Tagged: reasons why i’m single

The Tropical Swanson Burger – a Recipe.

Wazzup, internet.

The sunshine finally decided to show up in little ole wherever-I-live, U.S.A, and you know what that means, party people.

It means grill time.

Now, I realize that there is a wide variety of things that you can put on a grill. I happen to enjoy a good hotdog as much as the next person – okay, 7 year old (reasons why I’m single #26 – I remind fascinated by even the most ridiculous children’s foods).

However, I have recently been seduced by the show Parks and Recreation and the manly phenomenon that is Ron Swanson, who reminds us, in his hierarchy of meat, that not all meat is created equal.  So in his honor, I’m going to teach you how to make the Tropical Swanson, which is a burger named after the grill god himself with a bit of an island twist.

ron swanson quotes

NOTE – It is more time efficient to prep and cook the toppings first. However, placing the non-meat items above the meat items in a recipe is sacrilege, so they are described second.

The Tropical Swanson Patty.

Makes 8 real burgers or 12 sissy size burgers.

A pound of good ground beef, preferably 80-20.
Many strips of cooked bacon.
Three egg yolks.
Worcestershire sauce.
1/2 cup garlic breadcrumbs.
Garlic powder.
Salt and pepper.

Toppings (Not Optional).

A pineapple, sliced into rounds.
Brown sugar.
An onion of some sort, cut in skinny strips.
Avocado, in strips.
A not wheat or anything healthy bun. Sesame will do. Potato is unacceptable.

Making the Patties.

1. Cook the bacon. Save the grease. If you don’t know how to cook bacon, I have no time for you, peasant.

2. Crumble the bacon into the meat and add the egg yolks, a few dashes of worcestershire, a liberal squirt of ketchup, and all the other things. Combine with your hands. It should feel somewhat in between gloopy and gritty. If too liquidy, more breadcrumbs, obviously.

3. Form into patties. If you end up with more than 8 you did it wrong and your patties are too small.

4. Cook dem patties.


1. Right after you cook your bacon, turn the heat down to low and throw in your onions. Salt and pepper. You want your onions to be brown and very soft and sorta see- throughy.

2. Lay the pineapple on a baking sheet and sprinkle with a decent amount of brown sugar. Bake at 400 for like twenty minutes ish, until soft.

3. Grill or toast your bun. If you skip this step at his point, frankly you’re being lazy and you have a bad attitude.


Bottom of bun on plate.
Delicious bacon patty.
Carmelized bacon onions.
Pineapple round.
Top bun.

*If you must add something else, you are permitted a swizzle of ketchup. No other additions are acceptable except for more bacon.

ron swanson bacon

Heat stroke yoga.

You may or may not have noticed, internet,  that the weather on the east coast of the continent of North America has been abysmal recently. No bueno. Rain rain and more rain, a serious level of humidity, and temperatures ranging from 60-80 degrees Fahrenheit.

Similarly, you may or may not know that when the weather outside is tempermental, the heat inside the yoga studio is likewise. As my mother would say, it is hot as H E Double Hockey Sticks (this is less of a commentary on my mother’s retiscience to swear in class and more of a commentary on a Canadian’s subconscious urge to refer to our favorite sport whenever possible). Really crazy hot. Hot enough for the walls to sweat, and for the people to sweat so much that you could probably float a toy boat on the floor after class.

That’s a disgusting analogy. I’m so sorry. But you get the point.

Students have been dropping like flies, internet, and when there’s 24 people in a teeny-tiny space, well, there’s nowhere to hide when you’re about to go down like the Titanic.

So what do you do?

You take child’s pose or you leave the room midway through class.

Enter one of the hardest decisions you will ever make.

Have you ever been so hot that you can’t feel your own skin? So hot that your internal body temperature and the temperature of the outside air are neck and neck?

Think about being in a room where the air is stagnant and every breathe you take in feels like you didn’t even inhale. A room where there is no cool breeze, no refreshing gasp of air left in the room. Imagine being in that space, unable to even think about moving, when your arm muscles are going into miniature spasms and your legs are collasping under you. Be in that space and then tell yourself to stay there for another half an hour.

Tell yourself that you have to stay in that room even if you don’t do one more pose and you know that instantaneous relief is a four foot walk away.

Yeesh. No thanks, right?

As I’ve written many, many times before, I am a serial quitter. I like loopholes. I like easy exits. I am very much the type of person who would leave that room (reasons why I’m single #10 – serial commitaphobe).

At least, I used to be that kind of a person, but hey, this is blog post 172, and I ain’t quit this yet, right?

I’ve been making a concerted effort to make myself stay in that damn yoga room, even when all systems are down and I can’t even force myself to do one more pose. I’m going to sit in that stupid space even when I’m making my best excuses to ditch out – I’m going to pass out (no, I’m not), I’m going to puke (no, I’m not), I need to pee (it can wait), I have to check Facebook (excuse me??).

Why am I doing this to myself, internet?


Also, discipline. Also, because I can. Also because I’m sick of being a quitter. 

Aren’t you?

I guess what I’m trying to say, internet, is that we should all stay in the hot room.

