There was one communal big-screen television in my freshman dormitory. It was on almost all the time, and, consequently, the living room served as a meeting place for strangers. This TV was just as much a source of spontaneous friendship as it was conflict. The set was almost always littered with little notes taped to the corners (“American Idol. Wednesday. Reserved. Hearts, Kaitlin and Steph.”). Sometimes these notes would flitter away, another group would squat watching basketball come Wednesdays, and sabotage would be a legitimate topic at our next house meeting. Fighting over TV programming is a great American pastime. Or, it was.

When online television streaming got popular during the end of my college career, the arguments within housing communities had vanished because communal TV watching could happen anytime. No need for notes. Friends would cuddle up in my bed and watch Glee off a laptop during lunchtime (BACK WHEN IT WAS GOOD). If people got busy, we’d all just watch individually then make time to talk about it. Then we’d just watch it alone, and we’d forget to share the experience altogether.

Now, a few years later, when I come home and my roommate is watching that Kardashian show, I go up to my room and watch whatever I want. Zero conflict. But have I missed an important interaction?

These interactions — or non-interactions — are pretty common occurrences since my two roommates and I are all completely different. We get along great, but our tastes’ Venn diagram is just three unconnected circles. If I’m in the kitchen listening to Louis C.K. over dinner, and Sean gets home, we chat as he cooks, and then he disappears into his room to watch CSI on his computer by himself. On Sunday afternoons Allison watches all her recorded ABC family dramas. I do not join her. But, if I weren’t watching TV alone so often, I probably would. Aside from whether or not Pretty Little Liars would be good for my sanity, it’d probably be healthy for me to interact with my roommate more often.

With this in mind, I recently watched an episode of Teen Mom with her. I was home from work with a plate of hummus, destined for my bed and Hulu, but as I walked by my roomie engrossed in these stories, I decide to eat my hummus nestled into the sofa. I really enjoyed myself. I mean I enjoyed the experience — not the show itself, but honestly, does that matter? We had favorite moms and bantered about how we would react to different baby daddies’ actions. Over commercials we discussed the ways we were raised. It was stimulating despite the show not being so.

A perk of streaming is that people that share my interests and views can collectively talk about art and media we have taken in individually. The ability for everyone in my sketch comedy team to watch any segment of SNL on his or her own time and then discuss it brings us closer together. But would we be even closer if we all got together on Saturday night to just watch it live? Or, because that would never feasibly happen, should I just be extremely grateful we can all use Hulu? Furthermore, if I made a point to watch SNL at home, and my roommates happened to watch with me, might I get some unique perspective on the sketches instead of only being exposed to the familiar opinions of my comedian friends?

Hence, I see instant streaming as both more and less of a waste of time than live television used to be. On one hand if I’m going to just chill (“waste time”), it’s handy that I have access to “good” (critically-acclaimed or educational) television to digest at all times instead of wanting to chillax and puttering around aimlessly. On the other hand, when there was nothing to watch on TV, I used to putter around with friends, or find friends. Now, I have less need for human interaction — especially with people whose tastes differ from mine. I think this trend has been crystallizing in more ways than television in our society.

I would put myself in a category of someone who is actually less involved with technology than most people my age. I am not addicted to my phone. I generally stream about 5 hours of TV per week. I don’t have a Facebook profile, and I only read things I have specifically looked up — no reddit, no StumbleUpon, no roaming about. But even I feel jaded by this thought that intoxicates us all when experiencing anything in real life: “Is this worth my time?” For example, is this class worth my time when I can look up anything on the internet? Is this social event worth my time when I can enjoy a movie for free in my own bed whenever I want? Is this discussion worth my time when it’s probably already happened somewhere on the web, and I can just read it? I perform in a weekly sketch comedy show, and over the past five years attendance has dropped at an alarming rate. People used to get stoked to see comedy — even if it wasn’t the most professional. But we’re not going to be as good as SNL or all the stand-up specials on Netflix. Why should people bother? Consider how often you go to movies compared to before you had access to thousands of movies with the click of a mouse.

It’s not just me. Ticket sales have gone down 10% in the past decade. There are lower numbers in concert attendance too. I obviously can’t say our waning interest in cultural events is due to streaming, but I can bet it’s a major contributor — at least in the last five years. Why should people bother looking outside their laptop for anything?

I think people should bother though. I think we really should keep trying to remember to be entertained outside of our own ear buds because while the internet can give us a lot, it can’t give us life. Clichéd but true. Maybe Teen Mom sucks compared to the show I would have streamed had I not sat down with my roommate, but the experience was probably healthier. Sure, you can skip watching the Oscars and instead get the ten-minute best-and-worst-dressed version via fashion sites and YouTube. It’d be less of a “waste of time” on your life than if you threw a party, but what would you do with that saved time anyway? Waste it a different way? In person we laugh, we discuss, we foster communities. Alone, I waste my time, and that might be all.

Illustration by Sabrina Scott

(KRICHELLE is listening to her iPod. SAM and ALICE approach with fried chicken.)

ALICE: Hey, Krichelle, can you take out your rap music for a second?

KRICHELLE: I’m listening to Jimmy Buffet.

SAM: (To ALICE) Is Jimmy Buffet black?

ALICE: I mean, black people like buffets, so…?

SAM: We just wanted to say sorry for saying racist things around you the other day.

KRICHELLE: You guys can’t apologize for being racist by giving me racist gifts!

ALICE: Just kidding! (She drops the chicken.)

SAM: You called us honkies! (KRICHELLE puts her iPod in her pocket.) SHE’S GOT A GUN! (ALICE and SAM run away, screaming.)

It’s not funny to assume black people have guns or only listen to rap music, but it is funny to think there are people out there who legit believe that. We all laughed in rehearsal at the expense of that racist dude out there who we were satirizing. Stephen Colbert’s career is this style of comedy. Ditto Sarah Silverman. Instead of making fun of the prejudice person, they momentarily just become prejudice, but we and as audience know it’s a self-aware act.

In one way it’s cool we’ve gotten to this place in our culture — a place where it’s easier to say offensive things because it’s harder for people to be offended. I have this theory that my generation believes we are “post-prejudice.” Like, how many times have you or one of your friends told a female to “make me a sandwich.” That might not have been funny to our mothers, but it’s funny now because no one really believes women should just make sandwiches anymore. But, then, hold on… who are we satirizing if we truly are post-prejudice?

