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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I was feeling nostalgic this morning. Nostalgic and hungry. So I raided the breakfast pantry in search of comfort food. And I found just the thing I was looking for, but it wasn’t nearly what I wanted. Clearly, I shouldn’t be making decisions before noon. Or possibly at all.
What I found in the kitchen was a box of Quaker Instant Oatmeal Bakery Favorites Flavor Variety. I don’t know exactly what that means — my early morning sentence diagramming skills are sorely lacking, admittedly — but many of those words sound delicious. Breakfast bliss, here I come.
“It seems a lot of people aren’t interested in food with the color of grout and the consistency of phlegm, but I think it’s delicious.”
I should explain that I have a soft spot for oatmeal. I don’t eat it often — when you wake up closer to the ‘crack of noon’ than the ‘crack of dawn’, breakfast foods are usually not an option. Occasionally, I’ll find an all-day diner or a ‘brunch till two’ extravaganza, but it’s a rare treat. And finding oatmeal on the menu is even less common. It seems a lot of people aren’t interested in food with the color of grout and the consistency of phlegm, but I think it’s delicious.
A little less delicious after that description, but I’ll get over it. I’m a resilient guy.
I think my love affair with waterlogged breakfast grains goes back to my childhood. My mother cooked all sorts of foods for breakfast — waffles, French toast, even bacon, sausage and eggs before her ‘health kick’ kicked in — but oatmeal was always among my favorites. Maybe it was the brown sugar she sprinkled on top. Maybe it was the way the oats clung and soaked into the toast. Maybe she slipped a little vodka into the bottom of the bowl. Who can say?
All I know is that a big bowl of oats was always a welcome sight at breakfasttime. If I saw the cardboard tube with the picture of the guy with the floppy hat and the Betty White hair, I knew tasty oatmeal was on the way. And if I could now get that same oatmeal with ‘Flavor’, ‘Variety’, ‘Bakery’, and ‘Instant’, what could possibly be wrong with that?
As it turns out, plenty. I’ll start by quoting the product page, straight from the Quaker’s mouth:
Imagine taste, nutrition and convenience all in the same package. Now imagine Instant Quaker Oatmeal!
See how they did that? Imagine this thing, then imagine that thing over there. No association is expressed or implied between the two. If you, the consumer, choose to equate the two concepts, the floppy-hatted grinning Puritan company cannot be held liable for your culinary disappointment. It’s marketing genius, is what it is.
But I hadn’t seen the ad copy at the time. So I dug into the box and pulled out what looked and felt like a small packet of seeds. Great. Had I been bamboozled? Was I supposed to grow my own oats, and serve breakfast in eight-to-twelve months? Was this the X-ray specs fiasco all over again?
Luckily, no. Instead of a picture of oats or carrots or sugar snap peas on the packet, I found three sets of instructions. Apparently, depending on your personal definition of ‘lazy’, you had options with these oats. There were stovetop directions, microwave directions, and ‘sedentary idiot’-proof directions, which went something like this:
‘Tear packet. Pour contents of packet into bowl. Pour 1/2 cup boiling water into bowl. Try not to choke on your spoon while you wolf it down, fatty.‘
I went with the microwave option. I’m not allowed near the stove without supervision, and the idiot instructions made me tear up a little. It’s like they could see through to my soul, man.
Two minutes and a few splashes of milk later, I had… well, I’m not sure what I had, exactly, but it wasn’t quite what I had in mind. These are not your mother’s oats-mobiles, it seems. Specifically, there were three problems: volume, consistency, and taste.
And frankly, what the hell else is there to a bowl of oats? It’s not a complex culinary creation, when you get right down to it. If Joe Bag o’Boiling Water can manage it, we’re not talking about haute cuisine here.
To be fair, the taste actually wasn’t so far off. It was just a little difficult to hark back to the halcyon days of breakfast yesteryore while staring at the runny mess of fresh-nuked slurry coating the bottom quarter-inch of my bowl. But I’d probably eat it again — provided I use six packets of oats and four drops of water, to make a proper sticky meal of it.