(The hot room I’m referring to here is a complicated analogy for life, because when life gets too tough, you can’t just walk out of the room. There is actually a real hot room, but I’m being abstract. Stay with me.)

Because when the tough gets going, the going gets tough.

I learned that from the Lion King. 


My dogs, the Petraphobes.

I might officially have the two stupidest dogs on the planet.

Let me explain.

I’m still in Canada visiting my grandparents, whose house is right on the lake. Not lake close. Not lake side. Lake on.

My two golden retriever puppies, Patty Mayonnaise and Dr. Pepper, are H2o enthusiasts. They swim like otters who have spend the entire morning unattended in a candy shop. Patty, in particular, is aqua obsessive. She will figuratively swim until she dies. Pepper enjoys BEING in water, but less so the physical aspect.

Let’s omit the part where it took them 15 minutes to even figure out that the house was near a body of water. Namely, the 15 minutes it took for me to put a swimsuit on and take them down to the beach. Come on, dogs.

No, the part that had me in stitches was the part where my dear dogs could not see the massive schools of spawning carp that were literally underneath their noses.

Side note – did you see what I did up there with the correct usage of figuratively and literally? That’s how it’s done, internet.

Yet I digress.

Each spring, the lakefront right outside my grandparent’s house is home to multiple healthy populations of fish… uh… doin’ it. As only fish can do. Meaning by laying eggs and – you know what, you get the idea.

I distinctly remember one day when I was a kid, about 7 years old. I was swimming in the shallows and I caught, with my bare hands, a pike who was clearly sedated by his (her?) post-coital bliss. I grabbed hold of the struggling serpentine shape and high-tailed to the house, where mi familia was enjoying some late afternoon apéritifs.

I proudly walked into the middle of this pleasant gathering, and said (true story), “Look! I caught dinner!”

It took some time for then to convince me to put the fish back in the lake. Apparently people don’t eat pike (reasons why I’m single #4 – I’m wicked good at catching spawning pike).

Long story summarized – lots of fish up in this lake. Massive fish. I saw at least five 10-pounders.

What catches my dog’s attention, pray tell? What makes them raise their hackles and growl and clash their teeth?

hnwcassandra pups

This rock.

This inanimate, non-threatening rock. Keep in mind there are huge fish swimming INTO my dog’s legs (fish are dumb).

But no, apparently the rock was a bigger security issue than the fish.

Because of reasons?


5 things that make me feel guilty.

One of my favorite Youtubers, Mike Falzone, recently uploaded this awesome video about guilt.

I figured I’d take the opportunity to blatantly rip him off and make my own list.

Here goes nothing.

1. Eating free food. I don’t know what it is about food that makes me rather die than eat a bagel that other people have explicitly told me I could have. It always makes me feel like I’m going to take a bite and they are going to turn around, slap me, and scream WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?? (reasons why I’m single #8 – I’m super neurotic about weird shit like this).

2. Where I live, some of the streets are really tight to navigate through, especially if there are cars parked on both sides of the street. So if there’s two cars traveling towards each other, oftentimes the one car has to pull over to let the other go through. I always feel super awkward about this, especially if both of us pull over to the side at the same time, at which point the situation inevitably turns into a waving “you go first” stand-off until one of us caves. It doesn’t matter how long I have to sit there. If I pull back onto the road first, I feel like a guilty jerk for the rest of the drive.

3. I always feel really weird when I run into people I know from high school or college or wherever when it turns into one of those situations where you feel obligated to ask them to hang out at some point in the near future. I always feel like both of us know that this “hang-out” is undesired on both sides, and that we both know it’s absolutely not going to happen. It’s just one of those horrible social things you feel like you have to do.


4. I hate going somewhere where I have to order from a counter and a new person is behind the desk and they don’t know how to do whatever I asked them to do. This makes me feel like a diva. I know that it’s technically just part of the learning process of stepping into a new job, but still. The longer it takes them to figure it out, the bigger of a jerk I feel like I am.

5. I am absolutely guilty of watching ahead in a television show I’m supposed to be watching with either a friend or a significant other. However, I did that once to mi Madre during the last season of How I Met Your Mother and she was so pissed I think she broke me of that habit forever.


I get asked the same three questions over and over about this blog, internet, and I figured I’d just answer them right now and get it over with.

The three questions are:

1. I can’t believe that you’d write that about so-and-so! Didn’t they get upset? Who was that, anyways? 

I still can’t believe people keep asking me this. I especially get this comment about The True Story of the Worst Kiss of My Life.
Murphy MacManus is a character from Boondock Saints, not a person I know.

All of the names that I use in this blog are fake. I understand that this is disappointing if you still believe I went on a date with Morgan Freeman. In addition, for the most part I do ask permission to write about people on this blog if the story is particularly incriminating, unless I am no longer in touch with that person. I try really hard not to use any distinguishing features, photos, locations, or likewise, unless the person has specifically requested that I link back to them in some way. Yes, some of the references or stories or quotes on this blog have been given to me by friends who wish to remain anonymous (pseudeonym-less)  and those people will always be completely anonymous. In addition, I will NEVER write personal stories about clients I interact with in the yoga studio without their explicit consent. That’s a serious breach of trust and patient confidentiality laws.

