The Joys of Wonton Soup July 25, 2010

The before

Today was my 18th birthday and all days leading up to it deemed that it would have been the worst birthday of my teenaged career. Actually, today hasn’t been that great either what with the summer heat making me sweat from places i I didn’t know existed much less contained sweat glands and now I can hear my Aunt Beast who is hardly a fully-formed human being cursing and making cupcakes and brownies that will surely end in my demise and the quick termination of this blog; and we were just getting to know each other too. Yet with all that, there was one refreshing blast of cool air in the otherwise muggy heat.

And, ironically enough, it was hot soup. The hot soup you see above. More specifically, it was a pint of Chen’s Garden Chinese Restaurant Wonton Soup. And they deliver so I haven’t had to put on pants all day! And when you’re in a new place for the rest of your life and having problems adjusting it’s always so good to be able to not wear any pants for extended periods of time. Seriously, if you’re having problems in your life, take off your pants. Better situation guaranteed.

Moving on, Chinese food isn’t exactly new to me as there are Chinese restaurants, grocers and people in abundance in Jamaica (‘Out of Many One People’ etc, etc). I’d always ignored the soup section because I don’t typically like very hot liquids approaching my face. I’d also been wanting to eat and make Asian dumplings thanks to this book. So I thought to myself ‘Self, we’re 18 now. Surely we are old enough to eat soup with giant dumplings and not choke, burn self or otherwise harm self.’ which I believe was persuasion enough.

The soup itself was a little on the fresh side but I was in it purely for the dumplings. Large round pieces of dough folded into little pockets of chewy nom nom nom-ness and stuffed with meat – it was probably pork but there wasn’t enough to really tell by looking and I wasn’t about to turn my eating-time into guessing-time. It came with those fried crispy things you can see in the bag. I’m not sure what they are but I ate them so I suppose there’s no point speculating.

And the after.

I’m definitely getting a quart next time.

I also have an unfounded love for fortune cookies so the day got even better when I read this:

Boy I hope so...

It wasn’t the best birthday, but at least it didn’t turn out to be the worst.

-Eva

P.S. Aunt Beast’s cupcakes turned out alright so no violent toilet excursions; not like I was wearing pants anyways.

Packing is Not for the Faint of Heart July 18, 2010

I hate duct-tape. Absolutely hate it. Duct-tape, along with packing foam has ruined me for marriage, scarred me for life and severely strained my relationship with my mother.

For those of you that have been confronted by duct-tape wielding assailants, then you know there’s this screaming ripping sound as the adhesive separates from the rest of the roll. The packing foam leaves this smooth film over your hands and face (and feet if you’re into log-rolling) that makes it impossible to hold something without it slowly and surely sliding out of your grip and, were I more dexterous, would allows me to sliding across the floor in my underwear balanced on my hands in some strange James Brown-Cirque Du Soleil fusion.

Several people were enlisted to consume piles of tape and foam in order to transform our home into a massive storage unit filled with large and unrecognizable lumps of white foam.

Somehow this...

plus this, the wanna-be bubble-wrap...

ends up equaling this. -___-

Until you have tried to pack a house of any size that’s been lived in for a substantial period of time (3+ years), this post may be lost on you. And until you have been faced with an irate brown woman covered in sweat, foam and tape brandishing a stencil knife and calling herself your mother, well I may just be alone in that regard but, once again, totally over your heads. After a while the boxes began to take over the house unleashing a silent but quickly progressing battle between myself and a cornucopia of stuff.

This used to be a bedroom before it fell before the tyranny of stuff.

There used to be a bathroom in there...it too died.

Soon came the day when the baggage including my lovely bed had to be moved from the house to the trailer waiting outside. It was raining heavily as it the skies were mocking all the sweat that had poured with equal ferocity during the hours of manual labour that had gone into preparing for that day.

Goodbye faithful bed!

Bed...kinda. And yes that's a bathroom; the one that survived.

Overall packing took months and I have yet to unpack since that day seeing as how I still don’t have a home just yet (fingers crossed, knock on wood, salt my fries et cetera, et cetera) so I’m living out of plastic bags in my aunt’s house and I’m convinced I lost most of my underwear in transit. I’ll be packing again in August for college but I’ve had months of experience so I think it should be fine.

But I refuse to use duct-tape. Maybe giant ribbons but please…no duct-tape.

-Eva

Down the Rabbit-Hole July 7, 2010

A day and a month before my 18th birthday, my mother and I packed up our belongings, got on a plane and moved to Florida and it was painfully easy, mildly distracting, very possibly the most strenuous and harrowing experience of my life to date, excluding applying to college.

Yeah…that last bit sounds about right.

To be honest (and I think I should be since this is the internet and everything here is factual…) this was a process that began shortly after I burst from my mother’s womb. Steps were taken to get my family (the mumz, the bro and myself) registered as aliens so that we would be able to live, love and work and have loads of Taco Bell opportunities here in America. Did you know it takes anywhere from 8 – 10 years for them to get to the request? I realize the government’s probably got a lot of people asking to be let in but 10 years? James Cameron could’ve made some new technicoloured folks in that time.

Watch as Corporal Jake Sully saves the Na'vi from long check-out lines and fake Santas! I smell awards...

The packing of all our earthly belongings took close to a year because that’s really how long it takes to condense a decade of life into styrofoam, cardboard boxes and duct tape.

I have left everything I know -friends, food, cable that includes all the movie channels –  to come here with a trailer of luggage and squat in my miserable hyper-religious aunt’s house. Did I mention that? That I’m squatting and, for the time being,  quite sadly homeless?

Not this kind of homeless...

...but this kind of homeless.

I’m looking forward to my severely extended visit here. And at the same time I am so dreadfully afraid of all this…new. So much is happening and hopefully I’ll have time to take it all in and I hope that you’ll be here with me.

So here I go! Falling down through my rabbit-hole. Who knows when I’ll land.

-Eva

P.S. You don’t think Cameron would try and sue me do you…?