In the final analysis, I give the Quaker folks credit for ‘Instant’ and ‘Oatmeal’ in their product description, and partial credit for ‘Flavor’. They get an incomplete for ‘Variety’ — I survived ‘Apple Crisp’, but have yet to tangle with ‘Banana Bread’ or ‘Cinnamon Roll’. I’m still not sure where ‘Bakery’ comes in, or how on earth ‘Favorites’ is ever going to apply to this stuff, but it turned out okay for a first experiment.
Maybe I should take a page from Mom’s book to spice up my oatmeal. A little brown sugar could do wonders. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll try the vodka. She claims her secret oatmeal ingredient was ‘love’, but if that’s the case, then why did naptimes last for three hours? Wilford Brimley would be proud.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’ve mentioned a few of the quirks of my new office building. Here’s another:
Our building has seven floors. Each of those floors boasts a conference room. To distinguish the rooms from each other, the higher-ups have seen fit to assign each room a name. None of this bland ‘Meet me in the third floor conference room‘ talk for us. We’re living on the edge! Bam!
It was also decided — by a subcommittee, which was nominated by a task force, which was convened months in advance by a board of directors, no doubt — that the names should follow a pattern. Something to name the conference rooms easy to remember.
Apparently, that last part of the memo was cut off by the printer in the subcommittee’s meeting. Because the conference rooms have been named after… mountains.
“Go on — name seven mountains. I dare you. And no, ‘Space Mountain’, ‘Brokeback Mountain’, and ‘Anna Nicole Smith’s chest for two, Alex’ do not count.”
That’s right, mountains. Famous mountains throughout the world. Seven of them. Go on — name seven mountains. I dare you. And no, ‘Space Mountain’, ‘Brokeback Mountain’, and ‘Anna Nicole Smith’s chest for two, Alex’ do not count.
Hell, I’ve been in the building for weeks now, and I can’t name seven mountains. Here’s all I know:
Sure, I’m an idiot — and they’ve made sure my keycard won’t work on most of the floors — but still, couldn’t they have thought of something easier? I know I have. Five things easier, in fact. To wit:
I’ll Gladly Teleconference with You in Tuesday, for a Hamburger Today
Name the rooms after the days of the week; what’s simpler than that? We peons on the lower floors get the crappy ‘Monday’ and ‘Tuesday’ rooms, the the brass can spend their time with their feet on the ‘Sunday’ table.
Of course, it wouldn’t be much good for their psyches to have meetings in rooms that remind them of the weekends. And that piss ‘n’ vinegar would trickle down to the ‘Friday’ crowd, who’d take it out on the ‘Wednesday’ crew, and they’d shove it down our miserable ‘Monday’ throats. So, maybe not a good idea.
Ahoy, Meet-ey! Arrrrrr!
How about the seven seas, instead? Wouldn’t you rather be soaking in the ‘Mediterranean’ or taking a nap in the ‘Caspian’, instead of freezing your ass off at a staff meeting halfway up some godforsaken mountain? I know I would.
On the other hand, the seas are no easier to remember than what we’ve got now. And what goes on top — ‘Red’? ‘Black’? ‘Caspian’? Eh, forget it. I need something less complicated.
Hi-ho, Hi-Ho, It’s Off to Meet We Go…
There we go — the seven dwarves. Who could argue with spending three hours in ‘Happy’? Hell, most of our meetings are ‘Sleepy’ or ‘Grumpy’ as it is; what harm is there in a name change to make it official?
Eh, but there’s still ‘Dopey’. Nobody’s gonna want ‘Dopey’, and of course, we’d get stuck with it. I do enough dancing like a monkey as it is, without having a whole room dedicated to the purpose.
You’ve Been a Baaaaad Conference Room!
Seven rooms, seven deadly sins — it’s like they were made for each other. You could even tailor your room reservation for the type of meeting. A powwow over lunch goes in ‘Gluttony’. Mergers and acquisitions use ‘Greed’. The rest of use can bounce between ‘Anger’, ‘Envy’, and ‘Sloth’ for most everything we need to talk about. It’s perfect.
