Feeling the heat

Posted on Tuesday, June 19, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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O enemy mine: The thermostat at our place

This weekend had people and their pets panting. This weekend, ice-cream makers all over the north state were clapping their hands in glee. This weekend it was so hot people were willing to make friends with that weird guy who smells like fungus and thinks he can play the digeridoo because his apartment complex has a pool. Yes, it was that hot.

Of course, this was also the weekend our air-conditioning unit was broken. Saturday wasn’t too bad as we were out and about most of the day, and during the afternoon a kind friend let us take shelter in a home with working a/c.

But eventually we had to come home. Even with all the windows open and the ceiling fans going, it was still a muggy mess. Bjorn and I couldn’t snuggle as any fleshy contact was contaminated with sweat within minutes.

Sunday dawned bright and hot as well. The heat was paralyzing. I lay in bed for as long as possible, as still as possible, before dragging myself off to work.

On Monday, the a/c repair guy showed up. I almost missed him as I was in a stupor from the heat. But the thought of having to endure one more day of an a/c-less existence had me up and running just as the sound of the door bell was fading away. I wrenched open the door with such desperate force that he stopped in his tracks, though he was already 20 feet away. (He must have sensed the desperation of someone who is running dangerously low on ice-cream).

After some hammering and banging in the attic, air, gloriously cool air, began to pour forth from the vents once more.

The savage beast in me subsided. Gone were the thoughts of smacking every object around me in a 3-foot radius. Cancelled was the plan to find the maker of vinyl seats and make her/him listen to my deafening cacaphony of rage. Even my hair calmed down from its outraged humidity pouf into something with a semblance of normality.

Fire? Eh. Printing press or the polio vaccine? Bah. Only air conditioning, sweet sweet air conditioning, could really move civilization forward.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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In Hindsight: The Lesson Never Learned

Posted on Thursday, June 14, 2012 by Jammie Karlman

Bjorn and I have a terrible habit.

You would probably never guess it just to look at us, but we do it fairly frequently, and at some cost to ourselves— physically, mentally and financially.

We know the consequences are terrible: we have suffered headaches, nausea and pain so intense we thought about actually calling 9-1-1. But promises break, steely wills shatter and strategies are futile once we are within sight of our temptation. We don’t ever feel good about ourselves afterward, and yet we keep doing it.

We keep eating at buffets.

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Bjorn at a buffet in S. Korea

6326-jammie buffet-thumb-450x603-6325.jpgMe at a buffet in Reno, Nev.

Or rather: We keep gorging ourselves at buffets. Two or three plates of food are not enough—we must strive for that fifth plate to “make it really worth it.”

We have stopped fighting it, and give ourselves over to it completely now. On appointed buffet days, it goes without saying that we will fast for most of the day to ensure maximum appetite. I wear a billowing tunic (aka “an eating dress”) that allows my sides and stomach to expand. Bjorn pulls his shirt out, I put my hair up and we go to town.

Recently, we found ourselves at Hometown Buffet. Bjorn was on quite the roll. Before I was even done with the two plates of food I had brought back with me, he was on his third. After my third plate, the skin was stretched taut over my distended tummy. I got up and staggered a few laps around the restaurant in an effort to settle my stomach, earning me some concerned glances from the other patrons and open-mouthed staring from their kids. Finally, after piling 3 more small plates with dessert, Bjorn said, “Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us.

“No one is ever proud to have gone to Hometown Buffet.”

He was right, of course. I just wish he hadn’t said it while we were still inside the restaurant… within earshot of our server.

We finally made it outside. I was literally doubled over by the weight of my belly. I could not stand up straight. I wanted to curl up on the sidewalk and lay there for a long, long time. Bjorn convinced me to keep walking through the parking lot, albeit severely hunched over. A young girl inside a minivan kept staring at me with genuine concern. The minivan slowed as it rolled up to us. I thought they might stop and call 9-1-1 but apparently the crazed look of pain on my face overwhelmed their compassion and they drove away.

I have asked myself why I can’t stop when I am comfortably full. I have argued to myself that 2 plates, with a small plate of salad and another one of dessert IS enough to justify the cost. I have pointed out that all the pain and self-loathing I go through afterward aren’t worth it.

And yet…

The body will forget all the pain, the mind disavow the shame, the swollen stomach subside. And sometime in the near future, I know I will say, “Hey, I hear there’s a good new buffet…”

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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The Interweb – Part II: The Return

Posted on Tuesday, June 12, 2012 by Jammie Karlman

Now that we have Internet access again, I have re-discovered both its pleasures and its pains.

