Cap'n Crunch is a masochist

Tommy Jordan & I were talking today about foods that have caused physical injury. You know, how like when you're eating a potato chip or a Dorito, sometimes it'll get caught in the back of your throat, and then a humiliating -- and upsetting! -- choke fest will ensue. Not pretty.

It made me think of how much I hate Cap'n Crunch. Oh, sure, you're all so proud of the Cap'n's heroics... destroying those big bad soggies with the ability to stay crunchy even hours after soaking in milk. But what the hell keeps it so damn crunchy... shellac?? I can't even begin to ennumerate the number of times I have ripped up my gums, the roof of my mouth, and the inside of my cheeks eating this stupid cereal.

And "eating"? What am I saying? I mean battling, more like it. Battling against the Cap'n and his artillery of edible shellac. And what kind of fake stupid rank is Cap'n anyway? Is that above a Sarge but below a Gen? And who would put a midget with a huge hat (with eyebrows, no less) in charge of a whole cereal-protecting armada?? I always used to think, "Man, that Cap'n Crunch sure is a poor man's Colonel Sanders. What a wannabe!"

So there it is. I hate Cap'n Crunch. And obviously, I'm also not a fan of any corn flake type cereal, unless it is frosted. And no you don't even act like you are above any type of food-aversion... I know you have been caused harm by a food in the past. (Hello! Must I remind you of the roof of the mouth pizza burn?)

'Fess up. We won't begin finding peace with our Hated Foods until we start owning up to it.

Scrub, Christina! SCRUB!!!

It's funny what you'll remember from a movie.

I got completely psyched because I found out "Mommie Dearest" will be on Soapnet on Sunday. Seen it like a million and four times, and I don't know why I am planning on watching it again -- on cable no less, when I shoulda just owned my own copy by now.

And of course, the first thing everybody says when you say Mommie Dearest
(C'mon, say it with me)...

"NO... WIRE... HANGERS... EVVVVER!!!!"

For some reason, though, my Joan Crawford Quote of Choice is when she dumps the Ajax all over the floor (and on the kid) like some kind of mad man, screaming, "SCRUB CHRISTINA! SCRUB!!!"

Oh my God, that nuttiness. That both traumatized and cracked me up to no end when I was 11 years old and watching this movie for the twentieth time.

Spaceballs, anyone? That's easy:

"What's all this churning & bubbling?
You call that a radar screen?"
"No sir, we call it Mr. Coffee. Care for some?"

Of all the quotable moments and that's the first thing that pops in my head. My next favorite is what Rick Moranis says next: "Yes, I always have coffee when I watch radar. You know that."

I am convinced John Hughes had a list from the future of quotes that would become a part of 80's folklore, and he built a movie around them and called it Sixteen Candles.

Except for some reason, I always say:

"Well you don't spell it, son,
you eat it."

You know. The quiche scene?

Hah, how obscure!!

What are your obscure movie quotes? The ones other people would only know if they knew a film inside and out.

I could do this all day - name movies and pull out the most forgettable line in the whole flick. Tell me you can do the same -- I just need to know I'm not all that weird!!!

27

I can't believe it. I'm finally that age. Like I'm finally that age where I kinda (gasp) don't care it's my birthday.

Whatev.

Seriously! I'm really not saying that out of some weird reverse psychology attempt to get flooded with pity, but I'm saying it out of surprise. Like, I can't believe I really don't care all that much.

Hahahahhaaa, well it's about frigging time!

I didn't plan anything, didn't agree to any plans, and certainly didn't manufacture stealth ways to generate gifts or attention. I kinda didn't really feel up to it, all the work. Coz it is work, campaigning and reminding and inviting. Blech. Too tired this year. Quite possibly, finally just too old.

So instead, I thought I'd reminisce about some birthday highlights, the few I can remember off the top of my head right now.

• 6th birthday. Mr. Burger... a fast-food chain that was neither Burger King or McDonalds. Just a wannabe. My babysitter was skilled at the art of crochet and made me this awesome poncho with a matching purse.



• 21st birthday. Snuck off to Colorado to be with my boyfriend. He took me out with his roommates where I had to beg the bartender to card me right at midnight. Got plastered on an endless string of Red Deaths. I vaguely remember a Kamikaze or two. Or five. Do remember thinking while I was later perched over the toilet bowl, "Wow, I was a much more responsible drinker before I turned 21."