Except… how pissed would you be if your ‘Lust’ meeting got bumped down into ‘Sloth’ because the boss is ‘dictating’ to his secretary in there? My guess is you wouldn’t take ‘Sloth’ lying down. That’d hurt your ‘Pride’, and your ‘Envy’ would soon turn to ‘Anger’. Then where in the hell would the rest of us meet?
We’re Meeting Where? And What Did You Call Me?
No, best to use my final and favorite idea — George Carlin’s seven words you can never say on television. We may not be much for meetings, but I’ll guarantee you that people would soon learn where the ‘Shit’ is, and which floor the ‘Tits’ are on.
(And then that Anna Nicole remark of yours would work out just fine. See? Better.)
I’m just here to help, folks. Alert the subcommittee; I’ll be waiting in ‘Piss’. Please hurry.
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Catalog #CT142A.
And 142B. And 142C, 142D, 142E, 142F, 142G**, and 142H.
(** Heads sold separately.)
#CT142A: ‘Matrimonial Bliss’
List price: $149.99
Widely regarded as the ‘Cadillac of Cake Toppers’, this set represents the pinnacle of current wedding accessory technology. Each ceramic figurine is painstakingly molded and shaped using clays extracted from the bases of recovered ancient Greek amphoras. The figurines’ garments are hand-sewn by dedicated Dutch spinster seamstresses, using cloth cut from the habits in Mother Theresa’s personal wardrobe.
A team of classically-trained Venetian artistes then lovingly hand-paint the delicate features and expressions that give each figurine its own unique and hauntingly familiar personality. Finally, the toppers are UV-sterilized, blessed by a rabbi, an imam, and a Roman Catholic archbishop, vacuum-sealed in silk-lined boxes, and shipped directly to your home.
This cake topper model is simply unparalleled in today’s market. Our ‘Matrimonial Bliss’ on your wedding cake will absolutely guarantee* a long, healthy, and happy marriage.
* No such guarantee is actually claimed or implied by the manufacturer or retailer.
#CT142B: ‘To Have and to Hold’
List price: $129.99
While not quite the peer of ‘Matrimonial Bliss’ — but what is, really? — this is still a rock-solid cake topper. Sure, a few corners get cut — we use a much less pious nun’s outfits for the clothes, and frankly, the archbishop doesn’t always get around to blessing these. If the artistes miss painting a dimple or a fingernail, we might look the other way.
But we pass the savings directly on to you. If you want perfection in a cake topper, we’ve already told you what to buy. Maybe you missed the bit about the lifetime happy marriage guarantee**. Hey, if you’re willing to risk true love and decades of happiness to shave a few bucks off the cost of your wedding, that’s up to you. We can’t tell you how to live.
** No guarantee whatsoever is actually made regarding the longevity or blissfulness of your marriage. ‘Guarantees’ for entertainment purposes only.
#CT142C: ‘The Happy Couple’
List price: $99.99
Not sold yet, eh? Sure, to the untrained eye, ‘Happy Couple’ shares a passing cosmetic resemblance to ‘Matrimonial Bliss’. But the similarities end there. We’re barely even trying with this model.
Honestly, the hems are all sloppy on the clothes, and the painted-on features? All wrong. The men have shiners, and the women all get moustaches. Big bushy numbers curled up at the ends, too. Everybody’s going to notice.
Also, nobody blesses these toppers, and they’re not sterilized — in fact, we’re pretty sure Frank on the loading dock licks a lot of them before they ship out. Do you really want Frankie’s spit on your cake topper? He’s a smoker, you know. And a big fan of the onions, too. It’s hardly appetizing.
Look, just go back up and order ‘Matrimonial Bliss’ already. We’ve been very reasonable about this, but we’re running out of patience here. Enough is enough.
#CT142D: ‘A Day to Remember’
List price: $79.99
Fine. You know what? These figurines, the ‘Day to Remember’ ones? They’ve been down our pants.
“What are you looking for down here, anyway? A cake topper that’ll wait by the bed on your honeymoon and make you a ham sandwich?”
