conventions.
-Weirdly good at catching footballs.
-Have excellent phone voice.
-Could probably run a mile.
-Can read a map upside down.
-Once invented an entire complex language with it’s own grammar.
-Marc Summers tweeted at me once.
-Have been in a mosh pit.
-Once drove for four hours without stopping to pee.
-Have petted a baby hippo.
-Have willfully eaten goose feet on several occasions.
-Have filed several police reports.
-Know at least 3 digits of pi.
“Oh, fuck,” I swore, as my oars collided with those of Alissa Barton, high school skank. “For the love of God, bitch, will you please pay attention?”
My arch nemesis didn’t reply.
We were out in the middle of the lake, just over 2 kilometers from the boathouse. It was six thirty in the morning. The sun was just rising over the flat, crystal clear water on a still-warm fall day. Around us, the people inside their multi-million dollar lakefront houses were just starting to stir. We were alone, working on a pyramid of row times Coach had given us – two minutes on, one minute off and so on until we had to row in. He was far ahead of us with the rest of the team, and Alissa and I had been rowing badly and I was pissed off.
It was my first semester on the varsity crew team, and my coach had put me in a double with none other than Alissa “Blow-Me” Barton. Rumor had it she’d already done it with no less than three of the boys in our high school, including my recent ex boyfriend, Alex Abernathy. I wanted to row a boat with her about as much as I wanted to give CPR to a live python, but I’d already promised myself that I’d do anything possible to get to states this year.
“Hey, Barton,” I sneered when she didn’t respond, “any year now.” Her oars were drifting listlessly on top of the water, bouncing lightly in the soft current.
“Barton?” I felt her fall before I heard her hand slap heavily against the side of the boat. Alissa’s head dropped listlessly against my shoulder as I turned. Her eyes rolled sightlessly in their sockets.
“Fuck!” I cried out, taking her shoulders and pushing her off of me. Alissa’s head fell against her chest and lolled sideways. Without thinking, I dipped my hand into the lake and splashed her liberally. The water was lukewarm. The boat rocked dangerously to the side.
“Coach!” I screamed, but the eights were a good 4 kilometers away. There was no one around save a blue heron flying low over the water, scaring off the seagulls who lined the rocky coastline.
Alissa let out a low groan and I looked back at her.
“Hey, Alissa, wake up,” I said, trying to regain some calm, although my voice was pitchy and sounded cartoonish. I splashed her again for good measure, and she seemed to refocus on me.
“Are you okay?” I asked absurdly. She blinked.
“Are the muffins ready yet, Mom,” she said, blinking. Her voice slurred badly and her eyelids were out of sync with each other.
“Shit. Shit. Okay, hold your oars. Can you do that?” I babbled in one long stream. I took her hands in mine and wrapped her fingers around the oar handles. Luckily, she latched on and slumped, marionette style, over her bent up knees.
I turned the boat around in two powerful strokes and started for the boathouse without ceremony. Our craft felt like lead with Alissa’s dead weight, and my oars kept bumping into hers as they dangled from her hands, but slowly I picked up some semblance of a rhythm and the thin craft picked up speed, the water running against the sides of the boat in a low hum.
“Hey, if you die on me, I will kill you,” I panted, with a full kilometer left to go to the boathouse. There was no reply, but I could hear Alissa’s seat rocking rhythmically forward and back on it’s slide under her slack weight. I tucked my head into my chest and kept pulling.
Holy Frak, you guys. I HAVE FOUND THE BEST CHICKEN ON THE PLANET.
Technically, I’ve known about this chicken for an entire year, but I had to wait to make sure.
You know when you eat something spectacular, and it lives in your mind as this awesome experience, and it grows on you and preys on your weaknesses and then it’s so built up that when you go have it again, you are thoroughly disappointed because it doesn’t taste how it does in your memories?
This is nothing like that.
This chicken tasted the same as it did a year ago when I had it the first time.
Maybe even better.
This chicken can be found at Via Appia in San Juan, Puerto Rico. No, I’m not giving you an address. Work for it a little, punk.
Via Appia is technically an Italian restaurant. It is vivid and lively and always brim-full of people who do not speak a lick of English.
You will be tempted to order Italian food.
Do not do this.
Get the Chicharrones de Pollo with a cold beer. No, it’s not on the menu. It might be listed on the specials board. It might not. Roll with it. Smooze the waiter a bit. Flirt. Bribe him if you have to. DO NOT GIVE UP ON THIS CHICKEN. IT IS WORTH THE ELBOW GREASE.
When it comes out it will look like this:
I know what you’re thinking. This is not a pretty dish. You want it served to you on a cloud floating gently down from heaven. You want a chicken wearing a delicately woven crown of truffles and pixie dust. You want to be romanced with a chicken that sings you a love ballad as you masticate it with your pointy canines.
Shut your face. You can deal with it, pansy. And no, that’s not a Heineken, you putz. It’s a Medalla. Get with the times.
This chicken could make a Yakuza mob boss cry tears of joy. This chicken could probably end a war. Maybe even a World War. I wish this chicken was around when Hitler was just getting started, is basically what I’m saying here.
Maybe you think I’m overreacting a little bit. Maybe I am. All I’m saying is that I just watched the ocean come and go for like an hour and I’m feeling poetic and beautiful and a little bit romantic and that this chicken was the perfect end to a perfect day.
Via Appia, San Juan, Chicharrones de Pollo.
In honor of my birthday and all the socially irresponsible decisions I made at the bar last night, I give you a post about drinking. Mazel tov.
I’d like to put it out there that Roommate and I were responsible, socially adjusted people the went to class and studied diligently and wrote theses and supported philanthropic events (well, at least she was). Nevertheless, everyone needs to blow off steam once in a while, and we did that by yelling at each other, painting our fingernails, doing arts and crafts, and getting drunk in creative ways.
1. Let’s get Bourdained – Roommate and I developed a passion for two different T.V. shows in college. The first was Ghost Adventures. The second was No Reservations. We never really drank during Ghost Adventures because we got way too scared anyways, but No Reservations lends itself to a little debauchery.
Rules- Drink every time he drinks. Simple, but effective. You will be tempted to also drink every time he smokes. DO NOT DO THIS.
2. Robin Hood (a Walt Disdrink Classic) – Fun fact – I’ve watched Robin Hood probably ten times and I have no idea how it ends. I get pretty fuzzy around the jail scene. I think there’s birds involved?
Rules- Drink every time the words, oodalolly, taxes, or Little John are used. Careful, the first seven minutes are a doozy.
3. Trashed and Tidy – Our apartment had a tendency to get a little untidy, especially during finals weeks. Roommate and I figured out a great way to get motivated to clean. It (sorta) worked.
Rules- Clean your apartment from top to bottom. Every time you complete a room, take a shot.
4. Solidarity – Drinking in solidarity wasn’t really a game, but it’s something that I expect here on out from anyone brave enough to try to live with me. Calling solidarity means that you are having a really bad day and you need Roommate to meet you at the door to your apartment with an open bottle of your favorite brew, no questions asked. Solidarity means that your Roommate has to drink with you for however long you need them to, despite whatever they had planned. It can only be used in extreme need. It’s like the Plan-B of drinking games.
Use these games wisely, internet.