I said that about 198 times on the phone with F the other day. It would seem that talking about the myriad of ways my mother has ruined my life will cause me to use redundancies. (It does seem a little fitting, as my mom is running quickly out of new ideas and repeats herself quite often.)
I am more than ready for my fucking chronic neck and shoulder pain that spirals into a migraine to break up with me. It's one of those relationships that has been dead for a long time, you know, where one party is more in love than the other, but the un-loving partner stays due to not wanting to hurt feelings and so on and just does ass-hatty things in hopes of pissing off the other party enough that they will end it and absolve the un-lover from any wrong-doing? Yeah. I'm trapped in a loveless marriage with my neck.
I am totally at a loss of something to blog about. Perhaps I should let loose a yarn about the white-trash-Mecca (Welcome, googlers!) I used to live in.
Hrmmmmm....there are so many to choose from. The dude that pulled all his own teeth? His brother, who cut his face in half with a chainsaw and walked out of the woods and then drove himself to the hospital for stitches and came immediately back to work logging? My ex's brother, the taxidermist, who had his ceiling 'raised' (Cut a hole in the trailer's ceiling insulation) to make room for the rack from his prize bull elk? (And yes, he used it as a gun rack.) How he and his wife were caught having sex in their 'garden' (Wife posted fake flowers in the dirt rather than plant real ones) by their son's friend at three in the afternoon? The 60 year old woman with no teeth who, for $50, sold her dirty panties to a stranger at the local bar?
Oh, I know.
Clown Faced Jimmy, aka 'Sparky'.
Clown faced Jimmy was an electrician of sorts. He wasn't licensed, to my knowledge, which never stopped anyone in that neck of the woods from doing anything. He was also famous for shitty work and being an alcoholic, which I believe is where his nickname came from.
Sparky, that is.
We called him Clown Faced Jimmy because, well....He looked like a clown.
Let me explain.
Jimmy was Canadian (I don't know how this applies, but my step father teased him about it a lot.). He was slender, about 5'9". He had insane black hair that stood up around his Stihl baseball cap at odd angles. He also had a very wide and pale face, and electric blue eyes. Like, not pretty blue, scary, 'there's-something-very-wrong-inside-this-man blue. And one tooth.
One. One of his front top teeth--that was it. The rest were small, worn, black nubs. They looked like he had fallen into warm road asphalt, come up with a mouthful and called it good.
Now, I know you are all wondering where the 'clown' part comes in. I guess I can't really do it justice by putting it in writing.....trust me. (I'm freaked out by clowns. Not because of Jimmy, but that fear may have something to do with the nickname.)
Anyway, other than questionable electricians work, I have no idea where Jimmy received any income. I know that he had a lady friend for a time who supported him, but I don't know where he lived, what he did with himself during the day or anything else.
Jimmy drank cheap ass beer and smoked cheap ass cigarettes. He laughed a lot, (Showing his road warrior teeth) and was generally a nice person. He was friends with a man who was quietly said to have a marijuana farm, but no one said for certain.
One day, in the middle of the summer, I was working at my parents store with my step father. I was about 17 or so. The store was busy-ish, it being the summer months. Our store was RIGHT ON THE HIGHWAY--not the busiest highway, by any means, but a major thoroughfare just the same. This is important.
So my step dad and I are working away, when we hear a rumbling 'Bang!' of a backfiring vehicle. We turn to look out the window and see just who it may be....
It's Jimmy. And his friend, the pot farmer. They have pulled into the store parking lot, next to the gas pumps, to reattach a tarp that was supposed to be covering the bed of the truck before they head to the nearest town.
They needed a tarp to cover the bed of the truck because the bed of the truck is piled, literally piled, with pot.
Now, take a minute and imagine this. Really.
My step dad and I just stood there, watching them use rope and tie-downs to cover this mountain of pot and make it road ready. The saw us, smiled, waved, and left.
In what reality is this even remotely possible? Plausible?
The best part? They didn't get caught. They drove through a town at 25 mph with a literal truck load of cannabis, cars all over the place, and no one thought twice about it.
I don't know whether to laugh or....be confused. I vacillate, really. At least we know how Jimmy supported himself.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
No thank you
We're back.
Thank. Everything. Considered. Holy. Across. The. World.
Sweet Lord in heaven, never again. Never.
There are animals in the world that have wingspans larger than my mother's RV. AnimalS. Plural. Not that rare an occasion. Good God.
Anyway, my mother lives in an RV, and it's small. She has two cats, and smokes at least a pack a day per cat, more if she has something to celebrate. (I use that term loosely.)
