Saturday, February 28, 2009

dairy queen

Two things happened today:
(Well, lots of things happened today, but here are two of them...)
Before my afternoon rehearsal for tomorrow's going-to-be-awesome dal niente concert (Chicago people: come!), my four-months-pregnant friend Connie turned to me and said "Hey, guess what I ate today?" (We've had a few conversations about uncontrollable hunger and such, which she is feeling for the first time due to her baby.) "Fried potatoes covered with mac and cheese and sour cream." We both thought about that for a minute. I told her she'd made me hungry.
The second happened first, actually. At breakfast this morning Shana told me that she was going to do a little detoxing next week, eat less dairy and not drink and such. I said I would keep that in mind for any meals we would be sharing.
So when I came home today (from picking up my beautifully repaired viola, thank you very much!) I knew what I had to do: I had to make the baked mac and cheese recipe I spied and bookmarked on Smitten Kitchen the other night. It's decadent (let me just say: 2-1 cheese to pasta ratio) but not too complicated and perfect for a night alone. I've been trying to eat somewhat more healthily (in large part due to Shana's good influence, lately not all of my soups contain cream), but sometimes, after a rollercoastery and wearing week, you just need mac and cheese. It's in my oven as I write, sizzling (I used too small of a baking dish, but my oven is luckily protected by a layer of foil) and smelling delicious.
Tonight I'll also be making the dough for lime meltaways (also from Smitten Kitchen, as I am indeed smitten) as a gift to Connie for driving me home from our gazillion Evanston rehearsals. And the cookbook is making strides towards being done! Soon, soon...

Thursday, February 26, 2009

and i have seen/the sunrise/above the river/the freeway

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine asked if Shana and I would like to help his friend out with her degree by taking part in her investigation of urban mapping and city geography. This entails making some sort of "journal" (either literally or creatively: I plan to make an annotated map, personally) about our travels through the city for a week. I have to admit that I haven't been particularly vigilant about writing things down (yet) but her thesis and email have made me even more aware about the way I pass through the city and how I interact with people on the way. Here's a clip from her writing about the project:

"... for example: where you go, how you get there, how long it takes, who you interact with (even> non-verbally), for what purpose, memories triggered by your environment, why something in the urban / your personal environment(s) is(are) significant... and anything else you can think of."

Her degree proposal posits the city as a narrative, drawn from and formed by the people within it and how they collide and move apart. Without those connections, the narrative disappears. Without people, a street is just a street; with people, it's a community or a marketplace or a battlefield or a graveyard. It gains meaning.

I was just thinking that a forest doesn't gain or lose meaning with human presence and wondering how that divided urban and wild spaces when I realized that "human" isn't the essential part of the equation she's talking about. It's life interacting (or not), whether that be people or ants or trees. Within a city, it's the people and dogs and cats and rats and cockroaches and trees and tulips and everything else. I sometimes feel more connection to the non-human aspects of the city; they seem more accessible to me, easier to observe and wonder about and laugh at. When this many people live in one place, we close ourselves off. I feel my face turn to stone on the train, emotionless and angry and forbidding, as I shut out those around me. I try to smile, to erase that feeling, but it comes back when I stop paying attention. It's a defense mechanism. But when I see a cat poking around a flowerbed or a crocus bud poking up, I can smile easily and enjoy our brief and imagined connection.

Monday, February 23, 2009


I'm still a little under the weather, but after sleeping somewhere between seven and eight hours last night I feel a hell of a lot better than I did. Today I've been doing getting-better activities: drinking oj with emergen-c in it, eating cloves of raw garlic (two of them! stinky breath, here I come), and I'm about to drink a cup of Breathe Easy tea with honey. On the way to the store, stopped at a dirty busy city intersection, I paused to watch a giant flock of pigeons wheel around in the sky and wondered if my possibly sickness-influenced brain made that seem more awesome than it really was. (My eventual decision: no. Flocks of birds are fascinating all the time.)
But my point (and I do have one) is that I think sometimes when we're sick or otherwise at an extremity of physicalness we experience things differently. Everybody must have had at least some version of that slightly surreal feeling I get when I'm really sick, that sense that the world is just not the way I normally conceive of it. Today I'm barely sick if at all, but the world seems somewhat more vibrant and interesting than I'm used to. The pigeons stopped me. Sunlight makes me feel like a plant, turning my face and penetrating me to the core. Trader Joe's seemed like a flavor paradise. These are all things I usually feel in a muted way: oh, how interesting! Honey sesame almonds, city birds, warmth! But today those things are turned up to a higher volume. I should be practicing, but instead I'm going to sit here and enjoy it.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

