the IDIOT QUEST TASTE EXPLOSION

Last Sunday was my dad’s birthday. It was also 10/10/10, which is insignifcant, but people like to connect the dots whenever the dots look the same. But I do think it’d be kind of cool if my dad was turning 10 on 10/10/10. That’d be like a super golden birthday. But it’d also be weird if my dad were turning ten, because then I’d be more than twice his age. Plus I don’t want to think about my mom being with a ten year old. Above: a picture of two pictures. On the left we have my father, now 52. He’s excited by ” ‘vettes.” On the right is my neice. She’s excited by television in a way that I wish I still was. To the top left we have a brand name.

Here is some kind of caramel creation my mother put together. I think you just throw a bunch of random processed food together and then dump caramel on it. I was most confused by the Cheetos.

Crooked nostrils. One eye that closes more than the other. Facial hair that doesn’t match other hair. A nose that deserves some sort of blackhead-removing scrub. Skepticism surrounding the the Cheeto-caramel amalgam. It was a Sunday.

What is this creature?

I’m thinking about getting a new lens for my camera for my birthday. Any suggestions?!?! I haz a Nikon D50.

Mama made enchiladas and rice. She also made a cake that fell apart, but people really enjoyed it anyway.

Action shot! Here Olivia flicks me off while my mother and brother do some kind of football-esque hand-off. Sports reference.

Babies are fun because gravity is still new to them. This makes it easy to impress them. All you have to do is hold them high in the air and they’re all “THIS FEELS DIFFERENT!” and then they either smile or throw up on you. Or poop themselves.

The above pictures were taken 3 seconds apart.

Olivia with our new friend Sullivan, Nicki’s babe.

I realize that this post is more baby than “Mexican food.” Here’s why: if you’re in a room with two babies under 3 months they kind of preoccupy you. It’s like you have to keep checking on them to make sure they really exist. Above, Sullivan appears to exist. He also looks like a gentleman, even when adorned with skulls.

Olivia has learned the art of rolling over. This is fun for grown humans, because it’s an opportunity to watch the child really struggle with something.

I’ve never liked mouthwash. But I like it now, because the bottle looks ohsosexy. Who has time to read when there are fake ads to make? I want someone to reeeeead to me, like I’m four. Four-year-olds have it made. Waaaaaah.

I like reversing little phrases. Makes them seem IMPACTFUL.

I’ve had many careers in my nearly twenty-three years. That statement is not true, but it certainly does rhyme. In fact, I’ve spent most of my life slinging luke warm cups of coffee to pale-faced office workers confined by the humdrum of cubicle life. I can’t tell you how many times people told me that they wanted to swap places, “if only for today!” Oh, people. It’s true, most don’t know the glamor of coffee life. There’s nothing like waking up at 4 a.m. to make $7.40 an hour while having the same exact conversations with the same exact customers: How’s this morning?!–Pushing through it.–Awesome! I won’t tell you which part of that dialogue is mine.

Without a doubt, my favorite part of the coffee life was the espresso machine, specifically the steaming wand. This is an ever-powerful tool and potential weapon that allows one to not only steam liquid, but to threaten smarmy co-workers. Occasionally I assaulted myself with the steaming wand, though rarely on purpose, and I have at least one scar about the size of a bitten off finger nail on my useless wedding ring finger.

Something about the plastic knob that controlled the boiling device drew me to it. With just a turn the machine would begin to hiss and sputter as though it were a poisoned Warner Bros cartoon character gasping for bluish animated air. I often used the wand to clean espresso grounds from the grates, and at least once to shoot at my manager. But the angle was off, and I merely sprinkled the floor with a lick of water.

This reminds me: coffee shops are dangerous workplaces. On another occasion, perhaps while steaming a sorry excuse for chai, I fiercely turned into my petitte manager. My elbow landed bluntly against her face which caused her glasses to crack at the bridge and fall to the ground. I felt awful, but didn’t offer to pay for the specs. I was sixteen, and she was already in-debt something like a half million dollars, the result of an emergency kidney surgery performed without health insurance. I figured she could charge a new pair or something, and then the purchase might be erased when she declared bankruptcy. I sort of wish I was still sixteen. My thoughts were special then.