Going back to that sketch, it’s funny to think that there are people in the world who would think Krichelle would honestly have a gun when she was clearly just holding her iPod. But who are those people? Like, in that actual situation, how many white people — even the most racist grand high wizard — would truly believe petite and pre-med Krichelle would have a gun? In essence, my generation wants to make fun of prejudice by promoting it, but that’s okay, because it’s assumed no one is prejudice anymore. Satire is funny because it’s based on truth, but it’s only appropriate because no one believes in racism anymore, but it’s funny because someone out there does, but it’s okay because — WHOA, CATCH-22. Basically, we’re propagating stereotypes not even in the name of uncovering a satire anymore. We’re propagating stereotypes for an easy laugh.

A friend of mine did this thing where sometimes he would take on the personality of a stereotypical sketchy loser. He called this persona “T-Shirt Guy.” He thought of this name because he had a t-shirt with Gary Coleman saying, “Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” He wore this shirt not because he thought it was funny but because he thought it was funny people thought it was funny. But, ultimately, the company that made the t-shirt got profits for the thing, and designers were informed, “Make more stupid TV shirts.” (Irony sells—look at the Snuggie.) Ultimately, people that saw him in this shirt made a judgment about our society and thought, “Man, standards for comedy/intelligence/fashion have hit rock bottom.”

There are idiots in the world who would wear that Gary Coleman shirt and there are people who are various shades of racist. That small margin of people is hard enough to see and deal with, without also having to see and deal with another faction of people mimicking those annoying ideas ironically. The last thing we want for an authentic TV-shirt weirdo (or racist) is a sense of solidarity because he doesn’t know the satirist is being ironic!

One issue I have with stand-up is that I am comfortable just sort of ad-libbing in the middle of a set, and then BAM, comedy takes over and I’ve said something I didn’t maybe mean to say. Recently, during a show I was talking about how many Asians smoke at my university and then, offhand I added, “I guess being an engineering major is really hard.” Then I made a joke about there not being so many smoking Asians in on place since Hiroshima. Both jokes hit well, but I felt crummy in hindsight.

I expressed this crumminess to a friend of mine, and he was baffled to hear the joke I wished I could take back was the one about engineering. Hiroshima seemed a lot more offensive. I disagreed. Hiroshima happened — people were on fire, that’s that. But, making a crack about all Asians pursuing science? The whole audience knew I didn’t really believe that stereotype. If I did, I wouldn’t be saying it. But, probably at least one person in the crowd holds on to that grain of belief of seeing Asians and assuming they are mathematical/scientific. And, while he or she might keep that tucked away, I just gave voice to an idea I despise where the idea is usually self-censored by those who believe it.

What to do? Here’s my plan: skip the stuff I don’t really believe, and if it slips, address it. If I had a time machine… well, I’d probably go back to the ‘80s and invest in Apple a la Forrest Gump, but ALSO, I’d go back to that set and not censor my engineering joke but address it immediately after and talk about the Asian drug-dealers I have known or something. (I’m riffing here — it’s unlikely I’ll actually get a time machine.) Most importantly, when I can, I’ll just be authentic. If I want to address a racist idea I’ve heard, I’ll state it that way: “I heard this person say X. Isn’t that funny?” I think some people in the comedy/art world sees that as “less edgy” or depriving oneself of material, but seriously, if you have to be someone stupider than yourself to be funny, don’t you think you can, like, up your game? We could say something to inspire change in a positive direction besides “satirically” promoting what we all already know is wrong. And aren’t there so many more jokes to tell than the ones we know are lies?

I hate to love seasonal pumpkin items. They just waltz into my life, make me crazy with desire, and then, before I know it, disappear. So this year, I decided to go all out and eat everything to find out the best of the best for future years of nomming pleasure. Eating all the pumpkin food I could get my hands on hasn’t been easy, and it definitely hasn’t been pretty, but the experiment is over, and I now present my findings.

While I ate every pumpkin food I could find in the past month, for the purposes of this analysis, I will only discuss foods available at chain stores. (The pumpkin cookie I stole from an MBA student potluck I walked by was delicious, but that’s not going to help you — the fall food fanatic with too many choices.)

I should also note that money and calories were no object in this study. Case in point: Einstein Bros. Bagels. One would assume pumpkin items would be served until the end of the pumpkin season — Thanksgiving — but the Einstein’s on my campus stopped serving most pumpkin foods on November 1. After much pleading, I was able to get a pumpkin latte and they found some pumpkin cream cheese in the back, which I ate on a honey wheat bagel.


Three hours later, I called the Einstein’s a mile away from campus. The manager told me, yes, they still had pumpkin items but they would probably be out by today and the season was over. I had 40 minutes before my next class. I biked over, ordered the LAST MUFFIN and a pumpkin bagel, devoured both, made it to my next class sweating (pumpkin juice?) and realized I had probably spent fifteen bucks and 4,000 calories before 3 p.m. My point is: this study, like me, doesn’t consider cost or health — just taste. I also need to get this off my chest: I have been told there is a pumpkin scone from Starbucks, but I have never seen one. So, if you only wanted to get some critical feedback on said scone, stop reading. If you want to hear about pumpkin ice cream, muffins, coffee, and other, please continue on.

Ice Cream

The worst pumpkin ice cream: Dairy Queen’s Pumpkin Pie Blizzard. It doesn’t even taste like pumpkin. I’m pretty sure it’s just vanilla with food coloring and some crunch bits of cracker to mimic crust. It’s gross.

Not technically dairy, but coming in second to last on frozen pumpkin treats is Jamba Juice’s Pumpkin Smash smoothie. Sometimes Jamba Juice tries to sell me non-sweet veggie-like smoothies, which annoys me, so I was sure to ask that this was a dessert smoothie. I was told yes, “It’s like pumpkin pie in a straw.” At first sip, I LOVED the pumpkin, but then SMASH, the overly-sugary aftertaste hit me hard. Sip and repeat. Overall, unpleasant experience.

Edy’s ice cream and Yogurtland/Mojo frozen yogurt are right in the middle of the pack — smooth in texture and taste, subtle pumpkin flavor, enjoyable. Taking a surprising second: Jack in Box’s milkshake. This is basically what Dairy Queen was going for, only good. The only downside is the heavy faux whipped topping, but since I like faux cream, I still liked the shake. Baskin Robbin’s Pumpkin Pie Ice Cream reigns supreme. It barely tastes sugary at all, emphasizing the simple spices, thickness, and texture. All the excellence of pumpkin pie but refreshingly cold.