debbie downer

If I don't get more than six hours of sleep tonight, I don't know how much farther I'm going to be able to stretch. This is getting ridiculous. I woke up this morning with a slightly sore throat and a tight chest; I fear that I'm getting sick. This would be a bad week for it. I have a concert next Sunday that we just got the music for on Friday (fucking goddamn music publishers, I curse your name), so there is plenty of practicing and rehearsing to be done. If we're lucky there will be 250 people in attendance (unlikely, but nice to think about), so everybody is stepping up to the plate.
All of this is to say that the cookbooks are late, and getting later. Ah well. Rose-Anne suggested that I move the release date back to Memorial Day, but I swear you'll get it before that.
Time for more coffee.

Friday, February 20, 2009


Ugh, I can't think of anything to say today at all. I haven't been sleeping enough (and not for fun reasons, just dumb ones), and today is one of the low points of tired+cranky. I'm also out of coffee, and tea just isn't the same. Especially without soy milk, which I'm also out of.
But anyway, I just wanted to direct everybody to the excellent blog post at starinapapercup. I haven't followed the octuplet scandal (if you want to call it that) at all, but this definitely made me blink a lot and think hard.
One of the things that I liked was that she admits that she doesn't really agree that people should have giant families, but she's still willing to write a defense of somebody who did. I am a big supporter of reproductive rights, and to me that means I have to support the choices that I don't particularly favor (large families in an overpopulated country during a time of economic crisis) as well as the ones (like abortion) that are so constantly under fire and in danger from people who are nowhere near as accepting. As much as I disagree with the decision to have a large family, I want to respect the rights of other people to make that decision for themselves. When I was in college I was surprised to find the feminists I was hanging out with (briefly, oh so briefly) referring to the "anti-choice" movement. Pro-choice, anti-choice, pro-life, anti-life (presumably)... Those names seem so limiting. I'm sure plenty of pro-choice people have lambasted Suleman. Are we selectively deciding which choices we support? Is that a valid thing to do if the choices they make are harmful to the rest of us in the long run? If lots of people decided to have eight children, that's not particularly good for the environment, overpopulation, etc. Where do we draw the line on personal choice?

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

porn is for lovers

Firstly and unrelatedly, an interview with Amanda Palmer about her song Oasis. I love how honest and insightful she is. And totally watch the music video linked to the article, it's pretty awesome.
But here's something my friend Kenny pointed me towards: Porn for the Blind. The website is run by a nonprofit that uses volunteers to record play-by-play audio descriptions of the short clips you see on porn websites so that blind people have access to porn. The readers aren't supposed to "talk dirty" or use any sort of language except descriptive and anatomical. You can actually volunteer to record yourself from home using their program and upload your description to the site.
I listened to a few clips last night, and... Yeah. Not terribly sexy. (During one of the ones I listened to, the reader started cracking up and talking to another person mid-description. Ah, relying on volunteers...) I'm not entirely sure what the intent is, honestly. A frankly boring description is not a crime, but what would a blind person do from there? The site doesn't provide audio descriptions of anything but "teaser" clips, and they way that they are read is not something that I think most people would want to masturbate to. According to this article, there's another website you can visit that is a bit more interactive, and frankly sounded a lot more awesome. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to actually track down what the article was talking about, which is a shame because I imagine that audio "plays" of erotic writing would be fun.
Anyway, regardless of the silly factor of Porn for the Blind, it's an interesting concept. At a recent dinner party, there was a bit of giggling about a Trivial Pursuit question involving Playboy and a lawsuit to enable them to print in braille. (It's for the interviews, duh.) But really, isn't erotica kind of an ably-centric business? It's not only present in the bodies portrayed (although it is most certainly present there, and which is the way that most things I've read have approached this issue), but in the bodies catered to. What if you are vision impaired? Hearing impaired? The article I linked to earlier ends with the thought that (gasp) blind people have as much right to their sex drive as anybody else. There must be channels of information for all kinds of erotica and such that I can't even imagine.