The Good
When Bjorn and I first got married, we agreed to not get a TV. “TV takes up so much of your time,” we reasoned, “ergo, if we don’t get a TV, we will save ourselves time.”

I did save myself time… which I then promptly used to watch TV shows on the computer.

I admit it: I like spending a portion of my day sitting like a lump being entertained. Some of you might say, “That time would be better off spent cooking/cleaning/learning a new language/exercising/feeding the homeless/reading/studying/doing anything else.” To those people I say, “Yes, you are right.”

And I don’t care.

I have no defense. I like the mindlessness that comes with watching a flickering screen. We may not have a TV, but the Internet allows me to still indulge in my favorite sport of zoning out. I especially loves me some hulu.com. TV shows and movies–for free!! (“The Queen is being offered right now. No, really.)

Plus, as mentioned in the last post, I can check my account balances with ease and look things up quickly — all without leaving my place or interacting with people. Huzzah!

The Bad
While I love hulu.com, it has not escaped the bane of commercials. If anything, commercials might be worse on hulu.com than on TV as there seems to be less variety.

Of particular irritation to me is this commercial from Chase.

This commercial grates on me, perhaps irrationally so, for its attempt at being cutesy and assumption that the viewing audience has an IQ level a shade above moron.

Here’s how I think the ad execs came up with this idea:
Ad exec 1: “What sells stuff? Kids and animals!”
Ad exec 2: “Let’s use a lion. Lions are awesome. It’s pretty expensive, but we can shoot it in black and white and tell people we’re going for an arty, timeless feel.”
Ad exec 1: “We can save even more money by mostly using music from this synthesizer I got at a garage sale. Check out “Rhythm #3.”
Ad exec 2: “Super Awesome! Hey, can we put my friend Bob’s kid in this?”
Ad exec 1: “Isn’t that kid 10?? Wouldn’t it be cruel to cast her? She’ll end up looking mentally slow.”
Ad exec 2: “Naw, it’s cool. She just wants to be on TV.”

Maybe Chase wanted the subtext to be, “Look how fiscally responsible the bank is being by not spending a lot on a commercial (read: “Get off our backs, Occupy protesters)” but to me the message that’s coming through is: Chase is cheap and lazy.

AND THEY PLAY THIS COMMERCIAL ALL THE TIME. Every time I see it, I hate it more.

But perhaps the worst thing about the Internet is also its best quality (why must this always be so?): The Internet is, for better or worse, distracting.

Case in point: I had just turned on “Enchanted April” on hulu.com when I began to feel peckish. I grabbed a slice of cheese pizza and stuck it in the microwave for one minute.

Only I didn’t.

I must’ve hit an extra zero, but I didn’t realize it, so engrossed was I in catching every elegant, accented syllable (another irritation: sometimes the sound on hulu.com is not so great; I was literally hunkered over the computer, trying to catch what they were saying).
I didn’t even realize a minute had passed without a ding—or five. I didn’t even remember I had a slice of pizza in the microwave until the horrible stench of something burning invaded the room.

The pizza, of course, was a goner. But even worse than no snack was the smell. After 4 days of countless sprays of air freshener, leaving the ceiling fan on, keeping the windows open and deoderizing the microwave three times, the smell still lingers.

“Enchanted April” indeed.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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The Interweb – Part 1

Posted on Friday, June 8, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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Photo via fr.wikipedia.org
A photo of an eMac, the kind of computer we use at work. Apple discontinued them in 2006. IN 2006.

Our introductory offer up, my husband and I decided that $70 was really too much to be paying for the pleasure of email and hulu.com, especially as a kind neighbor was allowing access to his Internet provider for free. However, he turned ungracious (or as some might say, wised up) and this avenue to the world wide web also closed off.

So there we were. Without the Internet. (I’ll let the shock and horror of this moment sink in.)

At first, I put up a brave front: “Oh, we’ll be alright, we can use the computers at work and Bjorn has a smartphone!”

But my work computer is so old I think Methusaleh might have played “Pong” on it and if I breathed quietly I swear I could hear the creaks of the treadmill the mice were on. I soon tired of webpages telling me I needed to update my browser/flash player/entire operating system and waiting five minutes for pages to load (just try sitting there for five minutes watching a spinning beachball of death and see if you, too, don’t end up careening around the room emitting high-pitched shrieks while flailing your arms.)