• 12th birthday. Skating party at the rink on Oak Tree Road in Edison. Is it still there? Party continued into the night in the form of a slumber party. We stayed up watching TV, playing boardgames, and crank calling some poor guy named Rick who wasn't home, but there was plenty of tape on his answering machine when we got started.



• 25th birthday. It has to do with Katmandu and lots of inappropriate behavior of which I'm not sure what the statute of limitations are. I will just stop right there.



• 16th birthday. My parents threw a huge party, with a DJ. And I bought a cool pair of purple suede shoes for fifteen bucks at the Footprints in New Brunswick.



• 17th birthday. My driving instructor Larry made me get on the Somerville Circle and I was too mortified to bother hating him.
  


• 31st birthday. Had to drive to a wedding solo in Scranton... while nursing a hangover from the night before. Luckily Matt Sneed's wife was on hand to keep me amused (and lucid) before the reception, so we head to the nearest mall and make fun of people, even though we are both conspicuously overdressed.

OH YOU CAUGHT ME! I am SO not 27. But I'd like to think I was.

At least... that's exactly what I've been doing for the last 5 to 10 years or so.

27 was such a nice age. I don't remember how it began , what I did, or how it ended, but I always liked being 27. It sounded mature enough, but it didn't sound too old.

So there it is, that's what today is and shall forever be known as: "27, continued"

(and the answer is, "I don't know. Seriously, I don't remember, now quit asking!")

This man just may win a gold medal. Or chocolate wrapped in gold.

Now is that the face of a winner, or what?
So what that he looks like a dope. He's the Olympic hopeful from the French Table Tennis team. Yes. Ping pong. It's an Olympic sport.

How in heck did I forget that?
I've seen Forrest Gump like a billion times.




Oh, but wait! There's more gems from the Beijing games:

Australia will NOT BE BESTED BY THE FRENCH, goshdarnit! Not when it comes to PING PONG!!!!

Well, ok, is it obvious? I'm not showing much respect for an Olympic-level competition that could be amply underway in my parents' basement. It's ping-pong for godssakes.

I think the part that I can't wrap my head around is that the blessed Olympic medal that someone will earn in this sport will be the same size/shape/value as the one the decathlon guy is gonna take home. Yes, the guy who will beat the world's best in ten of the most challenging track & field events will be wearing 'round his neck the same medallion the ping pong guy will be wearing.

Maybe this is why I am not an athlete, 'coz I don't get it, not at all. OK, don't freak out, I'm not saying ping-pong, er, table tennis, is like, easy or anything. (At least, not out loud, I'm not.) But c'mmmonnn, is that cool?

Like, maybe they should revamp the whole Olympic thing and then rank all the sports in order of difficulty-ishness. Then, give out commensurate awards.

Like a First Tier Olympic sport would be the Decathlon. Freestyle swim. The Balance Beam. Any team sport involving synchronization. Second Tier would be all other team sports (sorry, Olympic Baseball), any one-on-one combat style competition involving physical contact (uh, hi, Judo), archery, equestrian, etc.

The Third tier, would be badminton, rhythmic gymnastics, and table tennis.

Then, depending on what tier your sport was in, you'd get an appropriate level of an award.

Like a huge, mother of a gold medal (I'm thinking, like the size of a dinner platter) would go to the girl who won the 100m and the dude who led in the butterfly stroke. Maybe it should be encrusted with Swarovski crystals. BLING!

The fencing champ along with the entire winning field hockey team would take home a gold similar to the one they use now. Ditto for the soccer team, the basketball team, and the top boxer, as well as everyone else in the Second tier.

Then Third tier winners would get a slightly smaller medal. Maybe, to make them feel better, it turns out to be a piece of chocolate wrapped in gold. But it should be really really good quality chocolate. And maybe real gold wrapping. Maybe also, the inside of the wrapper should be printed with the message, "You're a winner!"

So there it is: Toni Ryan's Official Take on Possible Changes to Future Olympic Games. And I'm on a roll. Does anybody out there know anybody who might know a guy about openings on the Olympic Planning & Revamping committee?

...'Coz I've got way more "winning" ideas up my sleeve.

Like if ping-pong has made the grade, what about foosball ???

After all, it is table soccer.

