Question of the Day

What is proper?

"I'd like an iced grande caramel macchiato, please."

or

"I'd like a grande iced caramel macchiato, please."

or

"I'd like a grande caramel macchiato, iced, please."

I need to know who's right: me or the barista.

Someone help.

Oink.

I'm afraid of the swine flu.

I don't want to be--I've never been afraid of sickness before. It's just that, well, it's from swine. There's something about the word swine that really gets under my skin. Pig flu? Not so terrifying. Swine flu? Nightmare material.

Plus, you have no way of knowing who has been to Mexico recently. If you had just returned from vacation in Cancun, would you walk around telling people, "Don't grab that door handle--I just came back from Mexico. I could be infected." No, you would think, "Well I'm not sick. I just have a sore throat, but that's from allergies. No need to freak people out."

Please, people, FREAK ME OUT.

Wait, too late.

Braindead

I am writing my first ever feature-length article for the magazine I intern for, and the process is robbing my brain of all functionality.

Yes, functionality. See what I mean?

Ergo, this week's posts will be short, sweet, and boring.

Thanks for understanding.

Five words right now. Five.

I spoke my mind today. I didn't sugarcoat what I was thinking. I didn't pretend like everything was A-O.K. Halfway back from home, my boyfriend and I stopped at Bojangles for an early supper. We sat in the parking lot and ate our chicken and biscuits, my dog and cat half sleeping, half begging for food in the back seat.

We finished our meal, and just as I started to crumple my wrapper, I saw it. The electronic display of my CD player was on. Shit. I reached over and tried starting the car from the passenger seat. Dead.

Me: Are the lights on?
Boyfriend: (click. they were.)
**silence**

Me: Are you serious right now?

And that was it.

No one does it better...

I was blissfully unaware of Twitter before I started taking Promotional Writing. But now, thanks to a class assignment, I am signed up, tuned in, and always in awe of the lady who speaks her mind the best:


TinaFey I think I can safely speak for America when I say, we're not shallow, but please, Britain, do something with Susan Boyle's eyebrows.

Oh, Tina.

To be or not to be (a bitch).

You know, I haven't always disguised my thoughts from others. There was a time when I was brutally honest to my friends. We're talking brutal here. So I wonder--was it youth that gave me such, well, balls? Or am I mellowing out in my old age as I inch my way toward dentures and (hopefully) a cherry red jazzy scooter?

When I was about 10 years old, one of my Mom's employees asked me a question that was begging for a politically correct answer. I elected to ignore that fact.

Danzon: Can you see my underwear through these? (points to the ass of his thin white umbro shorts)
Me: (staring at his tighty whites and the black hair on his thighs--through the shorts) Yes. It doesn't look good.
D: I look fat, don't I?
Me: Yes.

All was silent for a perfectly awkward minute or two, and then he said:
"You are so honest, Holly. You're going to make someone a great friend someday."

I was a little taken aback because, as far as I knew, I had said something offensive, something my mom would have HOLLY!-ed me for. And yet, his words have stuck with me for 11 years, reminding me to step up and tell a friend what I really think.

I look back on all the times I was brutal to my friends. I've told them they are selfish, unrealistic. I've told them their boyfriends are pieces of shit and that their senior thesis is lacking in imagination.

And yet, they are all still my friends, a lifetime later.

So I guess the question is: are they still friends with me because they appreciate my honesty or because I surround myself with people who are too dumb shun me?

Let's go with the former.

Give Me My Salad Now.

I stopped in at one of my favorite cheapo eateries, Zaxby's, on Sunday. The chain is known for its fried chicken and seasoned-salt-soaked french fries, but I've been trying to eat less like a 10-year-old boy lately, so I was pretty much planning on ordering a salad. I squinted up at the menu (something I don't customarily have to do) and saw that the Zensation Zalad was back, for a limited time. A longtime fan of the Black and Blue Zalad (blackened chicken and blue cheese), I had heard from several people that the Zensation was, by far, the best Zalad Zaxby's had ever cooked up. Or assembled up. Whatever.

So I gave the ingredients listed below the delicious-looking photo a cursory glance and then ordered it, the salad I had heard so much about: The Zensation.

The boy behind the cash register looked at me disbelievingly.
Boy: Do you know what's in that?
Me: Uh, I looked at the ingredient list on the menu...
Boy: Are you sure?
Me, laughing lightly: I'm pretty sure. Why, is it not good?
Boy: Do you know what Asian Slaw is?
Me: Um, it probably has cabbage and stuff in it, right?
Boy: You like Asian Slaw?
Me: As far as I know. Why not?
Boy, looking at me now as if I were an alien: O.K., but don't say I didn't warn you.
Me: I think I can handle it.

You know what, debbie downer behind the register? I can practically see your fraternity shirt pulsing through your Zaxby's uniform. I can imagine your croakie hanging from the review mirror of your large SUV with tinted windows and a sound system. Before you even spoke, I knew that you were entirely unfamiliar with food other than "American" food. Maybe the conversation should have gone like this.