Coffee

Starbucks markets the seeds out of their pumpkin drink, and it’s for good reason: their Pumpkin Spice Latte and Frappachino are delicious — smooth, sincerely pumpkin, but not too sweet. The Bux wins by a longshot against Dunkin’ Donuts’s Pumpkin Latte and coffee, which, has a bitter generic “fall” taste (cinnamon-y), and puts Einstein’s slightly pumpkiny but very sugary drink to shame. But the winner of the pumpkin coffee contest is a surprise underdog. Circle K Pumpkin Spice Cappuccino blows all pumpkin coffees out of the running. It’s smooth, besides little tangible cinnamon flecks, and it tastes strongly of pumpkin — not the sweet impersonation of pumpkin, but legit I-imagined-standing-on-a -pumpkin-patch-when-I-drank-it pumpkin.

Muffins

Once again, Dunkin’ comes in last. Their pumpkin muffin is really crumbly — it’s even served with cinnamon crumbs on top. The flavor is decent, but the texture makes it not only messy, but dry. The actual muffin part of the Kirkland-brand pumpkin muffin from Costco has a delightful texture and flavor, but it falls short in the topping department. Einstein’s and Starbucks’s muffins on their own are moist with fresh pumpkin flavor, delicate once in your mouth, yet firm during the biting process. But while both muffins had cream cheese topping, Starbucks took the prize for a more simple cream cheese dollop as opposed to the sweeter frosting-like blob Einstein’s adds.

Other

IHOP’s Pumpkin Pancakes barely taste like pumpkin, and they’re dry. (IHOP? more like I HOPE you never eat there) Starbucks’s Pumpkin Bread is also a bit dry for my taste — not as moist as their muffin, and bland with only seeds as garnish. Finally, Dunkin’ Donuts gets something right with their Pumpkin Donut, the perfect balance of sweet and spicy with its discreet glaze and balance of cinnamon and pumpkin flavor. But Einstein’s Pumpkin Bagel and Schmear comes in first — mainly for the schmear, which had a unique taste and made the flavored bagel (kind of a weak flavor, but there nonetheless) doubly pumpkin-y.

(Also, I personally thought the store-brand Philadelphia pumpkin cream cheese was better than Einstein’s, but that’s because Einstein’s was on the cusp of dessert, and I like to pretend cream cheese is my real food for the day.)

Bonus: though Sprinkles is not accessible to everyone, but their Pumpkin Cupcake is the champion over all categories.

Fake Pumpkin Foods

If you’re like me and want to rationalize eating horribly in the name of a “research project,” may I also suggest these non-pumpkin pumpkin foods?

• Pumpkin-shaped Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
• Reese’s Peanut Butter Pumpkins
• Pumpkin Peeps
• Oreo Halloween Orange Crème Cookies
• Low-quality Russell Stover chocolates wrapped in orange foil

Well-Being

Now that I have helped you navigate through all the pumpkin possibilities for next year, you might be thinking, “This is all well and good, but if I eat even half of the things you suggested, I will get diabetes!” Good news: Healthy Choice makes a Pumpkin Squash Ravioli!

Happy pumpkining!

Mid-hike of the Philosopher's Walk on Father's Day. Dad said it was a lot easier when he was 20.

This June I emptied about 3/4 of my bank account to fund a trip to a place I didn’t care about. I did no planning, I had no interest in any particular sites or experiences, and I didn’t set out to learn much about the culture. My sister, dad, and I were going to Germany. And it was my idea.

Germany means very little to me, but it’s a place of great significance for my sister and father. Dad spent his time in the military stationed in Heidelberg and hadn’t been back since leaving in the ’70s. My sister believes her exchange experience to Germany in high school shaped her adult life. For the past five years I’ve been trying to find an opportunity when all three of us would be able to take off work and school long enough to go together. Finally, the planets were aligning for all of us to be free last June. Tickets were purchased, hotels were booked, German was practiced, and in mid-June, we were there.

We did manage to do a few distinctly German things, but our first priority was memory lane for my dad. Second priority was memory lane for my sister. Third priority was getting me one of those huge soft pretzels (the only thing I said I wanted to do during planning). Leftover time could be for new German cultural experiences.

The things we did for my father included touring his old Army barracks and part-time job, eating at an upscale restaurant in downtown Heidelberg he used to frequent, stopping at a garden café he went to with his mother when she visited him overseas, and walking the Philosopher’s Path of Heidelberg.

Every one of these activities came with plenty of stories that gave context for everything I had gleaned about my father’s youth. I was overcome with a sense of timelessness and love as my sister, Dad, and I reached the top of the Philosopher’s Path overlooking the entire city. It was the most memorable Father’s Day we had ever experienced. But it was semi-incidental that we were in Germany.

At the restaurants we specifically sought out, my dad looked around, explaining how things were different, how they were the same, and what significant things had happened over there or in that corner or right here. But did we discuss the difference between German and American service? Décor? Ambiance? Not really. I noted things here and there, but I was distracted by family history. It’s like we could have sat in Dad’s kitchen and heard all the same information.

The weirdest part of the trip was visiting Dad’s old part-time job. He used to work at the base cinema that has since been turned into the formal theater for the military community’s productions So, for one of the few nights we spent across the Atlantic, we saw an English community theater production of the Gershwin musical Crazy for You. Coincidentally, my dad and I had seen Crazy for You together before — my sister was in it in high school. Her production was better. (Although I will say it’s pretty interesting to watch a bunch of muscular women dance around as Ziegfeld follies.)

My dad on the "floating bridge" that looks out over Neuschwanstein castle in Schwangau.

Since my sister’s experiences with Germany were more of a tourist nature to begin with, revisiting her memories at least gave us some built-in culture. We visited Neuschwanstein — arguably one of the three most famous castles in the world. I highly recommend seeing it if you ever visit Germany. The king who built it was imprisoned for insanity, and his persecutors used his house as proof of his mental instability. Think a mural of Jesus floating on a rainbow and a giant mural of woodland creatures (that Walt Disney based the artistic design of Bambi on). But, while we waited for our tour time, I didn’t bop around reading signage because I was wrapped up listening to my sister tell me about how when she was here as a freshman in high school, she got stuck in the rain and almost missed her bus.

When we went to Fussen, a nearby small town, she wanted to eat at a place that advertised selling “American Pizza” because the owner had been really welcoming to her while she was staying there on a business trip a few years ago over (what she didn’t know was) a Germany holiday. We complied — it was part of her history with Germany.

I was very pleased with my vacation to Deutschland. It was beautiful, I ate a ton of good food, and I learned a lot about my family. The question remains: did I have to go to Germany for that? The answer is yes, although I can’t quite tell you why. I didn’t try to understand any aspect of German culture, nor would I feel comfortable attempting to relate textbook culture to what I experienced there. Did I just use another country as a backdrop for my own American adventure? In some ways, it’s unavoidable to view other cultures from outside your own bubble wrap of personal culture, but shouldn’t we at least try?