Back To School, Bill Cosby says so

Almost exactly a dozen or so years ago, my parents dropped me off at college. They pulled their mini-van up to a dirty high-rise in North Philly, unloaded all my stuff on the curb, and watched me make my way through the massive floor-to-ceiling turnstiles and past the armed security of my dorm building. Then they slammed on the gas and high-tailed it down North Broad Street. They could not have gotten out of there any faster.

Aaah.... the beginning of another school year. Lots of fantastic -- and fantastically bad --memories are coming back to me. I hated school. In fact, I still hate school. To tell you that the decision to go to Temple U came after some elaborate process of consideration would be a bald-faced lie. It was already Spring Break of my senior year of high school and I still hadn't figured it out. Was flipping thru a college catalog and saw Bill Cosby's smiling face from the set of The Cosby Show, surrounded by a perfect ethnic mix of happy people all wearing tee-shirts with the Temple T, sitting on the Huxtable's living room couch.

Yes, that's how I picked a college. I didn't even like The Cosby Show, but I figured hey, if I end up sitting on the Huxtable's couch, it wouldn't all be for naught. When my parents rolled up on North Broad Street, my dad's last words were, "Are you sure you're ok with us leaving you here?" Hahahah. If only he too had seen that picture of the Cos, and he would've been deceptively reassured.

It makes me think of all the other great (read: terrible) life decisions I've made because of a guy. (Yes, Bill Cosby counts). Isn't it funny how we occasionally make a huge choice for the strangest, not always most rational, reasons. Like smoking. I smoked in college (of course, because of a guy, not Cosby this time). Finished school and got over the guy, therefore stopped smoking. Started working and started smoking again because I had a crush on a co-worker who was a smoker. He quit (the job), and I still kept smoking. Lame, I know. (And I've since quit smoking, so you can cancel that nasty msg you were gonna send me).

Tell me your stories of throwing caution to the wind and doing something so unpredictable and worth a good storytelling. Things you've done for the Most Irrational Reasons. Please don't tell me if it's got a sad ending, though.

Oh, and don't bother if it's a story about how you, too, picked a college because of a guy, and so instead of going to Stanford you moved to NYC, and that your name is Felicity. I've heard that story, it's lame.

Toni Ryan's Super Duper Uber-Show

Betcha didn't know...

Our boss has his own blog on here. It kind of reminds me of a "Letters to the Editor" section of a magazine -- that sometimes people just tend to flip past it even when there might be some useful gems hidden there.

Like this one: he's looking for some feedback to help name the next PST concert. There was no mention of it being a contest or anything, but I like to think that if he selects your name for our next concert that you will either get a huge sack of cash, a shiny unused economy sedan, or maybe just bragging rights. You never know with Progam Director Dave. <-- that's his actual name. First name "Program Director", last name "Dave". Good thing he didn't try and become a lawyer or a doctor.

National Relaxation Day

Today is National Relaxation Day.

I don't know who declared it, but there it is: permission to go ahead, relax. Better yet, take a nap.

And please accept my happy National Relaxation Day wishes to you and yours.

Showin' Love For The Donald

Try as you might, but starting today, there is no more hating on The Donald.

He bought Ed McMahon's house so Ed and his family can keep living in it. Poor Ed's been facing foreclosure on the house they've been living in for almost 20 years, bc some neck injury kept him out of work and unable to make payments on the home.

OK, I know some of you aren't feeling any amount of pity for Ed McMahon, the $4.5 million in defaulted mortgage payments, or the $7M Beverly Hills mansion he was about to lose.

But, c'mon. It's Ed Mc-freaking-Mahon for godssakes! What has this poor man ever done but bring smiles to your door in the form of a 6-foot novelty check, or by dutifully laughing even with Johnny's jokes tanked. I don't like to see people like that fall from grace. In my head, happy shiny celebs like Ed McMahon are always living in a cloud of good times and jolly fun. Telling me that Ed McMahon is human or -- even worse -- possibly unhappy is on par with telling me there is no talking gecko. Or that Dunder Mifflin isn't a real company. Let me have my imaginary bubble of television influence, thank you very much.

Enter Donald Trump to the rescue. Who knew? "I don't know the man, but I grew up watching him on TV," that's what The Donald told the press. How could he go and do something so nice??

So, people, take a cue from Donald Trump today. Reach inside and search for your Inner Donald. Maybe you can't buy some aging TV star's foreclosed home, but be creative.

Maybe you can go and fire someone today.

Year in Review... so far

Michael Phelps has got something to be excited about.

