Friday, January 10, 2003

I find that I am utterly riveted by
The Web Fridge Project going on over at Friday Fishwrap, because I am the sort of compulsive-eavesdropper-who-can't-take-a-pee-in-someone-else's-house-without-also-taking-at-least-a-little-peek-if-not-snooping-outright-in-their-medicine-cabinet-because-I'm-pathologically-nosy person who is, not to put too fine a point on it, just dying to know what's in someone else's fridge. One of the nice things about being a writer is that it helps me rationalize to myself those inappropriately-curbed tendencies toward inquisitiveness (i.e., Compulsive Snoopiness). Being a writer can also function as a really lame excuse when caught red-handed while indulging in Compulsive Snoopiness. In other words, if caught in a highly embarrassing and incriminating act of Compulsive Snoopage, just claim that you are engaged in Important Writerly Research. Sometimes you may even actually get away with this. Sometimes you may just end up having to make an abrupt and ignominious bee-line for the nearest exit.

I love the whole notion of The Web Fridge Project. At one point in time I even wrote a short story in which the opening sequence catalogued the contents of the protagonist's fridge, invoking the intimacy of the refrigerator, and suggesting that it was no different from opening up a person and getting to take a long good look at their insides. Okay, it was a very, very, very bad story, but it was my very first fiction workshop ever. At any rate, I'm still fascinated by this notion, and I sometimes use similar writing exercises in my classes. For example, cataloguing the contents of a purse, briefcase or backpack, or cataloguing the contents of a grocery cart, or medicine cabinet, and reflecing on what these contents might reveal about a either a real or imagined person/character.

By the same token, I find myself feeling rather bashful about exposing the contents of my own fridge . . . it feels like a private space in some respects, and the whole Fridge Flashing Phenomenon has a somewhat titillatingly exhibitionist patina to it all. Granted, I fully admit that I can be eclectically eccentric about what I am or am not bashful about. For example, I have no problem reading either very personal poems or sexually explicit poems, or poems Chock Full of Lesbian Content (my Japanese Mother, by the way, really hates it when I do that!) on stage in a strange city in front of an audience full of complete strangers. On the other hand, I tend to me a bit more private about my living space. If I've actually invited you over and let you inside my house, then I probably like you a whole lot . . . particularly if I let you inside my writing studio/room. Also, I'd pretty much rather have rectal cancer than have to talk about money, which always seems like a shameful, weird and funky topic that's way too personal to discuss in public. I am also deeply and profoundly private when it comes to my feet. I don't know why. I just am.

All of this, of course, is leading, in a roundabout way to the eventual posting of my Web Fridge Project picture. A Frigidaire Strip-Tease of sorts, I suppose. Although now I've built it up way too much and it will be disappointingly dull. So here it is:

My Fridge

Yeah, like I said. Way too much build up.

In examining the photograph of my fridge, though, I noticed some rather disconcerting trends. For example, in the top left-hand side of the freezer, note the bizarre abundance of frozen winter squash, as well as the plenitude of cut frozen okra. What's that about? I mean, did I really think the store was going to run out of frozen winter squash and cut frozen okra at any foreseeable time in the future?? Also note the weird plethora of pickles: baby dills, crisp Texas okra pickles, dill spears, to name a few . . . as well as the compulsive, multiple-item "stocking up" in duplicate, triplicate, and sometimes quadruplicate(!) of favored food items (also known as Artichoke Heart-Friendly Food, and officially listed as such in the Official Manual to the Care and Feeding of Artichoke Hearts). Now, do any of you remember my post a few months back where I was having a bit of fun at my parents' expense due to their obsessive-compulsive need to hoard and "stock up" on things? Click here to either refresh your memory or get caught up so you can see where I'm going with this.

And where I'm going with this is that I'm chagrined! I'm deeply, deeply chagrined! I'm beginning to think that perhaps the nut doesn't fall all that far from the tree.
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 3:07 AM |
Sunday, January 05, 2003


Regarding Cornish Game Hen

SC (Siamese Cat): (Lifting front forepaw to delicately “point” at Cornish Game Hen). Ooh . . . is that Cornish Game Hen? Can I have it?

AH: Don’t you even think about it. That’s my dinner.

SC: Well . . . let me just sniff it a little.

AH: Hey! Get your snout out of my dinner! Get down!

SC: Sheesh. Don’t have a hemorrhage. All I wanted to do was just sniff it a little.

AH: (Snapping fingers.) I said get down, please!

SC: Come on . . . I just want to sniff it. Don’t be so uptight.

