In defense of my unpopular opinions
My favorite question to be asked is “what do you think”. I think many things, the first of which is to think twice before posing that question to me. Think long and hard. At any given moment, I am ready to spout any and all opinions on a given topic without hesitation. While I consider myself a generally agreeable person, there are times when a woman must take a stand.
While I don’t expect you to agree, I can only hope that you’ll understand t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶r̶o̶n̶g̶.
1. Cold Stone Creamery, a waking nightmare
I’m pro choice. I believe it’s every person’s right to choose what’s right for their body, their life, their soul. But Cold Stone has taken it way too far. Some people should simply not be trusted with the privilege of crafting their own flavors. Reese’s pieces in strawberry ice cream?! Crunch bars into a rainbow sherbet?! Come on, guys. There’s a reason we leave the flavor engineering to our friends in the Baskin Robin’s lab, or the mustached gentlemen at more reputable establishments that hit us with flavors like “lavender candle” or “pig’s blood pie”.
While fucking some gummy bears into your cake batter ice cream can seem like a good idea at the time, you’ll soon regret the decision as you break a molar on a frozen cherry bear. A toffee bar is just a recipe for disaster.
Additionally, I refuse to believe that any of the sixteen year olds that work at the creamery ever clean the marble surface where the mixing situation happens. Salmonella central.
Lastly, I did a quick search to find out if the Cold Stone Creamery was still in business in these trying times, which led to another appalling discovery. This might come as no surprise if you are a fan of the establishment, but apparently the employees are required to sing every time a dollar is placed in the tip jar. I, of course, have never had the honor of being serenaded by a group of tortured teenagers, but the mere idea that this is just part of the job has me one call away from OSHA. There must be child labor laws against this.
2. Busses, really not that bad
A long bus ride is the greatest adventure. A road trip within your own city. Don’t look at it as a way to arrive at your destination, but an opportunity to become one with the fabric of the city. While a bus ride across Los Angeles is not for the faint of heart, or weak of stomach, it is ripe with cultural touch points you will never experience anywhere else.
Maybe a middle aged woman will slap your shoes and chide you for having your feet up on the seat — “This isn’t your living room”. Perhaps you’ll be offered a free sample from a delicious smelling man selling cologne out of gallon ziplock bags. If you should be so lucky, you’ll help a German tourist navigate his way to Abercrombie & Fitch. I’m speaking from personal experience here.
They’re also cheap and you don’t have to wear seatbelts. We can’t all Uber everywhere.
3. Banana Bread, an insult.
Every Sunday I would go to the Trader Joes in Westwood and do my shopping for the week. And every week, without fail, I’d pick up a trio of bananas and place them in my basket. “Maybe this week” I whisper. “Maybe this is the time I finally get my potassium fix”. But, come Thursday, I’d be confronted with the unmistakable stench of failure. As I waited for my bagel to toast, I’d stare at the bananas hanging in their banana holder thingy and watch spots develop almost in real time. Then, carrying my bagel back to the kitchen table, I’d delicately lift the bundle out of their banana holder thingy, and drop them straight into the trash, never to look back.
Baking banana bread is admitting defeat. Case in point, if you take yourself back six years ago to the “Tiger King” era of quarantine, we were all baking banana bread. Not me, of course, but the collective we. As a nation, we publicly presented our banana breads on our platforms. We proudly displayed loaves and muffins as we settled into a comfortable dread that would last for months. “We give up” we whispered, and it was time to bake. I don’t know about you, but my mamma raised a winner.
And one more thing. Ask any baker on the street how they would describe their ideal banana bread, and your ears will undoubtable be assaulted by the word “moist”. The worst word in the English dictionary.
Dress it up however you want: add chocolate chips, walnuts, hell, throw some cranberries in there for all I care, but offer me a slice and I will politely refuse, as I start an internal reevaluation of my judgement of you as person.
4. Autumn, the worst season
If I wanted each of my senses assaulted in unison, I’d go to a Maroon 5 concert.
Disagree? That’s ok, I’m always ready to fight.
