Friday, July 31, 2009
There in my kitchen is the smiling, wide awake and ready to roll husband. He's far too chipper. I'm always ready to kick his ass when I first wake up.
On the weekends he's the hateful one, impossible to get out of bed before 2 p.m. but during the week - once he's on his feet he's go-go-go. We do not share the same sleep habits, it causes a bit of discombobulation between us but come Friday 6 p.m. I try to offset my ridiculous sleeping habits so that we can spend quality time together.
This last week has been particularly hellish on me, my all over aches and pains from myalgia are 'giving me the fits (granny would say). I stay up far too late every night, up on the computer until I'm falling asleep with the laptop across my chest, my mouth slightly agape and quiet snores escaping my nose and my lips fluttering while I blow raspberries.
He's in the kitchen at the sink doing only God knows what and I give him my surprised WTF look. He asks me, "what would you like for lunch?"
This has become our cha-cha, our little dance that goes no where but the same 3 steps for the longest time.
What would you like? I don't know, what do you want? I don't know just pick something...and it starts all over again.
what do you want.
I don't know what do you want.
just pick something.
Sheepishly he suggests that we go to a particular deli on the main strip in town because he fancies a certain sandwich, plus it would take far less time to have someone prepare it than go through the refrigerator and find the fixin's and whip up something even half as tasty.
He's eyeballing me and waiting to see if I concur. He's also looking to see if I'm going to put something half way decent on instead of the awful pajamas that are stained from years of bathing greasy ol' Sphynx cats, scrubbing floors, what appears to have been at least one oil change as well as some dried raw ground turkey thighs.
Sleepwear for me is an art form, because its become my lounge-wear and knock around the house wear. Anyone that has the tiniest understanding of chronic pain and its relativity to your daily activities will know that your comfort level is of the utmost importance.
What you wear can help determine how you react to the rest of what happens throughout the day. One might not have control on anything else that is pitched in their direction but being able to move freely without being bound up - well that is a choice made with confidence!
Does it have to be attractive, I think not!?! If it were appealing, well then we'd have a major problem on our hands. we mustn't tempt fate by enticing lust throughout the day, its enough for the hubby to gaze upon this face in all it's Botticellian magnificence (coughbullshitcough).
With THE look given to me I take this clue and head back to my lair, dark and welcoming and look to the several different outfits I've exchanged this week for such jaunts out of the home front. I figure this (reference how I don't need to look spiffy) 1 pair of clean jeans will last several lunch dates out on the town. Most lunches take less than 75 minutes from Home to Lunch and back to Home. Long as I don't drop a glob of ketchup or some cream gravy on my lap or on my tits I'm all set to wear the same thing again another day with a good spritz with Febreeze!
I've donned my street-wear, casting a sad parting glance to my mismatched garb that brings me comfort, I exit stage left and we head out to grab a bite to eat.
This is where I get to insert permission from the manager on duty.
I CAN USE THE NAME OF THE RESTAURANT - McCallister's -
Generally I keep the names out of my blogs, maybe just small references and you can figure out from my little hints but I protect the innocent or the idiots alike.
There's only one thing I order when I'm there and there's only a couple of things he orders when he's there. With every meal they bring a lone pickle which is placed along your plate.
Pickles are not my favorite condiment or accompaniment for sandwiches but I can understand how others enjoy them. Frankly (insert humor) I only like relish on my hot dogs, once in a great while I like to snack on sweet baby gherkins but I'm not a fan of the Kosher spear.
We step up to the counter and the first thing my big mouth blurts out is "OMG you are GORGEOUS!" This is absolutely true, the young lady working the register has eyes the color of jade and she looks like she's stepped right out of a Bollywood film.
Placing our order is always a melodrama because I never want mustard on my food, and the hubby hates tomatoes. On this particular sammich he's decided today he will forgo the mustard also.
Somewhere between telling her to 86 the tomato/mustard and having another worker come over and ask her what menu item # was she deleting these from because she'd forgotten to hit the correct key on the register while I was flirting with her (I guess its distracting to have a couple in their 40s hitting on you in some sick swingers sort of way when you're just barely out of high school) and she totally didn't charge me for the 2 tasty cookies I palmed out of the basket on the counter!
I'm still flapping my jaw for another second and the man's stalked off to search for a seat, the place is a madhouse during the lunch hour. Finding a booth is what we'd prefer, it's never spoken why but really its because we've both got big asses and a booth allows for us to spread out a bit! I like to kick off my shoes and put my feet up on the seat across from me too. Additionally, I usually have a gigantic bag or purse & sometimes the laptop case..who knows what else. I need room for my traveling office.
Husband's habit (I find annoying)is to find the farthest point away from the door/register for a seat. If I were to meet him for a meal by way of coming in a separate vehicle all I would have to do is head straight back and then look both ways and he'd be at one of the two ends of the restaurant.
This time he's chosen the end closest to the restroom. Naturally I comment on this, but I'll withhold for now.
Our placard sitting at the forefront of the table to alert the delivery wait-person, we sit and begin our catching up time. I'm already commenting on how disgusting I find the situation 2 tables down from us.
There is a couple of young parents fully engrossed in their baby that's sitting in a store provided booster, they have bits and pieces of food all over the table and the baby's mealy little paws are smearing it about. Mom and dad are all smiles, not a concern in the world while in my minds eye I see all of the filthy germs and organisms that are living on that table they for CERTAIN did not sanitize before setting food down.
What I'm really hoping for most of all, not the safety of that child but that the child doesn't start the squalling, whiney crap that they do when they don't get what they want or when they DO get what they want and they peel with happiness at the top of those tiny lungs. Just please, please child stay silent.
Only a few minutes pass and along comes our food. I'm looking forward to mine because I haven't had a french dip that didn't agree with me. He seems almost content with his except he's said, after the girl started to walk away - look at this pickle!
well you know me and this has become a moment of great excitement.
A moment of 'BLOG'!
This pickle is sad.
This pickle still has pickle vine attached to it.
This pickle looks as if the baby 2 seats down, with it's toothless grin, has placed the entire 4" of it's length into his maw and tried chomping it in a few places. The action has bruised the tender pickle flesh left divots but not actually taken out the meat of the pickle but has given the perception of missing mass.
I'm getting ready to take a picture of this tragic pickle when the server returns to ask how our meal is. I've asked that a replacement be brought back for our dining delight as this one does not suit our appetite. Perhaps pickles do not impart such importance in the lives of other people but I was going to be sure that the hubby would enjoy every taste and delight of his meal.
(Seriously, McCallister's is one damn expensive deli and you'd better clean your plate mister!)
Our young server waits while the photo is taken, I've alerted her to my intentions of letting Corporate know of my disappointment ...and she returns with not one but TWO tasty replacements.
Now this is what I'm talking about, but no sooner are we deep into our discussion again and the newly approved preserved cucumbers are tasted than I spy out of the corner of my eye...what appears to be the manager on duty.
Yes indeed and he looks ready to take on the world, a clipboard in the hand and a confident smile on his face...he just wasn't ready for me!
"I hear you have a problem here"
I smile at him and I begin with, "oh no, no problem any longer"
He stands there, towering over us which by itself is a situation I am never happy with. Some people love to have that physical power over another, when they can place their presence physically over you, where you are cornered and have no option but to wiggle and squirm under their stare.
This however does not work much with me because I will physically move you if necessary. Perhaps you've heard the saying? I'll CUT a bitch.
He's waiting however so I begin with, "Your kitchen sent out an unsatisfactory pickle. If you were the customer, would you want to eat this? I know that your pickles come in a 5 gallon pail and tossing out one ugly pickle would not cost you as much as possibly losing a regular customer. Because you chose to put poor quality out, you could have lost a customer.
(luckily I've been in food service and understand the mechanics of a kitchen)
The kitchen should have managerial decision making at the food preparation level, that pickle should not have been placed on a plate but worse yet, the server should have seen it and not delivered it either. "
This guy is so taken aback, he does a nervous half step back from the table and a little laugh and agrees with me. "your right, absolutely right. Yes, our pickles come from a 5 gallon pail and yes we should have been more selective. I will have a talk with them"
In an age when money is running tighter and tighter, every company is striving to entice us into their doors to spend what little we have - I strongly recommend that your quality of services be equivalent to what we are paying for.
It would have been nothing for me to have demanded further satisfaction and started to point out the dirty tables, the smeared pictures hanging on walls, the dust collecting on the memorabilia on the walls... instead I just wanted a delicious and appealing pickle on my plate, not a shitpickle
now try to get this little youtube funny out of your mind..it'll be tattooed on your brain forever.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The words spoken by a man that's laid a fart-bomb.
The last night’s excursion was an unexpected manic frenzy through a hillbilly shopping mall. The idea to go there stemmed from my errand running throughout the day. Yep, I had to get the dry cleaning and whose dry cleaning ....not mine that's for sure. I don't have any because I don't do anything that requires me to look refined, put together or even attractive.
I'm a frumpy ol' shaggy haired, freckled faced, dark-circle under my eyes from not nearly enough sleep married broad.
The husband however, he has to look good. He's in charge of some pretty nifty stuff in his line of work. Some days, he has to look ruff to scare the contractors but he's the go-between for those multimillion dollar choices so it's a good choice to look put together, therefore the need to have those nice button down shirts and dress pants.
That all said, I have NEVER met such a clothes-horse in my life. You would think that this guy was going to be on the cover of GQ, he has more dress shirts than there are days in the work week for an entire month.
The real issue I have though is that more than half of these are in patterns and these patterns are for someone that would be working as a lumberjack. Stripes, checks and plaids and other awful patterns that would blend in environments those lumberjacks feel most comfortable.
Just a man and his axe, his companion Big Blue and those hats with ear flaps. The colors invoke winter days and hot cocoa, evergreens, melting snow on boot tips by the fireplace.
But it’s 102 degrees here every day in the summer, not exactly the type of place to wear long sleeve broadcloth shirts in dark green checkers and plaids.
You sir, do not swing an axe.
You sir, do not have climbing spurs.
You especially do not have Big Blue to befriend and you do not look like Paul Bunyon
Rather you are just a regular guy that drives a Ford Taurus and sits at a desk and does inspections.
Since I was off doing all the errands including the dry cleaning, the banking and picking up some groceries I also had the shared car, which meant I had to go and pick up THE MAN at the end of the work day. We usually would head right back to the house, do not pass go, and do not collect $200…just get to the house and so be it. Today with the way I’m feeling and the thoughts in my brain I figure let’s have a little surprise trip and head out to shop. We might not have to spend a lot of money, but we could certainly try on a few things and see what works.
One thing in particular that I know that he needs is a new pair of pants, he has been wearing his pants out in the junk-area so much that they could pass for salt shakers. Hold ‘em up in the air and light would shine through – one could use them for a backdrop on a theatre design to be a starry sky. He has only a few pair of slacks/jeans that he wears regularly for work and for casual wear he pretty much has wanted to wear the same then!
Anyhoooooo where I’m going here is that Mr GQ is outta style and ready to get refreshed. I show up, tell him to get in and instead of going left to head home…I make a right and he puts a quizzical look on his face and I hit the gas VROOOM.
Why am I torturing myself? Who knows really, probably just because I’m a masochist but really it’s because I care, I love and I want to see him succeed. Shopping with this man though, it’s going to be a headache I just know it!
We pop into the first store and immediately I start pulling slacks off and tossing them over his shoulders, into his arms, over his head. His face is disappearing and he’s starting to slump under the weight of the yards of fabric. He’s saying, wait wait are you getting the right size, which I respond with “aren’t you blankity blank size?” and he says, “ya but sometimes I’m ….or sometimes I’m …..”
I don’t really care because I’m throwing a little of both of the sizes at him already taking this into consideration.
When he’s laden down well enough I nod and he says in a muffled voice from under the heap, “Can I go try these on now?”
“Yup..git on, I’ll look at shirts. “
Now the fun really begins; looking for anything that looks better than those lumberjack shirts. Lemme tell you that the man can pull off some really bold colors, bold as in primary as well as Miami Vice!
He’s a fair skinned fellow with sandy blonde hair, pale blue eyes, nearly colourless eyelashes and cheeks that are a bit flushed with time and exposure.
He wears a mustache and goatee, I’d say he’s a fine looking fellow and when he cleans up I have to mentally slap away the bitches (sometimes verbally and if I must I will physically beat those bitches off).
I’m really excited to have found in a rack on the far wall a whole row of beautiful Oxford shirts, and at a price that makes me tingle! I am a cheap woman, frugal
What I’m not ready to find out; they don’t suit his Highness due to a design flaw which is tantamount! BUTTON DOWN COLLAR. Good grief Charlie Brown. How this is important in the grand scheme of life, I do not know as I am not a button down shirt wearing card member but neither is he a tie-sporting individual on any regular basis. In my estimation, this would be the main rule of thumb for the necessary needs and means for having those 2 itty-bitty buttons (which my none-too-lissome fingers can fidget with).
The packaging of these shirts do not have any documentation on them depicting what they are, not to the casual eye so we are getting a bit pissy by now and I’m starting to throw a fit because I wanted him to settle on 3 shirts then and there. This is how I shop, bam bam bam! He wants what he wants..bam bam bam. Neither of us are satisfied and then voices are slightly raised and its getting down to both of us having grumbling tummies and the stress of being in an enclosed building with recirculated air infected with hillbilly breath and dirty diaper residue. The possible use of asbestos in the tile flooring and acoustic tile reverberating old gossip of high school girls chattering is ringing in our ears slowly driving us mad subconsciously and we are surely going to eat each other’s faces off before this trip is completed.
Nothing is found and I’m stomping in the direction of the checkout station where I spot one of those women that still believe they are 25, dressing for 25 however are closer to 45 and you cringe for them and desperately want to help tuck their clothes farther down to cover this or that lump and bump.
Her nametag in plain sight I speak to her by name, which has her staring me deep into my eyes and asking me, “Do I know you?”
of course not, but I know you …by your name tag.
I ask for this specific style of shirt and she promises to show us where we might find them right after she checks the next customer and proceeds to lead us the way. I’m pleased, hurray, customer service isn’t dead (I have a blog in me that says it is) but I’m a bit sick for having to watch her sashay in front of us leading the way.
Sadly, despite finding the correct model of shirts none will fit Mr. Bunyon because not only does he dress like him he is nearly as much of a bear. (Okay all of my gay followers sigh with desire)So we head back to the counter, but not before I spot a circular on an empty check out station that has a coupon on it for that weekend’s big sale for $15.00 of any single purchase of $75.00 or more! HOT DIGGITY DOG. You know damn well I’m swiping it, my eyes jog side to side and up and down for the eye in the sky and like a teenager in a 5 and dime – the coupon is torn and jammed into my pocket faster than a Milky Way.
This story does not end here …but instead we chase the dream of those buttons. Walking about, eyeballing the freaks, the stroller pushers, the posers, the exercising grandma’s, the hawkers and gawkers and finally land into the high-end department store where a very pretty Latina girl comes up a bit shy and asks quietly…can I help you? I bark out, “Size, Color, Button Down, oxford…NOW”
She scurries off and returns with 4…we shove the man into the dressing room and start talking about him and his high maintenance ways…he’s in LOVE with what she’s found so far so I ask of her to please find a few more in various colors because she’s hit the jackpot! She again runs off, her petite feet making little taps on the linoleum floor and returns with hangers in her hands and the shirts swinging in her arms.
Hubby is smiling.
I am smiling.
We celebrate with a stop at the Pretzel stand.
Sit to nibble ….and just as we are about to depart he clutches his tummy, rolls one hip just slightly and lifts his hip and butt cheek and releases a fart.
This is a fart which you would save for the privacy of your home; the type that sounds like a whoopy cushion, wet and like it’s flapping, squishy and popping. The type where he jokingly refers to with..”I think I might have to wipe”
….he then says – ”I think it’s time to go now”
Thursday, July 23, 2009
now onto the Big Show!
I dedicate the title to Preston in his moments of being forever shocked, intimidated and fearful of what he will learn next ...in his pursuit of yet another filthy word he's not aware of. Preston I'm positive you will have to look up in the Urban Dictionary what "felching" is.
Imagine if you will a rustic Italian kitchen.
Satillo tile floor and the walls a mud-trowel knockdown finished. There are hand-painted dishes hung on the walls along with black/white prints of Spanish/Italian scenes scattered here and there about the room. The kitchen is a-flurry with sound, the clangs of pots & pans as well as the sizzling of food cooking a medley to my ears as well as a song to my palate. I begin to salivate the minute the aromas of parmesan, oregano and garlic waft into my big schnoz.
We are seated along the backside of the half-wall that connects to the bar, this wall is maybe 48" tall therefore you get the opportunity view all of the goings on of the party on the other side. We usually opt to be on that side because less little humans are seated there.
Anyone that knows me knows of my loathing of children, they not only are not to be heard at dinner but not seen. Do NOT take your child to an adult restaurant and do not sit them in the bar section because I am going to go out of my way to offend you even further. I will find in my arsenal the most disgusting jokes and dirty words to say aloud. I might even expose myself!
The booth is quiet enough, I can see the bartender concocting his drinks and the flashing of the games on the 2 screens hung up above the mirrored beverage area. Light reflecting and creating prisms of color, quite pretty really and I'm momentarily distracted from the conversation until our waitress arrives with the menus.
Now the choice to come have dinner was simply because I am in no position or desire to cook. Today I've gone to my milk-toast excuse of a doctor to find out what is wrong with this throat of mine which has been scratchy for days.
When I awoke this morning it was miserably scratchy and when I tried to swallow or talk it felt like a rusty awl was ripped across my larynx. When I went ahead to take a peep inside I saw a cottage cheese factory and that's when I figured I'd give up the ghost and go in to see him (doctor). I knew it was strep-throat but would have to degrade myself just to get confirmation and a big shot in the ass.
We've decided to order a bottle of wine which I've no real intention of drinking because my head is pounding like 12 drummers drumming, but the man will imbibe for sure. He certainly deserves a drink since he puts up with psycho girl.
The wine arrives as well as a pair of mini-appetizers that we dive into with relish, neither of us have had much to eat that day. I'm not sure if I can even swallow anything but have decided to take a swallow of water with each bite and turn it into a gooey mess, masticate it like a mother bird would do and then finally let it slide down my raw miserable throat.
The salads arrive, which is ridiculous...miss waitress is doing a piss-poor job so far. I think she went to the Sear's waitress school in addition to being extremely annoying. She has been fantastic about coming back to ask us how everything tastes but each time when we let her know we'd like to have our salads she's gone off and returned with..Oh gosh I'm sorry let me go get those for you.
Regardless of all of this, the food is going in and there's no real injury yet ....until...
4 lovelies walk in and head directly for the bar. Now let me tell you, these are a pretty decent looking group except for Trucker-Bob (wearing one of those flipping Trucker hats and Wrangler jeans).
The bar is empty..completely but they head right for the high top 4 right next to, on the opposite side of our booth. Of ALL of the damn seats in the house why is it that we are the candle for the moths?
We're here now, our table cleared and sipping our chardonnay waiting patiently for the entree to arrive and we notice...we notice...
What the fuck..
What the fuck...
holy shit! someone smells like shit. not just shit but maybe cat shit? manure? B.O? no, its even worse! its like an over ripe colostomy bag. it's like rotting potatoes, its like...well as if someone's gone to town and got their salad tossed.
There's been some felching going on and I think Trucker Bob is still wearing it on his face.
Now I'm really sickened and it takes a LOT to gross ME out. I'm rapidly losing any desire to have my dinner and here comes the server. He's brought his delivery table, dropped it down and put the serving tray on it and started to place the food on the table when he wrinkles his nose
...I look to him and say conspiratorially, "Dude! do you smell that cat shit icky smell?"
He's like..OMG yes!
"Thank God, we can't believe it but that guy" where I then shrug over at the 4-somesome, "came in and ever since he's been here yapping his mouth has been making us nauseous since"
I seriously don't think I'll be able to eat at this point and that's when this very nice young man, who I think is just as shocked as we are, offers to move us to another table!
Hubby and I got up so fast I was almost certain we'd knock over our bottle of wine, overturn the whole table in our urgency to get away from the reprehensible smell.
Several minutes into a few bites of our pasta I really can't tolerate another bite, my olfactory senses are just so severely damaged I must push away my plate and request a To-Go box. This is bad because I love my food, and going out is quite honestly a treat. I'm the cook, I have been given compliments far and wide for my culinary talents but right now I'd rather stuff a pair of olives into my nostrils just to get any smell in there that's better than the putrid stench that's still wafting about the room.
Now I have one more reason to just get carry-out. Please people. Take a bath and brush your teeth there's nothing worse than having to smell what you had for your last snack.
Monday, July 20, 2009
on about now? Let’s start with those titties!
Pendulous, delectable, juicy and straight from the National Geographic these breasts are
entrancing as they sway under the cotton t-shirt. Your eyes are automatically pulled from
anything else you are doing, like a lightening rod attracts a bolt…a flash…ZOOM SNAP FLASH
WHAMMO you are staring and you can’t peel your eyes away from that chest.
It’s unheard of and you know it’s not socially acceptable to stare but holy crap, how often do you see man-tits like these?
MOOBs Gynecomastia Jigglepuffs Swingers Jubblies …this poor old guy really had some peepers but wait, is he really a poor old guy or does he have a sweetie at home to suck on those juicy fruits?
Maybe they taste as nummy as they looked.
I just wanted to squeeze them, pinch them, slap them…motorboat them..but alas I was sitting in the middle of a the room with 2 other people and quite simply it would be socially unacceptable to manhandle an octogenarian.
Right after Boo(b)Boo(b) left a funny little (blonde)college (farmer looking) boy replaced his seat along with 2 friends and proceeded to make their orders. The waitress came and went, leaving a basket of rolls & butter to nibble on while they waited for their meals.
Let me tell you that these rolls are super fantastic and anyone that’s in this neck of the
woods should stop in just for these culinary gifts. Nothing like a mouthful of bread and butter to put a smile on your face.this will also put a pound of fat on your ass and ruin the rest of your meal because your stomach is bloating while it fills up with yeast as it ferments with the beers you've been swilling.
College Boy (CB) is sittin' pretty with a shit eating grin on and fingernails clipped practically to the quick. He grabs up a roll (I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye, simply because I'm a nosy bitch) and digs out the guts of the roll and then scoops out a glob of butter and sticks in smack dab into the middle of the de-gutted roll, slaps it shut and swallows it in 2 bites. Then proceeds to chomp on the glob of bun-guts that he'd removed prior to this act.
I keep catching "CBs" eye and he's on to me and getting a little self conscious but I appeal to him simply by saying out to him..(giggle) you're CUTE! which makes him blush and he doesn't know quite how to respond to the fat sweaty old lady eyeballing him.
this has the rest of us at the table in a fit of laughter because now we are secretly trying to capture him on video with the cell phones. I explained to him to keep doing what he's doing ...that he's going to be my next installment...of the RANTS! but in his infinite CB shyness he stopped. so, we stopped. paid our bill ...and left.
there's always got to be a party pooper or a poop in the playland or a booger in the pool
my crotch directly through my denim jeans. OUCH. isn't it enough that bugs have to bite me;
but now domesticated animals want a nibble too?
This just isn't right, I guess I could just offer an arm or leg to friends and ask them to take a bite... oh wait! Most everyone who knows me or has met me will at least once hear "Bite me, Suck it" ...or the like escape these pouty lips.
Come, come have a taste.
Sincerely speaking I'd love to know what my flavor is, I'd expect it's quite spicy but the way so many come back for seconds perhaps I'm sweet with a little hint of spice too. Sort of like eating cinnamon red hot candies, they burn but you can't stop eating them because they are addictingly delicious.
at least, I dont have rabies.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
1st let me give you a little reference from the Wikihow.com on CHIGGERS!
""Chiggers are tiny mites which are members of the arachnid family, a cousin of spiders and ticks. The larval stage of chigger can attach itself to your skin and feed, but they do not burrow under the skin as it is sometimes assumed.""
There are a few things in my life I've really wanted to avoid experiencing and chiggers are one of them. Leaches are another and believe me when I say this, I WILL avoid this at any and all costs because you are not going to catch me in ANY body of water that has these festering creatures ready to attach themselves to my succulent flesh. So don't expect to come back and read a blog later on about leaches.
This is it!
Now about a week ago I decided to take an excursion to the arboretum, it was a lovely late afternoon and the temperature had just dropped to a cool 99 degrees Fahrenheit. My plans of late has been to pick one day a week to traipse about town and take photographs as well as write down my experiences into the blog. These are the days to find moments of beauty (or oddity) and live it fully.
Right outside the arboretum's gates is a very lovely bush that is currently blooming with golden flowers that really grabs my eye each time I drive by. Every time I say to myself, this is the day I'll go in and each time I end up passing by and go home or go to the store or go to the Dr. or go...you get the idea.
Not this time though, I told the husband "Let's GO! and off we went. I grabbed an extra set of AA batteries for my crappy little Kodak EasyShare and hopped into the Ford to go. Not dressed for any excursion, (I never am) we went.
I am wearing track pants, open toed rubber sandals and a t-shirt which is just begging for trouble but c'mon it can't be that bad walking along paved trails! Besides, you're supposed to wear long pants whenever walking nearby plants or in the woods.
This is where I get stupid (applying properly dopey face) and invite my tick-like friends. I cannot resist certain photographic scenarios and aspects. My 'eye' for certain shots requires that I climb on top of, beneath, along side..even LAY down besides something to get just the right perspective.
well LOW AND BEHOLD, I clumber my hulk down ...first kneeling down and leaning in to get a snap at a beautiful strawberry-cactus but then I can't stand it and have to get a panoramic snapshot and therefore here I go (kneeling becomes laying)!
I've chosen to forgo the kneel and move down onto my belly, you know this is really quite crazy because I can't stand to even lay on my own living room floor (EWWW) yet I had not a single qualm laying in the dirt, pebbles, dust and scrabble just to get this snapshot.
There are other people wandering around including a statuesque woman with an outstanding telephoto lens Nikon (which was making me jizz my silks). I could care less about any of them because I'm entranced with the 'light' and wanting to get just the right shot.
When I get up, I brush against a rather sharp bunch of cacti (YEOWCH) and exclaim, "I shoulda worn jeans!"
The arboretum was beautiful and I spent nearly and hour outdoors which is a very long trip for me in the great outdoors. Fresh 'air' and nature really don't agree with me too much, I was reaching for H20 and my fast acting inhaler frequently. Worth it 150% though, there's no complaining going on here. My own yard would never even look 10% as nice as this parcel of land. We're lucky to get the grass mowed once a month, its usually ankle high before someone gets outside to cut it.
The day after the trip, my pictures uploaded onto Facebook and I'm glowing from my sun exposure and rave reviews from friends I find myself not so gently scratching..scratching. Nothing new here, but I don't bother to look because quite frankly the less I look at myself naked the less likely I will want to eat massive quantities of pills or my .22.
Alas, the itching won't go away and after a lengthy nap from the Benedryl I apprehensively approach the looking glass, stripping away my clothing and exposing my chunky belly, thighs and can.
HOLY JESUS MOTHER OF CHRIST - NOT AGAIN
I have blisters, papules and bruising like star-bursts as big as a quarter scattered here and there on my thighs.
Why'Oh'Why must I taste as wonderful as orange sorbet? Why must my skin be so tender that the tiniest of creatures can cause so much damage that I am screaming now inside of my head and now petrified to step foot into a lawn ever again?
Alas I am left to find out how to deal with these buggers since this has never happened to me before. The city girl.
We've heard it all before, the alternative ways to deal with this or that malady.
Funny thing, Googling chiggers and most do come up with nail polish and Vaseline. Sounds kinky but I'll give it a try, if anything else I'll get high on the fumes and then be lubed and ready to be taken advantage of.
Seriously though (laughing at the idea from above) the best defense against this (since the damage is now done) is to just take a hot soapy bath and then chase it with hydrocortisone for the itching
Don't scratch, for certain your going to aggravate it and possibly cause an infection (you know damn well I'm going to screw this up and be sick) and just cope.
Tonight I yanked the sheets off the bed, have considered burning them in the yard but I'm frugal (i.e. cheap) and will just launder them again.
Then I gave myself a rather nifty barbering while in the bathroom, there's no fancy landing strip ...just a well shorn putting green (PUKE glad it's not actually green) and went to work in the shower. I had the opposite of a horny teenagers wet dream cool off.
Started the water off with a simmering heat, if I were green beans I'd have been finished in 7 minutes but instead I kept cranking the knobs until I was at a full rolling boil and my skin was lobster red all the while lathering a'la Dove.
Making sure I only hand lathered without using nails or washcloth that could aggravate the situation and any leftover minuscule monsters could have dug in for more leverage!
I'm clean again.
The bugs are gone I pray.
in a few days my skin should peel off and regenerate again - maybe I will look 10 years younger!
Someone remind me not to play in the flowers and trees again.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The effects of the full moon are actually very well proven, behaviors are erratic in people that would otherwise act 'normally' or at least they wouldn't be so obnoxious that they'd be under my radar and ridicule.
Crazies will go out of their way to out-do their regular behaviors during the full moon.
While making an order at a well known fast food restaurant (yummm Frosties) the manager on duty was haranguing her pitiful underpaid and unimpressed employees.
"What the Hell is wrong with you, I told you that you need 4 buns for this order. Why are you using so much mustard, why are you so stupid, can't you get anything right, do I have to keep showing you over and over again..."
I stood there at the counter listening and witnessing this browbeating, the manager (a diminutive 40 something) was standing right on top of a young Latina woman while she was trying to prepare these sandwiches.
My first thought was, which I naturally said out loud - "Who the fuck is that and why would anyone stand for this mistreatment? if you MUST work in food service because there are no other jobs...McDonald's is hiring next door!"
Leave it to me (and if the man is with me) to start stirring the pot when the pot is already boiling.
The cashier is fit to be tied and she's hoping that our order will be processed quickly and we will move on because now we're drawing attention to this dreadful woman. Praying that it all ends soon so that she won't come and start criticizing her work at the drawer and will instead continue her attack on the kitchen workers.
Hubby orders a side salad, one of the employees brings it out and from the back the manager looks up to the order board and says, "did anyone get that salad?!" in a shrill voice.
So husband says, "Yah someone got it, but there's only FOUR cucumber slices in there and I said NO TOMATO!"
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The night before last we decided to give our 'new' smoker a whirl and ever since this I've been suffering the consequences. The combination of mesquite smoke, charcoal briquettes and the rest of the neighborhood bbq'ing their own meals for the long holiday weekend has left an accumulated hazardous haze hanging overhead.
The delectable soot has settled heavily into my already damaged lungs and I'm gasping anew. In between every delicious chomp into a turkey dinner I'm rewarded with a wheeze or a cough.
My green eyes are rimmed in red, the lids puffy and irritated.
when I take a breath, its a gasp like a fish out of water takes - a gulp and swallow...which I even follow up with a yawn (the obvious sign that one is lacking in oxygen).
too bad we don't get our oxygen absorption in other ways because this breathing shit is a lot of work!
