a cross between an eastern European war zone and a sleazy scene out of a B movie

From a hilarious hotel review on Expedia:

Reno is a cross between an eastern European war zone and a sleazy scene out of a B movie. I opened my window and my friend exclaimed, wow it looks like Serbia. Reno could be the armpit of America or at the least Nevada. From this date forward I will refer to pieces of feces as "Reno's". Overall the hotel is a little dated but it is downtown and it has an Arby's inside which is fitting because if Reno was a fast food restaurant it would be an Arby's or maybe a Long John Silvers. The staff was nice and put up with our shenanigans and we won a lot of money playing craps so the trip was a success and the hotel was decent and for the price we paid, overall plenty worth it. I guess you really get what you pay for. So in conclusion I would stay there again, but when you're planning your trip just think, do I really want to go to Reno? And the answer should inevitably be......heck no!!

I laughed so hard I cried. This has to be the most hilarious description of a city ever.

LJ Idol, Week 19: Blanket

Is a blanket luxury? Does it just have to be necessity? Are all blankets created equal?

When I was about thirteen or fourteen, my grandmother offered to buy me a new bedspread to replace my purple ruffled one with unicorns. I had some ridiculous argument with my mother and grandmother over my choice of bedspread from a department store catalog. I wanted this black satin thing because it looked so cool and smooth. My grandmother wouldn't buy it, and one of the ridiculous reasons given was that it would just slide off my bed. Even then I knew the excuse was absurd. More likely the idea of black satin bedding was too sexual or too decadent but no one would say it aloud. I ended up with a painfully thin polyester and cotton bedspread streaked with black, white and grey like some knock-off modern art project.

Despite owning and using that blanket for close to fourteen years, I only ever saw my teenage years when I looked at it. I picked at the plastic stitching, scraped at the underside where the fabric pilled relentlessly. After only owning it for a year or two, I burned a few holes in the cover. I wish I could say I was illicitly smoking or that I knocked over candles during some romantic interlude. I was pouring out cheap perfume from plastic bottles onto my lap desk and lighting it on fire. Of course the liquid dripped flaming and sickly sweet onto the covers. Of course I didn't quit after I burned it the first time. For years I would poke at the blackened edges of the fabric, prodding the squashed, fibrous filling inside.

For years I stroked display beds in department stores and ached for a different blanket. I ran my fingers over satin and jacquard and cotton. I wanted something soft, something smooth and thick. I wanted a comforting blanket, something beautiful I could wrap myself in while reading in bed. But I never got around to buying one, because there were always other bills to pay. I couldn't justify a couple hundred dollars for a dreamy blanket and I wasn't buying a fifty dollar one that would still have plastic threads. So I continued to live with my fraying bedspread and just piled other blankets on to the bed.

Moving in with Mike finally gave me the impetus to discard that bedspread. I felt strange putting it into the dumpster, a little guilty to be leaving it after so long. But frayed and stained, scorched and unraveled, it was hardly going anywhere else. I tossed it out with a number of other things in the course of moving. It was something of a relief, I confess. I bought a new bedspread. It isn't the jewel toned blanket of my dreams. Soft, cottony, and black, it is infinitely more comfortable. It's smooth, and not stitched with fishing line. It is probably the most expensive thing I have ever purchased for the purpose of sleep. Wrapping myself up in my bedspread, I feel comfortable. More than comfortable, it feels good. Perhaps there is deeper symbolism in my bedspread, lurking somewhere in the stuffing. I'm content not to dig too deeply, and I don't feel any need to pull out the threads to explore the interior. Sometimes a blanket is just a blanket. It's a luxury and necessity.

various and sundry

- Today I attempted basic fried rice. However, I am terrible at making rice. It turned into mush. Woe. The Iron Chefs would point and laugh if they ever saw. Sigh and woe.

- Voting is open for this week's LJ Idol. I struggled with this damned topic all week and ended up writing very literally about a blanket. I have the sinking feeling it won't cut it and I'll be eliminated this week.

- Despite my total rice failure, I made myself delicious salmon for lunch. It was marinated in key lime juice and grapefruit with a little salt.. Nom nom nom.

- Windy, all day long.