Chicago Dogs in Nashville

I've been doing a lot of eating lately. I think the winter is getting to me. Everything looks so tasty.

What's really bugging me is my kitchen. It's completely unfriendly, uninviting. You could say I was spoiled by my mom's kitchen—it was well-designed and has lots of counter space and room for food preparation. So ever since then, most kitchens have been pieces of crap.

The problem I have with my kitchen simply forces me to eat at restaurants. Because, you know, who wants to prepare food on three inches of counter space? It sounds like my fault, like maybe I could take some initiative and remodel the kitchen. Great idea, I'll tackle that as soon as I'm done with the devil room and the mud room (which we scrounged from the edge of devil room).

Yeah, we've been working on that for four months. The going is slow and frustrating because we both work full time. Stoker actually works twice as much as me and he's the brawn behind our projects. I'm not a damsel in distress, but I'm not about to hang drywall myself. Or cut it. Or mud it. Or sand it. What you can count on me to do is to fill the screw holes with mud. That's the extent of my interaction with the mud (aka joint compound).

I've already blogged about the crème de la crème of the hot dog world, the Home Depot hot dog stand (for interested parties, the Home Depot in Berry Hill, across from Hundred Oaks mall). Today Stoker and I got adventurous and tried the Chicago dog from Hot Diggity Dog, located behind the Episcopal church near the Mission in downtown Nashville. It was . . . ok. Just ok. You'd definitely expect this hot dog to knock my socks off, but it didn't.

I guess it's hard to top the BEST Chicago style hot dog. I went in with high expectations. Hot Diggity Dog had the cards stacked against them to begin with. To be fair, it wasn't a horrible hot dog, and at least I could request that the dog be grilled, or in their terms, charred. That was good. And the bun was toasted. But the relish was bright green. How can that be? It was almost glowing, like overly fertilized grass. Or more like that fake grass that comes in Easter baskets. It was weird. And I'll be honest, I prefer jalepenos to the sport pepper.

Next, we need to try I Dream of Weenie, which I hear is located on the East side. It's really about what you prefer, I guess. If you like the sport pepper, you'll like Hot Diggity Dog. If you like unnaturally green relish, you'll enjoy Hot Diggity Dog. So what I'm really telling you is that I prefer hamburger dill chips and jalapenos and strong onions and heartburn. Because that's what the Home Depot hot dog offers. It's great. It's downright American.

Another place we dined at recently is Flyte. World dining and wine. Dun dun duhhhhhhh. It sounds brilliant, doesn't it? It sounds very modern and chic and expensive. It was all of those things. I'll write my own personal review soon, and because I'm so keen on honesty (I seriously can't lie. Not even to shave $3 off the admission to lap swim at a county rec. center -- $3 adds up quickly when you really think about it, doesn't it?), I'll be forced to compare Flyte to my other fine dining experiences. That's just how it goes.

Overcoming Nightmares Brought on by a Bestseller

I don't have to explain to you how crappy it is to have a nightmare. I know you know. Last night I woke up from the most terrifying dream I've had in years. I think dream sequences are really annoying in books, so I won't get into the subject of the dream or try to explain it to you. That's too hard, plus it's irritating for readers—I mean, I'm not looking for an interpretation. I know what prompted the dream.

It was the book The Historian. Curse that book! I read from it just before falling asleep, and so far I haven't been too worked up over it or anything. I haven't even been truly scared, you know, it hasn't freaked me out. I'm less than a hundred pages in. Not too much has happened—some guy got attacked by some mysterious creature and the medical professionals thought maybe it was a dog bite.

On the neck.

Anyway, I read that part while falling asleep. Stoker was asleep already, so when I turned off the light, I was alone. No light-hearted banter to brighten my mood. I said a little prayer and then fell asleep. I woke up from the nightmare at some point during the night. It wasn't one of those dramatic things either, where a person sits up gasping and sweating and crazed, like in the movies. I just opened my eyes. This incredible fear brought on by a frightening image and turn of events in my dream—I swear it nearly killed me in real life, the fear. I opened my eyes and just stared at the door to our bedroom. I didn't know what I was looking at. I laid there, the image that woke me making my heart beat fast.

I was disoriented. I stared, trying to figure out what I was seeing in the bedroom. And then I felt vulnerable, like the thing in my dream was going to come up behind me, through the window to our bedroom, and kill me. Whatever had been in my dream had followed me into the waking world. And when I tried to close my eyes again, the image was still there.

I woke Stoker up and asked him to talk to me. He asked what was wrong and I told him I'd had a terrible dream. He wanted to know what it was about, but I couldn't talk about it.

Weird, huh? I mean, usually when I've had a bad dream, I immediately want to tell someone. I couldn't bring myself to tell him. It was too vivid. The thought of trying to recount the dream scared me. I guess it felt evil. Something like that. I told Stoker that it had to do with the book, but I didn't want to get into it.

So he said, "Oh yeah. How the historian in it is getting chased by the old guy?" And I said yes, while thinking that he'd said too much, I haven't even figured out that someone is chasing someone else. And then I got scared some more, as my mind put the puzzle pieces of the plot together and realized it must be the historian's professor shadowing him and he's the one who said "He will brook no trespasses."

"You know what that old guy is missing? In the book?" Stoker asked me.

"No," I said.

"He's missing a Glock. If he'd just had a Glock, everything would have been fine. Don’t you think?" I guess Stoker was trying to make me feel safe by reminding me that we have a gun. Ha ha.

But even a gun was no match for the sense of evil the dream had blanketed me with. I needed something to push back the fringes of darkness, it was the reason I woke Stoker up. In the middle of the night, nothing feels real except a fear like that. So we talked some more and I tried not to think of the dream. I told Stoker that we needed to talk about something happy, I needed to get my mind off the dream, because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the image that woke me.

Other people might pray or something useful like that, but we talked about The Simpson's. When Homer rides the tiny clown bike and his pant cuff gets caught in the chain and it pulls his pants off. Then Krusty says, "Burn that seat." We laughed about a bunch of other scenes, like new billboard month, and the bag of MSG that Homer buys, and how his unit is burning, but all Homer can think about is clowns. It worked, and then I fell asleep.

During the night, later, whenI woke up again, I swore I wouldn't read any more of that book. I have a mind that's vulnerable to suggestion—at least, my imagination is. I can't listen to Coast to Coast when they're talking about aliens, UFOs, or ghosts, because I have to protect myself. And I hate scary movies. But I didn't realize a book could freak me out so much, especially not one about vampires (which I don't believe in). I guess what got to me is the feeling of evil. Of being pursued. I hate that feeling.

Anyway. "He will brook no trespasses."

I can read the book during the day. Right?

The Great Eva Miller: American Idol in Atlanta

It's no secret that I occasionally give in to my weakness and watch American Idol. I don't like laughing at people who are embarrassing themselves, but hey, you put yourself out there, you're fair game. If you were smart, like the rest of us, you'd know implicitly that you suck. We stay home because we know. But I guess some of us need to be told we bite. This is what happens when you end up with a whole generation of kids who've been told they're great. You can do anything! Just put your mind to it.




Ok. I swear it was a bet. I swear her friends put her up to this. I can't believe she pulled it off. Anyway, it was horrifying at first. But then I just let my inhibitions go and I laughed. Next stop: Jerry Springer.

Hot Dog Stands: Yet Another Way Home Depot Makes Dreams Come True

I'm not big into pork. I'm just not. Can't explain it. But the best hot dog* in town comes from a hot dog stand at the Home Depot by Hundred Oaks mall in Berry Hill. Stoker and I were there on Saturday, buying some more drywall (when you're new at hanging drywall, it's easy to make rookie mistakes, like not laying a piece flat to store it). We splurged and got the Chicago style hot dog. It was amazing. And the heartburn was amazing too.