I may write funny things about real situations, but I’m not a jerk.

2. Is there an actual list of Reasons Why You’re Single? Can I see it?

Yes, there is a list. No, you can’t see it. Maybe I’ll post it at some point when a few more have been revealed. Be patient, young paduan.

3. What does your blog name mean? Isn’t it morbid to have it in the past tense? Why isn’t it Her Name IS Cassandra?

This is the question I get asked THE MOST.

It’s a reference to a line used in the movie Wayne’s World. Wayne sings in to his lady love, Cassandra. When I was in high school, one of my guy friends slash pseudo-boyfriend would sing this to me every time he saw me coming down the hall, and it’s been stuck in my head since then.

It’s also used in this awesome, totally unrelated song by The Galvatrons. 

So no, it’s not morbid. It’s a reference to my alter ego Wayne’s World Cassandra, who ALSO happens to be a musical half-Asian with a weird thing for men with mullets.

Don’t judge me.


Marc Summers TWEETED AT ME.

Oh my goodness gracious.

Oh man.



So I don’t know where the fine line is between having an obscure internet blog and getting tweeted (twatted? Twote?) at by celebrities is, but apparently I have crossed that line. Because guess what internet. I have been twoted by Marc Summers.

If you follow this blog at all, you will perhaps recall that I went to a food festival in Puerto Rico called the Saborea at which I was hoping to encounter Marc Summers. I did not meet/ see/ interact with him at all during this event and I wrote a blog post detailing my disappointment at not having met Marc Summers. That’s where the whole situation was put to rest, and I promptly forgot about the entire affair.

Skip ahead to last week on Thursday. I checked my Twitter early Thursday morning right before teaching a yoga class, which turned out to be a terrible idea. I do, in fact, have a twitter. I am also terrible at Twitter. I probably only check in to Twitter about once a month, maybe. I do not know what compelled me to Twit that morning.

Imagine my immense surprise to find, then that Marc Summers, THE Marc Summers, DOUBLE DARE UNWRAPPED MARC SUMMERS AKA MY CHILDHOOD IDOL, had TWOTE AT ME not once but TWICE.


The first twit (sorry. Deep apologies. Do you live there?) had taken place 6 days prior, the second (can I call you?) 4 days days, exactly corresponding to when the True Story of How I Didn’t Meet Marc Summers parts one and two were released, and after a little sleuthing, I discovered that Past Me had apparently linked my WordPress and my Twitter to tweet every time a post goes live. So I guess that explains that.

I should not have to explain the mental strain and excitement this put me under. I was, quite literally, speechless for a period of about ten minutes, which, while understandable, is unhelpful if you are teaching a yoga class.

Quickly, however, the excitement turned to panic. How do I respond to a celebrity on Twitter? I am not one of those super smooth people who can just tweet at my idols like it ain’t no thang. I am not suave. I cannot restrain my excitement to 140 characters (I mean, obviously. I do have a blog for that.) If I was a celebritwotter, Masaharu Morimoto and Alton Brown would never have empty inboxes.I mean, they probably don’t already, because they’re super famous people. Also if they tried to contact me I would figuratively keel over and die (reasons why I’m single #25- I’m a stickler for the proper use of the words literally and figuratively).

Anyways, my Gran was over that day, and I told her about the whole thing, and she asked me why I was getting twote by a man who was far too old for me who was probably a creeper on the interwebs like the type she saw a thing about on the news the other day.

And so then of course I was all like Gran, Marc Summers isn’t a creepy stalker, he is a national treasure, but she did have a point about it probably being a bad idea to put my phone number on the internet, so I tweeted him my email instead:


Anyways, I haven’t heard from him since, but my fingers are crossed.

Yoga rut.

I have a confession, internet. I’m in a serious yoga rut. I’ve been in a serious yoga rut for almost a month now, and I don’t quite know how to get out of it.

Now, to be clear, this really isn’t a work-out laziness related rut. I’ve been doing some good hiking and swimming and whatnot since the weather has been nice (also because I was in PR. I’m not a polar bear). I’ve been doing barre training. I’m one of those weirdos who will randomly drop and do twenty pushups and continue on with my day (reasons why I’m single #7- I will drop whatever I’m doing and exercise randomly with no warning).

It’s just that recently I’ve been bored on my mat, not as a reflection with whoever’s teaching, but as a reflection of my headspace. I’ve been making up excuses to not practice. Barney Stinson and I went on a long hike on Monday, and I easily could have made it to class when we were finishing up, but I tacked on an extra twenty minute loop just so I wouldn’t make it.

Don’t get me wrong, It’s not like I’ve been completely off my mat. But over the past week that I’ve been home, I’ve been to four different yoga classes, and I find myself unable to reach that metaphorical spiritual itch that I need to scratch. Or really, more like the itch has been lacking all together. Or something. Something with itching and yoga and a stupid metaphor.

I don’t know. Any suggestions?