It’s complicated with Facebook and me.

On the one hand, I absolutely adore Facebook. I love that it allows me to stalk other people with such a peripatetic grace and ease. I love that I can peek into the not-so-secret nooks and crannies of other people’s often carefully curated versions of themselves. I love that Facebook is proof of Pavlov, that every time I see a little red number at the top of my status bar I'm reminded that I am NOT ALONE in my love of grumpy cat/ appreciation of an indie music video/ alignment of political belief, so much so that I salivate. Really. It’s kind of gross proof, but it’s proof nonetheless.

And then there’s this thing I do with Facebook, an automatic response, actually, to certain posts that I find offensive or dull-witted, that I like to call the digital eye roll. It's shameful but I love it. I’m almost certain I’m not alone in this, and though it’s not a very nice thing for me to talk about out loud, I’m totally subject to the basest of my instincts despite all my namastes and protestations to the contrary. Trust me, if I could sat nam my way out of being a bit of a bitch, I totally would, but alas, I cannot.

Here’s what makes my eyes roll involuntarily: masters of the humble brag (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE), and posts that ask others to withhold judgement. Really, isn’t the whole point in posting something to be judged, so the little red number pops up in the status bar and we salivate? Isn’t that what we’re asking for when we post vacation/ baby/ cat pictures/ political rants/ links to our annoying blog that we want you to read and participate in, a judgement? Facebook is 100% about this-- we are begging people for a reaction, and we don't get to ask for only a positive one. You don’t get approval without disapproval in the same way you can’t expect to be all things to all people. It’s simply an unnatural impossibility.

I actually find the judgement of it all kind of refreshing in this regard.

PostedApril 15, 2013

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriesbreakfast, desserts & sweet treats, vegetarian, dessert

Tagsbad blogger, breakfast-palooza!, breakfast for dinner, soupapalooza!, soup with a side of ennui, recipe, blueberry, blueberry compote, facebook narcissism, waffles, Facebook fail, it's complicated, let it go already

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Four New Year’s Eves ago I got dumped. Three birthdays ago I also got dumped, exactly one year and four days later, by a different guy for the first of what would later be two separate dumpings. I know, it’s a lot of math for an opening paragraph, but I hope you’ll bear with me.

Actually it was four New Year’s Eve eves ago, but for dramatic purposes I prefer to tell the story with the dumping on the holiday as opposed to about the holiday. It’s neater, more horrifying and narratively tidier.

I had just returned from Texas and even though he had taken me to the airport on my way out of town, he had not called in several days, most notably not even on Christmas itself, and had not offered to pick me up outside of baggage claim or anywhere else for that matter. Expecting very little of both myself and of my paramours, I hadn’t bothered to call him, either, to get a real read on the situation, but had instead been “sitting on my hands” at the advice of a quack therapist that a close friend at the time based most of her life decisions on. A quack who, by the way, has since been on Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker, famously telling some poor girl, “men fall in love with virtues, not vaginas!” I totally beg to differ. Bitch may be Patti Stanger’s version of Mr. Miyagi, but I’m still giving her and her advanced old-age quackery my most fervent side-eye.

It was afternoon and I was looking forward to making plans for New Years Eve, even though if you (and by you I mean me) are still planning on making plans with a guy less than 24 hours before New Year’s Eve and he hasn’t brought it up, he’s probably not taking you to the Rainbow Room for dinner. In fact, you may not actually be dating him at all, even if you’re, like, totally sure you are.

PostedJanuary 25, 2013

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriesvegan, vegetarian, soup

Tagsscrew your pumpkin pasta, Freud Freud Freud!, recipe, carrot, It's not me? Oh yes it is., mt. dumpatoa, can be tailored vegan, let it go already, Raoul's, New Year's Eve eve blows, soup, Soho is now ruined forever for me, curry, lentils, soup with a side of ennui, soupapalooza!, vegetarian

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I had a nagging feeling this Monday morning when I woke up from a sleeping pill haze (an hour earlier, actually, thanks to the time change). I looked to my left and saw Monkey curled up in the crook of my rib and then I heard very loud, concentrated mewing emanating from Osama Beans Laden, a very persistent, totally annoying rescue kitten downstairs, so I knew everything was OK, but something was off (anybody want a really cute, neutered gray cat--he's 'ca(s)t'rati?)... like in Pretty in Pink when Andie and wacky Iona are discussing whether or not Andie should go to prom. Iona says, "I have this girlfriend who didn't go to hers, and every once in a while, she gets this really terrible feeling--you know, like something is missing. She checks her purse, and then she checks her keys. She counts her kids, she goes crazy, and then she realizes that nothing is missing. She decided it was side effects from skipping the prom."

But I didn't skip the prom, I actually went four times. Granted I never even got kissed at any one of them, so it could hardly count that I even went, but I did take a hit of ecstasy my Sophomore year and I danced up a storm while I tapped my acrylic nails rhythmically on a red solo cup full of rum and coke, so I have that going for me. Which is good. I also happened to wear a silver lamé sequined poufy gown that year and I tanned myself into oblivion which meant the only things keeping me from exactly resembling a baked potato were a of a pat of butter and a sprinkle of bacon bits dusted on my head (ugly but DELICIOUS!). Incidentally, I think the fact that the only thing that keeps lamé from being lame is a french accent. Never has anything been more appropriate.