I mean, what with that winning reaction the other day, he's guaranteed himself a place in all those pictorials we'll have to endure when they recap memorable events from 2008, after the year's over. And it feels like it starts in the beginning of December, when the lists of the year's best and worst start coming out.

As soon as I saw the Phelps reaction, I was like, now I know I'll have to see his face a million more times come January. That face sorta reminds me of burning constipation, doesn't it?

Of course, it'll be alongside photos of Obama, A-Rod, Davids Cook & Archacoffeecoolata, Heath Ledger, and the cast of Mad Men. And Miley's bony-ass bare back.

Is that how I'll remember 2008? Someday, when I'm old(er), and my eleven kids go, "Mom, did you actually see Dark Knight in the theaters, back when it set this amazing cinematic record that has since never been broken?"

And I'll go, "Sure! That was same the year Sex & the City was out. And it was trendy in Hollywood to get pregnant. And the Giants won the SuperBowl (TM)!"

So... it's only August, but I feel like I can already start the list of things I expect to see in all those Year in Review lists. All the things that will remind me of this specific time in history, pop culture, and my personal life.

Here are the ones that immediately came to mind, but please by all means, chime in!

• The Brangelina Twins and all the hype that went along with two newborns doing a magazine cover for enough money to cover the national deficit.
  


• Gas prices and reminiscing about when gas was less than 3 bucks a gallon.
  


• Getting "Rickrolled" (and I tried to post the original link with a warning to click at your own risk, but the gods of the internet have made it impossible to find)
  


• Britney finally hitting super-duper rock bottom, and with nowhere else to go, slowly turning her life around with help from her buddy Mel Gibson
  


• The Gossip Girls rise to power
  


• Going "Green" not just to help the environment and preservation of nature, and all that good stuff, but clearly because it seems like everyone was into this going "green" stuff. (Why does it seem like it just got trendy all of a sudden to be globally conscientious?)
  


• Denise Richards, Pam Anderson, the Two Coreys, Ali Lohan, and pretty much anyone with a pulse getting a reality show.

Sayonara Hibachi

I say this every summer:

"Oh my gawwwdddd... I loooooooooooveeee Hibachi."

Then we go, and I get it out of my system, and basically get the itch for Hibachi thoroughly scratched. I leave, smelling of barbecue smokiness sticking to my clothes, reaking of garlic oozing from my skin, with my stomach bloated out to high heaven and wondering how I fit all that food in my belly. And it surely doesn't all fit, because it usually means a speedy trip to the nearest bathroom, stat!

But sometimes, when I'm really stupid and displaying zero self-control, I venture to arrange multiple return visits to the grill. Call me a sadist, but I think I secretly love having food tossed at me, and gunning for it like a starved trained seal at Sea World. I must also think that a stack of raw onion rings are the most brilliant thing in the world because a savvy Hibachi Master can turn them into A) a flaming Volcano of Onion, B) the smoky front end of a locomotive ("Choo Choo!!") or C) the source of the smelliest damn farts you have ever bore witness to, if you are foolish enough to bring your most immature and inebriated friends. (Which is why if you are ever hosting a Hibachi night, you want first right of refusal when one of your guests decide to RSVP... plus 9 strangers. But that's just me....)

Then I go home the next day, like I will today, geared up to finish off my Hibachi leftovers for dinner, and find myself thoroughly disappointed. See, without the searing grill, the pyrotechnics, the culinary antics, and a masochistic but funny Hibachi chef who missed the cut for Showtime At The Apollo... without all those things, the food is just.... food. It's not Ruth's Chris. It's just food that tasted incredible because the chef flipped it at your face and it conveniently landed on your plate and not down your shirt. Something about that dog & pony show makes it taste... well, good.

(Hey. Keep your dog and pony jokes to yourself, people.)

So, Hibachi for Summer of 2008... done and done. And done again, unfortunately. I totally blew my Hibachi load for the summer. Which is unfortunate because when it comes to dining entertainment for a large group, your choices are Hibachi, Chuck E. Cheese, and Medieval Times. If I'm missing out on some great group dining destination, please fill me in.

So until Summer 2009, I say Sayonara, Hibachi! Sayo-frigging-nara!!

If you're a streaker or crazy, stay away from Beijing

Officials in China have got it all under control, people. That's why they've handed down a bunch of rules to foreigners & locals alike to help "maintain public hygiene and the cultured image of [China's] cities."