AH: (Tossing SC off table). I said get down!

SC: (Jumping right back onto table). I can’t hear you.

AH: (Tossing SC off table). Get down.

SC: (Jumping right back onto table). I can’t heeeaar you.

AH: (Tossing SC off table; speaking through gritted teeth.) Get . . . the . . . fuck . . . down.

SC: (Jumping right back onto table). I caaan’t heeeaar yoooouuu.

AH: Arrghh!! Will you fucking get the motherfucking fuck down off the table!!!! (Realizing too late that neighbors can hear me yelling at my cat.)

SC: Brrreowww!! (Loosely translated from Siamese to mean that she never gets the Good Stuff, and I’m a Bad Mean Cat Mommy, and somebody should call the SPCA pronto.)

AH: Sigh . . . I just want to eat my dinner.

SC: (Staring up plaintively with big blue eyes.)

AH: I mean . . . is it too much to ask? I don’t pester you when you’re scarfing down your Science Diet, do I? And the fact that you happen to grunt slightly when you’re Hoovering down the Science Diet would indicate to me that you’re pretty much in the zone, and would not be appreciative of any unsolicited interruptions. All I’m asking for is some reciprocal courtesy here, you see what I’m saying?

SC: Brrrrrr-eek? (Lifting up front forepaw to point at lap.)

AH: What . . . you want to sit in my lap? Now?

SC: Brrrr-eek?

AH: Sigh . . . oh, okay. Do you think you can behave like something other than Satan's Spawn for a few minutes?

SC: (Hopping into lap and snuggling into cute ball.)

AH: Awww . . .

A Few Minutes Later

AH: Hey . . . wait a minute . . . HEY!! What are you doing?

SC: Nothing.

AH: You are too! You’re licking my dinner!

SC: No . . . I’m just sitting in your lap and my head accidentally happened to fall in your plate.

AH: No . . . I saw you! You were licking my dinner! Goddamnit-Yuki!

Regarding White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake Bars

SC: Ooh . . . (pointing with front forepaw) . . . is that a White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake Bar? Can I have it?

AH: No, you can’t have it. It’s mine!

SC: Well . . . just let me sniff it a little.

AH: Hey . . . get your snout off my cheesecake bar.

SC: (Placing paw on my hand in which cheesecake bar is gripped and pulling hand toward her face). Gimme!

AH: (Pulling hand back.) No!

SC: (Pulling hand toward her face). Gimme!

AH: (Pulling hand back.) No!

SC: Well . . . let me just try and poke it a little.

AH: Okay . . . that’s it . . . you have to get down off the couch!

SC: (Taking outright swipe at cheesecake bar). Gimme!

AH: (Tossing SC off couch). Get down!

SC: (Springing right back up on couch). Mow wow! (Translated loosely from Siamese as “No fair!”)

AH: (Tossing SC off couch). Get . . . down . . . off . . . the . . . couch!!

SC: (Springing right back up on couch, making sure to stomp across iBook keyboard in the process so that the DVD I’m trying to watch is paused). Mow wow!

AH: (Tossing SC off couch.) For fuck’s sake! Get down!

SC: (Springing right back up on couch, making sure to leap onto couch via ricochet off T.V. tray so that full mug of tea is sloshed all over my paperwork). Mow wow!

AH: Goddamnit-Yuki!! (Yelling outright, and not caring if neighbors can hear.) I have one nerve left and you’re standing right on it, Missy!!

SC: Heh . . . Heh heh. Did you just hear what you said?

AH: Yes, I heard what I said. I said it, so how could I not have heard it?

SC: Heh heh.

AH: Shut up.

Regarding Brussels Sprouts

SC: Ooh . . . (pointing with front forepaw) . . . are those Brussels Sprouts? I want them!

AH: Now wait a minute here. Brussels Sprouts?? Really?!?! You've got to be kidding me.

SC: Yes! I want them! I want to lick the butter, and chew the greenery, and roll them about on the floor like peeled frog heads!

Yadda, yadda, yadda . . . eventually culminating in . . .

AH: Goddamnit-Yuki!!!

And at this point, Dear Reader, I'm sure you have the general tenor of any number of similarly-staged scenarios involving food and the Goddamnit-Yuki.

As evidence, you may wish to examine
Exhibit A and Exhibit B, in which the Goddamnit-Yuki assists with blogging activities.

Additional evidence that the Goddamnit-Yuki is allowed to get away with murder by all members of the household can also be witnessed in the following Exhibit C and Exhibit D.
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 11:55 PM |
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