That’s right. All of them. We walk around the warehouse every day with six or eight of these things in our underwear. Why? To teach you a lesson. You can’t beat ‘Matrimonial Bliss’. It’s untouchable. What are you looking for down here, anyway? A cake topper that’ll wait by the bed on your honeymoon and make you a ham sandwich? Not gonna happen. Get over it already.
Otherwise, you can buy this hunk of crap, and when your guests ask what ‘A Day to Remember’ means, you can tell them it’s a day to remember that your cake topper is covered in Dutch seamstress ass sweat. Bon appetit, cheapass.
#CT142E: ‘Ghetto Fabulous’
List price: $59.99
Okay, I see — you’re poor, is that it? You recognize the obvious superiority of ‘Matrimonial Bliss’ to any other topper, but you simply can’t afford it. Even with one of our generous — nay, charitable — payment plans.
No problem. We’ve got the model for you right here. We make these from used daycare Play-Doh and dress them in material ripped out of Goodwill rags. We still make sure it’s black and white in all the right places — and you’ve never seen real wedding getups, so how the hell would you know the difference, anyway? You wouldn’t. You’re poor.
Did I mention the payment plans? Because we’ve had homeless toddlers who’ve scored a ‘Matrimonial Bliss’ through a payment plan. An unemployed leper would qualify, you know. Are you really setting a good tone for this marriage with your negative attitude?
#CT142F: ‘Yawn. Another Wedding.’
List price: $49.99
Man, nothing gets through to you, does it? Suit yourself, then. Ignore the shining example of ‘Matrimonial Bliss’. Deprive your loved ones of a cake-topping joy that regularly reduces grown men to tears of ecstacy. Bridesmaids have been brought to orgasm, just standing next to it. But you’re not interested. Fine. You’re only hurting yourself.
So go ahead — buy this topper. It looks like the one we told you to buy. But did we squirt vinegar into this one, to leak out and ruin your wedding cake? We’re not telling. There’s no vinegar anywhere near ‘Matrimonial Bliss’, though; you can be sure of that.
‘Matrimonial Bliss’ plays music, by the way. We didn’t mention it before, because we didn’t think we needed to. Most people come to their senses by now, but you… you’re not like most people, are you? Actually, we’re beginning to suspect you may be mildly retarded. You might want to have that looked at.
#CT142G: ‘Living a Lie’
List price: $29.99
Clearly, you don’t want this marriage to work. If this little performance of yours is any indication of the effort you’re going to give, then the union is doomed from the start.
Still, we’re here to help. So here’s what we’ll do: we’ll sell you this model — this shoddy, filthy, scabby, disease-ridden, festering excuse for a cake topper — but without any heads. That way, when this sham of a marriage falls apart in a couple of weeks, you can substitute a different head onto your next partner, when you get hitched again.
Or maybe by then you’ll spring for ‘Matrimonial Bliss’. How’s that for an idea, eh? Keep the headless set as a reminder of the jackass you used to be, and learn to love a little. Sounds like a plan to me.
#CT142H: ‘Why the Hell Even Bother?’
List price: $19.99
Nope. Forget it. We’re not selling you this topper. This topper’s been caked with grease and dragged through a used bus stop urinal, but you can’t have it. You’re not good enough for this topper.
In fact, you can’t have any topper. Not now, after wasting our time like this. We tried — oh, how we tried! — to hook you up with ‘Matrimonial Bliss’ (dubbed ‘The One True Topper’ by Wedding Cake Figurines Digest), but you wouldn’t have it. And now it’s too late.
Just go. Pennypinch your way right back to your crumbling relationship, and buy your cake topper somewhere else. We don’t need your kind of business here. Good day.
Just do us one favor. When your fiancee breaks up with you — because we all know it’s coming — send them our way. At least their next marriage will be a guaranteed success***.
***No guarantees are actually made as to the ultimate success of your fiancee’s subsequent marriage. The futility of your current train wreck cannot be used to measure future relationship performance.