There's another place in town called The Dog. You'd think it would offer the best hot dogs ever. It's got such a cool name. The sign out front is so inviting with its modern appeal. For a long time I could't tell when it was open. The windows out front are so tinted and the open sign was too faint through the window. I went by one Saturday for a chili dog (oh yeah, I go all out when I finally imbibe on pork -- can I say that? Can I say "imbibe on pork?"). I was the only customer there. Inside they had flat panel T.V.'s hanging everywhere, and cool stools standing next to cool chrome-edged tables.

I ordered a chili dog and the guy went through a door and brought it out immediately. There was this illusion that perhaps they were a made-to-order sort of restaurant because the kitchen was in the back. But the hot dog took him three seconds to prepare. The chili was just ok. The cheese was the sort that comes pre-grated: it had a fine powder on it. I don't know how most people eat a chili dog, but I like to use a fork for mine. This was rather difficult, given the dog was lying in wax paper in a plastic basket. The kind with big holes.

Anyway, I mentioned to the two employees working there that maybe it would help business to have a neon open sign out front, you know, the side of the restaurant FACING the busiest street. Tinted windows are cool and all that, but they don't do much for a business**. Most people judge a store by how well-lit it is. If it looks closed, we avoid it. We're like moths. We're drawn to lights. This isn't rocket science. And neon open signs cost, what, five dollars at the Dollar General?

There are other hot dog joints in Nashville. They're springing up everywhere. There are two downtown, one called Hot Diggity Dog and another called I Dream of Weenie. Clever names for simple fare. I haven't tried them yet, but I may. I mean, I won't be looking for the brass ring because I already found it at the no-name hot dog stand outside Home Depot. Can you believe it? The guy doesn't even have to dress it up in a clever name and a modern sign. He just stands there and lets the smell waft through the exit doors and we follow our noses outside like salivating zombies. It's the Field of Dreams story all over again.



*The one indulgence. Sometimes bacon, but that's happening less as the quality of bacon decreases.
**Unless your business happens to be one of the million strip clubs in town.

Job Security

Almost two weeks ago, I got some unsettling news. "They" were "reorganizing" the "company."

It was difficult to hear my boss telling us what was happening. She talks quietly and sometimes it seems like the timbre of her voice blends with the beautiful white noise the "company" pumps into our office space. Sometimes I really appreciate the white noise, other times, like when we're being told borderline bad news, it's infuriating.

She delivered the news. Everyone stood there. "What is she saying?" We were all thinking. Our job descriptions were changing, we were all being bumped up, would be earning salaries instead of hourly wages, we'd do less copyediting and more farming out. "So, we're not being laid off?" I asked. I could tell everyone was kinda sorta wondering the same thing. I also asked if some other employees in our office would stay where they were. They would. And those employees were also wondering the same thing. I'm a mind-reader.

But two of us would be moved to another department. Everyone was thinking the same thing: it would be me and the other employee who was hired about the same time as I was. Last in, first to go. So we prepped ourselves for the move. We heard nothing else about it, except that the change needed to be completed by February. We had two weeks to adapt to the news.

The following Tuesday morning, just as I walked in, a coworker asked me if I'd heard that it was me that would be leaving. I hate mornings, and though it's been on the books for many years that I'm waiting to become a morning person, I especially loathe Monday mornings. I even feel snarly on Tuesday mornings masquerading as Monday mornings. This was one of those. So I wasn't in the mood to deal with emotional upheaval first thing Tuesday morning. My co-worker -- there were two of them actually -- asked me if I had heard the new news. I said "no."

"You're the one who's leaving," they said.
"Just me?" I asked.
"Just you," they said, nodding.
"Oh."