Perhaps. And normally, I would really care. But, I’m just not worried in this instance. Maybe I missed my chance to really dive into observing German culture for the moment, but I can always read about it. You could make the same argument for learning about my family. I could have always just heard about it. But, if I had to decide which kind of education I’d rather be on location for, hands down it’s my family history.

And I might even get another chance with Germany one day. Or, maybe in twenty years I could be back with a niece, sitting in the garden café telling her about her grandfather and great-grandmother coming here. I could be waiting for the carriage to Neuschwanstein with her — not reciting facts about the architecture from a guidebook, but telling the story of how this was the place I almost had a meltdown about finding an ice cream cart because I hadn’t eaten in 20 hours. And how after I got a cone of chocolate and settled down, my sister detailed what running down the mountain in soggy flip-flops was like.

It was an unconventional European vacation to say the least, but it was ours, and all our expectations were met. I ate not one, but two big soft pretzels. Who could ask for anything more?

A friend of a friend got a stand-up gig as an opener at a semi-upscale comedy establishment in Phoenix. To make a long story short, I ended up seeing Steve-O do stand-up for free last night.

Steve-O starred alongside Johnny Knoxville on the show Jackass and the three accompanying films. As someone who considers herself fairly invested in the art of comedy, I was intrigued by what stand-up would be like for Steve-O without his goofy cohort, sex toys, or a staple gun.

I was surprised how packed the venue, Stand-Up Live, was before show time. It was a Sunday night, and I guess I didn’t think people who were big Jackass fans would be interested enough to actually, like, show up to stuff. I was wrong. As soon as Steve-O came out, people went, as Gwen Stefani says, B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Steve-O started his set by lip-syncing “Let’s Hear It for the Boy” from Footloose and jumping into the audience for high fives. So far, I was diggin’ it (mostly because Steve-O and I were probably the only people in that room who could quote that song verbatim, but whatever).

Then, he attempted stand-up. I’ll be straight with y’all: he wasn’t very good. He laughed constantly at his own jokes—not even little chuckles. Big literally show-stopping crack-ups. I was convinced Steve-O was high until about ten minutes in he explained he has been sober for over three years. Apparently, his life got crazy after Jackass, and he had to have an intervention. Who would have guessed?

So, maybe in an attempt to keep himself from glorifying drugs and alcohol, his entire set focused on masturbation and horrible sexcapades. Admittedly, these topics aren’t really my thing, but I can appreciate comedians being crass in the name of comedy. However, these long-winded stories about defiling a one-night-stand’s bedroom, talking about how ugly some of his hook-ups were, and making a pretty weak Beyonce joke about his junk as a result of constant masturbation (“to the left, to the left”) were vexing and offensive without any humorous payback. Frankly, it was boring. I was jazzed for the evening to end.

And, then, in the last ten minutes of his show, Steve-O made up for the previous 45 minutes of crummy/cummy material.

1. He announced he had gone to Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Clown College before he got famous, which, he said, is harder to get into than Harvard. (Apparently this is true statistically. Only 30 students get accepted out of 3,000 applicants — a 1% acceptance rate versus Harvard’s 9% acceptance rate.) Then, he gave the DJ the signal, circus music blared, and he balanced a huge, very sharp knife (which he proved was sharp by digging it into a wooden stool) on his nose.
2. He noted that it wouldn’t be a legit show unless he hurt himself, so to the accompaniment of Cutting Crew’s “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight,” he used the same sharp knife to cut a lemon in half and squeezed the juice into his eyes, which produced an incredibly painful-looking mist off his corneas. I’m not impressed by this act of stupidity, but I’m impressed that the guy knows what his audience wants, and is willing to blind himself to make it happen.
3. Steve-O explained that he could put a glass of water on top of his head and drink every drop without using his hands. He stood on a table, put the glass on his forehead, lowered himself down onto the table, bent in half, grabbed the glass with his feet, and did a slow sideways somersault powered entirely by his forearms simultaneously placing the cup on the table. He bent over and drank it. He then thanked his Pilates classes.
4. He announced that he would be happy to take pictures with everyone, but he’d rather not deal with crappy phone photos, so he would just let anyone take a picture with him on his camera and upload all the shots onto his website that night. How did someone who is professional jackass think up the most genius post-show photo system ever while the Shins are probably still dealing with Hipstamatic on a daily basis?

He closed the show by sincerely thanking the audience. He really meant it because the dude’s career is in flux. You can’t fly through the air in a port-a-potty much past age 40. He even referenced his other attempt at finding a new niche: becoming a rapper. He self-loathingly played a sample for us knowing full-well it was probably the worst attempt at music any of us had ever/will ever hear. (The song was called “Steve-O’s Gangsta” and included verses that rhymed “it” with “it” multiple times.)

While his party tricks left me feeling satisfied, I couldn’t believe the standing ovation and crazy applause he got at the end of his set. People rushed out, lining up for photos. Did anyone else remember that he kinda blew? Steve-O had this one joke, though, about how there are girls who will sleep with anyone who has been on TV—doesn’t matter if it’s a gross dude with a tattoo of himself on his back. A celeb is a celeb. It occurred to me that audiences can be the same way. They want to see someone from TV and go home and say, “It was awesome!” No matter how un-awesome the show truly was.

Really though, who am I to be judgmental of these fans? I willingly admit I actually liked the part of the show where Steve-O did what Steve-O does best: be a jackass. So, I wish the professional stuntman all the best on the rest of his comedy tour. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before that knife falls into his jugular anyway.

Photo by Gage Skidmore

When I went to Germany this June, I ate a lot of food. And it was all excellent. Literally, every single bite was delicious, presented beautifully, and felt, for lack of a better word, good in my body. It’s not unusual to have better dining experiences when traveling. Part of going on vacation is eating well. Especially in foreign countries, most people seek out special, fine dining, but we actually didn’t. My travelmates ate one decadent meal at the Hotel Ritter in Heidelberg. And, yes, the ravioli was phenomenal, and the salad was crisp, and the butternut bisque was the perfect balance of textured and creamy, but honestly, the meal didn’t far exceed anything I had eaten within the week. We ate at a local pub, off street vendors, a greasy pizza joint, our hotel’s buffet, and even at a McDonald’s. And, I repeat, all of it was excellent.

I can’t pinpoint what exactly in every morsel I ate made it so divine, but I can point out a few basic things I noticed about all the food I had in Germany. I noticed that nothing was in excess. Salads were spritzed, never drenched, in dressing. If cheese, salt, or sugar was an ingredient, it was a garnish. All servings were stomach-sized. I also noticed that food was lighter. The “greasy” pizza I mentioned had a flaky buttery crust, but it was a paper thin crust, so I didn’t roll away from the table with a heavy belly. Finally, I noticed the sincerity of the produce. The best example: I saw zero bright red, fat, luscious-looking strawberries in Germany. I did, however, have an abundance of tiny, wither-y pale pink strawberries at breakfast each morning that now hold the record for best berries I have ever eaten.

It occurs to me that what I found incredible about German food was that it seemed content being average. Or, perhaps in a more “German” mindset — food was “right,” prepared the way it is “supposed to be.” When comparing American food to German cuisine, I see clear cases of “too much of a good thing.” If an American restaurant serves a tasty salad dressing, they want to give their patrons the opportunity to drink a lake of it. Buttery crust tastes good, so we want slabs of it on our pizzas and pies, don’t we? Fruit people eat should look just as perfect as if it were wax.

I mock, but I’m not above any of this. I love horrible-for-you deep dish pizza and ridiculous amounts of sugar in my coffee. I’m attracted to pretty, bright fruit. But, after just a week of inadvertently treating my body and tongue to food the way it’s supposed to be, I started second-guessing my cravings. I thought back to the morning I had left for Germany. I had gotten a Dunkin’ Donuts bagel with way too much cream cheese smeared on it. I remember being consciously excited (“Way more than I would ever need!”). I was actually happy to eat a disproportionate amount of non-nutritional food. How long have I been conditioned this way?

Two things I absolutely must bring up about eating in Germany: the hotel buffet and McDonald’s. I love breakfast buffets with all my clogged heart. This buffet at our hotel, NM Hotels in Heidelberg, was the best of all time. Marinated mushrooms for lightly fried eggs, homemade jam in tiny jars, fresh-baked croissants, an assortment of sad-looking but rather juicy fruits — the list goes on. Every individual element of the buffet was delicious. Of course it was. Why should an establishment make “eh” food? No one would eat it! Logically, that is.

I considered all the breakfast buffets I had been to in my life. Like I said, I always look forward to breakfast buffets, but how do I feel after? Usually full, but satisfied? Sadly, I can think of very few things I have eaten at buffets over my whole life that were legitimately delicious. In my head, I still like the idea of not having to pick between cereal, waffles, muffins, yogurt, or eggs and just eating some of it all, but is it worth it if none of the components match up to even one bite of truly great food?

McDonald’s was meant to be a pit-stop on a road trip, but upon entering, my companions and I were overwhelmed with the desire to try items from the McCafe. We couldn’t believe the crumbly apple muffins, tiramisu, and thick chocolate cake that perched in a display case. Move over, cardboard Hamburglar-shaped cookies of my youth! Honest to God, the cake was in my top five chocolate cakes of all time. I moaned back in the car, “I will never have that cake agaiiiin!” I cursed McDonald’s American menu. “Why won’t they serve me good chocolate caaaake?”

“Because no one would buy it,” my sister said. “It’s too expensive.”

It had been just over five dollars — a bit steep compared to buck apple pies. I’ve eaten my share of McPies in my life — not because they’re good — but because they’re there and they’re cheap. And I wondered how often I make food choices based on there and cheap. I decided that things were gonna change for me once I was stateside again.

Rules I Tried to Follow:

1. A lot of mediocre food isn’t interchangeable with one great meal.
2. If I am dissatisfied with the options on a menu, I don’t have to order “the best I can do.” I can just leave.
3. If I’m about to eat something I would never have found in Germany, ask if I want to eat it or if I want to want to eat it. (A good example: I don’t actually like sugary cereals, but they remind me of childhood. I never want to eat Golden Grahams. I just want to want to eat it.)
4. Just spring for the better quality.

Now, two months after my trip, I am doing a decent job of consuming better quality food — but just decent. Although the pull was more psychological than physical, I was still drawn to the siren song of a crappy hotel continental breakfast while traveling a few weeks ago. But, instead of trying all the crappy food, I stuck to a crappy muffin and a crappy bagel. I’ve found that leaving or simply not ordering when the menu sucks is harder than I thought, but I no longer hesitate to make fussy special orders.

Rule number 4 is mostly throwing me through a loop. I’m a poor graduate student. While I was in Germany, I thought, “Don’t ever eat a piece of chain pizza again. You’re worth the few dollars difference to eat at Whole Foods.” But now when I look at my bank account, I wonder, “Am I? Am I really worth the few dollars difference between Country Crock and organic honey butter?”

It’s very American to do things that are bad for us — i.e. being hung-over, neglecting workouts, watching Jersey Shore, eating at Chili’s. It’s funny to hear someone talk about how they hate themselves for loving that damn Bruno Mars song. It’s weird if we purge ourselves of that American quirk. But, ultimately, it is all bad for us, especially the subpar food intake.

I realized that I persuade myself to eat poorly in two ways. First, I have tricked myself into thinking I will like it. After Germany, I’ve decided to stop being so self-manipulative and give up the fact that I don’t actually want to eat Oatmeal Crème Pies ever again. And if that’s all that’s “there” I just have to refrain or seek a better option. In our society it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to make or find alternative food. I don’t have an excuse. Second, eating poorly is less expensive. This venue of reasoning is also generally illogical. If I decide I must buy pizza, then, yeah, it’s going to be hard on my wallet to buy the fancier, better kind. But couldn’t I just do like a third grader and make whole wheat English muffin pizzas for less than the cost of Papa John’s? I’m obviously not swinging at a 100% good food average yet, but I’m getting better, and my memories of Germany keep me going strong.

Photo by Zanthia

I suck at driving.

• If someone is giving me directions on the way to a destination, and he/she gets out of the car, I literally don’t remember if I came into the cul-de-sac from the right or left.
• My mental capacity to estimate distances is null. Any memory my brain tries to make about how many minutes it takes to get to the store or how many miles on the highway until my exit gets fuzzified in my head, like someone accidentally used my Pensieve to mix the French toast batter.
• I have no internal compass. At all. I know the sun rises in the East, but unless it is sunrise and I have to walk directly East, this knowledge usually confuses me.
• I rarely notice street signs. I’d like to say that’s because I notice landmarks, but the truth is, I notice neither when I’m trying to get somewhere.