Monday, February 16, 2009

sweet, literally

Since my cookie-baking spree over Christmas, I've had, or am planning on having, a number of what I like to call "platonic cookie dates." It seems to me that, while cooking dinner is easy to make into a one-person show (especially in my minuscule and under-equipped kitchen), baking cookies is seen as a more inclusive endeavor. It's reminiscent of the kitchens of childhood, I think; I'm sure I made other things with my mom (I believe one day we made our own doughnuts, which is kind of awesome), but mostly I remember cookies. Rice Krispy treats, lemon bars, peanut butter cookies (which I actually disliked but enjoyed smooshing the criss-cross fork pattern into) were all featured at one time or another. We weren't fancy, but we cooked the shit out of those cookies, and I loved it: mixing, plopping dough, frosting, licking the beaters... I loved learning to measure. Dorky!
I have a platonic cookie date tonight with my friend Sarah, and I've been perusing cookie recipes all morning. Consequently, I am now intensely craving cookies. What will we make tonight? Chocolate Sugar Cookies? Banana Oatmeal Chip Cookies? Crispy Salted Oatmeal White Chocolate Cookies? My mouth is watering so hard, I'm glad I'm not drooling yet. And better even than the option of making any of these tonight is that there are so many other cookie recipes in the world. I am a fairly recent convert to online recipes; until a few months ago I made almost all of my food from two cookbooks, both based on restaurants (Moosewood and the Chicago Diner). I'm also an even newer convert (as of, like, this morning) to cooking blogs, thanks to Rose-Anne's lovely list of links. (I'm a bit in love with Smitten Kitchen in particular.) Now I just want to bake cookies all day long, to taste all of the potential sweet salty buttery goodness that I can.
Although pie is also good, of course. For Valentine's Day, instead of going out and being fancy and googly-eyed and normal, Shana and I stayed home, ate cheap falafel, and then made an absolutely delicious lemon meringue pie together. Something about lemon meringue seemed so intimidating to me (I think it's the layers, or the meringue in general--I am so mystified by stiff egg peaks), but it turned out to be not so bad. Shana made her first pie crust, we zested and squeezed lemons, took turns holding my borrowed immersion mixer (omg I want one!), and ended up with a perfectly lovely pie. We're thinking of making it a tradition, this periodic preparation of pies and other baked goods. It made me terribly happy, to work together to produce this amazing and yummy thing. I love cooking with other people.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

i want my chest pressed to your chest

In the past, Valentine's Day was little more than a mild irritation to me. It was a day where people (or just I) a) obsessively planned out ornate lovey scenarios with their significant others, which almost invariably failed to live up to expectations, or b) bitched about being single and how mean and terrible it was to have a holiday about love, gooshy love. Irritating, in other words.
Since becoming a florist of sorts, the holiday has of course taken on whole new levels. This is our Christmas, New Years, and Fourth of July all at once, our busiest day of the year. (Or at least it should be--the whole economic crisis thing is making us all a little nervous for today, actually.) The funny thing about Valentine's Day is that the flowers look shittier now than any other time, because of the ridiculous demand which requires that growers pick them long before they normally would and attempt to preserve them until the Big Day. My co-worker has told me that some of our flowers are probably weeks old. And unfortunately, prices always jump now as well. Summary: you are paying more for shittier flowers. Wait a week and buy someone a nice bouquet.
Last Valentine's Day was memorably terrible for me. My relationship was slowly sinking, but I was sincerely hoping after a long long week of prepping flowers to have a nice evening at home with my lady. Instead I returned home, exhausted, to find an empty house and a bathtub full of dirty dishes. Our sink had been broken for at least a week at that point, and so we (mostly me) had been killing our knees doing dishes in our increasingly disgusting bathtub. When I saw those dishes, something snapped in me and I became angrier than I can ever remember being before, maybe angrier than I have in fact ever been before. I don't anger particularly easily. I frightened myself. I'd never had a straw actually break my camel's back before, and it was a terrifyingly out-of-control feeling. The evening miraculously ended decently, but what I remember was that shaking screaming pure rage.
I've already done my dishes this morning. The week hasn't been as hard, and I'm in a better place emotionally and heart-wise than I have been in a long time. My plans tonight: to make a lemon meringue pie. That's all. I think I can handle it. I'm hoping for a better evening.