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Imagine sitting in your own shit N piss for who knows how long just festerin'?!? It works like one of those jogging suits that are supposed to make you sweat off the pounds. Baby is stewing in their offal, they cry and what does the mom do? stuffs sweets in the child's mouth and wags a meaty fist at them to shut up all the while everyone around them suffers watching poor parenting and the rotten childhood they are experiencing...( I digress)
It has to, she explained, because I couldn't even get my foot into my sandals without tearing the blister open and I would have screamed bloody murder if I'd done that on my own. Plus it wouldn't have been very sanitary, her way would have been clean and she could ascertain there wasn't anything else going on. (her own crazy morbidity).
Friday, July 3, 2009
Car windows are now thankfully tinted with some form of UV protection barrier! Remember when you sat down, your shorts riding up your crack, and you were instantly scalded and the impression of the seats seam branded on your butt cheeks?
These days I have to wait a few minutes before actually sitting in the car and taking off to my destinations or the accumulated heat snatches the breath right out of me.
When we're going to go somewhere I'll have the man go out and turn the A/C on and get the car ready, almost like the old days up 'North' when we would have to warm the car up in the dead of winter....now we have to cool the car off just to take a drive.
A friend says today, driving in this heat without A/C is like turning on a blow-dryer and just keeping it right on your face!
Today, we went on one of those hot escapades to find the ultimate burger (one of the handful of menu items favored by man). Yep, in the heat we headed out in the buggy wearing our holiday best.
(okay I'm bullshitting you I had a "Bad Kitty" t-shirt on but it was BLING BLING! and Tom had on a gross old T-shirt that had bleach stains on it)
There's this tasty little greasy spoon we like to frequent, sort of out of the way but not too far off the trail. You wouldn't know it's there unless you were a local and I wouldn't go tripping into the joint except they had a great billboard down a piece extolling these delicious ground beef patties.
From the very first visit and every visit thereafter we are always greeted with 'HowY'all's!?!
feels equivalent to the cheer of "Norm!" from Cheers'.
Have you ever noticed that no matter if the meal is/isn't gourmet and if you are/aren't all gussied up that there is still something special about getting out of the house and letting someone else bring you a plate that you didn't have to prepare yourself?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Inventiveness is a necessity in my home when it comes to mealtime. First off the husband contributes nothing along the means of ideas for foods because if he had his way he would pretty much be happy with the same list of options on the menu forever.
To spice up his days he wants to go out to the drive-through for an $0.89 chicken taco. A double cheeseburger and fries are next in line and you can't go wrong with buffet Chinese.
My contributions to our household are meager, at least in the financial area. I do not work, my physical, emotional and mental health keep me from sustaining long term employment. Perhaps even if I did gain employment I would probably be released quickly for insubordination, to Hell with anyone telling me what to do or not to do!
Since THIS is my job (Domestic Goddess) I am left feeling strained, discomforted, easily bruised and under extreme pressure because I do not have assistants. Sure, yes I recognize this is ridiculous and that other house-frau just go on about their lives and have the same household struggles but they have outlets for their frustrations and creativity.
Not only is my creativity IN domesticity but it is also my chore. I don't have anything or anywhere else to funnel this deluge of zeal.
I'm pushed to achieve (by myself) and I only expect to fail. Therefore I put so many expectations into my concoctions...
which brings me to the insatiable.
the bird, the tasty bird.
I've given you a cool bath, turning the faucet on low and the pressure just quick enough that a rush of water runs over my fingers sluicing away the packaged juices. My fingers enter your cavity, extracting a neck and some globulous fat that I tear and discard to a dish for the beggars waiting at my feet.
Out I pull you from the pool and give you a gentle slap and hang you upside down, letting any final droplets dribble out before I lay you onto the cutting board.
Now the question is, how shall I prepare you? He doesn't care, I could just hack you to bits and then toss every boneless piece in a pan and then put into tortillas with lettuce/onion/cheese for instant home-prepared chicken-taco's. (he's certain to have a stash of TacoBell sauce hiding around here somewhere)
Let's go along that theme though and give you that south of the border hint of flavor.
With the gentle hand of a lover, I lavish cumin, paprika, cayenne, ancho and chipotle into flesh and under the skin. Taking handfuls of fresh pico da gallo and with my fingers, lift the skin from the breast and insert in-between. Stuffing into her chest cavity as well and then place her into a bath of chicken stock flavored with additional spices and fresh cracked pepper!
You will simmer, as if you are in a hot tub - relaxing my darling; because soon you will be shredded to bits and I will treat you like the puta you are!
my stomach growls and our hunger grows.
Dinner waits and my need to gratify is insatiable.