I consider myself a bad driver even though I’m technically a good driver: I’ve never been in an accident, and I’ve gotten my car through torrential downpour, surprise blizzards, and rush hour Chicago traffic. I’m just not a fun driver. I’m the person who puts the seat as close to the wheel as possible, clutching it with my hands 11 and 1 o’clock, completely ignoring any conversation coming from the radio or the person in the passenger seat. I also usually mutter to myself.

It’s bothered me before that I rarely go anywhere without making at least one wrong turn (even with a GPS). But it’s kind of how I’m wired. How do you become the kind of person who knows where she’s going? I can study maps for hours. I still pull out of my driveway and don’t remember a bloomin’ thing.

So when I’m going out with someone else, I rarely drive. This means that when I date men, we are figuratively equals, but he is literally always in the driver’s seat — even if it’s my car.

As a cheerleader* for gender quality, the metaphor of my driving behavior bums me out. On my own, I am a walking — er, driving — stereotype that women are worse behind the wheel than men. Because I suck at all things cars (the engine? where dat?), I appear helpless to dudes in my life and strangers who listen as boyfriends seem to give me extremely condescending directions to the party.

I just moved to Tempe, AZ to begin graduate school, and I met a guy from my program for dinner. He picked me up because I’m new (Surprise! I’ll be just as useless in a year!) and drove me through various parts of town. We laughed and said he was my tour guide as he pointed out the various sites and areas. Over dinner, we started talking about some of the things we had driven by, and it was immediately clear to him his gas had been wasted. I couldn’t remember a single cross street and couldn’t even recall if driving towards mountains meant going north or south. He had told me the particular place we were dining was close to my condo and would be good for me to know about, but I had no idea where I was.

Later in the week, while out with other members of the program, he mentioned he had been my tour guide to our peers. They asked where we went, and I blushed.

That was the moment I vowed to become a better driver. A great driver! A PhD of directions! But, then, my previous questions came back to me: how? Furthermore: why?

I know my life would be better if I could commute without giving myself stress knots, but honestly, I’m happy to bike or get toted. It’s the societal implications that get me. And that’s precisely why I realized I couldn’t set out to become Queen** of the Road.

It’s one thing to falsely be identified as a bad driver because I’m a woman, but it’s completely different because I happen to fit this specific stereotype. If I set out to prove a stereotype wrong at my frustration and expense, have I done womankind any favors? Not really. It’s just as constricting for any group of people to be forced to act oppositely as it is to live with the stereotype in the first place. That’d be like Asian kids purposely trying to suck at math. How criminal would it sound if the NAACP told all its members they couldn’t listen to rap or hip-hop?

In the end, stereotyping isn’t wrong because it’s negative — because all people have quirks. Stereotypes are wrong because they promote seeing group pitfalls instead of individual pitfalls. I don’t want to hear that stupid joke about Hellen Keller being a bad driver because she was a woman anymore. I want to hear jokes about me being a bad driver — because I am. And I’m willing to ride this character flaw out, from the passenger seat.

* Male or female cheerleader.
** Or King! Equality!

Photo by anyjazz65

August 20, 2000 AD: The day I began shaving my legs. I was about to enter the seventh grade. Sixth grade is for kids, but seventh grade, I figured, was for women.

I have an older sister, so I took one of her razors from the bathroom, lathered on the body gel, and shaved my legs. I cut my thumb twice. I’m not entirely sure how. The point is I had slick and smooth legs for the start of school. As I figured a girl should, I shaved every couple days until I was a junior in high school. Think about that for a moment: I spent five to ten minutes shaving my legs every two to three days for four years — whether anyone saw said legs or not. That’s almost 65 hours of shaving time over four years. That’s almost three whole days of putting Bic to skin.

In 2004, I was at the age of buying my own necessities and I quickly realized that the fancy Intuition replacement heads I was accustomed to were costing me a fortune. I bought a small assortment and decided to only use my good razor for speech and debate tournament mornings. This seemed like a pretty good plan. I was shaving about once a week, and it didn’t seem to make much of a difference, especially during the winter months.

But then speech season started winding down and somehow I was positive that not only was shaving once a week good for my wallet, it was essential to my success in speech and debate. It was my good luck charm. Hairy legs until game day. Districts were in March, and State was in April. One month razor free. Then, nationals were in June, and I honestly felt like the results depended on freshly-shaved legs. Like, kind of a reverse Samson and Delilah sitch — except that I was both characters. And my strength was the absence of hair. And the hair was on my calves.

By the June competition, I was actually sorry to see the fur go. I had gotten used to my legs being natural, and a feminist stew started boiling inside me. Why should I have to partake in an extra form of “hygiene” when men don’t have to? After not shaving for a while, it really did seem arbitrary.

We’ve got hair all over our bodies. Why did someone decide which body hair was unfortunate and which was totes cool? Someone told me the whole rigmarole began with World War I because men’s razor companies were down on their business. They needed a new clientele, and what better way to get it than to prey on the self-consciousness of women by creating a new standard of beauty? I didn’t find any specific evidence to support the “Schick-in-a-Pickle” myth, but I did find that most historians agree that female shaving began in the U.S. around World War I. Most sources say the cause, while perhaps also in line with a lack of men buying razors, was the rise of sleeveless dresses. With sleeveless dresses came exposed underarms. Gillette jumped on a campaign advertising bare pits, and the rest is history.

It boggles my mind that women have only been shaving for one hundred years. Maybe that seems like a long time, but as a young girl coming up to a rite of passage, it seemed like the Mayans invented it or something. Shaving felt like a part of womanhood, when actually, it was a style as arbitrary as bobby socks and side pony-tails. It just stuck.

Anyway, my seventeen-year-old self was miffed. I was working at an all-girls summer camp, so I cast my leg hair to the wind and cut the habit. I was pretty surprised by the flack I got. My peers were straight up grossed out. They would ask me not to put my legs on their beds, would ask me not to wear shorts, would frequently leave razors in my toiletry bucket. Keep in mind that this was an outdoor woods camp, where people spent most days covered in dirt, building fires in the pine forest, and frolicking in an algae-filled lake. Not everyone thought my legs were disgusting, but a vast majority did. And hardly anyone was proactively supportive.

Regardless, I stayed strong and stayed hairy. I no longer even shaved for speech tournaments. I did create the “Shave for Theater Performances” rule during a run of Singin’ in the Rain, after opening night when my sister told me it was hard to accept a Lina Lamont with visible yeti shins.

So, for the next few years, I shaved for performances, and that was about it. I tried to have little shame in exercising my gender freedom, but I sometimes felt conflicted. As a camp counselor another summer, I’m pretty sure I lost any credibility with one of my girly-girl high schoolers the moment she peeked at my gams. I started falling for a guy my freshman year of college and blurted in the middle of an early date, “I DON’T SHAVE MY LEGS, SO THAT CAN’T BE A PROBLEM.”

