I hate junipers. They’re ugly. Their green isn’t even a pretty green; I would never wear it or paint my house with it. I don’t drink gin. Junipers are the least useful, most wasted spaces of life on this planet. Worst of all, they give me allergies. They are the only thing I’m allergic to and I lived the first 30 years of my life completely allergy-free. Until I lived in Bend for seven years and developed this god-forsaken juniper allergy.
I made it through winter with only a slightly sore throat. I steered clear of the pig flu, stomach flu and any other cold-related virus. Invincibility was mine. Until spring sprung with fucking juniper pollen. I woke up the first day with burning, blurry eyes, like I’d had an all-night cry or drinking binge. I’d had neither. The next day I sat at my desk sniffling for the last two hours of the afternoon. Last night I was literally attacked by pollen while washing my face. It’s pretty pathetic to have go to bed at 9:30 at night because it hurts too bad to keep my eyes open.
Yep, I can’t truly enjoy the 60+ degree sunny days in March because I want to tear my eyeballs out of my head. The worst is when it snows AND I have out of control allergy symptoms. That’s a really special kind of hell.
I think all junipers should be eradicated. Seriously. I would run for office to become President of the United States of America just so I could burn the fuckers down and remove them permanently from the earth. I would make it illegal to grow them. Grow all the marijuana you want, but plant a single juniper seed and be put to death. Slowly and painfully.
Junipers can suck it. Hard.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
It's Final Exam Time
Last night was high school orientation for the parents of new, ingoing students. High school. The words alone make me break out into a cold sweat. High school. I absolutely shudder at the thought. I’ve always known this day was coming. I just didn’t know it was Now. And I’m much better with some ideas in theory than I am once they’re put into practice. I know D is going to high school next year, but I didn’t really “know” it until orientation made it real. Real scary.
I found myself tearing up in the auditorium during the orientation. It didn’t help that the principal and vice principal were using words like “involvement” and “insight” and reminding us parents that even though our kids might seem like they’re growing up and don’t need us as much, now is the time that they need us more than ever. We were warned to not back off.
They went on to brag about their academic success, the number of social clubs available, how well their sports teams are faring this year. They told us how classes are chosen and how students are prepared for college and, ultimately, life.
And I was holding back tears because I realized, this is It. This is the real test and I don’t think I’m ready. I feel like my life is about to go into fast forward; I’ll blink and the next four years will be over and D will be gone. I don’t know that I have the energy or the strength to get her through it. I doubt whether my parenting skills can see us both safely to the other side.
She is so excited. She’s scared too, but it’s the good kind because it’s filled with hope and wonder and a sense of adventure. She’s about to embark on a whole new journey full of friends, football games, dates and dances. She’ll face new challenges academically as well as socially and start preparing herself for real life. A real, grownup life that doesn’t include me. Not so much.
I don’t know how to prepare her for her own life. The disappointments and heartbreak I know she’ll face. The frustrations and the stress of learning how to make her way in the world. I’m most afraid because it’s all on me. I never expected or wanted to be single with a high school student. I thought I’d have a partner, a backup, someone to hold my hand and figure it out with me. I don’t even have my own life together most days, and now I have to figure this part out on my own. I hope my mistakes aren’t the kind that can’t be erased.
I wish I could share her enthusiasm and embrace this part of our lives. I wish I could know that her life will be beautiful and full of all of the happiness and love and adventure I want for her. I’m afraid the best I can do right now is take it one step at a time and learn as we go and hope that we make it in one piece. I hope my best is good enough, but I know she deserves far better than just good enough.
I found myself tearing up in the auditorium during the orientation. It didn’t help that the principal and vice principal were using words like “involvement” and “insight” and reminding us parents that even though our kids might seem like they’re growing up and don’t need us as much, now is the time that they need us more than ever. We were warned to not back off.
They went on to brag about their academic success, the number of social clubs available, how well their sports teams are faring this year. They told us how classes are chosen and how students are prepared for college and, ultimately, life.
And I was holding back tears because I realized, this is It. This is the real test and I don’t think I’m ready. I feel like my life is about to go into fast forward; I’ll blink and the next four years will be over and D will be gone. I don’t know that I have the energy or the strength to get her through it. I doubt whether my parenting skills can see us both safely to the other side.
She is so excited. She’s scared too, but it’s the good kind because it’s filled with hope and wonder and a sense of adventure. She’s about to embark on a whole new journey full of friends, football games, dates and dances. She’ll face new challenges academically as well as socially and start preparing herself for real life. A real, grownup life that doesn’t include me. Not so much.
I don’t know how to prepare her for her own life. The disappointments and heartbreak I know she’ll face. The frustrations and the stress of learning how to make her way in the world. I’m most afraid because it’s all on me. I never expected or wanted to be single with a high school student. I thought I’d have a partner, a backup, someone to hold my hand and figure it out with me. I don’t even have my own life together most days, and now I have to figure this part out on my own. I hope my mistakes aren’t the kind that can’t be erased.
I wish I could share her enthusiasm and embrace this part of our lives. I wish I could know that her life will be beautiful and full of all of the happiness and love and adventure I want for her. I’m afraid the best I can do right now is take it one step at a time and learn as we go and hope that we make it in one piece. I hope my best is good enough, but I know she deserves far better than just good enough.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Resolutions, Month Two
February is almost over, which means the second month of my resolutions is also coming to a close and I’m going to give myself a big pat on the back for this month.
For the first time ever, I made bread. Me. Fresh, hot, right-out-of-the-oven bread. You probably don’t realize how this changes my life. If I were stuck on a deserted island, I would want to live off of bread. Bread and cheese. And wine. Or at least whiskey. But the bread is a must. And the cheese. Bread and cheese complete me.
I was a little worried in the beginning. I saw a couple of recipes online that looked easy enough, but I obviously didn’t read through them carefully. Mostly I ignored the part about needing a stand mixer. Like the pink Kitchenaid artisan model that I am coveting (that I registered for). I foolishly thought that a hand mixer on a low speed would be good enough. No. Not even close. I ended up covered in flour and threw the whole thing away in frustration. Seven cups of flour in the trash.
Then I discovered recipes that can be started in the bread machine, which has a handy little Dough setting. For an hour and a half the bread machine works while I sip wine, make another meal, do laundry, whatever. It’s pretty genius, actually.
The first recipe I tried was for ciabatta bread. I added roasted garlic to the ingredients I put in the bread machine and couldn’t have been more thrilled. I had fresh, hot bread with the perfect crust. Seriously perfect. My 13 year old fought me for the last piece. Until I threatened to cut her. Not really. But I kinda did mean it.
Last night I tried a focaccia. The dough came out of the bread machine as light as air and floaty as a cloud. (Spell check doesn’t seem to like floaty, but it’s a word. I know because I’m using it.) It baked down a bit and wasn’t as light as I expected, but I sliced some up today with the girls at work and it was wonderful. It went perfectly with some mortadella salami and Havarti. Lunch goodness.
Success #1. Check.
I hadn’t planned on attempting the barbecue until summer. However, I was craving a steak on Valentine’s Day and, not having a man around that evening, decided to try it myself. I was not disappointed. I was rewarded with a perfectly seasoned, perfectly juicy, tender piece of meat heaven. It was done exactly the way I like it. And I’m picky.
What was even better – combining the two! I had thin slices of leftover steak on my bread for lunch the next day. Along with some smoked gouda, tomatoes, pepperoncinis and mayonnaise. It was like having my own little deli, only better.
Success #2. Check check.
Marching on to March………
For the first time ever, I made bread. Me. Fresh, hot, right-out-of-the-oven bread. You probably don’t realize how this changes my life. If I were stuck on a deserted island, I would want to live off of bread. Bread and cheese. And wine. Or at least whiskey. But the bread is a must. And the cheese. Bread and cheese complete me.
I was a little worried in the beginning. I saw a couple of recipes online that looked easy enough, but I obviously didn’t read through them carefully. Mostly I ignored the part about needing a stand mixer. Like the pink Kitchenaid artisan model that I am coveting (that I registered for). I foolishly thought that a hand mixer on a low speed would be good enough. No. Not even close. I ended up covered in flour and threw the whole thing away in frustration. Seven cups of flour in the trash.
Then I discovered recipes that can be started in the bread machine, which has a handy little Dough setting. For an hour and a half the bread machine works while I sip wine, make another meal, do laundry, whatever. It’s pretty genius, actually.
The first recipe I tried was for ciabatta bread. I added roasted garlic to the ingredients I put in the bread machine and couldn’t have been more thrilled. I had fresh, hot bread with the perfect crust. Seriously perfect. My 13 year old fought me for the last piece. Until I threatened to cut her. Not really. But I kinda did mean it.
Last night I tried a focaccia. The dough came out of the bread machine as light as air and floaty as a cloud. (Spell check doesn’t seem to like floaty, but it’s a word. I know because I’m using it.) It baked down a bit and wasn’t as light as I expected, but I sliced some up today with the girls at work and it was wonderful. It went perfectly with some mortadella salami and Havarti. Lunch goodness.
Success #1. Check.
I hadn’t planned on attempting the barbecue until summer. However, I was craving a steak on Valentine’s Day and, not having a man around that evening, decided to try it myself. I was not disappointed. I was rewarded with a perfectly seasoned, perfectly juicy, tender piece of meat heaven. It was done exactly the way I like it. And I’m picky.
What was even better – combining the two! I had thin slices of leftover steak on my bread for lunch the next day. Along with some smoked gouda, tomatoes, pepperoncinis and mayonnaise. It was like having my own little deli, only better.
Success #2. Check check.
Marching on to March………
Friday, February 19, 2010
Ham and Hams
I love books. I love reading. I love book club. I love my book club peeps and I’ll share with you why they’re so great.
Tuesday was supposed to be book club night but JC was feeling under the weather, MG was looking at a possible sudden-out-of-town business trip and CP was dragging after getting home very late the night before from driving back after being out of town herself for the weekend. The suggestion was made to postpone to the following week and all parties seemed to be in agreement that this would be the best solution. All parties except for the unnamed ham that was to be our dinner that evening while discussing the merits (or lack thereof, in one reader’s opinion) of Madame Bovary. Said ham became the topic of conversation in several emails and my primary source of entertainment for the day.
What follows are the edited transcripts of the emails pertaining to Sir Ham.
JC 11:32 a.m.
Well, the gigantic ham M is working on votes for tonight, but to be honest, I don't think it read the book.
M and I will just eat a remarkable amount of ham this week. There are worse fates.
MC 1:25 p.m.
p.s. The gentle sound you hear in the background is my ham weeping.
p.p.s. It's a tender squeaking sound, barely audible, but heart-wrenching. Poor ham - if only we can convince it that the love of myself and Joel is enough for it.
p.p.s.s. I need to quit sending e-mails when I have just gotten off work.
KA 2:38 p.m.
p.s.
Maybe if you consume the ham voraciously it will be properly assured of your love. Place it on a pedestal? Forgo side dishes?
MG 2:58 p.m.
p.s., We once had a turkey that seemed depressed and refused to turn golden brown, but he kept his reasons to himself. Your ham sounds much more communicative, which I think is a good sign. Maybe K is right -- a little special treatment may be just what he needs.
CP 4:25 p.m.
Soak it in whiskey. And it probably doesn't want to drink alone, so you'll have to shoulder that burden, too.
Tuesday was supposed to be book club night but JC was feeling under the weather, MG was looking at a possible sudden-out-of-town business trip and CP was dragging after getting home very late the night before from driving back after being out of town herself for the weekend. The suggestion was made to postpone to the following week and all parties seemed to be in agreement that this would be the best solution. All parties except for the unnamed ham that was to be our dinner that evening while discussing the merits (or lack thereof, in one reader’s opinion) of Madame Bovary. Said ham became the topic of conversation in several emails and my primary source of entertainment for the day.
What follows are the edited transcripts of the emails pertaining to Sir Ham.
JC 11:32 a.m.
Well, the gigantic ham M is working on votes for tonight, but to be honest, I don't think it read the book.
M and I will just eat a remarkable amount of ham this week. There are worse fates.