I could not have made this all up by myself, so we can thank Yahoo News for this story.

Among the rules:

• No sleeping outdoors in an attempt "to save money at the Olympics". God forbid anyone camp out.
• No streaking
• Don't get drunk
• Don't set off fireworks
• Don't wave "insulting banners" <-- so if you've been working diligently on a "Your Mom Is An Olympic Torch" sign, you should probably ditch it ASAP.

Here's a great one:

• And if you've got a mental illness or an STD, you're banned from the fun.

(I wonder what they'd do if you had both.)

My final favorite, the one that tells subway commuters: If you come across unattended water bottles you should take a swig to make sure they don't contain suspicious substances. Yeah, that's right, take one for the team.

Seriously???

If that were me, I'd be like, "You're fricking kidding, right? You want me to pick up that nasty-ass bottle and taste it to make sure there isn't, like, cyanide in there?? Yeah!? Well you can #$!% and %&#!& and stick your unattended water bottle up your %$#!, you $%&!!!"

Hahahahaaaa.
I think there are lots of good reasons I'm still here in Jersey and not in Beijing right now.

Hello My Name Is...

Check this site out: http://names.whitepages.com/

They list the most popular names in the country, and in each individual state.
This won't shock anybody, but here are the list toppers...

The Most Common US Last Names

• Smith
• Johnson
• Williams
• Brown
• Jones
• Miller
• Davis
• Anderson
• Wilson
• Taylor

The Most Common US First Names

• John
• Robert
• James
• David
• William
• Michael
• Richard
• Charles
• Thomas
• Mary

What is fascinating is what happens when you try and find the Top 10 for each state.

For example, in Jersey, Mr. John Smith, you might still be a big deal, but Bob Johnson, please be aware you've got nothing on Bob Patel... those both came in at #2 in NJ. Maybe you know Bill Rodriguez or 2. Or a Joe Davis. All also popular in the Garden State.

In Hawaii, you're more likely to find a Jim Lee, John Wong, or a Bobby Kim sooner than you'd find a Mike Smith. George Johnson of Honolulu probably feels like he's got the most original name ever.

You notice also that you go in phases of your life where it seems like certain names are ridiculously popular?

In grade school, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a Lisa. (Poor Lisa - what an image, getting struck in the face with a dead animal). I knew so many Lisa's... I even knew two Lisa M's. They needed to be distinguished by size: Little Lisa, and Big Lisa. Which was a shame. Little Lisa was very very small, so Big Lisa actually should've been called Normal Size Lisa.

In high school, Jen. And that was ridiciulous. There was Jen, Jennifer, Jenny, Jen, Jenna, Jenn, and Jennie. Oh, and there was also Jen. Don't you dare get them confused.

The story of my life, filled with Dave M's and Matt S's.... I work with a pair of them now. Of course that Dave M. and Matt S. are not to be confused with the one I saw last weekend, the one with the cool hair, the one we used to call The Kissing Bandit, the one who I sat next to in Physics, the one who broke my heart, the one who broke my cousin's heart, the one who played bass, or the one who still breaks my heart to this day.

It's all very confusing, I know, but I can tell 'em apart.

****

The Most Popular Name at WPST for interns seems to be Kristen. I doubt it was a hiring requirement and surely a coincidence. And when there was a time I used to never know their names until their final week with us, now I can just walk in a room, and say, "Kristen?"

Eleven eager faces look up at me, and I can just point.

"Yep, I'm talking to you!"

The first channel I always check

I just realized this. Every time I flip on the TV, the first channel I flip to is TLC.

I'm not sure why.

I think I go in phases. For a long while years ago, I was bingeing on QVC and HSN, so the first channel I'd automatically flip to was always a channel with phone numbers and prices crawling across the bottom.

After that, there was also a time when it was always E! because it was the first channel listed under my pre-set "favorites".

I wonder if a person's "first channel" says something about them as a person....


For a while, I was a recovering shopaholic...

Then I was celeb gossip hound...

And now... I guess I'm just SO full of TLC. <-- Hah.


OK, weak theory.

I might not be a genius but I know 8 ounces make 1 cup

Truly, I am either one of the biggest idiots this lifetime has ever known, or maybe I am The Most easily irritated person on the planet. Either way, I know this doesn't reflect well on me. But in the interest of "keeping it real" .... [deep exhale] ... here it is:



I don't know how to make a pot of coffee.

