Last weekend I roasted my first turkey. Or rather, I roasted a turkey for the first time. My first turkey was probably something like 25 years ago at this point.
But I digress.
While the turkey is certainly a notch in my cooking belt, and removing the neck and giblets is a notch that I'd prefer not to think about again, it doesn't make me cooler in any real, any cool, sense of the word.
Not in the way being able to climb a mountain would. And I'm not talking like this:
I'm talking like this:
Or even just like this:
Other things that would make me instantly and infinitely cooler:
Not only knowing how to play poker, but being really good at it.
Also necessary for this to happen: Learn how to shuffle a deck of cards.
It should tell you something about how cool I am that I even have to include this point. But it's true, I am unable to shuffle a deck of cards. Incidentally, a friend of ours attempted to teach me to both shuffle and to pump my own gas in the same weekend one summer. Only one stuck. Since I've included multiple posts about driving in this blog and exactly zero about my card prowess, you can take a guess which one.
Being fluent enough in another language that I can pun in it.
I specify the pun part not because I have a weakness for puns-- or just a weak sense of humor-- but because I think being able to pun in another language shows the true depth of understanding and nuance necessary to call yourself fluent. Feel free to challenge me on this one.
Dance. Even remotely like a normal person.
For a general idea of my dancing ability and my attitude towards it, you can check out this documentary:
Look, I'm okay with dancing to the oldies, but when it comes to any music made from disco time on, and that doesn't involve a refrain about the swamps of Jersey, then I can't dance to it. David can dance. David not only can dance, but he does dance. I usually circle around him, stomping like Rumpelstiltskin. We are not destined for either the clubs or for any of those hipster dance parties I keep hearing about.
Being really good at pool.
True story: At some point in college Maggie and I decided that we wanted to become really good at pool. So we went to the student center every night and practiced. We get pretty good. We go to a bar. There's a pool table, and we decide to play. Turns out, the pool tables in the student center were basically Fisher Price- brand, and not exactly regulation-sized. We get CREAMED.
This failure was only further reinforced during graduation. My family was in town, of course, and we were wandering around looking for somewhere to eat lunch that wasn't crowded. We ended up in a small bar on Wickenden Street, where there was, incidentally, a pool table. "Want to play?" my dad asked me, oh-so-casually.
Daddy's paying attention to you! my mind screamed. Don't blow it!
"Sure," I replied, as I ran over to grab some pool sticks and managed to spill several glasses all over the floor.
So we play a quick game, and I do fairly well. Let's call it a tie. "Let's play again," he suggested. "But let's make a little bet."
"Sounds good!" I said confidently.
AND THEN MY FATHER HUSTLED ME.
Now admit it: not a single one of you out there read this post and thought, "hey, Katie can roast a turkey." Every single one of you read this post and thought either, "hey, Katie got hustled," or, possibly more likely, "Katie's dad sounds awesome."
UPDATE:
And so I make my case.
But I digress.
While the turkey is certainly a notch in my cooking belt, and removing the neck and giblets is a notch that I'd prefer not to think about again, it doesn't make me cooler in any real, any cool, sense of the word.
Not in the way being able to climb a mountain would. And I'm not talking like this:
 |
| Climb every mountain....get it?! |
I'm talking like this:
Or even just like this:
 |
| I'll settle for not being a Scientologist. |
Other things that would make me instantly and infinitely cooler:
Not only knowing how to play poker, but being really good at it.
 | ||
| Case in point. |
It should tell you something about how cool I am that I even have to include this point. But it's true, I am unable to shuffle a deck of cards. Incidentally, a friend of ours attempted to teach me to both shuffle and to pump my own gas in the same weekend one summer. Only one stuck. Since I've included multiple posts about driving in this blog and exactly zero about my card prowess, you can take a guess which one.
Being fluent enough in another language that I can pun in it.
I specify the pun part not because I have a weakness for puns-- or just a weak sense of humor-- but because I think being able to pun in another language shows the true depth of understanding and nuance necessary to call yourself fluent. Feel free to challenge me on this one.
Dance. Even remotely like a normal person.
For a general idea of my dancing ability and my attitude towards it, you can check out this documentary:
Look, I'm okay with dancing to the oldies, but when it comes to any music made from disco time on, and that doesn't involve a refrain about the swamps of Jersey, then I can't dance to it. David can dance. David not only can dance, but he does dance. I usually circle around him, stomping like Rumpelstiltskin. We are not destined for either the clubs or for any of those hipster dance parties I keep hearing about.
Being really good at pool.
True story: At some point in college Maggie and I decided that we wanted to become really good at pool. So we went to the student center every night and practiced. We get pretty good. We go to a bar. There's a pool table, and we decide to play. Turns out, the pool tables in the student center were basically Fisher Price- brand, and not exactly regulation-sized. We get CREAMED.
This failure was only further reinforced during graduation. My family was in town, of course, and we were wandering around looking for somewhere to eat lunch that wasn't crowded. We ended up in a small bar on Wickenden Street, where there was, incidentally, a pool table. "Want to play?" my dad asked me, oh-so-casually.
Daddy's paying attention to you! my mind screamed. Don't blow it!
"Sure," I replied, as I ran over to grab some pool sticks and managed to spill several glasses all over the floor.
So we play a quick game, and I do fairly well. Let's call it a tie. "Let's play again," he suggested. "But let's make a little bet."
"Sounds good!" I said confidently.
AND THEN MY FATHER HUSTLED ME.
Now admit it: not a single one of you out there read this post and thought, "hey, Katie can roast a turkey." Every single one of you read this post and thought either, "hey, Katie got hustled," or, possibly more likely, "Katie's dad sounds awesome."
UPDATE:
Kerry: dad also hustled ryan in pool
Kerry: when they were moving me back into south bend
Katie: did he really
Kerry: if it makes you feel better hahaha
yes
And so I make my case.
No comments:
Post a Comment