Friday, February 13, 2009


I finally started work on my Master Copy of the cookbook last night, and then my gluestick ran out around midnight and I was stopped in my tracks at Soups. Very sad. As soon as I finish my coffee I'm going to go invest in another gluestick and hopefully mostly finish that sucker up.
It feels so good to be creative again. It's weird to say that because technically I have two incredibly creative jobs: musician and florist. I'm creating shit ALL THE TIME. But after a year or fifteen, the "creative" aspect of each of these jobs is clearly only part of the picture. In the day-to-day, it's mostly pulling cold wet foliage off of flowers or tuning chords slowly or other less-than-thrilling things. In order to be able to play a piece magnificently or create a beautiful bouquet for a regular customer to bring to his partner, I have to go through all of the legwork that makes the moments of transcendence possible.
I do try to remind myself often that I am very, very lucky to be working in fields that I enjoy and bring me fulfillment. And the truth is, I don't always mind the legwork. Especially in music, but in a limited amount in floristry as well, the legwork fills some sort of deep-seated anal compulsive part of me with joy. I like putting things in order, filling in all of the little details, acting with precision and deliberation. Somebody asked me recently what my favorite part of being a musician was, and (admittedly, this was partly an attempt to be surprising and interesting) I told her that one of my favorite things is the way my part looks at the end of a concert. It starts out clean, and as rehearsals progress I write a million little very precise notes all over it to remind myself to do things. If you aren't me (or, hopefully, my standpartner) it wouldn't make any sense; it's like a whole different language. A measure may contain a few handwritten symbols that tell me, "watch out, look up here, he's going to be slowing down, and don't forget to diminuendo!" Or, "use your whole bow, then set to play again, look up, listen to the snare drum." When I see a fully marked part, it reminds me of all of the work that has gone into the performance, all of the rehearsals and good and bad moments and times I fucked up and times I marked something before the conductor told us to and I felt like a badass orchestral player, not to mention the fact that the only reason it makes any sense to me is that I have years and years--more than a decade now--of those moments behind me. It makes me happy. I'm always sad when I have to give parts back at the end. It's something I anticipate missing if I stop playing as regularly. I guess I'll just have to find something else that fills this deep orderly part of me with as much joy.

Monday, February 09, 2009

damn lies

Today has gotten weird and a little icky.
Some of you probably know that one whole side of my family is pretty strictly Mormon. My mom is the black sheep for marrying out of the religion and going all liberal, and my (similarly queer) sister and I have been keeping mum about the fact that we like girls for years now on her behalf. I hate hate hate not being open about my queerness, but my mom has made it very clear that she would become (in her opinion) estranged from the rest of her family if we came out, so that's been that for years now. Most of the time it doesn't bother me, because I rarely think of it; I don't see or speak to my Mormon relatives often, my mom and I no longer discuss "touchy" subjects (my choice, it's just not worth it to me anymore), and the whole thing just hides out in the back of my mind, rarely rearing its ugly head.
If I were braver, I'd just say to hell with it. But I love my mom, and it's hard for me to deal with her tears and the possible repercussions that she might have to deal with. And this may, in fact, be a line I'm not yet willing to cross. Someday I may have to: what if I decide to have a child? That's not something you can hide. But for now, I'm doing what I hate to do and hiding behind a "family friendly" facebook profile. I fucking hate this. But if you want to help me live a lie, find my goody-two-shoes alter ego (same name, picture of me hiking in a striped tank top)and friend me.

the side with the sunshine is the side that i'm on

The sun just came out for the first time today. I've been having a lazy morning when I should have been having a productive one, but I'm having a hard time feeling too guilty about it. Tonight I have to buckle down and write, because (tah-dah!) I've been working on a cookbook to give to friends and loved ones for Valentine's Day. (Or, given the odds that I won't get things mailed out until after that, February.) My big goal for tonight it to finish the text so that I can buy paper tomorrow and break out with my gluestick. If you want a copy and you don't think I have it, email your address to me ASAP.
My other big goal is to give those damned potato-soy chorizo pastries one last shot in hopes that they can still be added to the finished book. The new gameplan involves pre-cooking the potatoes and adding slightly more chorizo to the mix. Wish me luck.
I had a fantastic weekend, full of good people and good food and interesting conversations and various other things. The flower shop will begin the V-Day buildup soon, which I'm both looking forward to and dreading. Nothing gigantic has been happening, but I've been deriving an unusual amount of pleasure from small things: sunlight, plants, a good beer, the scent of cinnamon, a kiss on the back of the neck. I feel a camaraderie with the world that has been lightening my steps in the cold dark month, which is helped along by the fact that it hasn't honestly been that cold or dark lately. Life is good sometimes.