I sat down, trying to hide from their eager faces. I couldn't tell if they were glad or what, exactly. They seemed excited, but it wasn't clear whether they were excited that it wasn't them (or the person who was hired two weeks after me -- that person is, admittedly, better than me at what we do. Older. More experience), or if they were just putting on a happy face about it for me. I felt a little let down. It was one thing to be shuffled around along with a coworker, a peer. Another to be the only one picked out of the litter to be carted off.

A senior coworker asked if I wanted to go see where I was moving to. I said maybe later. Then, literally a few minutes later, after I'd been stewing over my irritation that the "company" had lied to me, that it was only me leaving and not two of us like they'd said, the senior coworker popped into my cubicle with my future boss, and insisted on introducing us. They led me back to the new cubicle.

Two flat panel computer monitors. A Mac G5. Oh how those sweetened the somewhat bitter deal. Yes, I can be placated by better technology (for a time). Because I love technology.

And the raise isn't so bad, either.

But I ask myself, over and over again: is all this worth my life? My life is the time I sit here in this cubicle, fulfilling the dreams of other people. This isn't my dream. How many of us sat through high school classes, elementary school classes, and dreamt of a far off cubicle decorated with pictures of loved ones and other reminders of why we endure the bourgeoisie torment? There are worse things, but in this society where we are buffered from physical suffering and other oppressions, isn't this numbness exactly what we fear?

Or maybe I'm just spoiled. I know I am. When the news came that one of us would be going, first I was thankful that we weren't being laid off (though deep inside I felt skeptical, wondering if this was some sort of preliminary song and dance before they cut us off completely), and second I felt bitter that they could bandy me about like an object, a resource sans feelings and opinions (I wasn't ever really asked if I wanted to go). Sure they can placate me with the promise of more money, but what have they taken in exchange for that?

We exchange our dreams, I guess, for the security of a promised income and the benefits to patch the wounds we cultivate from sitting motionless in our cubicles. Some of us break away and become the owners of the "company," and they know just what we'll sacrifice for those feelings of security, because once they were one of us.

I am a slave to the feeling of security. Will I ever achieve my outlandish dreams while sitting in a cubicle? Or do I have to up the ante by putting myself in harm's way first, by losing the benefits and the steady income? Who knows.

The Inherent Flaw of "Original Idea"

So last night as I was falling asleep, this brilliant idea struck me. It electrified me and I couldn't sleep. It was for a website, and I was so sure it would be the thing that made me rich. It would revolutionize a bunch of stuff, it would rake in the dough and then someday I'd sell it to Google for billions of dollars. I'd split the money up between my investors and co-designers, because obviously I don't know the first thing about programming or design.

The idea wouldn't let me sleep. My mind was buzzing with possibilities and ideas and how I would do it. I was networking with friends in my head already, planning on who I'd involve and who I'd ask for help. I was coming up with clever stuff. I felt like giggling. I was hysterical over this idea.

Stoker woke up to roll over and he muttered something to me, something about loving me I think, and then I started telling him my idea. He was coherent enough to ask me one question. I launched into my answer and was waiting for some positive feedback when I noticed he was snoring already. It irked me. I mean, just because he worked a 16 hour day, he's tired? Yeah right. And just because he worked a 14 hour day yesterday. . . he always pretends to be so worn out . . .

But the idea kept going. I couldn't sleep. I felt exultant over my ingenuity. Of course, when I had tried to tell Stoker about it, it sounded ridiculous . . . yet I knew in my heart of hearts that it was truly brilliant.

Then the dread hit. I had been afraid to even utter my idea, knowing that ideas attack in blitzkreig fashion and that somewhere, someone else might be having the same idea . . . or someone had already HAD the idea.

I was tempted to get out of bed and check online, to see if anyone had already done it. I didn't. But I went to meet the problem anyway, advanced worry, if you will (it's the way I am). I felt an ulcer forming in my stomach, a new one, a companion for the old ulcer, which began when I first discovered that I'm not the center of the universe (two years ago). A wave of nausea swept through me. The thought rang through my brain, echoing, "I'm not original."