I would wake up in the (what I loosely define as) morning and stare blankly at the ceiling: What ever was I going to do today? It was too hot to go outside and gas was too expensive to drive needlessly. True, I finally had time to read, but most of the books at our place are from Bjorn’s personal library and have titles like, “From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Years of Western Cultural Life” and “The 4-Hour Body.” My tastes run more to books commonly found under the heading “Summer Sizzlers” and “Pop-Up.”

I read through our magazines in about a day and more than once I turned on the computer and held my breath while the AirPort scanned for available networks. Sometimes I would see full bars on the wifi sensor thingy (a technical term, I’m sure) and excitedly open my browser, only to be thwarted by a network that was unlocked but still required a password (fie on you, “Baker House-guest”!).

Finally, I resorted to cleaning: I scrubbed the kitchen floor, cleaned the bath tub, polished the dining table, washed drapes. Things were straightened up, put away and organized so much that it didn’t even look like people lived here.

While the entertainment aspect of the Internet was surely a big part of my life, I was shocked at how many really useful things I could not do. Without the Internet, things just get so physical.

For example, I’m an almost-obsessive bank account checker. (It’s a quirk of mine— I like to know how much I have in there before I spend money.) With the Internet, my fingers would fly across the computer’s keys as I checked my account (at least once a day) and would take what, maybe a minute of my time? Without the Internet, that same act involved serious physical exertion: getting dressed to be fit for outside society, walking to and getting in my car and driving to my nearest bank branch for the information. I took for granted the ease with which I could do research on restaurants, celebrity trivia and dream symbols (it’s amazing how often these things come up).

It does flabbergast me that so many things I didn’t even know existed while growing up have almost complete control of my life now, like cellphones, computers and yes, the Internet. Back in my day, I walked 5 miles to school in the sun/snow/rain with no shoes and only a banana leaf to cover my head. (Actually no, that never happened, but putting that in there just felt right (although I did walk several blocks once in a while to get to a candy store; and once, when I was a teenager, I took a bus at night to the downtown library. True story)).

I used to to think that I would like to live in a cabin by a lake for the summer, but now I realize that’s crazy talk unless said cabin has cellphone reception and is situated in a WiFi hotspot. It boggles my mind to think there are actual people out there without access to the Internet.

But I bet they have some seriously clean houses.

Part II–Return of the Interweb!

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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Dollar Makes You Holler – Hello Kitty mirror/brush/awesomeness

Posted on Tuesday, June 5, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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While perusing the $1 bins at Target, I stumbled across this gem. While I was fully prepared to buy it because a.) it’s yellow; b.) it has Hello Kitty on it; c.) it’s only a dollar; I was floored to discover it was actually a useful item. Open it up and on one side there’s a mirror, perfect for quickly scanning for unnecessary items in your teeth/nose/eyes/(your call).

On the other side, a brush pops out with a little push. Ingenious. It’s the perfect size for traveling, another tick in its favor as the one item I always seem to forget to pack is a comb (and considering the state my hair, this is tragic, indeed).

You know how else I know it’s a good buy? Little girls were flocking to the item and it was almost all I could do to box them out.

Hello Kitty brush/mirror found at Target,1951 East 20th Street, Chico, CA

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Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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In Hindsight: The test of true love

Posted on Thursday, May 31, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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The scene of some odiferous crimes

Say what you will about taking a bullet for your beloved or walking through flames for your paramour; I say: Can you fart in front of each other?

When Bjorn and I first started dating, we actually had a conversation about this topic. Or rather, he said, “Let’s never fart in front of each other.” About three days later, he broke this convention — LOUDLY.

Since then, the emission of pernicious fumes in front of each other has been free and a continued source of humor and occasional gagging.

I have been known to emit gases so unpleasant that one unfortunate sniffer said with sincere horror, “It smells like death.” Not that Bjorn is any better. With him, it’s more than just “breaking wind”- it’s breaking your face, maybe even the ecosystem within a one-mile radius.

So we’re a terrible tooting team, but it’s been OK as most of the funk releasing has been contained to private spaces (mostly the bed, after which there is vigorous flapping of the sheets; or the car, after which there is loud and exaggerated protests and dramatic rolling down of windows). Any public flatulence is reserved for wide-open, sparsely populated, well-ventilated spaces.

Until recently.

We were eating dinner in my break room. The break room is fairly large, and traffic through the room is occasional; it’s rare to have more than 2 people in the room at the same time. Lingering time is minimal; most people pick up a snack or microwave something and are out the door in less than 5 minutes.

I don’t know what it was—maybe the sandwich I’d had earlier, the four cookies, something in the quinoa we were now eating—but I released a fart so foul it actually brought tears to the eyes.