Friday, February 06, 2009

oh, my early twenties...

I just read a post from April of 2004 where I talked about how depressed and apathetic I was and then gave a recipe for an amaretto sour.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

blue note

I'm finally having time to read the last selection from the queer book group I was invited to join via internet dating site, Times Square Red, Times Square Blue by Samuel R. Delany. I mentioned this book a while ago, but life got so hectic that I simply was unable to find the time to get a good start on actually reading it until now.
The book consists of two extended essays; the first, Times Square Blue, is about the author's personal experiences interacting with people and places on Forty-Second Street, a notorious hotbed of sexual activity, pornography, peepshows, and movie theaters. It's something of a homage, since the area is quickly being cleaned up by the city of New York in order to increase tourism and improve its image. Delany writes, as something of a summation of why this book exists:
"With the rush to accommodate the new, much that was beautiful along with much that was shoddy, much that was dilapidated with much that was pleasurable, much that was inefficient with much that was functional, is gone. The idea that all that is going is ugly and awful is as absurd as is would be to propose that what was there was only of any one moral color. What was there was a complex of interlocking systems and subsystems. Precisely at the level where the public could avail itself of the neighborhood, some of those subsystems were surprisingly beneficent--beneficent in ways that will be lost permanently unless people report on their own contact and experience with their subsystems."
Much of the first essay consists of personal reminiscences of Delany's experiences, both in terms of sexual experiences and with the neighborhood as a whole. There are stories of shoeshine men and taxi dispatchers, and then there are stories of blow jobs in theater seats. There are histories of hustlers and buildings and homeless people. I appreciate authors who can talk about themselves explicitly in order to make a point, such as Juana Maria Rodriguez's discussion of cybersex in Queer Latinidad (well worth checking out), and Delany does so with a vengeance. He makes no bones (ahem) about his sexual activity, and why should he? "A glib wisdom holds that people like this just don't want relationships. They have "problems with intimacy." But the salient fact is: These were relationships... In... several, they were relationships that lasted years. Intimacy for most of us is a condition that endures, however often repeated, for minutes or for hours. And these all had their intimate hours. but, like all sane relationships, they also had limits." One of my favorite ideas from The Ethical Slut was that relationships, given time and space and attention, will reach their own level. If that level is semi-anonymous consensual and mutually enjoyable sex in a movie theater, is that such a bad thing?

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

hit and miss

So obviously this week hasn't been all shitty, but it certainly hasn't given me much time to breathe until today. Now I'm sitting here with my second cup of coffee, happy with the knowledge that it's 10 am and--even though the day has been spent in front of the computer--I've actually accomplished some stuff for dal niente. So now I feel free, before I begin cleaning and practicing and maybe even venturing out into the cold-again-of-course-damn-you-Chicago winter day, to write about food.
Friday night was the biggest Nicholas Dinner yet. (We're trying to phase out the name Candida Dinner, since that's essentially naming food and company after a disease.) Actually, it was the largest group of people I've helped prepare food for since our Paperchef dinners in Tucson: we fed eleven, which was frankly intimidating, but everybody got enough food and went home happy as far as I know. And it was nice to have a not gigantic amount of leftover food for once :) Anyway, Rose-Anne brought a hummus appetizer (which I sadly abstained from due to red pepper content), we made a coconut curry vegetable soup, wild rice cakes with jalapeno and onion and a goat's milk garlic yogurt topping, Nicholas made his amazing black bean-avocado-cilantro salad, and Anna S. made gluten-free sugar-free carob chip cookies. Everything was pretty delicious, but I was particularly impressed with the rice cakes. Wild rice is not something I have much experience with, but these were so healthy and delicious that I will definitely be making them again. (And also posting the recipe...) As always, it is just such a pleasure to have so many people that I care about and find awesome sitting around together, sharing a meal and talking and interjecting viewpoints taken from their different backgrounds into the conversation. I feel almost like I'm watching a field cross-pollinating: new thoughts are being born over bowls of soup.
Saturday was hellish, and Sunday was Shana's birthday, so food was good but not prepared by me. Then last night, I made a second attempt at a recipe that I truly want to make work and have so far been unsuccessful with: Soy chorizo-potato pastries. The recipe itself seems a little sketchy (I frown on calling for "garlic cream cheese" instead of garlic and cream cheese, for instance. And there's a bit of unspecificity in general), so I've been playing it increasingly fast and loose with ingredient proportions. Rose-Anne and I made a valiant first effort at this recipe and ended up with beautiful brown pastries with crunchy uncooked potatoes inside. That time, I more or less used their measurements insofar as I was able to without a scale, but I felt like the chorizo was a bit too prominent (along with the potato issue). (Although I'm also not sure how soy chorizo and real chorizo compare in terms of taste and texture, so that's something to consider as well.) Anyway, so last night I strategically added a lot more of the creamy ingredients, chopped my potatoes much smaller, and added considerably less chorizo. The mixture was more palatable to me (although this time I could have used more chorizo, live and learn), but my potatoes still came out crunchy. I had to nearly char the pastry shells to make them more edible. Hmm. Back to the drawing board.
Anyway, a recipe!