Seriously, and I am not ashamed to admit it, only because I really don't feel like I'm in the wrong here: I think that there's something terribly wrong with the Instructions for making coffee.

OK, quit laughing at me. I'm talking about the instructions that are on the side of the can of ground coffee... listen to this:

Instructions: Measure 1 level tablespoon per 6 fl. oz of
water

Huh? Why??? Why 6 fluid ounces of water?

So for every 3/4 cup of water, I should measure out one tablespoon of coffee grounds? Why 6 ounces? Why not a cup for godssakes??

I won't lie to you. On more than one occasion, I have actually taken out my fancy measuring cups and measuring spoons, along with pencil and paper and did some minor algebra to figure out how much water to pour in and how many level tablespoons of coffee I'd need to get going on a Saturday morning.

This comic insanity has gone on for years. Thank goodness overnight guests have either been non-coffee drinkers or have had the sense to leave before I'd whip out the measuring cups.

And don't even think I haven't ever bothered to ask for help.
Here are how some of those conversations have gone:

I started with my folks.

DAD: ... so you fill the carafe up to here.
TONI RYAN: Pop, I don't need to make a whole pot of coffee. Just like 3 or 4 cups.
(a beat)
DAD: Oh... well... I don't know. Go ask your mother.

YOUR MOTHER: It depends.
TR: On what?
MOM: If you like your coffee strong or not.
TR: Ok, let's pretend I like it regular.
MOM: Oh, then a half a teaspoon per cup of water.
TR: HALF a TEASPOON?? Don't you mean a tablespoon?
MOM: Oh, you don't mean instant coffee?


Colleague Lydia is always buttoned up and always has an intelligent answer to everything.

LYDIA: Oh, that's easy. You just take like half a scoop for every cup of water.
TR: Like a cup cup? Or this 6 ounce cup?
LYDIA: Huh? You know, like a cup.
TR: And what do you mean a scoop?
LYDIA: You don't have a scoop???

Colleague Wade is an avid coffee drinker. I am convinced if he bled it would smell like a fantastic Arabica dark roast.

WADE: ... are you kidding me?
TR: No, I'm not. Will you just frigging tell me how to do it?
WADE: Well, you just tear open a package. They're pre-measured, you moron.
TR: Not here in the office, jerkface. I mean at home.
WADE: Oh, well you fill the pot up to the top, and then you put three full scoops of coffee in the filter.
TR: [exasperated sigh] I don't need a whole pot.
WADE: Then I can't help you.
TR: Well, wait. What is this scoop? Do you mean, like a tablespoon?
WADE: I don't know how much it is. It's a scoop.
TR: I don't know that unit of measurement.

My pal Christine is the quintessential practical homemaker. She is like Donna Reed. Sorta.

CHRISTINE: Like brewed coffee? What don't you understand?
TR: Aren't there eight ounces in a cup?
CHRISTINE: Yes....
TR: So, why should I measure one tablespoon of coffee for every six ounces of water?
CHRISTINE: Oh sweetheart, it's a piece of cake. For every cup...
TR: A six ounce cup?
CHRISTINE: No, just go by the tickmarks on the pot...
TR: [sigh] Ok. So for every cup... going by the marks on the coffeepot....?
CHRISTINE: Yes, for every cup, just measure one scoop of coffee.
TR: OK WAIT ONE SECOND. What the hell is this scoop thing?
CHRISTINE: It comes with the coffee.
TR: Mine doesn't come with a scoop.
CHRISTINE: It doesn't? Oh, well.... (a beat). You need the scoop.

***

This past weekend, something exciting happened. I came across an old set of measuring spoons, and one of them looked very similar to Christine's legendary Scoop. It says "1/8" on the side. Is it 1/8 a cup? Teaspoon? Tablespoon? Gallon? Heck if I know. However, I attempted to make coffee pretending like this was THE scoop everyone else on the planet seems to have. And for every two tickmarks of water on the side of the pot, I used one level "1/8"-spoon full of coffee.

And guess what. It worked. And it tasted good.

I don't care how it happened, but it worked. And so the hell what that I got there by accident, the coffee didn't taste like complete sh-t and that's all that matters.

So there you go. What my high school diploma to a Blue Ribbon school, a college degree, and the Most Intelligent Award from first grade did not prepare me for... how to make a freaking half pot of brewed coffee.

You'd think I'd found a cure for cancer or something.