(Ed. note: The cake topper picture above was borrowed from the fine folks at WeddingShowerGifts.com, who make real, custom cake toppers that actually look different from each other. Really! Even to me, and I’m an idiot!
And I bet Frankie on the loading docks barely licks any of them, either. Guaranteed.)
Permalink | 1 CommentYesterday, I bought Mother’s Day presents. A nice bouquet of flowers for my mom, and another for my grandma.
Because… well, you know. In between the godless heathenry and incorrigible sass, I do try to be a good kid. As best I can, anyway.
The flowers seemed very nice, and will hopefully arrive fresh and bloomy on Saturday morning, to the delight of the ladies from whose loins I sprang — either directly, or by proxy through a younger generation of fertile female.
One thing I was struck by while shopping, though, is the smarminess with which petal peddlers run their establishments. I checked out a few sites online — FTD.com, 800-Flowers, and others — before finding something suitable. And they all had the same gimmicky hook on the detail page of every Mother’s Day bit of swag:
‘Special offer! Huge discounts! Buy now and SAAAAVE!!!‘
First of all, is ten or fifteen percent really going to make the difference when shopping for a gift that says, ‘Thank you for decades of unconditional, unwavering, and often unappreciated ‘Mother’s Love’‘? If you don’t get the special offer deal, will you throw up your hands over the extra four bucks, give up, scribble a ‘Happy Moms’ Day, nice lady!‘ on the back of a cocktail napkin, and call it a day?
No. I didn’t think so. Not unless you’re Norman Bates. Or one of the Gotti kids, maybe.
“If you don’t get the special offer deal, will you throw up your hands over the extra four bucks, give up, scribble a ‘Happy Moms’ Day, nice lady!‘ on the back of a cocktail napkin, and call it a day?”
Besides, those price cuts and ‘instant savings’ are a big crock of momshit in the firrst place. These are Mother’s Day bouquets, for chrissakes. To offer a ‘Ten percent off the regular price , if you act now!‘ deal is just plain conniving.
When would you pay the ‘regular’ price on these flowers, anyway? Maybe if you were buying Mothers’ Day nosegays in the middle of fricking August, to beat the rush. But how does that work when the actual holiday rolls around?
‘Happy Mothers’ Day, Ma! Look, I bought you some stems and wilted brown leaves. But back in the fall, these flowers were spectacular!‘
Come on, there, sparky. She raised you better than that, and you know it.
Still, if the florists are going to ‘offer’ good ‘deals’ for this ‘holiday’, why not make it a little more exciting? No schmucks have ever actually paid whatever theoretical ‘full price’ you’ve come up with — so why not send that fantasy price through the roof? Charge me the same price you do now — but don’t tell me I’m getting a measly ten percent off. Where’s the fun in that?
Instead, claim I’m getting ninety percent off, or even more. We both know that nobody in the history of your shop ever paid the ‘full price’, so humor me, dammit. List the bouquet as costing the gross national product of a small Central American country, or the bar tab tally for a John Goodman night on the town. Whichever’s more expensive.
Then, charge me the same few dozen bucks you’re already asking, and tell me I just got a steal. Hey, if these flowers ‘regularly‘ cost six figures or more a dozen, then they’ve got to be good, right? Everybody wins!
As it is, I feel like I’m getting played, somehow. And by a florist, which just adds insult to indigo violets. If you get ripped off by a florist, you can’t go to the cops. They’d laugh you right out of the precinct.
But for Mother’s Day, it’s a chance I’ll have to take. It’s either that, or make my own card out of construction paper and Elmer’s Glue, and send that along to her. And I outgrew that phase a long time ago. Like, after last Christmas.
(I colored Rudolph’s nose myself on that card. I was very proud, too.)
I suppose the important thing is that bright, smelly, leafy plants will soon be whisked along to my mother’s and grandmother’s residences. And what better way to say, ‘I love you, ma!‘ than:
‘Hey, look! This year, I didn’t get you a crappy cardboard card, or send you nasty flowers I bought nine months ago!‘
See? I told you I’m a good kid sometimes.
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