MC 1:25 p.m.
p.s. The gentle sound you hear in the background is my ham weeping.
p.p.s. It's a tender squeaking sound, barely audible, but heart-wrenching. Poor ham - if only we can convince it that the love of myself and Joel is enough for it.
p.p.s.s. I need to quit sending e-mails when I have just gotten off work.
KA 2:38 p.m.
p.s.
Maybe if you consume the ham voraciously it will be properly assured of your love. Place it on a pedestal? Forgo side dishes?
MG 2:58 p.m.
p.s., We once had a turkey that seemed depressed and refused to turn golden brown, but he kept his reasons to himself. Your ham sounds much more communicative, which I think is a good sign. Maybe K is right -- a little special treatment may be just what he needs.
CP 4:25 p.m.
Soak it in whiskey. And it probably doesn't want to drink alone, so you'll have to shoulder that burden, too.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Why Dogs Don't Make Good Valentines
1. Chocolate is toxic to them.
2. They’re sloppy kissers (with dog breath to boot).
3. They can’t snuggle without leaving a blanket of their hair on you.
4. They can’t handle their champagne (or beer, depending on which college party you’re attending).
5. They’re not allowed in restaurants, bars or movie theaters.
6. Constant farting. Bad manners in general.
7. They lack opposable thumbs with which to cook you dinner. Or the ability to read a recipe. Or the height needed to reach the stove.
8. They would rather eat flowers than give them to you.
9. Instead of whispering sweet nothings in your ear, they blast your eardrums with obnoxious barking.
10. When you tell them it’s time for night-night pee-pees, they refuse to go outside and then promptly pee on your bed. And then lay on your pillow.
Why dogs are good Valentines –
1. They love you unconditionally.
2. They would never make a list of your faults.
2. They’re sloppy kissers (with dog breath to boot).
3. They can’t snuggle without leaving a blanket of their hair on you.
4. They can’t handle their champagne (or beer, depending on which college party you’re attending).
5. They’re not allowed in restaurants, bars or movie theaters.
6. Constant farting. Bad manners in general.
7. They lack opposable thumbs with which to cook you dinner. Or the ability to read a recipe. Or the height needed to reach the stove.
8. They would rather eat flowers than give them to you.
9. Instead of whispering sweet nothings in your ear, they blast your eardrums with obnoxious barking.
10. When you tell them it’s time for night-night pee-pees, they refuse to go outside and then promptly pee on your bed. And then lay on your pillow.
Why dogs are good Valentines –
1. They love you unconditionally.
2. They would never make a list of your faults.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My Registry. Where You Can Buy Me Stuff.
You know, I really didn't think anyone would take my registry idea seriously. As brilliant as the idea is, I could feel the eye rolls across the internets. People just have no faith in marriage anymore. Then I was talking to a friend who said she would totally purchase a gift for me and to let her know where I am registered. Seconded by another friend a few days later. Which just tells you how good and brilliant my friends are.
I whipped out my wish list and jumped onto www.bedbathandbeyond.com. Convenient for out-of-towners and in-towners. Do not judge my choices. I realize that a pink Kitchenaid stand mixer may be a little over the top, but it is my most coveted appliance and I will give it an appropriate name. Something like Priscilla. Or maybe Antoinette. Or even Julia. I'll let you know after you buy her for me.
My registry at bedbathandbeyond is under my name; my event is listed as Birthday. You know, in case anyone was seriously offended by same-self marriage. Plus it was a convenient way of letting everyone know when my birthday is. August 11th. Be sure to mark it on your calendars, people. August 11th. I want everyone there. I want the Biggest Party Ever. Only not a surprise party because I want to make sure I look cute and wear the right shoes. August 11th.
In the meantime, happy shopping everyone!
I whipped out my wish list and jumped onto www.bedbathandbeyond.com. Convenient for out-of-towners and in-towners. Do not judge my choices. I realize that a pink Kitchenaid stand mixer may be a little over the top, but it is my most coveted appliance and I will give it an appropriate name. Something like Priscilla. Or maybe Antoinette. Or even Julia. I'll let you know after you buy her for me.
My registry at bedbathandbeyond is under my name; my event is listed as Birthday. You know, in case anyone was seriously offended by same-self marriage. Plus it was a convenient way of letting everyone know when my birthday is. August 11th. Be sure to mark it on your calendars, people. August 11th. I want everyone there. I want the Biggest Party Ever. Only not a surprise party because I want to make sure I look cute and wear the right shoes. August 11th.
In the meantime, happy shopping everyone!
Thursday, February 04, 2010
My Report Card
Being a mom is hard. Being the single mom of a teenage girl is unbelievably hard. I question myself on a daily basis whether I’m doing enough, doing it right, or if I’m failing her completely and wait for the evidence of my failure to show up in the form of a swollen pregnant belly, a mid-week hangover or bruises from the wrong kind of boy. Yes, these are extremes, but sometimes I feel that out of control, that my grasp on her is so loose, she’ll fall away at any second. As a parent, I don’t get report cards or performance reviews. I get eye rolls and door slams and arguments when I say no to almost anything.
However, I feel like I have been given a progress report over the last week in some ways and, by some miracle, it seems I’m doing okay. I think I’m getting a B. Maybe even a B+?
Since D started middle school it has been a constant battle with her grades. She’s far more interested in socializing with friends and going googly over boys than in spending a minute thinking about the reason she’s actually in school. So it surprised me when, out of the blue, last week she studied for a test. Really studied. She asked me to quiz her and everything. The next day she reported a score of 49 out of 50, which has been unheard of in the last three years. Plus on A on the essay portion. She was actually glowing for the rest of the week and repeating how proud she was of herself and how good it felt to work at something and be rewarded so positively.
Next we come to the bane of her existence, her choir teacher. This is not the teacher she had the previous two years and she expounds daily on how much she despises this new one for various reasons – they don’t sing enough anymore, she makes “rude” comments to the kids and, the most unforgivable offense of all to a teenage girl, she has a “big butt.”
Two days ago D called me in tears, saying Ms. Hated had given her a lunch detention for talking in class when she wasn’t talking. According to D, detentions were being handed out frequently and freely and not based on actual behavior. I was surprised, because of all her faults, D isn’t disrespectful to adults (well, besides me) and has never been a disruption in class. On the other hand, I’m aware how girls talk and giggle and whisper and that teenage girls especially are prone to dramatizing and over-exaggeration. So I questioned her, whether she really deserved it and was there a grain of truth in what Ms. Hated was accusing her of. She steadfastly denied it. Being at work and distracted, I suggested she just deal with it, it’s only one little detention after all, not that big of a deal, and wouldn’t really mean anything in the long run.
Except it did mean something. To her, it meant a lot. Through her tears she explained that she’s never gotten a detention, never in the three years of her middle school career, and this single, seemingly unimportant event would mar a record I didn’t even know she was keeping track of. And when I realized her moral compass is pointing exactly in the right direction, that she sees herself as a Good Girl and wants to be seen in the same light by others, I went to war for her.
Okay, not really war. I simply wrote a polite but firm email to her teacher, who wrote back with an apology and assurance that the detention was removed. Justice and vindication in just a few electronic sentences.
That same afternoon we had an appointment with the orthodontist. At her last appointment, D was given rubber bands to wear on her braces and the encouragement that it was her responsibility to wear them at all times, that wearing them could reduce the time she has to wear braces. She has faithfully worn them around the clock, removing them only to eat and replacing them immediately afterward. At the end of her appointment, the orthodontist’s assistant praised her highly for her vigilance, saying it made such a huge difference. I swear the woman was gushing like no other kid has ever accomplished such an impossible feat.
In the car later D said, “It’s cool that when you do the right things it’s like you get rewarded. Or praised.” I told her praise can be a reward also, to which she said, “Really? I guess that’s cool.”
What I didn’t tell her is that sometimes praise of others can be a reward for oneself.
Yeah, it is pretty cool.
However, I feel like I have been given a progress report over the last week in some ways and, by some miracle, it seems I’m doing okay. I think I’m getting a B. Maybe even a B+?
Since D started middle school it has been a constant battle with her grades. She’s far more interested in socializing with friends and going googly over boys than in spending a minute thinking about the reason she’s actually in school. So it surprised me when, out of the blue, last week she studied for a test. Really studied. She asked me to quiz her and everything. The next day she reported a score of 49 out of 50, which has been unheard of in the last three years. Plus on A on the essay portion. She was actually glowing for the rest of the week and repeating how proud she was of herself and how good it felt to work at something and be rewarded so positively.
Next we come to the bane of her existence, her choir teacher. This is not the teacher she had the previous two years and she expounds daily on how much she despises this new one for various reasons – they don’t sing enough anymore, she makes “rude” comments to the kids and, the most unforgivable offense of all to a teenage girl, she has a “big butt.”
Two days ago D called me in tears, saying Ms. Hated had given her a lunch detention for talking in class when she wasn’t talking. According to D, detentions were being handed out frequently and freely and not based on actual behavior. I was surprised, because of all her faults, D isn’t disrespectful to adults (well, besides me) and has never been a disruption in class. On the other hand, I’m aware how girls talk and giggle and whisper and that teenage girls especially are prone to dramatizing and over-exaggeration. So I questioned her, whether she really deserved it and was there a grain of truth in what Ms. Hated was accusing her of. She steadfastly denied it. Being at work and distracted, I suggested she just deal with it, it’s only one little detention after all, not that big of a deal, and wouldn’t really mean anything in the long run.
Except it did mean something. To her, it meant a lot. Through her tears she explained that she’s never gotten a detention, never in the three years of her middle school career, and this single, seemingly unimportant event would mar a record I didn’t even know she was keeping track of. And when I realized her moral compass is pointing exactly in the right direction, that she sees herself as a Good Girl and wants to be seen in the same light by others, I went to war for her.
Okay, not really war. I simply wrote a polite but firm email to her teacher, who wrote back with an apology and assurance that the detention was removed. Justice and vindication in just a few electronic sentences.
That same afternoon we had an appointment with the orthodontist. At her last appointment, D was given rubber bands to wear on her braces and the encouragement that it was her responsibility to wear them at all times, that wearing them could reduce the time she has to wear braces. She has faithfully worn them around the clock, removing them only to eat and replacing them immediately afterward. At the end of her appointment, the orthodontist’s assistant praised her highly for her vigilance, saying it made such a huge difference. I swear the woman was gushing like no other kid has ever accomplished such an impossible feat.
In the car later D said, “It’s cool that when you do the right things it’s like you get rewarded. Or praised.” I told her praise can be a reward also, to which she said, “Really? I guess that’s cool.”
What I didn’t tell her is that sometimes praise of others can be a reward for oneself.
Yeah, it is pretty cool.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Groundhogs and Statues and Smoke Monsters. Oh my!
There is a surprisingly lot going on for a Tuesday in February. Probably none of it is truly significant to anyone but me but this is my blog and I get to do what I want here. So there.
1. It’s Remy’s birthday. Of course this is number one, my boy was my first Boston baby. He’s five today and, since I doubt I’ll have time to make him a cake, I set out some steak to thaw this morning. Oh, yes. Nothing is too good for my little terrors! I mean terriers. Terroriers?
2. Groundhog Day. Can someone please explain why a rodent was put in charge of my happiness? The length of my seasonal affective disorder? I suffer from serious vitamin D deficiency, people!. I think it’s time for the marmot to “retire”. Interpret that as you will.
3. Oscar nominees were announced! I love love love the Oscars. I love everything about them. The dresses, the speeches, the glamour, the dresses. It’s like my Superbowl. With the expansion of the Best Film category I have seen 7 out of the 10 nominees. That is much better than my usual 2 out of 5 so I feel like I have actual, educated opinions this year. Yay me.There are several that I really liked so there is less chance at being disappointed by the winner. I stopped having Oscar parties several years ago because I found that too many people talked over the show and I missed what was being said. Rudeness. Tivo kinda changes that; I can rewind/rewatch anything I miss. Maybe I’ll have a party this year. Maybe I’ll just invite a bottle of champagne over. I’m keeping my options open at this point, but the countdown has started.
4. D needs some vaccine updates. Is it bad that I take my dogs in to the vet for their shots more often than I take my daughter to the doctor? She’s not going to be pleased with me tonight.
5. Lost starts tonight! The. Final. Season. I love Lost and have been loyal since the beginning, but I feel like it’s time to end our relationship. It’s just too much work. There has always been unanswered questions, multiple stories (that might be related?), time travel and the addition of new characters that I sometimes just don’t care about. Add to that months-long breaks that make it hard to keep track of what’s going on or continue caring. I plan on making the most of the time we have left; Hurley and the gang best not disappoint.
1. It’s Remy’s birthday. Of course this is number one, my boy was my first Boston baby. He’s five today and, since I doubt I’ll have time to make him a cake, I set out some steak to thaw this morning. Oh, yes. Nothing is too good for my little terrors! I mean terriers. Terroriers?
2. Groundhog Day. Can someone please explain why a rodent was put in charge of my happiness? The length of my seasonal affective disorder? I suffer from serious vitamin D deficiency, people!. I think it’s time for the marmot to “retire”. Interpret that as you will.
3. Oscar nominees were announced! I love love love the Oscars. I love everything about them. The dresses, the speeches, the glamour, the dresses. It’s like my Superbowl. With the expansion of the Best Film category I have seen 7 out of the 10 nominees. That is much better than my usual 2 out of 5 so I feel like I have actual, educated opinions this year. Yay me.There are several that I really liked so there is less chance at being disappointed by the winner. I stopped having Oscar parties several years ago because I found that too many people talked over the show and I missed what was being said. Rudeness. Tivo kinda changes that; I can rewind/rewatch anything I miss. Maybe I’ll have a party this year. Maybe I’ll just invite a bottle of champagne over. I’m keeping my options open at this point, but the countdown has started.
4. D needs some vaccine updates. Is it bad that I take my dogs in to the vet for their shots more often than I take my daughter to the doctor? She’s not going to be pleased with me tonight.
5. Lost starts tonight! The. Final. Season. I love Lost and have been loyal since the beginning, but I feel like it’s time to end our relationship. It’s just too much work. There has always been unanswered questions, multiple stories (that might be related?), time travel and the addition of new characters that I sometimes just don’t care about. Add to that months-long breaks that make it hard to keep track of what’s going on or continue caring. I plan on making the most of the time we have left; Hurley and the gang best not disappoint.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Win Some, Lose Some
The first month of my Resolutions is drawing to a close and it’s time to report on my progress. I was actually much more productive than I had planned to be in the beginning but then started to lose steam towards the end, which probably has more to do with my “failure” than my actual motivation.
First, the good news, AKA my Most Surprising Success in the Kitchen So Far. AKA Jalapeno Jelly! What gave me the idea to make this? You’ll be sorry you asked. For book club this month our food theme was camping. Camp food on a Tuesday night that I could make in half an hour and needed to be portable for the drive to Sisters. Yeah, sure. So I brilliantly thought of corn bread. Which seemed kind of plain and too easy and not really that brilliant, so I thought of bringing honey butter to go with it and then that still seemed too easy. Then it came to me – jalapeno jelly. It goes well with corn bread and fit in with my New Year’s Resolutions so well. Yes, this is really how I think. My mind wanders aimlessly like this all day long. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone and I’ll say something that sounds totally random to them but it started from something five subjects back and makes total sense to me. Really, people just need to pay better attention when conversing with me.
Anyway, I found a recipe that looked really easy. In fact, its simplicity completely distracted me from the fact that I would actually be Canning. Yeah, like I moved to Little House on the Prairie. I have never canned in my life, I’ve never even known anyone who has canned. I think maybe my mom tried once. Because we had a plum tree in the back yard that was always dropping a crapload of plums on the ground and she was trying to clean them up. But I don’t think we ever used it. Or she did it wrong. Obviously it left a huge impression on me.
I found cute little jars, not the regular boring kind. I bought fruit pectin (FYI, it’s cheaper at Freddie’s than Safeway). I bought my peppers, carried it all home, turned on some salsa music and set to work. I will say right now that the hardest part of the process was chopping the peppers. Of course they had to be minced into small pieces, who wants to bite into a chunk of pepper in their jelly? This really only emphasized my need for a food processor. In went my minced peppers, cider vinegar and sugar. A freaking butt-load of sugar.
I followed the recipe to a T but then got a little worried. My jelly wasn’t yet jelling when I poured it into the jars. I reread the recipe and the reviews and what I could Google and learned it could take up to a week for it to set. So I waited. An hour. Then another hour. Then two hours. Then the next morning. I had made it on a Saturday night and needed it to be ready on Tuesday.
Tuesday came. I quickly baked my cornbread, mixed up my honey butter and examined the jars of jelly, choosing one that looked more solid than some of the others. When it came time to open the jar, I pried open the seal and was overjoyed at hearing a little ‘pop’. Properly sealed? Check. I wasn’t the only one in the room impressed by that small success.
The real success came at tasting time. It was a little runnier than I had hoped for but more than made up for it with flavor. Sweet with the perfect mix of slightly spicy. (I plan on making the next batch spicier; I just wasn’t sure how many seeds to throw in this time and didn’t want to kill anyone.) Compliments and kudos were received from the group and I went home with a jar two-thirds empty.
At first I thought eight jars would be much too much for me to ever consume, but I’m already almost all the way through my second jar. Which, by the way, had set perfectly by the time I opened it, again with the happy little pop! The Sunday following book club I topped some cream cheese with my jelly and spread it on crackers for brunch. I’ve used it on chicken tacos, which inspired me to mix it with sour cream for a sauce on enchiladas. It was delicious on a sandwich with turkey and brie. Mmmm….
One new recipe down for the month, one to go. With such a dazzling success, I thought I could only do better on the next one. Really? Not so much.
Hollandaise was next on the agenda. I had a friend who tried it, raved about it and passed on the recipe. With the caveat that it was like a workout. Which I’m not so much into. I really don’t like to sweat in my kitchen. I found a blender recipe and was trying to ignore the fact that it seemed like cheating when I found a blender recipe in Julia Child’s book! Hey, if Julia was willing to endorse it, I was willing to try it. In the end it had a really pretty color, and a really nice consistency that didn’t separate as it cooled. But it was just bland. I wasn’t wowed by the taste, not even a little bit. I’ll try it again with some different ingredients added; I just might need some different guinea pigs next time.
This leaves my score so far at 1 – 1. Really the jelly is so good it should count as two points. I’m already planning my Christmas gifts this year. That’s right, everyone is getting jelly. Sangria jelly? Pomegranate jelly? I’m definitely making mint jelly for my dad this Father’s Day.
First, the good news, AKA my Most Surprising Success in the Kitchen So Far. AKA Jalapeno Jelly! What gave me the idea to make this? You’ll be sorry you asked. For book club this month our food theme was camping. Camp food on a Tuesday night that I could make in half an hour and needed to be portable for the drive to Sisters. Yeah, sure. So I brilliantly thought of corn bread. Which seemed kind of plain and too easy and not really that brilliant, so I thought of bringing honey butter to go with it and then that still seemed too easy. Then it came to me – jalapeno jelly. It goes well with corn bread and fit in with my New Year’s Resolutions so well. Yes, this is really how I think. My mind wanders aimlessly like this all day long. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone and I’ll say something that sounds totally random to them but it started from something five subjects back and makes total sense to me. Really, people just need to pay better attention when conversing with me.
Anyway, I found a recipe that looked really easy. In fact, its simplicity completely distracted me from the fact that I would actually be Canning. Yeah, like I moved to Little House on the Prairie. I have never canned in my life, I’ve never even known anyone who has canned. I think maybe my mom tried once. Because we had a plum tree in the back yard that was always dropping a crapload of plums on the ground and she was trying to clean them up. But I don’t think we ever used it. Or she did it wrong. Obviously it left a huge impression on me.
I found cute little jars, not the regular boring kind. I bought fruit pectin (FYI, it’s cheaper at Freddie’s than Safeway). I bought my peppers, carried it all home, turned on some salsa music and set to work. I will say right now that the hardest part of the process was chopping the peppers. Of course they had to be minced into small pieces, who wants to bite into a chunk of pepper in their jelly? This really only emphasized my need for a food processor. In went my minced peppers, cider vinegar and sugar. A freaking butt-load of sugar.
I followed the recipe to a T but then got a little worried. My jelly wasn’t yet jelling when I poured it into the jars. I reread the recipe and the reviews and what I could Google and learned it could take up to a week for it to set. So I waited. An hour. Then another hour. Then two hours. Then the next morning. I had made it on a Saturday night and needed it to be ready on Tuesday.
Tuesday came. I quickly baked my cornbread, mixed up my honey butter and examined the jars of jelly, choosing one that looked more solid than some of the others. When it came time to open the jar, I pried open the seal and was overjoyed at hearing a little ‘pop’. Properly sealed? Check. I wasn’t the only one in the room impressed by that small success.
The real success came at tasting time. It was a little runnier than I had hoped for but more than made up for it with flavor. Sweet with the perfect mix of slightly spicy. (I plan on making the next batch spicier; I just wasn’t sure how many seeds to throw in this time and didn’t want to kill anyone.) Compliments and kudos were received from the group and I went home with a jar two-thirds empty.
At first I thought eight jars would be much too much for me to ever consume, but I’m already almost all the way through my second jar. Which, by the way, had set perfectly by the time I opened it, again with the happy little pop! The Sunday following book club I topped some cream cheese with my jelly and spread it on crackers for brunch. I’ve used it on chicken tacos, which inspired me to mix it with sour cream for a sauce on enchiladas. It was delicious on a sandwich with turkey and brie. Mmmm….
One new recipe down for the month, one to go. With such a dazzling success, I thought I could only do better on the next one. Really? Not so much.
Hollandaise was next on the agenda. I had a friend who tried it, raved about it and passed on the recipe. With the caveat that it was like a workout. Which I’m not so much into. I really don’t like to sweat in my kitchen. I found a blender recipe and was trying to ignore the fact that it seemed like cheating when I found a blender recipe in Julia Child’s book! Hey, if Julia was willing to endorse it, I was willing to try it. In the end it had a really pretty color, and a really nice consistency that didn’t separate as it cooled. But it was just bland. I wasn’t wowed by the taste, not even a little bit. I’ll try it again with some different ingredients added; I just might need some different guinea pigs next time.
This leaves my score so far at 1 – 1. Really the jelly is so good it should count as two points. I’m already planning my Christmas gifts this year. That’s right, everyone is getting jelly. Sangria jelly? Pomegranate jelly? I’m definitely making mint jelly for my dad this Father’s Day.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
With This Ring I Me Wed
Remember that SATC episode where Carrie goes to a baby shower and the hostess makes her take her $300 shoes off in her house because she’s afraid shoe germs will kill her kids and then someone steals them? And then Carrie tells the hostess that she should replace her shoes because it was her stupid rule about not spreading germs from shoes in her house to kill her kids that caused her shoes to get stolen? But the stupid woman says that nobody should ever spend $300 on shoes because she obviously has no taste in shoes? So Carrie sends out a wedding announcement that she is marrying herself and she registers for the shoes she wants replaced and they arrive gift-wrapped? Yeah, I love that one too.
And it gave me an idea. It seems that my New Year’s resolution has unleashed the Suzie Homemaker/Martha Stewart/Julie Child-wannabe within me. It seems to keep growing. Two recipes-I’ve-always-wanted-to-try-but-was-too-afraid-to didn’t seem like enough for a whole year. I decided to try one for each month. But now I have all of these ideas just jumbling up my thoughts and they’ve caused me to realize I am missing quite a few kitchen accoutrements to help me fulfill my culinary dreams. Seriously, I would need to get a second job to obtain all of these newly coveted items.
Then it came to me - why don’t I marry myself so I can use a bridal registry and have other people buy them for me? Genius. Even better? Nobody is required to travel, sit through some boring ceremony for a marriage they don’t even think will last (except this one will. I’ll never leave myself.) and I don’t have to shell out a fortune for a wedding. I just get stuff. Yay me!!
Here it is, then. My list. In no particular order of priority or price. (I do firmly believe in thank you cards, so you will get a small token in return.)
1. Food processor. How have I gone so long without one?
2. Tart pan. Regular size and smaller sizes would also be appreciated.
3. Pepper mill
4. Crock pot. I know! I can’t believe I’ve never bought one either! You’ll have the pleasure of giving me my first one!
5. Mortar and pestle.
6. Crème brulee torch and crème brulee dishes.
7. Cheese grater. One of those electric ones. Jen will also send you a thank you because she’s probably tired of being my cheese grating bitch.
8. New knife set. Mine are desperately dull.
9. Pasta press. For when I’m feeling really ambitious.
10. Lemon zest grater. Or lime zest grater. Or orange zest. Just whatever kind of citrus I want to zest. I might even just wave it around while I say “zest!”
11. Cooper Cooler. I had one once and it broke. Or I wore it out. It is the best way to chill wine. Ever. Unless you like to keep your labels intact. But they’ll be my labels so you don’t have to worry about that.
12. Cordial glasses. They’re cute. And fancy. Just like me.
13. Kitchen Aid stand mixer. This isn’t a must, this is really more for the rich aunt who likes to show off her enormous wealth. Except I don’t have one of those. I do like the way the shiny stand mixers look though, so I had to add it.
14. Cooking With Booze. It’s a book I found at the library and loved but didn’t steal because I want my own brand new pretty copy. It has recipes that include booze plus drinks to make with said boozy food. How can you go wrong mixing the two? You can’t. Buy the book. For me. Then you can get your own copy.
That’s my list. In all of its bridal glory. For those of you that don’t believe in same-self marriage, I understand and am generous enough to remind you that I have a monumental birthday coming up. You can call it a birthday present if that makes it easier for you.
Happy shopping!
And it gave me an idea. It seems that my New Year’s resolution has unleashed the Suzie Homemaker/Martha Stewart/Julie Child-wannabe within me. It seems to keep growing. Two recipes-I’ve-always-wanted-to-try-but-was-too-afraid-to didn’t seem like enough for a whole year. I decided to try one for each month. But now I have all of these ideas just jumbling up my thoughts and they’ve caused me to realize I am missing quite a few kitchen accoutrements to help me fulfill my culinary dreams. Seriously, I would need to get a second job to obtain all of these newly coveted items.
Then it came to me - why don’t I marry myself so I can use a bridal registry and have other people buy them for me? Genius. Even better? Nobody is required to travel, sit through some boring ceremony for a marriage they don’t even think will last (except this one will. I’ll never leave myself.) and I don’t have to shell out a fortune for a wedding. I just get stuff. Yay me!!
Here it is, then. My list. In no particular order of priority or price. (I do firmly believe in thank you cards, so you will get a small token in return.)
1. Food processor. How have I gone so long without one?
2. Tart pan. Regular size and smaller sizes would also be appreciated.
3. Pepper mill
4. Crock pot. I know! I can’t believe I’ve never bought one either! You’ll have the pleasure of giving me my first one!
5. Mortar and pestle.
6. Crème brulee torch and crème brulee dishes.
7. Cheese grater. One of those electric ones. Jen will also send you a thank you because she’s probably tired of being my cheese grating bitch.
8. New knife set. Mine are desperately dull.
9. Pasta press. For when I’m feeling really ambitious.
10. Lemon zest grater. Or lime zest grater. Or orange zest. Just whatever kind of citrus I want to zest. I might even just wave it around while I say “zest!”
11. Cooper Cooler. I had one once and it broke. Or I wore it out. It is the best way to chill wine. Ever. Unless you like to keep your labels intact. But they’ll be my labels so you don’t have to worry about that.
12. Cordial glasses. They’re cute. And fancy. Just like me.
13. Kitchen Aid stand mixer. This isn’t a must, this is really more for the rich aunt who likes to show off her enormous wealth. Except I don’t have one of those. I do like the way the shiny stand mixers look though, so I had to add it.
14. Cooking With Booze. It’s a book I found at the library and loved but didn’t steal because I want my own brand new pretty copy. It has recipes that include booze plus drinks to make with said boozy food. How can you go wrong mixing the two? You can’t. Buy the book. For me. Then you can get your own copy.
That’s my list. In all of its bridal glory. For those of you that don’t believe in same-self marriage, I understand and am generous enough to remind you that I have a monumental birthday coming up. You can call it a birthday present if that makes it easier for you.
Happy shopping!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Real New Year's Resolutions
Admit it. Resolutions are stupid. People only make them so they can sound like they're really good people and have high aspirations of being the Perfect Human. But it's such a joke. Really. How many people have really quit smoking, lost weight, gotten out of debt because of their resolutions? Not me. I do not have the body I want, I'm constantly and continuously broke. New Year's resolutions are not the magic answer to Life's problems.
I have decided that New Year's resolutions should be about something you can actually do. Or will do. Then you'll feel like you've actually accomplished something. And you can feel good about it. Like two or three years ago, I made a resolution to drink more. And you know what? I did!!! I also resolved to take better care of my skin the same year. I think that making only one or two resolutions is the key to success. Really, ten is just too many. One or two is enough for anyone. If you accomplish those two in a year, then feel free to add more the next year. Resolutions should boost your ego, not tear you down. That's what the rest of the year is about. Or having a job. Or living with a teenager. I've said this before, but I will take my ups where I can get them.
Anyhoo, I have a single resolution this year. Okay, more like one resolution with sub-resolutions. I initially resolved to learn to make Hollandaise sauce and pie crust. I've been scared of both ever since I started cooking and I realize how much I am missing out on. I've never made a cherry or apple pie because I firmly believe they can only be made with a homemade pie crust. And as much as I love and critique Eggs Benny wherever I go, I should know how to make them myself.
Yes, my resolution is about eating. Who doesn't eat? Usually people want to eat less. Understandable, but it's not really going to happen. Sure, anyone can eat less for a month or so, but we're talking about a whole year. Twelve months. 365 days. It's a long time to try to do anything less. So I'm not trying to do it less. I'm just trying to do it better. Of course when I thought about it, I realized that I could reach my goal in the first month. Or at least get a really good head start. So I expanded a bit. I am now going to tackle one food-oriented goal a month. I don't know what they all are yet. There will be twelve. I know the summer months will be spent on perfecting the art of the barbecue. I know I'll fit in creme brulee somewhere. The rest I'll post as I come up with them.
The downside is that I now realize how scant my cooking supplies are. I will say now that I will not be offended by getting any cooking gifts for the entire year. The short list - I need a tart pan, torch, crock pot, lemon zester and food processor. I'd be blissfully happy with kitchen gifts all year long, but I'm not stupid. I'll never turn down a pair of shoes. Or a new TV. I just receive graciously like that. It's just who I am.
I think this will be my best resolution ever. Who can't eat more? Who doesn't want to eat better? Better as in taste. Sometimes less is not more.
Happy New Year!!!
I have decided that New Year's resolutions should be about something you can actually do. Or will do. Then you'll feel like you've actually accomplished something. And you can feel good about it. Like two or three years ago, I made a resolution to drink more. And you know what? I did!!! I also resolved to take better care of my skin the same year. I think that making only one or two resolutions is the key to success. Really, ten is just too many. One or two is enough for anyone. If you accomplish those two in a year, then feel free to add more the next year. Resolutions should boost your ego, not tear you down. That's what the rest of the year is about. Or having a job. Or living with a teenager. I've said this before, but I will take my ups where I can get them.
Anyhoo, I have a single resolution this year. Okay, more like one resolution with sub-resolutions. I initially resolved to learn to make Hollandaise sauce and pie crust. I've been scared of both ever since I started cooking and I realize how much I am missing out on. I've never made a cherry or apple pie because I firmly believe they can only be made with a homemade pie crust. And as much as I love and critique Eggs Benny wherever I go, I should know how to make them myself.
Yes, my resolution is about eating. Who doesn't eat? Usually people want to eat less. Understandable, but it's not really going to happen. Sure, anyone can eat less for a month or so, but we're talking about a whole year. Twelve months. 365 days. It's a long time to try to do anything less. So I'm not trying to do it less. I'm just trying to do it better. Of course when I thought about it, I realized that I could reach my goal in the first month. Or at least get a really good head start. So I expanded a bit. I am now going to tackle one food-oriented goal a month. I don't know what they all are yet. There will be twelve. I know the summer months will be spent on perfecting the art of the barbecue. I know I'll fit in creme brulee somewhere. The rest I'll post as I come up with them.
The downside is that I now realize how scant my cooking supplies are. I will say now that I will not be offended by getting any cooking gifts for the entire year. The short list - I need a tart pan, torch, crock pot, lemon zester and food processor. I'd be blissfully happy with kitchen gifts all year long, but I'm not stupid. I'll never turn down a pair of shoes. Or a new TV. I just receive graciously like that. It's just who I am.
I think this will be my best resolution ever. Who can't eat more? Who doesn't want to eat better? Better as in taste. Sometimes less is not more.
Happy New Year!!!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I Am a Super Genius!
Alright, maybe not totally super genius, but I’m still feeling pretty brilliant. Or at least sorta smart. Kind of smart-cookie-ish. I know, somebody will think of the obvious way before I did, but just keep it to yourself please and let me have my small moments.
I must warn you before you go any further this is not a pretty story at all. It’s really pretty gross so if you have a weak stomach at all, I suggest you stop reading now.
Still reading? Well, I warned you…...
My pretty piggy hipppopupamus princess puppy, Ruby, has a very nasty habit. (See? Dogs are gross. There’s still time to stop.) She has taken to dining on poop for breakfast on an almost daily basis. I’ve no idea if it’s her own poo or her brother’s, but it is most definitely poo. She comes to the door happily licking her little whiskered lips so I know what she’s been up too. Her skunky, stinky breath is another telltale sign that can’t be missed.
Now, poop eating is gross enough. I already want to gag. But it doesn’t stop there. Because that would of course be too easy. And life with dogs isn’t easy. No, Ruby not only eats poo, but it of course upsets her stomach and she pukes it back up. In the house. Which I then have to clean up. I am extremely lucky that I don’t have an oversensitive gag reflex or I’d probably just have to move out of my house and have it condemned.
On Sunday she spent most of the entire day throwing up. Only it wasn’t like her regular gross puke. This puke smelled like the most rotten, dead, foul thing imaginable. This was beyond gross. I banished her to her crate for the day and lit every scented candle and opened every window. It was so horrible that I didn’t know if it was just gross or a symptom of some unknown health issue she might have. I was disgusted and worried. Great combination. She seemed fine when I got home the next day, so I went ahead and chalked it all up to her just being a Very Gross Dog. And sure enough, the next morning she was back to her breakfast of shit sausage.
I’ve pretty much had it at this point. I really can’t spend the rest of her life cleaning up poop vomit and avoiding her like the plague. I thought about following her out every morning so that I can yell at her when she gets the wrong end of her body next to a pile of something undesirable. But let’s be real. When it’s freezing in the morning, me taking a step outside just isn’t happening. And then I had the Best Idea Ever. Give her actual dog food for breakfast!!!
So last night I gave the dogs half of their normal meal. Half because Ruby is enough of a hippopupamus. She doesn’t need to gain anymore weight for Pete’s sake! I think they weren’t too happy about it and then I tortured them with baths and nail trims afterwards, so I probably wasn’t their favorite person last night. Then again, I was the only person in the house so take that, dog suckas!! Anyway, I’m sure I was forgiven for the dinner slight last night because they got breakfast this morning. I swear they acted like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to them. Like Christmas came early. (You know, that would have a better impact if I was writing this in July. Okay, like it had been their lifelong dream to have breakfast. Better?) The best part of all?? No poop eating!! (Insert sound of angels singing.) Ruby went outside and returned, not licking her little puppy lips, not with vile, stinky breath, but just doing a little happy dance and wagging her entire body. She makes up greatly for not having a real tail to wag.
That’s it. Nothing that will save the world or even a single person’s life. It won’t end world hunger or change the economy. But I don’t care. It will save my carpets. And my sanity. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s my little Christmas gift to myself. Yay me!
I must warn you before you go any further this is not a pretty story at all. It’s really pretty gross so if you have a weak stomach at all, I suggest you stop reading now.
Still reading? Well, I warned you…...
My pretty piggy hipppopupamus princess puppy, Ruby, has a very nasty habit. (See? Dogs are gross. There’s still time to stop.) She has taken to dining on poop for breakfast on an almost daily basis. I’ve no idea if it’s her own poo or her brother’s, but it is most definitely poo. She comes to the door happily licking her little whiskered lips so I know what she’s been up too. Her skunky, stinky breath is another telltale sign that can’t be missed.
Now, poop eating is gross enough. I already want to gag. But it doesn’t stop there. Because that would of course be too easy. And life with dogs isn’t easy. No, Ruby not only eats poo, but it of course upsets her stomach and she pukes it back up. In the house. Which I then have to clean up. I am extremely lucky that I don’t have an oversensitive gag reflex or I’d probably just have to move out of my house and have it condemned.
On Sunday she spent most of the entire day throwing up. Only it wasn’t like her regular gross puke. This puke smelled like the most rotten, dead, foul thing imaginable. This was beyond gross. I banished her to her crate for the day and lit every scented candle and opened every window. It was so horrible that I didn’t know if it was just gross or a symptom of some unknown health issue she might have. I was disgusted and worried. Great combination. She seemed fine when I got home the next day, so I went ahead and chalked it all up to her just being a Very Gross Dog. And sure enough, the next morning she was back to her breakfast of shit sausage.
I’ve pretty much had it at this point. I really can’t spend the rest of her life cleaning up poop vomit and avoiding her like the plague. I thought about following her out every morning so that I can yell at her when she gets the wrong end of her body next to a pile of something undesirable. But let’s be real. When it’s freezing in the morning, me taking a step outside just isn’t happening. And then I had the Best Idea Ever. Give her actual dog food for breakfast!!!
So last night I gave the dogs half of their normal meal. Half because Ruby is enough of a hippopupamus. She doesn’t need to gain anymore weight for Pete’s sake! I think they weren’t too happy about it and then I tortured them with baths and nail trims afterwards, so I probably wasn’t their favorite person last night. Then again, I was the only person in the house so take that, dog suckas!! Anyway, I’m sure I was forgiven for the dinner slight last night because they got breakfast this morning. I swear they acted like it was the greatest thing that ever happened to them. Like Christmas came early. (You know, that would have a better impact if I was writing this in July. Okay, like it had been their lifelong dream to have breakfast. Better?) The best part of all?? No poop eating!! (Insert sound of angels singing.) Ruby went outside and returned, not licking her little puppy lips, not with vile, stinky breath, but just doing a little happy dance and wagging her entire body. She makes up greatly for not having a real tail to wag.
That’s it. Nothing that will save the world or even a single person’s life. It won’t end world hunger or change the economy. But I don’t care. It will save my carpets. And my sanity. What’s left of it, anyway. It’s my little Christmas gift to myself. Yay me!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
I'm a Wordsmith Wonder.
I invented a new word today. It's awesome. Really. And very useful. No doubt you will find yourself using it in no time. Just remember where you first heard it. I insist on getting credit.
Nakedtive adverb, noun -
Having a bad feeling or embarrassment about being naked.
Let's use it in a sentence. "He left the lights on during their lovemaking despite her nakedtivity." Or I could say, "I am less nakedtive about my breasts than I am about my potbelly."
See? It's easy!
I will now begin my campaign to get nakedtive added to Webster's.
Nakedtive adverb, noun -
Having a bad feeling or embarrassment about being naked.
Let's use it in a sentence. "He left the lights on during their lovemaking despite her nakedtivity." Or I could say, "I am less nakedtive about my breasts than I am about my potbelly."
See? It's easy!
I will now begin my campaign to get nakedtive added to Webster's.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Once Upon a Time I Loved the Snow
The bitter cold and below zero temperatures last week brought back so many memories for me. It’s a little ironic that they’re really good memories, considering how much I hate the cold, but what can I say? I take the bright spots where I can get them these days.
Jenny was one of my two best friends in elementary school. She lived on Silver Tree Lane. I love that name. Her mom was a teacher and very petite. She had dark hair, styled like Dorothy Hamill’s, and very little feet. I think they were a size 5. She wore heels all the time (wedges and espadrilles that have since come back in fashion) and we would raid her closet and stumble around in her tiny heels whenever she wasn’t home. Her parents were divorced but seemed to get along really well. Her mom drove a VW bug that took us to the beach many times over several summers. She also had a boyfriend who drove an old BMW. One of those tiny, little boxy ones. (I don't know what it means that I remember their cars so well, I just do.) His name was something like Dale and he was tall and dorky and we laughed at him behind his back.
Jenny’s dad had remarried and his wife’s name was Gretchen. Gretchen’s mother was quite old and very German. I met her once or twice and she was lovely but I never understood a word she said through her thick accent. Jenny’s dad and Gretchen owned a cabin in Wrightwood, a little town tucked in the mountains high over Los Angeles. It was a second home for them but the only home of theirs that I ever visited and it remains one of my favorite places in the world.
During the summery months we’d go to the cabin and swim in the lake. I would go back to school after a weekend at the lake proudly showing off my sunburned shoulders. It was warm and beautiful and the closest I ever got to anything resembling summer camp.
However, it was the winters at the cabin that I fell in love with. Growing up in Southern California, especially as a child, snow was a treat. It often snowed in Wrightwood during the winter, being a mountain resort town. And the cabin really was more of a cabin than a house, although chalet may be a more appropriate description. There was a small, wood-paneled kitchen with a bedroom behind it that Jenny shared with her brother when I wasn’t there. The living room had a single couch, a chair and a small fireplace. Her parents slept in the loft upstairs.
We spent our days sledding on anything we could find – trash can lids, pieces of cardboard, our coats. If it was cold enough for the lake to freeze, we’d “ice skate” around the edges, knowing the middle would never freeze solidly enough. We wandered the streets admiring the Christmas decorations put up by the more permanent residents. Once we’d had enough of frozen toes and noses we’d return to the cabin to find Gretchen waiting for us with hot chocolate or buttered noodles.
At night, we slept on the pull-out couch in the living room next to the warm fire, covered by pounds of down comforters. Having to leave that warmth to go to the bathroom in the freeze during the middle of the night was like a dare and we did it as quickly as we possibly could. We’d stay up late into the night whispering and giggling under the covers, being silly as only young girls can and are. Our favorite show to watch was The Twilight Zone and her dad would bring us movies when he went into town for groceries. One of my very favorite movies is The Elephant Man. I can’t decide if this is because the movie is really that good or because I watched it snuggled under layers of feathers with my best friend, alternately horrified and delighted at the grotesque images of a deformed man.
I haven’t heard from Jenny since my first year or two of college, we lost contact after that. I miss her and think of her often. The internet is supposed to be the great reuniter of everyone on the planet but so far it hasn’t worked for me. Google refuses to reveal her whereabouts to me.
Living with cold and snow is vastly different from visiting it. I now curse the cold for freezing my doors shut, drying my skin until it cracks and keeping me holed up in whatever warm places I do manage to find. But now and then I get a glimpse or a reminder of those weekends at the cabin and the joy that the snow and frost brought me. These are memories that I will treasure always and maybe someday Jenny and I will laugh about them again over a cup of hot chocolate.
Jenny was one of my two best friends in elementary school. She lived on Silver Tree Lane. I love that name. Her mom was a teacher and very petite. She had dark hair, styled like Dorothy Hamill’s, and very little feet. I think they were a size 5. She wore heels all the time (wedges and espadrilles that have since come back in fashion) and we would raid her closet and stumble around in her tiny heels whenever she wasn’t home. Her parents were divorced but seemed to get along really well. Her mom drove a VW bug that took us to the beach many times over several summers. She also had a boyfriend who drove an old BMW. One of those tiny, little boxy ones. (I don't know what it means that I remember their cars so well, I just do.) His name was something like Dale and he was tall and dorky and we laughed at him behind his back.
Jenny’s dad had remarried and his wife’s name was Gretchen. Gretchen’s mother was quite old and very German. I met her once or twice and she was lovely but I never understood a word she said through her thick accent. Jenny’s dad and Gretchen owned a cabin in Wrightwood, a little town tucked in the mountains high over Los Angeles. It was a second home for them but the only home of theirs that I ever visited and it remains one of my favorite places in the world.
During the summery months we’d go to the cabin and swim in the lake. I would go back to school after a weekend at the lake proudly showing off my sunburned shoulders. It was warm and beautiful and the closest I ever got to anything resembling summer camp.
However, it was the winters at the cabin that I fell in love with. Growing up in Southern California, especially as a child, snow was a treat. It often snowed in Wrightwood during the winter, being a mountain resort town. And the cabin really was more of a cabin than a house, although chalet may be a more appropriate description. There was a small, wood-paneled kitchen with a bedroom behind it that Jenny shared with her brother when I wasn’t there. The living room had a single couch, a chair and a small fireplace. Her parents slept in the loft upstairs.
We spent our days sledding on anything we could find – trash can lids, pieces of cardboard, our coats. If it was cold enough for the lake to freeze, we’d “ice skate” around the edges, knowing the middle would never freeze solidly enough. We wandered the streets admiring the Christmas decorations put up by the more permanent residents. Once we’d had enough of frozen toes and noses we’d return to the cabin to find Gretchen waiting for us with hot chocolate or buttered noodles.
At night, we slept on the pull-out couch in the living room next to the warm fire, covered by pounds of down comforters. Having to leave that warmth to go to the bathroom in the freeze during the middle of the night was like a dare and we did it as quickly as we possibly could. We’d stay up late into the night whispering and giggling under the covers, being silly as only young girls can and are. Our favorite show to watch was The Twilight Zone and her dad would bring us movies when he went into town for groceries. One of my very favorite movies is The Elephant Man. I can’t decide if this is because the movie is really that good or because I watched it snuggled under layers of feathers with my best friend, alternately horrified and delighted at the grotesque images of a deformed man.
I haven’t heard from Jenny since my first year or two of college, we lost contact after that. I miss her and think of her often. The internet is supposed to be the great reuniter of everyone on the planet but so far it hasn’t worked for me. Google refuses to reveal her whereabouts to me.
Living with cold and snow is vastly different from visiting it. I now curse the cold for freezing my doors shut, drying my skin until it cracks and keeping me holed up in whatever warm places I do manage to find. But now and then I get a glimpse or a reminder of those weekends at the cabin and the joy that the snow and frost brought me. These are memories that I will treasure always and maybe someday Jenny and I will laugh about them again over a cup of hot chocolate.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Tutus and Tantrums
Sugar and spice and everything nice. Pink hair ribbons and ballet shoes. Bonding over ice cream and passing on my love for shoes. These are the things I envisioned when my daughter was born. I did not imagine that one day she would hate me or speak to me with such venom in her voice, as if I was the Worst Person on the Face of the Planet.
So she’s 13 and hormonal. So what? I get it. I have hormones. PMS is the bane of my existence. For at least a week out of the month I wish I lived in a different body. I don’t, however, respond to every question I am asked with hatred and condescension. My daughter does. A simple request to unload the dishwasher is met with a litany of proof of how that will ruin her life. She has homework, ballet practice, a test to study for, a life to live which does not include unloading the dishwasher at that exact moment in time. How dare I be so mean and cruel as to ask her to take five minutes out of her day to do something responsible to help me? I know. Worst Parent of the Year, right here. Damn me to hell.
That’s why this past weekend came as a surprisingly refreshing relief. Nutcracker weekend is pretty much my least favorite weekend of the year. It’s filled with hours of rehearsals, playing taxi to drive her to the “theater”, gift preparation for the other girls in her group, and a very exhausted, very depressed, very let-down child at the end of it all. Saturday morning she is literally high on adrenalin and the crash on Sunday coming down from it is painful just to watch.
I expected tantrums and diva behavior. I dreaded this year more than previous years precisely because of her thirteen-ness. I tried to head it off by reminding her of how much work it is, for me too, and that we would get through it with less scars if we could be nicer to each other. By we, of course, I meant her. And she knew it. She apologized in advance saying that sometimes she just wants to cry for no reason. I said yes, I understand. Wait until you have PMS and the feeling is at least 100 times worse. We bonded. Yay for being girls.
For the most part the weekend was a success. There was one small setback. I got a glimpse of the diva monster when I dared make a suggestion of how best to shower without washing her hair. It was over quicker than usual and I was so grateful that I didn’t point out how I was right in the first place. Even though I was and an acknowledgment would have been really nice. But, you know, whatever….
The rest of the weekend she was her little girl self that I so love. Only not so little anymore. She’s growing up. It’s odd to actually see her growth through the progression of her ballet roles. She started as a tiny mouse and even the polka girls and clowns looked so young to me. So young and silly and carefree. She’s still silly but she’s starting to lose some of her carefree spirit. I’m sad and proud at the same time. This was her first year on pointe and the first time she’s ever said she was nervous before a performance. Her first butterflies. Even when she complained that her toes felt like they were being cut from her feet, it didn’t come out as a whine. It was more of a statement of how proud she was of herself, a battle wound to be worn proudly.
As for me, I sat up a little straighter when she stepped out onto the stage. I watched her lightness on her toes and the smile on her face. I saw the young lady she is becoming and in that moment, I saw everything exactly as I had imagined it.
So she’s 13 and hormonal. So what? I get it. I have hormones. PMS is the bane of my existence. For at least a week out of the month I wish I lived in a different body. I don’t, however, respond to every question I am asked with hatred and condescension. My daughter does. A simple request to unload the dishwasher is met with a litany of proof of how that will ruin her life. She has homework, ballet practice, a test to study for, a life to live which does not include unloading the dishwasher at that exact moment in time. How dare I be so mean and cruel as to ask her to take five minutes out of her day to do something responsible to help me? I know. Worst Parent of the Year, right here. Damn me to hell.
That’s why this past weekend came as a surprisingly refreshing relief. Nutcracker weekend is pretty much my least favorite weekend of the year. It’s filled with hours of rehearsals, playing taxi to drive her to the “theater”, gift preparation for the other girls in her group, and a very exhausted, very depressed, very let-down child at the end of it all. Saturday morning she is literally high on adrenalin and the crash on Sunday coming down from it is painful just to watch.
I expected tantrums and diva behavior. I dreaded this year more than previous years precisely because of her thirteen-ness. I tried to head it off by reminding her of how much work it is, for me too, and that we would get through it with less scars if we could be nicer to each other. By we, of course, I meant her. And she knew it. She apologized in advance saying that sometimes she just wants to cry for no reason. I said yes, I understand. Wait until you have PMS and the feeling is at least 100 times worse. We bonded. Yay for being girls.
For the most part the weekend was a success. There was one small setback. I got a glimpse of the diva monster when I dared make a suggestion of how best to shower without washing her hair. It was over quicker than usual and I was so grateful that I didn’t point out how I was right in the first place. Even though I was and an acknowledgment would have been really nice. But, you know, whatever….
The rest of the weekend she was her little girl self that I so love. Only not so little anymore. She’s growing up. It’s odd to actually see her growth through the progression of her ballet roles. She started as a tiny mouse and even the polka girls and clowns looked so young to me. So young and silly and carefree. She’s still silly but she’s starting to lose some of her carefree spirit. I’m sad and proud at the same time. This was her first year on pointe and the first time she’s ever said she was nervous before a performance. Her first butterflies. Even when she complained that her toes felt like they were being cut from her feet, it didn’t come out as a whine. It was more of a statement of how proud she was of herself, a battle wound to be worn proudly.
As for me, I sat up a little straighter when she stepped out onto the stage. I watched her lightness on her toes and the smile on her face. I saw the young lady she is becoming and in that moment, I saw everything exactly as I had imagined it.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Rednecks and When It's Okay to Be a Complete Bitch
Dating sucks. Really sucks. Good friends do not.
My friend met a guy online and they texted for a few days. Because, apparently, texting is now the best way to get to know someone. Don’t bother calling and actually having a phone conversation for 5 to 10 minutes. Sometimes I hate technology. Anyhoo, he suggests they meet. In person - what a concept! He suggests they meet at a bar the night of the civil war game that he is going to watch with a friend. She asked me to go as backup (because who wants to meet a stranger in a bar with his buddy?) and of course I said yes. It turned out to be 45 minutes of my life that I will never get back but did inspire me to offer some advice to all of the poor souls out in the dating world.
How to make a good impression on a first date:
1. Do not be a redneck.
2. Do not imply in the first 5 minutes of meeting that your date is gay. Or, at best, a fag hag.
3. Do not be drunk.
4. Do not stubbornly and repeatedly put down your date’s college team choice. Especially when they’re not even playing at the time. What’s the point? Other than to show what a giant jackass you are.
5. Do not send texts before meeting about how much you’d really like to be in bed with your potential date. It sounds either really creepy or really insincere. Besides, it’s just tacky.
6. Do not be so drunk that you are slurring.
7. Do not repeatedly grab at your date, especially when she is sitting not facing you with her arms crossed. Learn to read body language, asshole.
How to be a good friend:
1. Always have your friend’s back.
2. Go for a pre-drink or two. It will help to calm your friend but also help to get you through 45 minutes of hell if you are buzzed. (Unless it’s freezing-ass cold outside and you immediately lose your buzz the moment you step outside.)
3. Shake the redneck’s hand with your gloves on. It sends the right message - that you think he has cooties and you don’t want them.
4. Be a total bitch to the drunk redneck.
5. Call the drunk redneck out on his inappropriate behavior/texts/questions.
6. Let it be known to the redneck that he will not be seeing your friend again. It’s worth letting him call you a few names in his head and to his friends and blaming you for not being able to call your friend again. Or text her inappropriately.
7. Get your friend out of there as soon as is humanly possible. Be the reason she has to leave if necessary. Remember, you don't give a shit what the dirty drunk redneck thinks about you. Friends come first and it is our right to be bitchy to protect them.
My work here is done. For now.
My friend met a guy online and they texted for a few days. Because, apparently, texting is now the best way to get to know someone. Don’t bother calling and actually having a phone conversation for 5 to 10 minutes. Sometimes I hate technology. Anyhoo, he suggests they meet. In person - what a concept! He suggests they meet at a bar the night of the civil war game that he is going to watch with a friend. She asked me to go as backup (because who wants to meet a stranger in a bar with his buddy?) and of course I said yes. It turned out to be 45 minutes of my life that I will never get back but did inspire me to offer some advice to all of the poor souls out in the dating world.
How to make a good impression on a first date:
1. Do not be a redneck.
2. Do not imply in the first 5 minutes of meeting that your date is gay. Or, at best, a fag hag.
3. Do not be drunk.
4. Do not stubbornly and repeatedly put down your date’s college team choice. Especially when they’re not even playing at the time. What’s the point? Other than to show what a giant jackass you are.
5. Do not send texts before meeting about how much you’d really like to be in bed with your potential date. It sounds either really creepy or really insincere. Besides, it’s just tacky.
6. Do not be so drunk that you are slurring.
7. Do not repeatedly grab at your date, especially when she is sitting not facing you with her arms crossed. Learn to read body language, asshole.
How to be a good friend:
1. Always have your friend’s back.
2. Go for a pre-drink or two. It will help to calm your friend but also help to get you through 45 minutes of hell if you are buzzed. (Unless it’s freezing-ass cold outside and you immediately lose your buzz the moment you step outside.)
3. Shake the redneck’s hand with your gloves on. It sends the right message - that you think he has cooties and you don’t want them.
4. Be a total bitch to the drunk redneck.
5. Call the drunk redneck out on his inappropriate behavior/texts/questions.
6. Let it be known to the redneck that he will not be seeing your friend again. It’s worth letting him call you a few names in his head and to his friends and blaming you for not being able to call your friend again. Or text her inappropriately.
7. Get your friend out of there as soon as is humanly possible. Be the reason she has to leave if necessary. Remember, you don't give a shit what the dirty drunk redneck thinks about you. Friends come first and it is our right to be bitchy to protect them.
My work here is done. For now.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Rednecks, elephants and circus mobsters
Remember going to the circus as a kid? Remember the sparkling lights and the brightly painted clowns and the beautiful, sequined lady who jumped from the back of one horse to another as they pranced in circles? Remember the trapezists floating so high in the air you thought they could really fly? Remember the brave lion tamer coaxing the big cats to stand up and leap through hoops of fire and how even the enormous elephants seemed to move with grace? Remember the scent of popcorn and cotton candy and all of the colors and laughter and how everything just seemed magical? Well, I went to the circus yesterday and it was nothing like that. Not. Even. Close.
I’ve noticed advertisements for the circus coming to town the last few years. They’ve never been very big advertisements though, and I’ve learned that, aside from Disneyland, very few things are as special and magical as I remember as a child. Then J and I saw a coupon for the circus this weekend and for some reason it sounded like a really excellent idea, something different from our usual Central Oregon weekends of walking the river trail and trying to soak up what remains of the fading summer warmth.
What a joke. It’s called Circus Gatti and their website calls them a “traditional 3 ring circus.” Granted, there were three “rings” and a “ringmaster” but that’s about where the similarities end. Remember the big top? There were no tents of any kind. Everything was set up out in the dirt where they do the rodeo during the county fair. No fancy spot lights, just the afternoon sun. It was hard to know what I was supposed to be looking at. Something actually going on in one of the rings or the trucks and trailers sitting back in the field? Or maybe all the activity going on under the one curtain set up in the middle. Really, none of it was that interesting anyway.
And the show itself? There was a single clown and he wasn’t even wearing makeup. So basically, he was just some bozo in a really bad outfit acting like he was mute. There was no trapeze. There were a couple of rings hanging from some rope that two women sort of spun around on and hung upside down from. It was no Cirque du Soleil, that’s for sure. A couple of guys wobbled up some rope to what I assume was the tight rope. One of them wasn’t too bad, he did some little hops and fancy steps, but nothing that took my breath away. The other guy was a little chubby and fell a couple of times. Not to the ground, which would have pretty much made my day, instead he ended up catching himself and trying to save face while he wiped his sweaty face with the sleeve of his shirt. Greasy. Gross.
The animals were most disappointing. There were some miniature horses that were cute but underwhelming and looked more bored with themselves than I was. The dogs were pretty cute, but I always think dogs are cute. Seriously, all my dogs have to do is open their eyes in the morning and I think they’re the greatest things in the entire world. I’m secretly amused by their farts and burps (except for the really smelly ones, but those are the silent ones anyway. Silent but deadly. I think it’s their motto.). These circus dogs were more talented than my shedding angels. They jumped over little hurdles and each other! They danced a conga line! They rode a pony! The itsy bitsy, teeny weeny Chihuahua climbed a ladder and leaped a good three feet into the trainer’s arms! Oh, yes. There is nothing left for Cesar Millan to teach these canines.
I thought all of these embarrassing little acts were leading to something. Something Big. Like a Lion. Or a Tiger. Or a Bear. Oh, my! Nope. Not even a monkey. The only big animals were the poor elephants that shuffled in sadly only to be ridden by dozens of bratty little kids who behaved worse than monkeys. Really, it was quite the scene of animal cruelty. I had to keep the tears at bay by imagining the elephant losing her freaking mind and running around stomping obnoxious children and trampling their stupid inbred parents before running off into the sunset. Seriously, nothing would have given me more joy at that moment.
Let’s not forget the music! It was like being at a really bad nightclub. Except for the slow songs that sounded like really bad porn. You know, the kind that tries to be romantic as the camera zooms in on untamed 70’s bush? Yes. It was that bad. The juggler at least tried. Sort of. If by trying you think it makes sense to throw flashy silver pins and balls to techno music, then he completely outdid himself.
This circus was totally ghetto. I didn’t want to run away with it, I wanted to run away FROM it.
Now we come to the crowd that this craptastic spectacle drew. This is where we find the real entertainment. It was an extravaganza of redneck marvels, an endless parade of white trash surprise, literally a feast for the eyes! I don’t know if I can do these people justice, but I’ll try.
We’ll start with Toothless Grandma. Her face looked like one of those shrunken apple heads they sell at craft fairs. Her outfit was simply stunning – black shirt, black pants, black high-top Reeboks all tied together with a gold lamè belt. She further accessorized this haute couture with – please stop to picture and appreciate this fully – not ONLY her key ring hanging from a belt loop, but a HOT PINK Bic lighter hanging RIGHT NEXT to it!! I really didn’t think it could get more fantastic than this, but she did it. The toothless wonder bought AND ate a plate of nachos. Nachos, people! Yes sir, she gummed those babies right before my very eyes.
Next, we come to Chester the Molester. In the living flesh. Baggy Wranglers covering his scrawny ass, long sleeved, oversized brown shirt most likely hiding all the candy he uses to lure his innocent little victims, and sporting stringy, greasy hair with the crème de la crème – a side part pattern of baldness. Yes, the part in his hair was balding and it was nicely sunburned. I watched him follow the screaming little brats as they formed the line for the elephant ride, obviously trying to pick the weakest one apart from the rest of the pack. Just creepy. Super creepy. Luckily, as far as I could tell, Chester’s attempts were thwarted that day. He probably needs a better disguise because, really, the hair was a dead giveaway.
As always, we had the big girls squeezing into too-tight jeans, proudly putting their ginormous mushroom tops on display. There was the female-looking person in a short skirt trying to walk in heels she obviously had never worn before. I wanted to ask her if she’d pooped her pants or really didn’t know how to walk in her shoes, because I couldn’t decide which it was. My favorite outfit may have been the half jeans/half skirt that was obviously hand made. The makeup didn’t disappoint either - teal eye shadow by the pound, brown lip liner with pink lip gloss, fake eyelashes with glitter. Glitter, people! In the middle of the afternoon!! In broad daylight!!
I saw more beer bellies than I could count. One gentleman, I kid you not, sat with his big gut hanging down so far it was resting on the bleacher below him. One of these redneck idiots volunteered to be a victim of the clown. The mute asshole had this loser hopping around trying to do the moon walk or running man or something. I don’t know, I couldn’t really see past his jiggling middle. It’s truly a wonder how some of these people hold themselves upright.
I’m sure I missed a ton of the other glorious exhibitions, but I was starting to lose my sight and had to leave. There’s only so much redneck splendor a normal person can take in one day and I had reached my limit.
I’m sure the circus will be back in town again next year for those of you just dying to see it. After all, the skeezy performers/mob rejects have to make money to buy their drugs and not feed their animals with somehow. Hey, it’s your choice. But you’ve been warned.
I’ve noticed advertisements for the circus coming to town the last few years. They’ve never been very big advertisements though, and I’ve learned that, aside from Disneyland, very few things are as special and magical as I remember as a child. Then J and I saw a coupon for the circus this weekend and for some reason it sounded like a really excellent idea, something different from our usual Central Oregon weekends of walking the river trail and trying to soak up what remains of the fading summer warmth.
What a joke. It’s called Circus Gatti and their website calls them a “traditional 3 ring circus.” Granted, there were three “rings” and a “ringmaster” but that’s about where the similarities end. Remember the big top? There were no tents of any kind. Everything was set up out in the dirt where they do the rodeo during the county fair. No fancy spot lights, just the afternoon sun. It was hard to know what I was supposed to be looking at. Something actually going on in one of the rings or the trucks and trailers sitting back in the field? Or maybe all the activity going on under the one curtain set up in the middle. Really, none of it was that interesting anyway.
And the show itself? There was a single clown and he wasn’t even wearing makeup. So basically, he was just some bozo in a really bad outfit acting like he was mute. There was no trapeze. There were a couple of rings hanging from some rope that two women sort of spun around on and hung upside down from. It was no Cirque du Soleil, that’s for sure. A couple of guys wobbled up some rope to what I assume was the tight rope. One of them wasn’t too bad, he did some little hops and fancy steps, but nothing that took my breath away. The other guy was a little chubby and fell a couple of times. Not to the ground, which would have pretty much made my day, instead he ended up catching himself and trying to save face while he wiped his sweaty face with the sleeve of his shirt. Greasy. Gross.
The animals were most disappointing. There were some miniature horses that were cute but underwhelming and looked more bored with themselves than I was. The dogs were pretty cute, but I always think dogs are cute. Seriously, all my dogs have to do is open their eyes in the morning and I think they’re the greatest things in the entire world. I’m secretly amused by their farts and burps (except for the really smelly ones, but those are the silent ones anyway. Silent but deadly. I think it’s their motto.). These circus dogs were more talented than my shedding angels. They jumped over little hurdles and each other! They danced a conga line! They rode a pony! The itsy bitsy, teeny weeny Chihuahua climbed a ladder and leaped a good three feet into the trainer’s arms! Oh, yes. There is nothing left for Cesar Millan to teach these canines.
I thought all of these embarrassing little acts were leading to something. Something Big. Like a Lion. Or a Tiger. Or a Bear. Oh, my! Nope. Not even a monkey. The only big animals were the poor elephants that shuffled in sadly only to be ridden by dozens of bratty little kids who behaved worse than monkeys. Really, it was quite the scene of animal cruelty. I had to keep the tears at bay by imagining the elephant losing her freaking mind and running around stomping obnoxious children and trampling their stupid inbred parents before running off into the sunset. Seriously, nothing would have given me more joy at that moment.
Let’s not forget the music! It was like being at a really bad nightclub. Except for the slow songs that sounded like really bad porn. You know, the kind that tries to be romantic as the camera zooms in on untamed 70’s bush? Yes. It was that bad. The juggler at least tried. Sort of. If by trying you think it makes sense to throw flashy silver pins and balls to techno music, then he completely outdid himself.
This circus was totally ghetto. I didn’t want to run away with it, I wanted to run away FROM it.
Now we come to the crowd that this craptastic spectacle drew. This is where we find the real entertainment. It was an extravaganza of redneck marvels, an endless parade of white trash surprise, literally a feast for the eyes! I don’t know if I can do these people justice, but I’ll try.
We’ll start with Toothless Grandma. Her face looked like one of those shrunken apple heads they sell at craft fairs. Her outfit was simply stunning – black shirt, black pants, black high-top Reeboks all tied together with a gold lamè belt. She further accessorized this haute couture with – please stop to picture and appreciate this fully – not ONLY her key ring hanging from a belt loop, but a HOT PINK Bic lighter hanging RIGHT NEXT to it!! I really didn’t think it could get more fantastic than this, but she did it. The toothless wonder bought AND ate a plate of nachos. Nachos, people! Yes sir, she gummed those babies right before my very eyes.
Next, we come to Chester the Molester. In the living flesh. Baggy Wranglers covering his scrawny ass, long sleeved, oversized brown shirt most likely hiding all the candy he uses to lure his innocent little victims, and sporting stringy, greasy hair with the crème de la crème – a side part pattern of baldness. Yes, the part in his hair was balding and it was nicely sunburned. I watched him follow the screaming little brats as they formed the line for the elephant ride, obviously trying to pick the weakest one apart from the rest of the pack. Just creepy. Super creepy. Luckily, as far as I could tell, Chester’s attempts were thwarted that day. He probably needs a better disguise because, really, the hair was a dead giveaway.
As always, we had the big girls squeezing into too-tight jeans, proudly putting their ginormous mushroom tops on display. There was the female-looking person in a short skirt trying to walk in heels she obviously had never worn before. I wanted to ask her if she’d pooped her pants or really didn’t know how to walk in her shoes, because I couldn’t decide which it was. My favorite outfit may have been the half jeans/half skirt that was obviously hand made. The makeup didn’t disappoint either - teal eye shadow by the pound, brown lip liner with pink lip gloss, fake eyelashes with glitter. Glitter, people! In the middle of the afternoon!! In broad daylight!!
I saw more beer bellies than I could count. One gentleman, I kid you not, sat with his big gut hanging down so far it was resting on the bleacher below him. One of these redneck idiots volunteered to be a victim of the clown. The mute asshole had this loser hopping around trying to do the moon walk or running man or something. I don’t know, I couldn’t really see past his jiggling middle. It’s truly a wonder how some of these people hold themselves upright.
I’m sure I missed a ton of the other glorious exhibitions, but I was starting to lose my sight and had to leave. There’s only so much redneck splendor a normal person can take in one day and I had reached my limit.
I’m sure the circus will be back in town again next year for those of you just dying to see it. After all, the skeezy performers/mob rejects have to make money to buy their drugs and not feed their animals with somehow. Hey, it’s your choice. But you’ve been warned.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Ew. Oogy. Gross.
This morning I killed the fourth black widow in my house in less than a year. Seriously, what is up with these bitches? What makes them think they’re welcome? Because they’re most definitely not.
This one was a fatty. Big and plump, her red hourglass shining like a beacon in the morning sun. She had built quite the web for herself, I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Other than it was in a corner of the garage I don’t normally look at. I must have left at just the right time this morning because as I was backing out of my garage on my way to work, the sun shone just so on her gigantic web and her big, black body was smack dab in the middle of it.
The only bug killing spray I have left is wasp killer, but it did the trick - knocked her out of her web and stunned her long enough for me to get a shovel to crush her with. She must have been sleeping too, because she didn’t see it coming. Ha! I left her body there as a warning to others. They’re evil little bitches though, so the next one will probably just eat her remains before finding another corner of my house to take up residence.
My skin is crawling just thinking about it. And did you know I have a bite on my butt? Yeah, one of her little relatives probably did it while I was sleeping. That’s a disturbing thought. Spiders are creepy little fuckers.
This one was a fatty. Big and plump, her red hourglass shining like a beacon in the morning sun. She had built quite the web for herself, I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Other than it was in a corner of the garage I don’t normally look at. I must have left at just the right time this morning because as I was backing out of my garage on my way to work, the sun shone just so on her gigantic web and her big, black body was smack dab in the middle of it.
The only bug killing spray I have left is wasp killer, but it did the trick - knocked her out of her web and stunned her long enough for me to get a shovel to crush her with. She must have been sleeping too, because she didn’t see it coming. Ha! I left her body there as a warning to others. They’re evil little bitches though, so the next one will probably just eat her remains before finding another corner of my house to take up residence.
My skin is crawling just thinking about it. And did you know I have a bite on my butt? Yeah, one of her little relatives probably did it while I was sleeping. That’s a disturbing thought. Spiders are creepy little fuckers.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
My Neurosis is Showing
Yes, I've been feeling quite neurotic lately. Yes, even more than normal. But only about one thing in particular, not life in general. Mostly. Anyhoo.....
My company sponsors its own Toastmasters club and, a few months ago, my manager suggested I join. Ha. Right. Public speaking? That means people watch me while I try to sound clever and look like I know what I'm doing. Which I never do. The thought alone makes me want to run home and crawl under a blanket until my heart stops pounding like it wants to escape from my chest.
So I must have been in an ass-kissing mood the day he invited me to a meeting because I went, under the strict condition that I wouldn't get up and speak that day. And I didn't. I did sit there getting hot flashes and sweaty armpits just from watching other people speak. Fear of public speaking? I'd say I have it. Which turned out to be the exact reason why I decided to join Toastmasters. Lately I've had this crazy idea to conquer my fears and this is a big one to get over. Big. Huge.
The first speech is called the ice-breaker and it's basically a way of introducing yourself to the group. Usually, I am my favorite subject to talk about but this was difficult. What about me did I want to share with my coworkers? My manager? I couldn't think of anything that was interesting enough to talk about for five minutes and yet wasn't over sharing or inappropriate. I finally settled on my role as a mom. It's pretty easy to talk about my kid and I "cheated" by stitching together a speech with some of the things I have written here.
When speech time came, I pretty much wanted to puke my guts out. I thought puking on the floor in front of everyone would be preferable to standing in front of everyone talking. At least it wouldn't last as long. I was afraid I'd forget a part, or freeze up completely and forget the whole thing. I imagined I'd pass out, or sweat pools under my armpits. All really unappealing, unattractive images.
Then something else happened. Yes, my voice shook like I knew it would. I almost cried three separate times. I did forget a couple of small parts, just sentences really. I was pretty much frozen in one spot, probably looking as awkward as I felt. But I got through it. I remembered the important parts, the clever phrases and witty descriptions. People laughed in the right places and I wasn't the only one with tears in my eyes at the end. I shocked the hell out of myself. That rarely happens to me.
The other members of the group give the speaker written comments at the end, feedback on what was good, what can be done better the next time. Mine said things like "You made me cry", "poignant", "Thank you for sharing so much with us", "amazing". Some people told me they couldn't believe it was my first speech, another told me that I set the bar high for myself. Wow. Shocking, definitely.
This is where my neurosis comes in. I'm not done giving speeches. I have nine more to do in this first series. I just put a ton of pressure on myself. Now I have new fear of being a one hit wonder, along with having to get up and do it all over again.
I decided almost immediately the topic for my next speech but it has taken me over a month to write it. I finally wrote it today. I'm feeling pretty good about it. I'm an expert in the subject matter so that should help. A little. I hope.
Yeah, I'm just going to take the next week and a half to memorize it and psych myself up for it. The nausea is already setting in.
My company sponsors its own Toastmasters club and, a few months ago, my manager suggested I join. Ha. Right. Public speaking? That means people watch me while I try to sound clever and look like I know what I'm doing. Which I never do. The thought alone makes me want to run home and crawl under a blanket until my heart stops pounding like it wants to escape from my chest.
So I must have been in an ass-kissing mood the day he invited me to a meeting because I went, under the strict condition that I wouldn't get up and speak that day. And I didn't. I did sit there getting hot flashes and sweaty armpits just from watching other people speak. Fear of public speaking? I'd say I have it. Which turned out to be the exact reason why I decided to join Toastmasters. Lately I've had this crazy idea to conquer my fears and this is a big one to get over. Big. Huge.
The first speech is called the ice-breaker and it's basically a way of introducing yourself to the group. Usually, I am my favorite subject to talk about but this was difficult. What about me did I want to share with my coworkers? My manager? I couldn't think of anything that was interesting enough to talk about for five minutes and yet wasn't over sharing or inappropriate. I finally settled on my role as a mom. It's pretty easy to talk about my kid and I "cheated" by stitching together a speech with some of the things I have written here.
When speech time came, I pretty much wanted to puke my guts out. I thought puking on the floor in front of everyone would be preferable to standing in front of everyone talking. At least it wouldn't last as long. I was afraid I'd forget a part, or freeze up completely and forget the whole thing. I imagined I'd pass out, or sweat pools under my armpits. All really unappealing, unattractive images.
Then something else happened. Yes, my voice shook like I knew it would. I almost cried three separate times. I did forget a couple of small parts, just sentences really. I was pretty much frozen in one spot, probably looking as awkward as I felt. But I got through it. I remembered the important parts, the clever phrases and witty descriptions. People laughed in the right places and I wasn't the only one with tears in my eyes at the end. I shocked the hell out of myself. That rarely happens to me.
The other members of the group give the speaker written comments at the end, feedback on what was good, what can be done better the next time. Mine said things like "You made me cry", "poignant", "Thank you for sharing so much with us", "amazing". Some people told me they couldn't believe it was my first speech, another told me that I set the bar high for myself. Wow. Shocking, definitely.
This is where my neurosis comes in. I'm not done giving speeches. I have nine more to do in this first series. I just put a ton of pressure on myself. Now I have new fear of being a one hit wonder, along with having to get up and do it all over again.
I decided almost immediately the topic for my next speech but it has taken me over a month to write it. I finally wrote it today. I'm feeling pretty good about it. I'm an expert in the subject matter so that should help. A little. I hope.
Yeah, I'm just going to take the next week and a half to memorize it and psych myself up for it. The nausea is already setting in.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Best. Weekend. Ever.
Oh, Monday. I hate Monday. Monday is not my friend. Monday means working, being inside, going back to normal eating and, worst of all, the end to my perfect weekend. Seriously. This weekend was the best ever. This weekend totally kicks all other weekends’ ass this year. Really. Here’s a quick recap. I might be forgetting a few details, but this should give you an idea of how much my weekend rocked. Try not to be too jealous.
Thursday –
What I did -
Played hooky from work to give myself a four-day weekend and went floating. D actually had a float she could carry herself and decided she loves floating now. Shopped for BBQ food. Had relaxing evening watching a movie with her after my ballet taxi duties. Snuggled with dogs.
What I ate –
Café Yumm’s Smoky in a wrap with added jalapeno-sesame salsa. Yumm…..
What I drank –
Water. (weekend prep)
Friday –
What I did –
Woke up early to see D off for the weekend. Went to the lake with M for lots of sun. Used my new cooler. Killed annoying bee-fly things. Realized I love summer so much that I would totally marry it. Really, I love it that much. Went to first Friday with M and had free wine and free jello shots. Went to 900 Wall, flirted with boys and had free Manhattans.
What I ate –
Leftover peanut chicken and noodles, Doritos, an apple, jello shots, potato fritters at 900 Wall (which are nowhere near as good as the risotto fritters that Merenda had. Boo.), the cherries in my Manhattans.
What I drank –
Water, diet coke, white wine, red wine, Manhattans (three of them. I think.)
Saturday –
What I did –
Woke up hung-over. Went to the pet parade with J and squealed over cute dogs. Walked around the park squealing over more cute dogs while giving a recap of the night before. Went floating. Laughed my butt off. Realized I was having the Most Perfect Weekend Ever. Felt the need to tell strangers how great it was. Went with J to her new boy’s parents’ house. They are like a movie family – crazy, loud and totally fun. This was a real conversation there –
New Boy’s Dad: Would you like some wine?
Me: No thank you, I brought my own for later.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want some wine?
Me: No thank you, not right now.
New Boy’s Dad: What kind of wine do you want?
Me: Really, I’m okay right now.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want red or white?
Me: I’ll take white. (I love people who force alcohol on me!)
Played bocce ball. I swear these people said my name at least 50 times during the game and were not at all shy about forcing me to play. “Hey, it’s your turn.” “Come on muscles!” “It’s totally up to you. No pressure though.” I did at least get the award for Most Improved During the Game. Even if I had to award it to myself. Oh, and the grandma lady? I was informed that she is “Nana” to me. I want to adopt them. I freaking love these people and I want to be them when I grow up.
Went to M’s for BBQ. Went back to J’s new boy’s place to set off fireworks. Drove to watch the butte fireworks at the crazy family’s office. Snuggled with the new boy’s dog in the back of his BMW. (Yeah, the only action I got all weekend was with dogs. But I’m totally okay with that. Dogs rock.)
What I ate –
Crackers, cheese, salami, olives, artichoke dip, seven-layer dip, mango salsa (which I could have bathed in, it was so good!), chips, veggies, ribs, corn on the cob in a tortilla, grilled pineapple, homemade cherry pie and vanilla ice cream.
What I drank –
Caramel frappuccino, white wine, vanilla whiskey and diet coke, water and a sip of a V-8.
Sunday –
Slept in, read in bed. Felt guilty about leaving my dogs all weekend and stayed home to be with them for a bit and laid out in the sun with them. Went to the Sunday concert with both Jens, met the other one’s new boy. Felt slightly jealous over my friends’ happiness but know they both totally deserve it. Hoped some of it would rub off on me. Sweated like crazy, ended up burning my new skin that had peeled. Went to another BBQ that was not the funnest part of my weekend but gave me something to laugh about. J read her sickly sweet texts from her new boy to me. Ooh’d and ah’d and felt nauseous at the same time. Drank water, sat on my couch for the first time all weekend to watch a movie, snuggled with dogs.
What I ate –
Grapes, cherries, bread with artichoke dip, wasabi peas, “intense” almonds, hot dog, cheese, Greek salad, chicken kabob, a pickle slice and a cupcake.
What I drank -
Water, rose' wine, coconut rum and coke, spiced rum and coke, water.
There is no way that next year’s 4th of July weekend can be better than this, but I’ll sure try. I love everyone who was a part of it and it was the perfect kick-off to a real summer.
Thursday –
What I did -
Played hooky from work to give myself a four-day weekend and went floating. D actually had a float she could carry herself and decided she loves floating now. Shopped for BBQ food. Had relaxing evening watching a movie with her after my ballet taxi duties. Snuggled with dogs.
What I ate –
Café Yumm’s Smoky in a wrap with added jalapeno-sesame salsa. Yumm…..
What I drank –
Water. (weekend prep)
Friday –
What I did –
Woke up early to see D off for the weekend. Went to the lake with M for lots of sun. Used my new cooler. Killed annoying bee-fly things. Realized I love summer so much that I would totally marry it. Really, I love it that much. Went to first Friday with M and had free wine and free jello shots. Went to 900 Wall, flirted with boys and had free Manhattans.
What I ate –
Leftover peanut chicken and noodles, Doritos, an apple, jello shots, potato fritters at 900 Wall (which are nowhere near as good as the risotto fritters that Merenda had. Boo.), the cherries in my Manhattans.
What I drank –
Water, diet coke, white wine, red wine, Manhattans (three of them. I think.)
Saturday –
What I did –
Woke up hung-over. Went to the pet parade with J and squealed over cute dogs. Walked around the park squealing over more cute dogs while giving a recap of the night before. Went floating. Laughed my butt off. Realized I was having the Most Perfect Weekend Ever. Felt the need to tell strangers how great it was. Went with J to her new boy’s parents’ house. They are like a movie family – crazy, loud and totally fun. This was a real conversation there –
New Boy’s Dad: Would you like some wine?
Me: No thank you, I brought my own for later.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want some wine?
Me: No thank you, not right now.
New Boy’s Dad: What kind of wine do you want?
Me: Really, I’m okay right now.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want red or white?
Me: I’ll take white. (I love people who force alcohol on me!)
Played bocce ball. I swear these people said my name at least 50 times during the game and were not at all shy about forcing me to play. “Hey, it’s your turn.” “Come on muscles!” “It’s totally up to you. No pressure though.” I did at least get the award for Most Improved During the Game. Even if I had to award it to myself. Oh, and the grandma lady? I was informed that she is “Nana” to me. I want to adopt them. I freaking love these people and I want to be them when I grow up.
Went to M’s for BBQ. Went back to J’s new boy’s place to set off fireworks. Drove to watch the butte fireworks at the crazy family’s office. Snuggled with the new boy’s dog in the back of his BMW. (Yeah, the only action I got all weekend was with dogs. But I’m totally okay with that. Dogs rock.)
What I ate –
Crackers, cheese, salami, olives, artichoke dip, seven-layer dip, mango salsa (which I could have bathed in, it was so good!), chips, veggies, ribs, corn on the cob in a tortilla, grilled pineapple, homemade cherry pie and vanilla ice cream.
What I drank –
Caramel frappuccino, white wine, vanilla whiskey and diet coke, water and a sip of a V-8.
Sunday –
Slept in, read in bed. Felt guilty about leaving my dogs all weekend and stayed home to be with them for a bit and laid out in the sun with them. Went to the Sunday concert with both Jens, met the other one’s new boy. Felt slightly jealous over my friends’ happiness but know they both totally deserve it. Hoped some of it would rub off on me. Sweated like crazy, ended up burning my new skin that had peeled. Went to another BBQ that was not the funnest part of my weekend but gave me something to laugh about. J read her sickly sweet texts from her new boy to me. Ooh’d and ah’d and felt nauseous at the same time. Drank water, sat on my couch for the first time all weekend to watch a movie, snuggled with dogs.
What I ate –
Grapes, cherries, bread with artichoke dip, wasabi peas, “intense” almonds, hot dog, cheese, Greek salad, chicken kabob, a pickle slice and a cupcake.
What I drank -
Water, rose' wine, coconut rum and coke, spiced rum and coke, water.
There is no way that next year’s 4th of July weekend can be better than this, but I’ll sure try. I love everyone who was a part of it and it was the perfect kick-off to a real summer.
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