This morning I checked. Every address I typed in has been used for websites of a similar nature.

I can feel another ulcer forming.

Save the Wolves

I have a free wolf calendar in my cubicle. I accidentally let it get to me and I went to their web site to adopt a wolf and maybe a snowy owl. I sent a letter to the governor of Alaska about aerial hunting . . . I'm pretty much a sucker. But can you blame me?



Take action online at http://www.savewolves.org/alaska

I couldn't help myself. I'm an animal lover and all that. I made sure to let the Governor know that I support the rights of Americans to bear arms and to hunt for subsistence. But I'm violently against trophy hunting. And I'm sure she'll read the letter, just like I'm sure it will all make a difference . . . but one has to try, right?

Tough Women of WWII Era

I was fooling around on the Library of Congress' page and found these excellent photographs from Salt Lake City during the Great Depression. These women are training to operate buses and taxicabs. I guess it was one of those initiatives, the WPA or something. This woman looks like she could handle anything. I want to say she's thinking: "Ya got somethin' to say? Alright then. Don't mess with me, that's all I'm sayin'." In a Brooklyn accent. But this was Salt Lake City. People didn't have Brooklyn accents.

In this image you can almost hear the photographer giving them directions, "Now lean in a little so I can get you both in the shot. That's right, that's right. Now you, Fred, put your hand out and point at something, like you're telling her how to drive the bus. Good, good. Freeze that action! Now hold it right there while I snap the picture . . ."

"Mom? I'm a bus driver now! Can you believe it? I know, I know. It's weird. Little old me driving one of those huge buses. I still can't believe it's happening. Yeah, I even have a hat with a badge on it, like I'm all official and everything."

See? That's why I love these photos so much. I look at them and I see an entire drama/sitcom unfolding.

Honestly, though? These women are my heroes.

I'd like to thank the Library of Congress for making this post possible. And the internet, for giving me access to the Library of Congress from 700 miles away. And I'd also like to thank Dr. Pepper, for being the drink that is, for loving me like it does, and for always being there for me when I'm thirsty, when I'm down, when I just need a little sugar rush, and for being available even though it's not part of a huge corporate conglomerate like Coke or Pepsi.

Daily Hilarity

One of the funniest posts I've read recently: some HILARITY.

Email to a Company with a Crappy Ad

Have you seen the internet ads with the dancing woman? I was trying to read the weather on weather.com and there were three of them! I could hardly concentrate on what I was looking for -- some kind of link about weather and health, which I read about in a cnn.com article.

The ads were strategically placed in three different locations all over the page. The top, the middle, and the bottom. So almost anywhere I scrolled on the page there was a dancing woman taunting me. No, they're not nude or anything. It's not like that. It's like the moving thing draws your attention.

So I emailed the company behind the dancing woman ad:

Your internet ads are an embarrassment. And they're annoying. I will never ever never ever never never never ever never use your service. I can't believe you're affiliated with Experian. You bring shame to the Experian name. Maybe you haven't realized that a company CAN display class when running banner ads. Your ads simply scream low-class, sleeziness. If I DID need help lowering my bills, I certainly would not click on an ad running an obnoxious dancing woman. I would think there's more to the psychology of the human than simply appealing to the irritant reflex. Sure, the ad makes me want to destroy the movement, in the same way I want to slap a mosquito buzzing around my face. But you must have forgotten about the refresh key. I'll click that before I click one of your hideous ads.

Think about it. I'm more likely to click on a tightly designed Nike ad with beautiful graphics touting a sale or something. Even an AT&T ad or a Verizon ad. Their ads are enticing while yours are repulsive. I don't even like AT&T but they understand the power of color. Your ads are so irritating that I'd rather write an email than use your services. I'd rather go to the pawn shop or use my car title to get a loan than use your services. That's how crappy your advertising is.

Thanks, have a nice day.

Was I too harsh? Probably. But you have to be firm to get through to people.