CONFESSIONS OF A SELF-PROCLAIMED SMOOTHIE EXPERT

May 03, 2004 | 9:32pm

A smoothie expert — that’s one way I describe myself. When I heard that my friends where going to have a smoothie party my ears perked up and I volunteered to start organizing it. I sent out recipes that I would like to try along with some I knew to be successful and easy to create.

The day comes, I get there early, unpack my wears. I had volunteered to bring a blender and I ended up toting a grocery sack of fruity ingredients along with it. I sure am proud of myself. But when I unpack it all I realize that not only did I bring my expertise in art that smoothie creation, but that I only packed half of a blender. I had a container, blade, and lid with no electric base on which to obliterate food. I brought half a fucking blender! My embarrassment begins.

Luckily, there’s a blender onsite. But people still are not making smoothies so I figure I’ll just jumpstart the process and dive right in!

I’ve learned quite a lot about blending fruit into delicious treats over the yearss. I’ve burned out three blenders in four years. Currently I’m on my fourth and it hasn’t smoked, shot deadly flames into the air or keeled over like its predecessors. I’ve learned that you should tackle the ice first. If you break down the hardest ingredient head on, you’ll save time and energy later. I usually like to combine the ice with the liquid first, this way you’ll have a base to start with and everything that follows will only thicken or dilute as needed.

Ignoring that very valuable insight, I toss everything into the machine in hopes of making myself look more creditable by being quick about it.

The blender jams.

I look around and motion for a stirring utensil. Getting none I continue to blend. Although eager the blades spin around unsuccessfully — much like tires caught in snow — and I vow to unclog the path to the blades so more fruit can impale itself. Still spinning, I open the lid, hoping to unjam as quickly as possible and with little observation. The spoon hits the blade stopping its vicious cycle; with momentum abruptly halted, the contents in the blender continue their path in the only way possible: violently upwards and completely out of the glass jar.

I involuntarily act as a shield, it crashes onto my arm because it’s the closest object of interference, it splats on my face. The walls, cabinets, and (yes, the) ceiling also get amply sprayed. Even the toaster, accompanying appliances and smoothie ingredients surrounding the blender get covered indiscriminately in dark purple liquid with small black chucks – which I assume to be the skin to the small round deadly fruit.

In the time it takes to drop a basketball, turn on a light switch, or change the channel of your TV via a remote control, I managed to ruin this poor woman’s kitchen. She screams. She howls like a wild mother protecting her offspring from ravenous predators. The people in the room all gasp. And they all point. And they all laugh. And they all stare at my face, and my arm, and the walls, the cabinets, the ceiling, the toaster, the counter, and the ingredients. They stair at the so-called "Smoothie Expert" and laugh.

I know I’m a sap, I’ll cry at any movie starring Ewan McGregor or Lidnsy Lohan. But at this time, I’m a 23 year old man wanting to cry in complete horror and embarrassment. I hate me; I hate not heeding my own advice on smoothie creation. I hate calling myself a smoothie expert in the first place. I hate bringing only half a blender to make the fucking smoothies. I hate the blueberry sauce that covers my face, making it blue instead of the bright red it should be under the current conditions. More importantly, I hate that I didn’t wait for fucking three seconds it would have taken for the blender to stop spinning.

Sometimes I don’t mean to be a dumbass, I just am.