Bjorn and I laughed about it and did the requisite fake vomiting noises. But before we could begin to flap the odor away, disaster struck: Someone I knew came in and started talking to us.

Had the air cleared yet? Was the smell still lingering? I tried to surreptitiously shift more weight onto my bottom, hoping to contain any leaks. Bjorn and I kept our game faces on and tried to hold a normal conversation, but without any eye contact lest we break into peals of hysterical laughter.

The conversation seemed to be going smoothly. Maybe my co-worker didn’t smell anything. Maybe the stench had dissipated. I started to relax…until someone else walked into the room and then promptly opened the sliding doors to go stand outside while microwaving his food.

Bjorn, the smooth operator that he is, stood up, and in doing so subtly led the person we were talking to away from the stench.

He’s a good man.

But I still say the real act of true love would have been for him to openly address the odiferant offense — and then claim it as his own.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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Dollar Makes You Holler – Cadbury Fruit and Nut

Posted on Tuesday, May 29, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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I know, I know. More chocolate. But this chocolate confection with internal delights brings back fond memories of my oldest brother. Growing up, the Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar was his favorite treat. We weren’t allowed to eat much candy when we were younger, so when he did get his hands on one of these, he was oh-so-careful with it. He would carefully peel back the foil wrapper and expose only one chocolate square at a time, which is how he ate it, to make it last longer. Then, he would carefully wrap the foil around the chocolate once again and try to hide it somewhere in the refrigerator so that his younger siblings wouldn’t eat it (although at the time, I was not a fan of fruit in my chocolate and wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. I was so foolish.) Of course, all the secrecy made us extra curious and we would stand in front of the refrigerator until either our mom yelled at us for keeping the fridge open or we could hear him coming, at which point we would hightail it out of there. These days, I willingly seek this candy out to consume it, and not just to annoy my oldest brother. Besides, how can you not like candy that has been approved by Her Majesty herself? Seriously, there’s a royal seal on it. That’s gotta be worth at least a dollar.

Found at the 99 Cent store, 2560 Notre Dame Boulevard, Chico, CA 95928

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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The Fat Tooth

Posted on Thursday, May 24, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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Photo by Jamet Woods

Costco pizza, how I love thee.

I had a scare recently.

I came home from work with a craving of such intensity it almost felt tangible. It started in my gut and reached it’s way into my brain (and no, these were not just hunger pangs). I’d never felt anything like it before. It was like the craving took over me entirely. I had an out of body experience as I watched myself careen around the kitchen in a frenzy. With the focus and drive I brought to the task, I probably could have learned a new language or come up with a solution to world peace. Instead, I baked lemon bars.

And then I ate half the pan.

I didn’t even wait for it to cool down enough to sprinkle powdered sugar on it. In a daze over the destruction I had done to the baked goods, I crawled into bed next to my husband. “Baby,” I said tugging at his arm.
“Mmmph,” he sleepily replied.
“I think I’m pregnant,” I said.
“What, really?” he said, alert and awake now.
I explained to him about how I had an intense craving, the likes of which I’d never felt before. And how I had stayed up to bake for 2 hours and then had eaten HALF A PAN OF LEMON BARS in one go.
“Oh baby,” he said, with sleep creeping into his voice again, “don’t try to blame that on pregnancy.”

He was right (although I realized that only after a couple intense minutes of screeching). I was not pregnant (and just to clarify, I am NOT pregnant. I repeat, NOT PREGNANT. I just like wearing billowing clothing), but I do have quite the predilection for pastries.

But now I realize it’s not just the sweets I crave, I like savory, too. My husband and I have been known to have slices of cheese pizza. As a snack.

Right after eating dinner.

Of the past nine entries I’ve written, five have been about food. And when I cook/bake, me and Paula Deen share the same sentiment: more butter is better.

I don’t just have a sweet tooth; I have a fat tooth.

Why does fat taste so good? According to this article by Sara Elliott, turns out there may actually be taste buds for fat. So besides salty, bitter, sour and sweet flavors, humans can taste savory and fat flavors. She argues there’s an advantage to being able to taste and enjoy the flavor of fat. “For most of the history of mankind, overeating hasn’t been much of a problem, but starvation has. Fat is easily converted into energy, and fats are also among the most calorie-dense dietary options on the planet, so a predisposition for eating fat might have meant the difference between surviving a harsh winter and perishing before spring,” Elliott writes.

I’m starting to feel more guilty about it though, especially as I’m seeing all these distressing reports on obesity, especially this disturbing one that obese teens can have heart damage without showing any signs. If it happens to teens, it can happen to adults.