Meanwhile, the more I found out about shaving for women, the more sure I was of its oppressive qualities. In one hundred years the unacceptable places for hair on a woman have expanded from eyebrows to pits to legs to upper lip to bikini lines to arms to everything. The change is happening at a breakneck pace. I watched a re-run of Sex and the City recently about Carrie accidentally getting a Brazilian wax. I was rather surprised she was so surprised, because all-bare is kind of the norm. Doesn’t everyone think so? Then again, the episode aired in 2000.

I remember reading one examination of shaving called “Shaving is the Pits.” Robin Friebur explains the paradox of women reaching maturity, only to attempt reverting back to childlike bodies. For men, of course, the experience is flipped. Men participating in “No-Shave November” feel empowered by their gnarly beards. Beards are symbols of wisdom and brawn, and a light female mustache is a symbol of a butterface. The whole double standard ventures down creepier caves of the human psyche. Robin Friebur writes, “A man who is socialized to become erotically aroused by an infantilized woman may be primed to also become erotically aroused by children.” Uh… ew. The underlying tensions women face as a result of shaving are so troubling, and I realized it more with each passing year. So why wasn’t the annoyance of not shaving disappearing?

Despite my clear understanding of shaving, I still sometimes longed for smooth legs. I didn’t feel completely attractive without shaving, and the feeling wasn’t going away. I knew why: I had never seen an attractive woman with hairy anything! They don’t exist in the media, even when the media is meant to pre-date 1915. It would have been so much more accurate for Keira Knightly to have gone French for her role in The Duchess! And would it have killed animators to put some dark lines on Pocahontas’s tanned and trim legs? Seriously. She was a Native American. What did she do? Shave with a piece of bark? I digress. The point: even though I knew it was wrong, I really wanted to shave.

Flash forward to June of 2009. I was in a stuffy car with two girlfriends. Each were sociology majors in college — strong women. We had just finished having a discussion about gender barriers when one of them actually reached down, felt a bit of stubble on her leg, and said, “Ugh. I need to shave.”

I was immediately defensive. “Well, I don’t shave!” I interjected, hating my abrasiveness.

She responded cordially, explaining her very dark and thick hair. I gracefully refuted her logic. Then, the third party chimed in. She said, “I find myself unattached to either view. When I feel like shaving, I do, but I don’t worry if I don’t.” I wanted to disagree. I steamed angry feminist thoughts about standing up for women. But, it was a really hot week. And my legs wore mini-sweaters. And I was about to spend a day at the beach with my boyfriend… And, so, I did the deed. And it felt great. And I did feel more beautiful than I had, which was annoying, but also honest.

I live in a compromise. Right now my legs haven’t been shaved in about four weeks, but I know that will change at the first mention of an interview/audition/date. So, my choice to compromise doesn’t end up feeling good like a compromise should. I have just given myself the freedom to flip between two states of discomfort. On one leg, I lose credibility and feel self-consciousness, and on the other leg, I’m inherently perpetuating unfortunate views of womanhood. Even combined, I don’t have a leg to stand on. No woman does.

Illustration by Yael Levy

• Becoming a Supreme Court Justice
• Starring as Seymore Krelborn in a production of Little Shop of Horrors
• Taking up Olympic swimming, winning a billion medals, and wiping out the significance of d-bag Michael Phelps’s entire existence

Here is my most prized fantasy that I refuse to believe I am unqualified for:

• Replacing Adam Richman as the new host of Man vs. Food

I have never been embarrassed by the incredible amount of food I consume. I consider my giant appetite one of my strengths. If my plane crashes on an island, I can bust into the snack bins and eat enough peanuts to sustain myself for a month.

I just nom like you wouldn’t believe. I’m not really a big girl, so I awe waitresses who try to warm me that, “You probably just want a half-order of the French toast — I’ve never seen a woman finish it.” I am a magician of cookies — making whole boxes disappear in mere minutes. I have won three Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup eating tournaments with a record of 36 cups in one sitting.

Alice gets ready to eat the Belt Buster.

So, you can imagine how excited I was to find out about a new local eating competition in Ottawa, IL. At Tone’s Cones, you can order the “Belt Buster,” a 20-minute timed eating challenge — two quarts of ice cream, ten toppings, and a can of whipped cream. I’ll admit, even I was a bit intimidated, but the glory of winning a free Tones t-shirt, free ice cream, AND my picture on the Hall of Fame was far more appealing than listening to common sense.

When I showed up to the tiny establishment on that fateful Friday, the place was packed— lots of kids and families out for a weekend treat. I looked at the cork board of Champs (just one) and Losers (about a dozen other people have attempted this challenge — only one other woman). I stepped up to the register and said, pointing at the display of the giant plastic cup, “I want to do that.” At first, the workers didn’t believe me. Every other person on the cork board was pretty hefty. But after some convincing, I signed the waiver, picked my toppings, and was ready to rumble.

I considered picking all liquid toppings, but something I admired about soon-to-be-deposed Man vs. Food host Adam Richman is that even though he eats a crazyton of food, he doesn’t wimp out on options. He chooses his favorites even if that means the heavier cheese or the spicier meat. In honor of my idol, I ordered my ten favorite toppings to enjoy the Buster, or bust.

With confidence, Alice chooses her toppings.

The first ten minutes were a blur. I dug through whipped cream to find gobs of toppings which I tried to mix with ice cream. People would stop and watch for a while. I overheard a boy shouting, “Look how much that girl is eating!” His father asked, “Do you think she’ll finish?” “No!” screamed the child. Several people made their disgust known — tsk-ing and shuddering. Meanwhile I had plowed through over half of the challenge and felt mostly fine. I started to have difficulty breathing because of the rocks of cold candy squishing my lungs. I took a half minute break to burp and let the Kit Kats settle.

With no concerns for the stains on my shirt and syrup in my hair, I dug in again. I was in a corner by the drive-thru window and saw a man shoot a photo of me from his car. I winced, mouth full of soft serve, trying to say, “Stop!” but only managing, “Smmmguuuur!” My mouth was numb. I ate through another pint. The crowd’s excitement grew. Holy cow! Were they about to witness history? They gathered — shocked by how much I had already eaten! And, I still had five minutes left!

Out of nowhere — my stomach started revolting. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to finish my ice cream. Queasiness hit hard. I ate another bite, and another — each bite of dairy sending my guts in loop-de-loops. I continued, slowly. My smile was gone. I looked to the t-shirt hanging on the wall. I dug on. Spoon to mouth, spoon to mouth… I had three and a half minutes left. I announced I had to take a thirty second break. People cheered me on. “You’re going to do it!” The waitress encouraged me to take the last half pint and drink it down like sludge.

My whole body was shaking, tingling at first, then with force. I had difficulty grabbing the spoon. I was freezing. My bones and muscles contracted in defense. My back ached. I took one more bite, short of breath, and felt the digesting ice cream rise to my throat. I had to stop.

It was a sad sight to see: the wee bit of melting ice cream at the bottom of a huge vat being taken away, the table being wiped, the customers returning to their own conversations. A worker snapped a ghastly photo of me trying to smile but also unable to fit my tongue in my mouth for the Loser board. I left hunched over — unable to stand up straight with my belly so weighted. And when I got home I threw up. A lot.

The remains of the day.

Although in that moment I was out of twenty bucks staring at my own sugary spew swirl in the toilet bowl, I considered the Belt Buster a success. I still do. Right after the challenge I thought I would feel guilty. People starve, and I just tried to eat an inhuman amount of food. But I felt relieved, happy even. Why?

It is exhilarating to reach your limits — in any way. I suppose some dietitians would disagree, but we feel good when we run so hard we want to die, work so hard we get no sleep, put every last bit of energy into a withering relationship. It’s nice to know our limits — whether our limits yield successes or not. When you see a horizon, you want to know just how far it goes if you possibly can.

When I eat ice cream (and I still do eat ice cream), I might still eat more than an average gal, but I no longer feel like the bottom of the pint is really just a metaphor for the eternal desire for sweets I crave. I have a limit. I remember the limit all too well. That feels good.

Wanda is a feisty little redhead who has lived in Jersey County in Southern Illinois all her life. She wears everything on her sleeves — frequently coming into work at ten-past eight, colorfully cursing whatever is bothering her that day. The only thing Wanda doesn’t seem to find fault in are her four cats — which she speaks of with exceeding affection. On the other hand, while she clearly loves her family, almost every day there is some type of complaint about her loafing husband Spike and their seventeen-year-old daughter Jenny. If it’s not her displeasure with Jenny’s unwillingness to mow the lawn, it’s Spike’s refusal to eat pasta sauce that isn’t Prego. I could write volumes about the hilarious remarks I have heard over my years working at the pub, but I’ll simply let you in on my favorite Wanda quote:

“Jenny was whining. She wanted Dominos, and I was like, ‘Well, tough, it’s not your 20th Wedding Anniversary. It’s ours. And we’re getting Pizza Hut.”

This fall, Wanda was out sick for about a month. When she returned she seemed a little grislier, a little weaker, and a little obsessed with Facebook. First, I noticed her frequently talking about reconnecting with former workers. I understand why she was excited by this idea. She was bed-ridden for a month, and there is no better sick activity than extended facebooking. Additionally, for someone who assumed she would never hear from most of the kids she nurtured through the years (she’s been manager of the college pub for 18 years), Facebook must seem like magic. But then the weirder stuff started happening.

Wanda often references other peoples’ Facebooks. You know how it’s only slightly acceptable to mention things in conversation you have learned from someone’s Facebook profile? Wanda doesn’t. And she’s your boss. And she gossips about all of your coworkers and peers based on Facebook interests. One day Wanda told me she was upset with the closing shift, but then she said, “Well, I know So-and-So was tired. I saw on his events he was going out to a club in the middle of the week.”

Wanda also discusses personal problems between family members via Facebook. In a discussion about her sister-in-law’s marriage: “’Cos she had put up ‘Why is life so hard?’ and I knew right away it was Chip—he never treats her right. I wrote back on there ‘it’ll get better.’”

But, out of everything, the most perplexing of Wanda’s activities are her addictions to the Zynga games.

At the boom of Wanda’s Facebook discovery, Farmville became a usual topic of conversation in the mornings:

“I got home and Mike said he had milked all my cows, and I was pissed! He’s like ‘I was just tryin’ to help.’ But I’m like get your own damn cows, and stop spending all your time on Mafia! He won’t leave my farm alone. I come home, and I wanna play with it — not have him do everything for me.”

Or:

“Jenny did the stupidest thing yesterday.”

“What?”

“She bought me a yellow cat.”

“Huh?”

“On the farm there was cats for sale — three dollars! And she gave it to me as a present. Money is really hard to get there. You gotta pay for it. Not me! So, I said, ‘Jenny, what’d you do that for? You used all your money.’ And she said, ‘I dunno Mom, I just thought you’d really like it.’ ”

The cat experience was very touching to Wanda — plus, the kitten could be friends with her puppy. I kind of got her farm interest. After all, she was raised on one. But what I could never understand was her obsession with Café World, the game where you cook for and manage a restaurant. Let’s just be clear: Wanda spends her nine-hour workday cooking for and managing a real restaurant. Then she goes home and manages a fake one.

In an embarrassing moment of weakness and procrastination, I started playing Café World. I added Wanda as a “neighbor” to check out her café. It was ridiculous. Millions of café coins, points, a huge decorated space, tons of turkeys cooking away. The next morning after my two co-workers on my real cafe shift had left, she turned to me and solemnly asked under her breath, “You’re doin’ Café now?” like she had just found out I was snorting coke or something. She then proceeded to keep me fifteen minutes after my shift ended to tell me her best tricks, including taking off the door when there wasn’t enough food cooking so no one could leave the restaurant and the “rating” wouldn’t go down. I didn’t understand half of what she said. But, soon enough her words came floating back as I proceeded to time my meals more precisely, interrupt myself in conversation to worriedly exclaim, “My macaroni is going to burn!” before darting away, and, yes, even take the doors off my café.

Needless to say, I have become addicted to my stupid cyber restaurant (The Hopscotch Café). Even though I work at a real grill, there is nothing like the instant satisfaction of baking a pie in the click of a mouse. It relieves so much stress. There are virtually (haha) no problems — only money to be made, wallpaper to be redone, and new dishes to “cook.” It is absolutely numbing and adorable. Tiny little cheesecakes and pizzas! What could be cuter?

Obviously, I am not in my right mind — or world. I am currently of the world in which it is impossible to go bankrupt on crazy purchases because the game never lets you get lower than zero. A world where giving gifts to others is always free. A world where as long as your business has a product it has a booming customer base. I never thought I’d say it, but Wanda’s behavior actually makes more sense to me now. Of course she would play Café World to unwind. After a day of idiot kids screwing things up, backordered menu items, and angry managers, she has nighttime — where she gets her just desserts.