As I started my hike Monday morning, it hit me. Sunday was the three year anniversary of soupapalooza! and I hadn't remembered.

PostedNovember 9, 2012

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriessoup

Tagsrecipe, thanks for souping, potatoes, kielbasa, soup, ritz crackers, soupaversary, sausage, positively piggy, soup with a side of ennui, soupapalooza!, baked potato prom dress, piggy piggy piggy, potato

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I have dreaded writing this post. So much so that I have waited until Thursday to actually use my fingers to strike the keys and compose a thought. All week long I’ve been thinking about cute little anecdotes to relay just how much my life is like this wacky, sexy little 30 minute dramedy on the WB (I still think I’m closer to 20 than to 40, by the way, and I definitely don’t think I’m cool cool or edgy enough for HBO since I’m not a vampire, a writer/shoe whore or a part of an all-male celebrity pack of roving, explosive testosterone). Sure I’ve suffered some dating disappointments and some career drama, but through sheer pluck and charm I am managing to have enlightening adventures and overcome it all in the neat, time allotted package. And at the end of this little episode, there is some kind of cute clarity or epiphany and then there is what is always needed to carry anyone to the next foray-- hope. The truth is a whole hell of a lot murkier than this. A lot less hopeful. The truth is, well, kind of antithetical to the life I’ve formulated for myself in my head. You know the one. The one where I’m just a late bloomer and I’m really adorable and really successful in my own slightly neurotic yet sweet way, and that people will certainly discover this about me very soon... the truth is not so simple or cute or formatted to fit your television.

I’ve kind of been living in the place where I want to have hope for my future like I did when I was graduating from college-- when any and everything was possible and laid at my feet, and even if a bad thing happened it would be a well earned lesson and a humorous story for future cocktail parties-- but I’m going to have to admit to myself, sooner or later, that I am living in a real, not made for TV world. A world where my OB/ GYN reduced me to tears during my last pelvic exam by telling me that I am-- shock of all shocks-- 38 years old and if I want to pass on my genes I should consider freezing my eggs for a mere 15 grand (for a college grad I am shockingly unaware of my lack of reproductive immortality and with the fact that money is necessary in the whole exchange for goods and services thing). And maybe I should be a little more honest about thinking that everyone gets a happy ending and that mine is just around the bend; maybe I should just recognize that my business just might fail, that I just might have to really downsize and that great love might not be on the horizon. It is so not a sexy or happy thought, but it is my truth; maybe the more I acknowledge and make friends with this reality the less shitty I’ll feel...

And back in reality... I was on my way to a BBQ at the house of the Girl Whose Name Sounds Better Pronounced as an Indian Food Dish when my car decided to basically blow up for the second time since March. I feel really lucky that I have a car, luckier that it chooses to function 99% of the time, and luckiest that it’s paid for. What I feel less good about is the crap English (even though it’s really a Ford) engineering and the fact that it is eight years old and skirts dangerously close to the whole explode at any time thing.

So I take the car in to the service center without an appointment, which already outs me as a manner-less ne’er do well, and I plop myself down on the couch in the lobby while I wait for a rental car. My service advisor lets me know that he’s going to go look for “overt” signs of trouble in the engine before I take off and I warn him that my car is, quite possibly, the dirtiest car in southern California, no judging please, I do take care of my possessions, really, not that he needs or cares to know any of this information. He comes back a few minutes later with a somewhat disdainful look on his face and his hands uncomfortably clenched (I can see through his pleated khakis) in his pockets.

PostedJune 16, 2010

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriessoup, positively piggy

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Sometimes it’s crystal clear when things are done and there is no need to ask the Magic 8 Ball for its opinion. Things can be burnt, they can be dry, the timer in a turkey can pop up or he could have given someone else an engagement ring-- take your pick, they’re all excellent indicators. I like to think I don’t need to read tea leaves to figure out what the universe is trying to tell me by BANGING ME OVER THE HEAD. I like to think I can just use those god-given magical five senses to determine whether or not something is cooked.

I was hanging out in Gray Gardens, also known as my couch when it is strewn with potato chip bags, coffee cups and a sleeping cat between my knees, when I got a call from the Bossy Blonde in her “thinking chair” from the west village. I desperately need a thinking chair, by the way, and the conversation went a little something like this:

“So [Chef Kenobi] and I were having drinks last night and he asked me if you were obsessed with soup. He said, ‘what’s her deal? Is she going to make soup every Sunday for the rest of her life?’ And I wondered about that, too. I mean it’s not like you gave yourself a year deadline to cook through Mastering the Art of French Cooking and blog about it, thank God, since it’s already been done and Amy Adams was so annoying in it.”

buttermilk waffles with blueberry compote: It's complicated in my relationship with Facebook

curried lentil soup: if I were a landmark I might be called Mt. Dumpatoa

potato kielbasa soup: sometimes you eat the potato, sometimes you look like the potato

aged cheddar and belgian ale: taking the soup of shame after feeling like Pig Pen (or the kid who smelled in first grade) because of the rat in my engine compartment

mulligatawny: when to say when

Why? Because soup is cheap, delicious and easy. Kind of like me.

a weekly attempt to eat well and to savor life. or to see how much food I can get on my clothes.