Jalapeno Wild Rice Patties

Did you know that wild rice isn't actually a rice? It's closely related, but it's actually an aquatic grass seed.

1/2 C wild rice
1 T flour (I used quinoa flour)
1/2 t baking powder
1 t sea salt
1 jalapeno pepper, finely chopped
1 T minced onion
1 T grated ginger
1 egg
2 T olive oil

1. Cook the wild rice. When it is done, stir in the flour, baking powder and salt.
2. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg, onion, jalapeno, and ginger.
3. Combine the two bowls and mix well.
4. Heat some oil on a non-stick frying pan. Drop the mixture onto the pan by the tablespoonful. Flatten the cakes out a little bit, and then flip after about 2 minutes, or when the ingredients seem to be sticking together. Makes about 8 3-inch cakes.

Notes: We made much more than this, obviously, and I was not really measuring anything per se because I was in a hurry and the proportions had gotten a little ridiculous anyway. We also, due to another food allergy, made one set with egg and one without. (Amusingly, to me anyway, the eggless ones stuck together much better.) Instead of quinoa flour, I used chickpea flour, and the eggless ones also contained arrowroot. In the future, I would add more of the thickeners (the flour and arrowroot) and maybe not even bother with the egg, since it didn't really seem to add much. And keeping the patties small is good for cohesion, something I was also a little lax about. But hell, eleven people were waiting for dinner.
Also, something I read suggested mixing brown rice and wild rice for recipes, and I think that could work really well here. It would involve cooking two rices, which is potentially a pain, but it might make things more interesting texturally.

Cacik (pronounced 'jajuck') Yogurt Sauce

yogurt (if tolerated)
cucumber, grated or finely chopped
crushed garlic

No proportions. Just make it taste good. We used goat milk yogurt for candida reasons, but regular should work just fine. Use a lot of garlic! The coolness works well with the jalapenos in the rice cakes.

Monday, February 02, 2009

the lighter side

Tonight's strangest phone conversation:
Phone rings while I am mid-text, and I consequently answer on accident. I don't recognize the number, and in a moment of panic I hang up immediately and then think to myself that that was a silly thing to do.
Phone rings again, the same number.
Me: Hello?
Caller: Hey, princess! It's John Johnson! (or something)
Me: Um, who?
Caller: John Johnson!
Me: I'm sorry, who are you?
Caller: I cut your hair!
(Note: More than two years ago I got a haircut from a man whose name I can't remember who periodically calls me to inform me via voicemail that he is going on vacation. Consequently, I assume that this is the same person. I decide to try to draw attention away from the fact that I have no idea who he is or why he is still calling me.)
Me: Oh! I didn't know your last name! (Good job, me! Very quick thinking.)
Caller: Um, okay. (mutters something unintelligible, possibly about smelling like Aveda)
Me: What?
Repeat 2x
Caller: Who is this?
Me: Who is this?
Caller: Is this Amanda who lives in Nevada?
Me: No, not at all!
Mutual laughter
Caller: So that explains why you were confused when I called you Princess!

Indeed. How often do you get called princess out of nowhere and then told that a stranger has been cutting your hair?