Also, fat seems to act in the same way as drugs do, in that the more you consume fatty foods, the less sensitive you become to the taste of fat, and need higher amounts of fat to obtain the same pleasure as before, according to an article by Gary Wenk.

I think I’ll try to write about healthier things in the future, like broccolli.

Besides, it tastes really good with melted cheese on top.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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Dollar Makes You Holler! Dark Chocolate Reese’s PB cups

Posted on Tuesday, May 22, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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What on Earth could make Reese’s PB cups taste any better? Dark chocolate. (Also, bananas. RIP Elvis edition—which oddly enough, I also found at a 99 cent store once upon a time.)
The dark chocolate adds a shade more complexity to the flavor, adding just enough bite to counteract the sweetness (although who am I kidding, it’s still pretty sugary, which in all honesty, is why I eat it).
If you love Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, you will (most likely) love these as well. If you don’t like Reese’s PB cups, then you are a deviant with concrete taste buds and all association between you and I has been terminated. That is, until you bring a peace offering… of Reese’s Dark Chocolate PB cups.

Reese’s Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups found at the 99 Cent store, 2560 Notre Dame Boulevard, Chico, CA 95928

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

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In Hindsight: More than words

Posted on Friday, May 18, 2012 by Jammie Karlman
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My siblings and I, circa the “You’re all stupid” time

My husband and I have this game where we will take words and progressively mispronounce and inflect them until they sound nothing like the originals.

That’s how I knew we were family.

My nuclear Filipino family does it. Bjorn and his family do it. He and his sister have special names they call each other and use phrases known only to them (they call it Swedish, but whatever).

Among my siblings, the making up of words was born out of a sense of necessity. In our household, foul language of any kind was strictly prohibited. To give you a taste of the restrictions, calling someone “stupid” was a punishable offense. It was such a high level no-no, it was considered worse than many words of the 4-lettered variety.

(Which reminds me of a time when I was about 4-years-old. From the time they are born, Filipino babies are expected to perform and entertain others. So as was their wont, my parents had me stand in front of the television to sing a song for our gathered guests. I decided to sing “Jesus Loves Me.” All was going well until I got to the chorus. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember the words. I racked my brain in a panic. Who loved me? I thought of a name. Was it something the Bible would tell me is so? My baby mind reasoned that it was feasible. Proud that I had figured it out, I belted, “Yes, Mommy loves me/ Yes, Mommy loves me…”

Of course, everyone laughed. Mortified, I fled to my mother. I clasped my arms around her neck and buried my face in her hair. Then, I looked up, and from the safety of her loving arms, I looked around the room and shouted, “You’re stupid! YOU’RE stupid! You’re all stupid!” with pure, unadulterated, baby rage.

But I digress.)

As I was saying, my siblings and I couldn’t put each other down or express our displeasure with the typical vulgarities, so we came up with our own, like “Stoopy,” “gottabatta” and “fricking.”

But it isn’t just something my siblings and I did. The fact that word-mangling is inherent to families was brought home to me with startling force when I was about 15 years old. We were headed home to Glendale, after a fairly long voyage (aka “a car-trip to Loma LInda.”) My parents were sitting in the front seat, my sister and I were in the back. Suddenly, my mom said to my dad, “Look out for the ‘lesspo.'”
“What is a ‘lesspo’?” I asked.
“You don’t know?” my dad said, obviously pleased at their cleverness. “Say it backwards.”
“Opsell?” I ventured.
“No!” my parents said with definite laughs in their voices.
I tried several more times to no avail. So did my sister. Their glee at our confusion was getting downright irritating.
“Just tell us!” we shouted. (I realize a lot of shouting goes on in our family.)
“Lesspo… po-less,” said my dad.
“Po-less?” I said, still confused.
“Police,” my mom said.

Police?!? I immediately started sputtering how “lesspo” is nowhere close to being police backwards, unless you consider it syllabically, which no one automatically does and that they had misled us, otherwise I totally would’ve gotten it, like, TOTALLY.

“Oh Jammie,” my sister said, “they’re just being Filipino.”

At that, the giggling started — for all of us. We must have laughed for a good 10 minutes, the kind of laughter that just when it seems like it’s dying down, someone giggles and starts it up all over again. In one sentence, my sister had captured years of living and learning together what it means to be “Filipino” — the corniness of it, the self-deprecating yet sly humor that defines it, especially for us. My parents weren’t just “being Filipino,” they were being … family.

Lesspo. It’s still one of my favorite words.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

Posted in In Hindsight | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments