Jalapeno Hands

This person is in for a world of pain

Last Sunday, I experienced pretty severe pain due to my exposure to capsaicin, the compound in jalapeno peppers that makes them hot (and has been weaponized into pepper spray). Apparently, it was not wise of me to de-seed and slice two dozen giant Whole Foods jalapenos without wearing gloves. Thus I bring you the latest chapter in my unusual medical misfortunes (which have included a kidney stone, an allergic reaction to jellyfish and a bellybutton cyst).

My Super Bowl party was a classic Katie Vagnino hapless debacle even before the kick-off. As usual, what started out a small, low-key event escalated out of my control. The guest list went from less than six to ten people, and the menu expanded from just chili and chips, to chili, 9-layer dip, cornbread, guacamole, and bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers. I really needed a sous chef. Especially when around 3pm, it dawned on me that when I had looked up the kickoff time online (6:30), that was in EST. I keep forgetting that I no longer live on the East Coast, you guys. So at 3pm, I had TWO hours before my guests would start arriving, not three. FML.

I lowered my head and got chopping and initially, I was making good time. I got the chili on first, then made the guac (one of the 9 layers in the dip). Around 4:30, I started prepping the poppers, figuring, we could eat them at half-time (they only need about 15 min in the oven). I cut up about 6 of them and then remembered that I hadn't yet put on any make-up. I know it's the Super Bowl and whatever, but I did not want to receive guests (some of whom I had never met) without my face on. So I washed my hands thoroughly (or so I thought) and went to the bathroom. Oh, VANITY.

You can probably guess what happened next -- I accidentally touched my eye and all hell broke loose. My face turned splotchy and red, my right eye clenched shut, and yes, I started screeching. My BF Chris was there and immediately got online to find the cure: milk. I needed to put milk IN MY EYE. Somehow, we managed it as a team effort -- I dribbled enough in that the pain started to abate. Then predictably, the doorbell rang. Party time!

I opened the door with a giant milk stain on my shirt and my right eye still swollen shut. Fortunately, my guests were gracious enough to not run away in terror. 

You would think the absurdity ends there, but it doesn't. I abandoned the poppers for a while, but the unfinished task bothered me. Those jalapenos had gotten the best of me. I had promised in the Facebook event invitation that there would be jalapeno poppers. SO GODDAMMIT, I was going to finish. I just wouldn't touch my face.

So I made them. And they were delicious, stuffed with a cream cheese and spicy mustard blend, and wrapped in bacon. They were gone in minutes. Everyone enjoyed the food, drank beer, watched the game. After a rocky start, the party ended up being okay, more than okay. 

Then about an hour after everyone left, my fingers started tingling and not in a good way. Tingling transitioned swiftly into burning and a Google search of "finger burns from peppers" confirmed that I had "jalapeno hands." 

There were dozens of sites where people told stories similar to mine -- chopped or handled jalapenos and had burning hands as a result. But the problem was the everyone had different suggestions as to how to best relieve the pain. Based on internet suggestions, I tried soaking my hands in:

--cold milk
--vegetable oil
--hot water with dishwasher soap
--lemon juice
--nail polish remover

Cold milk worked best, but only temporarily -- I soaked my hands for literally two hours but the second I took them out, the burning came back. Around 1am, I needed to try to find a solution in order to sleep. I couldn't bring a bowl of cold milk into bed with me (though I'm sure my cat would have been psyched). One woman on a website insisted that urine (because of the acid) would do the trick. I considered peeing on my hands. It was a dark hour.

But I didn't. And then another "natural" remedy caught my eye: saliva. As one commenter astutely noted, your mouth doesn't burn for hours when you eat jalapenos, so it must be doing something right.

I climbed into bed warily. And started sucking on my fingers. And holy Jesus, IT WORKED. The miracle of science!  My mouth did burn a little, but it was nothing compared to the pain on my fingers. Saliva is strong shit, man! After about thirty minutes of licking and sucking on my hands (yes, I know, gross), the pain subsided enough for me to pass out. And when I woke the next morning, it was totally gone.

Jalapeno hands. I don't recommend them.

Crying at the gym

I know you've probably heard numerous people say they hate the gym, but I really think I hate it more than anyone else. For instance, have you ever heard of someone sobbing uncontrollably while working out? Well, now you have.

Let me back up.

Every time I move to a new city, I face the decision of whether or not to join a gym.  I belonged to Crunch (R.I.P.) my first two years in New York, and actually faithfully went a few times a week, then New York Sports Club (which I think I literally went to twice in two years). In Boston, I did yoga at a studio in my neighborhood and, in my final months, joined GymIt, a bare-bones $20/month no-commitment gym.

Here in Chicago, my roommate is a member at Fitness Formula Club and there's a location literally across the street from where we live. I hemmed and hawed and toured the place and finally decided to join. My biggest issue so far is that everyone I see at this gym is already perfectly in shape. I'm the only one who looks like I need to be there. And the classes have been all over the place -- I went to a step aerobics class that was kind of advanced (I couldn't keep up with the choreo so I just gave up and just started doing my own thing) and then a yoga class that was annoyingly remedial.

The sobbing came about during my one free session with a personal trainer, a chipper, well-meaning 5'3" man named Juan who speaks so quickly and with such a heavy accent that I only catch about 1/3 of what he says to me. Juan did an assessment of my strength prior to our session, in which it was determined that I basically have none.

I was dreading our actual session and I didn't really understand why until after I broke down crying in between sets of squats and these horrible things called "plank scissors." You see, the gym reminds me of all the humiliation I felt growing up due to being the most unathletic person on the planet.

You think I'm exaggerating, but seriously, I'm the worst. I'm not strong. I don't have good hand-eye coordination or balance. I've never been fast and once my boobs came in, it was clear I never would be. I'm flexible, hence my ability to do yoga, but that's my only physical gift. And from age to 6 to 18, I was reminded on a daily basis in gym class how inept I was. And when you're a kid, being good at sports = being good at life. Everyone sees how good/bad you are in gym. I may have been getting good grades, but I wasn't able to really brag about that. And every time I was introduced to a new sport, I felt this desperate glimmer of hope: maybe this will be the one I'm good at. So what that I couldn't play tennis, maybe soccer would be my sport. Ok, soccer's not my thing, but maybe I'll surprise everyone and be an amazing basketball player in spite of my petite stature. Or hey, maybe my stocky legs and broad shoulders will make me a total animal on the swim team.

But just like in a Richard Yates story, I experienced soul-crushing disappointment when I failed. The inner monologue of "I suck" returned with a vengeance. And what I have realized is that all those feelings come back, PTSD-style, when I'm at the gym. Just walking into the facility makes my heart race and my palms sweat. All my successes in life recede and I'm back in 4th grade, picked last for kickball AGAIN. All I can think about is how ridiculous I must look, flailing around on whatever equipment I happen to be on. How hopeless I am and what a waste of time it is for me to work out, when who I am kidding, I'm never going to be toned and firm. Italian women are soft and curvy, so I'm fighting an uphill battle against my genes.

Juan didn't really do anything wrong. He just happened to be there when I was at my most vulnerable and he was pushing me, which is his job. But something snapped and the next thing I knew, I was blubbering about being out of shape and having a shitty metabolism and apologizing for how much I sucked at all the exercises he was teaching me. I was BAWLING. On the floor. At the gym. Juan felt so bad he offered me a bunch of free sessions. I politely declined.

I will keep going, but one-on-one with a trainer is too much pressure. I prefer the anonymity of group classes or machines where I can watch TLC shows like "Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss" and "Teen Moms" and feel a little less bad about myself.

CrystalPhoenix vs. Kittencat3

This was sent to me this morning by a friend who enjoys reading the comment tirades posted in response to articles on Boston.com, the Boston Globe's website. To preface the comment conversation, he wrote: "For the most part (as one might expect) people who tend to comment on internet articles are generally bitter, misanthropic, prejudiced, etc. Favorite targets for disdain include 'liberals'; the ACLU; immigrants;'pinky ring union thugs' who take advantage of 'taxpayers'; women; 'Barry' Hussein Obama; etc. (and et al.)"

The inciting article in this case is about the sudden disintegration of seemingly stable marriages: http://www.boston.com/news/local/articles/2010/05/30/marriage_reaches_an_end_but_she_never_saw_it_coming/

and it led to this incredible internet exchange:

CrystalPhoenix wrote:

Well, I walked away from my wife at age 40.

But no warning?

We went through counseling, twice. My wife had several stints in counseling. There were vicious, nasty fights for the entirety of the marriage. She wasn't interested in intimacy any more five years before I left, and booted me out of the bedroom entirely (I snored more than she liked, you see) three years before.

Indeed, there was another woman by the end. Someone who shared the hobbies that my wife disparaged. Someone who wanted me in her bed. Someone whose idea of interaction wasn't screaming. Someone who genuinely did want children. Someone who didn't feel that poking me awake at 8 AM on the weekends (1st wife was a morning lark, I was an insomniac who liked to sleep in on the weekends) was very fair. Someone who liked camping, diners, down to earth entertainments.

Ten years later, I'm married to that woman, quite happily. Funny thing: she finds my snoring quite comforting.

Kittencat3 wrote:

CrystalPhoenix is my husband, and he's lying.

Why is he lying?

Let's see…

- We engaged in exactly three counseling sessions, during which he refused to yield an inch.

- The "vicious, nasty fights" were over him lying about money (once to the tune of over $4,000), having affairs (one of which gave ME an STD, another of which sent him to California ostensibly on business), and refusal to have sex.

- Far from refusing to have sex, I literally begged him, on hands on knees, for sex, touching and intimacy. He shoved me out of his bed on a vacation because he wanted to watch wrestling.

- Far from refusing to have children, I went on prenatal vitamins, lost thirty pounds, and again, begged him for sex and intimacy. His response: faking impotence, to the point of faking appointments at an endocrinologist and monthly testosterone shots.

- His sleep apnea was so bad I couldn't sleep. And since he wasn't employed, I needed to sleep so I'd keep my job and we could eat. Again, I begged him to go to a doctor so he wouldn't drop dead in his forties, especially since he's an insomniac. His response? Whining about how mean and cruel I was for asking him to get up at 9:00 or 10:00 or 11:00 so we could actually do something on Saturday.

- I enjoyed camping and go myself on the weekends. What I didn't enjoy was the LARP he was in, where his girlfriends treated me like dirt and I had nothing to do.

- I like diners, just the way he does.

- I don't know what he means by "down to earth entertainments," but if he means professional wrestling, *I* was the one who asked him if he wanted to watch with me…after he'd spent weeks playing computer games (one of which included his mistress) and ignoring me completely.

- The only hobby of his that I "disparaged" was the live action roleplaying game where he spent 20 weekends a year pretending to be a wizard while I stayed home. He, on the other hand, called me going to graduate school "meaningless bibble" and told me he'd divorce me if I went on to study for the ministry. I backed off from school to save my marriage, and two years later he left anyway for a woman half his age.

- He was engaged to his second wife before he left me…which he did by taking $11,000 that I'd inherited, the living room furniture, his clothes, his cat, his books, some furniture that had been mine as a child, and leaving me a two page bullet point memo which addressed NONE of the problems he's aired in public. He also threatened to cut off contact with his own mother if she gave me his address or phone number.

The best thing he ever did was leaving me. At least now I don't have to worry that the bills aren't paid, the house won't be seized for back taxes, and the jealous husband of one his girlfriends won't show up with a gun.

************************************************************************

Wow. Does it get any worse than admitting that you begged for sex from a snoring, philandering wannabe wizard? I think the lesson here is that shared love of diners and pro-wrestling does not a lasting union make.

Hell hath no fury...

...you know the rest. Basically, chicks don't like to be scorned. Ever. And if you scorn a woman writer? You're just asking for it, really.

Case in point: my friend Julie Klausner's new book I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. Julie is a very funny lady with whom I had the pleasure of working with on a few different occasions while living in NYC. And her book is a very enjoyable read, especially if you're newly single like me and a little bit cynical about those copious fish in the proverbial sea everyone's always raving about.

Julie's book inspired me to reflect on some of my dating snafus. Now, I don't want to be rude and I know that some of my exes read my blog, so I won't use names. I'm not a total bitch. Here, in no particular order and for your schadenfreudic pleasure, are some of the less-than-stellar moments from my love life:

1) A month before my 21st birthday, I broke up with the guy I'd been dating. In the spirit of trying to be "just friends," I invited him to my birthday party, which was held in my dorm. He decided it would be a good idea to show up with another girl and have sex. In my room. On my desk chair. Classy, right?

2) Meanwhile, also at this party, a guy I'd gone out with once and not even so much as kissed showed up very drunk and then disappeared. I thought he went home. Then when my friends were carrying me to my bed (I'd had, ahem, a bit to drink), we found him: He had stripped down to his boxers and was (presumptuously) waiting for me in my bed. Or at least he had been until he passed out. My friends had to wake him up, hand him his pants, and show him the door. There was no second date.

3) A roommate who worked as a bartender was really excited to set me up with this guy who frequented her bar. She insisted we would hit it off and arranged a group outing where we could meet. He showed up and seemed perfectly nice. When he found out I was from Missouri, he got excited and said, "Oh, then you'll totally appreciate this." He pulled out his cell phone, which had a Confederate Flag cover. Like this:


I laughed nervously and said, "Ironic, right?" He shook his head and said gravely, "No, it's not like that." Two possibilities: 1) he truly believes the South shall rise again or 2) he didn't know what "ironic" meant. Both were kind of deal-breakers, as was his comment later that evening about lesbians being "awesome." I mean, they are, duh, but when you're a straight guy who's clearly never met an actual lesbian, it doesn't quite count.

4) I haven't had many one-night-stands, but one that I did have yielded one of my very best stories. I already wrote about this incident on a sex blog, so click here to read it.

5) I broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day and unfortunately, his belated V-Day gift to me was already in transit (but had not yet arrived). Now, I know for a fact he bought and sent this BEFORE we broke up, so considering that, the gift's message is amazingly prescient:


That's right, I got a T-shirt telling me to "bug off" just days after my bf and I had essentially, albeit in politer terms, said the same thing to each other. Also funny is the fact that said T-shirt (the top half of pajamas) is size small, meaning that despite having unlimited access to my breasts for 2+ years, this guy still thought I was a size small. Strange.

6) I once invited a boy I'd hooked up with a few times over for dinner. I was trying upgrade our relationship from drunken fumbling to something more meaningful. He showed up for dinner 45 minutes late, completely tanked. He actually had been at a bar about a block from my house drinking with friends. Then, throughout dinner, he proceeded to repeatedly check his phone and respond to text messages. It was pretty insulting, especially considering I had spent a good part of my day cooking on his behalf -- and cooking risotto, which takes FOREVER. Ugh. At least I got some good leftovers out of it.

I'm sure this year will bring some more entertaining dating stories, and hopefully some with less ridiculous endings. I'm considering venturing into the world of online dating-- I even created a profile on the free site OKCupid, only to freak out an hour later and take it down. I just want to find/be found by someone without having to look for them...and as I type that, I realize how incredibly lazy that makes me sound. Hmmm.

Napkins = my nemesis

The hardest part of a new restaurant job for me is not learning table numbers or the names of the kitchen staff. I have a great short-term memory and can recite daily specials till I'm blue in the face. No, the thing I absolutely dread every time I get hired by a restaurant is.....

napkin folding.

Every restaurant has their own way of doing it. And it always takes me much longer than it should to master it. It's like there's a gap in my brain -- things start misfiring and I just can't make the napkin look the way it's supposed to. I'm earning a master's degree and yet the simple task of folding a napkin becomes Herculean when under the watchful eye of whatever server is training me. It doesn't matter how deftly I can refill butter ramekins or polish water glasses. She will lose all respect for me as soon as she sees me try to fold napkins.

As far as I can tell. the skill involved with napkin folding has something to do with spatial reasoning, which I apparently was born without. Spatial reasoning is "the ability to visualize spatial patterns and mentally manipulate them" and is pretty essential for engineers and architects. The Wikipedia entry also states that it is "important for generating and conceptualizing solutions for multi-step problems that arise in everyday life." Great.

This has all been on my mind lately because I finally got hired by a legitimate, well-run, upscale restaurant: Lineage. I'm incredibly happy now that "Dos" didn't hire me. I've done two training shifts at Lineage and no one seems to have noticed my napkin-folding disability yet....but it's only a matter of time. I can only hope that by the time they catch wise, I will have won them over with my charm. The napkins at Lineage appear to be rather simply folded -- if I had shown up for training and seen something like this--

-- I probably would have turned in my bistro apron then and there. Just looking at that picture stresses me out.

Curious about your own spatial reasoning aptitude? Take this free online test to find out your spatial ID.

Menupages FAIL, Child Trafficking WIN

From menupages.com:

As my friend Dave surmised, "In this tough economy, exotic kids have to be priced to move!"

Special thanks to Tim Cooper for LOLgraphics assistance.