Boy: Do you know what's in that?
Me: I can read, asshole.
Boy: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, I'm sure. Would I have ordered with such authority if I was unsure about myself?
Boy: Do you know what Asian Slaw is?
Me: Why yes, I do. I spend every second of my free time watching cooking shows, reading culinary magazines, and concocting the same such things as "Asian Slaw" in my inadequate kitchen!
Boy: You like Asian Slaw?
Me: I eat Asian Slaw for breakfast!!
Boy, looking at me now as if I were an alien: O.K., but don't say I didn't warn you.
Me: Warn this! (and I dump a bucket of Asian Slaw on his head)

Turns out the Zalad was DELICIOUS, and I reserve all-caps words for very special occasions.

D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I went home this weekend to help my parents move into their new house. I say new house, but what I really mean is a postage stamp-sized cottage that is squeezed between other postage stamp-sized dwellings on a street traveled by children on bikes and middle aged women power walking in color coordinated spandex. We are farm dwellers by nature, and up until two weeks ago we were exactly that, living in a white farmhouse on rolling property with two tree lined driveways and a clear stream you could hear from your bed at night.

So, for the first time, we found ourselves surrounded, literally, by eyes. The girl next door sitting on the porch, the kids across the street playing with their dog--they were all curious and we, by default, were self conscious. Everyone smiled, but no one had the gumption to approach us until Mary hobbled over, cane in hand, startling my sister (Meg) as she put our tennis rackets in the trunk.

Mary: Hey there! I'm Mary, I live two houses down. What's your name?
Meg: I'm Meghann. It's nice to meet you.
Dad: Hey, I'm Mark, it's nice to meet you.
Mary: Is that your wife? (point towards me)
Dad: No, that's my older daughter, Holly.
Me: Nice to meet you.
Mary: I've lived here for 60 years, so I know just about everyone around here.
Dad: I bet you do. We're really enjoying the neighborhood. It's real nice.
Mary: Who cut the grass?
Me: My Dad did. It looks better, doesn't it?
Mary: He did? (point at my 19 year old boyfriend)
Meg: No ma'am, my Dad did. (pointing at my father, who is sporting a salt and pepper beard)
Mary: So where did you and your wife move from? (again, looking at me)

It goes on like this for a while, her confusing my father for my husband and my boyfriend for my father. Throughout the entire 30 minute conversation, my Dad is polite, courteous--no, friendly to Mary, charming her with his appropriate, simplified questions and comments. She eventually lost interest in us and went back to her flower-laden cottage. We got in the car waiting in silence, until all the doors were shut.

Dad: I do believe Mary is crazy, don't you?
Me, Meg: Yes!
Dad: She was going on and on. She must know everyone in this neighborhood.
Me: She is so excited that she has someone new to watch.
Dad: Whew. I saw her coming towards us and I thought about running.
Me: I started to turn around and hide inside.
Meg: Thanks a lot guys! She came out of nowhere. Scared the crap out of me.
Dad, sighing: I guess I can't walk around naked anymore.

I think they're going to fit in just fine.

Reading is Underrated. Really.

I am an intern at a local magazine where my duties include (but are not restricted to)

• transcribing hours of interviews (I get a kick out of typing out noises like "erm" and "ehhehhehh")
• fact checking (Receptionist: "Spine and Sport, how may I help you?" Me: "Oh, I'm just calling to make sure this is Spine and Sport." Receptionist: "Oh, O.K." Me: "Bye")
• trying to explain that I am interviewing people for a 20 word piece in the "chit-chat" section, not a feature-length article (I neglect to tell them that I am doing the interview between classes. 20 minutes is all you get.)

When I do receive significant assignments, I work doggedly, fastidiously to find the right combination of words, the zingers that are funny but not too pointed, the perfectly weird but interesting opening sentence. I put some serious effort into this stuff. After all, writing for magazines is what I want to do.

Maybe I get a little angry when I see people flipping through magazines, always flipping, always looking at the pictures and never reading. Maybe I was overly sensitive about the following conversation with my boyfriend, a photographer for the same magazine.

Me: I think I'm getting some major assignments this issue
Boyfriend: I wonder what I'm going to be shooting
Me: Oh, whatever it is, everyone will love it.
B: Oh yeah? I don't know, I get kind of nervous about it.
Me: I do too, but it doesn't matter because no one reads the magazine anyway.
B: That's not true.
Me: Have you read my articles this issue?
B: Well, no.
Me: Exactly.
B: I'm going to, though.
Me: Did you read any of my articles in the last issue?
B: Yeah, I read that one about the music video guys.
Me: I read that one out loud to you.
B: You did?
Me: Yeah.
*silence*

What if we entered bizarro magazine world and the conversation went like this:

Boyfriend: I think I got some great photo assignments this issue.
Me: I'm pretty sure mine are more important.
B: Oh yeah, of course. Words are the ultimate in all things beautiful.
Me: Really? I feel like people don't get my prose sometimes. Like, it's too epic or something.
B: See, I think my photos aren't epic enough, but it doesn't matter because people only want to read these days.
Me: That's true.
B: Did you look at my photos this issue?
Me: No, I flipped past them really fast so as not to see them.
B: I understand.
Me: I mean, I will though.
B: Oh, don't worry about. I haven't even looked at my own photos, I've been reading so much of the copy. It's great!!!

Ahhhhh. That feels good.