Credit card instructions FAIL

but, one could argue, Stripping WIN:

Photo courtesy of Mike Pincus, taken yesterday at the AMC Loews Boston Common 19.

Communication FAIL, again

Because I write (freelance) for a small Smithsonian publication, I am technically a government contractor and thus, had to join the Central Contractor Registry, or CCR. But the e-mail that I just received from CCR pretty much sums up my problem with the federal government. I mean, can you make heads or tails out of this?

Dear CCR Registrant:

Beginning on December 21, 2008 through July 01, 2009, all Central Contractor Registration (CCR) Primary and Alternate Points of Contact (POC) updating their CCR registrations will be instructed to convert their Trading Partner Identification Number (TPIN) login to a self-assigned User ID and Password.

This enhancement (i.e., Release 4.08.2.3) includes the option to invite or assign multiple Maintenance POCs. Maintenance POCs will also have the ability to access and update the registration. The CCR Primary and Alternate POCs may remove Maintenance POCs at anytime. NOTE: All email notifications generated by CCR will continue to be sent to the CCR Primary and Alternate POCs. No emails will be sent to the Maintenance POCs.

CCR Primary and Alternate POCs who manage multiple DUNS registrations will be able to associate those registrations to one User ID and Password.

Thank you,
The CCR Group

BS-SP1

I *think* all this e-mail is saying is that I have to come up with a username and password for the CCR site. So why couldn't they have just said that? Seriously, Barack Obama better get on this shit pronto.

Communication FAIL

I received this note from my management company on Tuesday. It was slipped under my door.

This is to inform you that on December 11, 2008, we will be performing a spot check inspection for the presence of crawling insects in your unit. Our maintenance personnel will be accompanying an employee from Waltham Services. You don't need to be home while this work is being performed. Thank you.

Um....where to begin. My first thought was, "CRAWLING INSECTS???? WHERE???? AHHHHHHH" but then I realized that I hadn't seen any. Then I started thinking about the specificity of "crawling" insects, as in not flying, meandering, loitering, or tap-dancing. Just crawling.

When I came home after this inspection took place, I realized that "crawling insects" was actually a euphemism for bed bugs, since the "personnel" stripped the sheets off my bed (and didn't remake the bed, thank you very much). There was nothing to indicate whether the presence of crawling insects was or was not detected in my apartment.

The note slipped under my door reminded me of an e-mail I received when I was working at an upper east side museum. It was sent to all staff, from the maintenance/facilities manager. It said:

As many of you have noticed a fowl smell in the building. This is due to a crack pipe and we are working on it now. The smell is not toxic waste, just ground water from the garden. Smell should dissipate very shortly. Sorry for the inconvenience.

There are so many remarkable things about this e-mail, which is why I saved a copy of it (it was sent on March 30, 2006). The image of a chicken smoking crack, for one. But also, the reassuring statement that the smell is not "toxic waste." Most puzzling to me is the correct usage/spelling of "dissipate" in an e-mail that starts with both a sentence fragment and a homonym error (foul/fowl). Curious.

But lest you think I'm a snob, let me assure you that I make communication blunders all the time. Just this week, I had an embarrassing text message gaffe. In my phone, there are two Josh Gs: one is a new friend and fellow blogger and the other is recording artist Josh Groban.

Why do I have his number? Well, in the summer of 1997, we both attended Interlochen Arts Camp and became friends. We also briefly dated, but then I broke up with him (to date someone else). My mother still laments this decision and is holding out hope that someday Josh and I will reconnect. Clearly, we had a strong bond at age 16:


(sidenote: why am I making that face? And why did no one tell me that baggy flannels were not the best way to showcase my figure?)

We are still sort of in touch, technically-- and he very generously has given me tickets to some of his shows. Let me tell you, it's odd to stand in a sea of squealing tweens and their moms and see someone you know on stage at Madison Square Garden.

Anyway, the communication faux pas happened on Thursday, when I meant to text the other Josh G. about meeting up at a bar, and accidentally texted Josh Groban. He sent me a very confused reply, which I received the following morning at 5:36 a.m. At first, I was like, why is Josh Groban up that early? Then I realized he's probably touring in Asia or something and got my text at an ungodly hour. It's probably karmically fair that I am doomed to make an ass of myself with Josh for the rest of eternity.

Sorry, Mom.