While we were there, a mere three and 5/6ths days, my mother consumed (Not all at once, mind)
*Approx 4 bottles Pinot Grigio
*Approx 10 packs cigarettes (One carton, or 200 individual cigarettes, to those counting)
*One Hydrocodone, 5mg.
*Approx 4 16oz. Beers
*Approx 18 Ibuprofen
*Two prescribed blood-pressure reducing pills
*Approx 9 acid reflux pills
*24% of my sanity
*67% T's patience
(These are of course, not including what she drank and/or consumed while T and I were attempting sleep or, oh, showering.)
I hate to fly and I was counting the damn hours until we went back to the airport.
I had forgotten why I did all the driving. My mother is willing to put the car into third gear (If you're lucky)--No higher. She will happily go 35 mph, transmission screaming, down the left lane of a 70 mph highway.
I had forgotten how my mother loves to be catered to. I did all the cooking and shopping while we were there. (This is fine, but she demanded it. No "Oh, would you help me?" just a "You're cooking if you want to eat.")
My mother talks to the cats all day long. This is fine until it's 4am, you have finally drifted off to sleep on your prison-issue pallet of a mattress and are startled awake by high-pitched singsong talking, ten minute intervals of coughing and a cloud of cigarette smoke.
(I smoke. T smokes. But not like this. We don't smoke in the house, I don't give T cigarette 'Dutch Ovens' while he is asleep. Oh, and we don't live in a closet together.)
Sigh.
Anyway, more of that in a moment.
***************************************
This is Sprocket. Sprocket is a Taurus, enjoys being a terrible watch dog, chasing but not catching mice, and howling at odd hours. He dislikes being left alone for long periods of time and a man named Joe. His feelings on long walks on the beach and/or candle-lit dinners has not yet been determined.
Sprocket is also a wolf.
Sprocket is my mom's neighbor's pet. He is quite friendly, as well as huge.
Oh, and did I mention he is a WOLF?? (Does this strike a chord of mild panic and animal rights activism in anyone else, or am I weird?)
Anyway, I can now scratch "Get jumped up on and licked in the face by a wolf" off my list of things to do before I die. Also, wolves are huge. (Did I mention that already? I was raised with mastiffs--Huge in their own right--And I was impressed.)
This neighbor also has a lynx/tabby cat cross aptly named Bigfoot, who I did not have the pleasure of meeting.
*************************************
While we were there, T asked my mother for my hand in marriage. As she is the last living parent I have, and this is probably (God willing) the only time T would see her in person until an actual marriage occurred, it seemed like a good idea. (I'm speculating here. Attempts to get T to guest blog have been thus far thwarted--So I am forced to assume.)
We are not engaged. Please keep this in mind.
My mother, who cannot keep anything to herself for more than 13 seconds (The longest she has gone without speaking while conscious--I know this because we have timed her. Seriously.) took it upon herself to call everyone we both know and inform them that I am engaged, probably getting married this summer, and all sorts of juicy details ranging from the type of flowers I will have to what shoes I will wear.
I didn't know this until the phone calls started today. (People are thrilled, apparently, at my betrothal. I hope they are equally as thrilled when it actually happens.)
When I called my mother to tell her to lay off, she was totally wasted. When I explained my position to her, that I didn't realize that she needed to be sworn to secrecy about everything--Even common sense things like this--she was faced with a dilemma.
She could demur, apologise, and move on.....
Or she could get angry, start name calling and casting blame stones.
She chose that second one.
So now, on top of being engaged, getting married this summer and wearing flats while carrying daisies and/or peonies, I am a whore and a liar whom T is having to settle for.
(And for all parties interested, she did give her blessing. After asking T, "What are you going to do if I say no?" and him responding, "Marry her anyway.")
(See why we aren't going back anytime soon?)
***************************************
In an attempt to lighten the mood, more photos.
First off, the view from our holding area at the local one-gate airport.
Second, through the end, proof that anti-anxiety medication works--I was calm enough to take photos as we flew, rather than tear holes in T's hand and the arm rest of the seat.
Thank. Everything. Considered. Holy. Across. The. World.
Sweet Lord in heaven, never again. Never.
There are animals in the world that have wingspans larger than my mother's RV. AnimalS. Plural. Not that rare an occasion. Good God.
Anyway, my mother lives in an RV, and it's small. She has two cats, and smokes at least a pack a day per cat, more if she has something to celebrate. (I use that term loosely.)
While we were there, a mere three and 5/6ths days, my mother consumed (Not all at once, mind)
*Approx 4 bottles Pinot Grigio
*Approx 10 packs cigarettes (One carton, or 200 individual cigarettes, to those counting)
*One Hydrocodone, 5mg.
*Approx 4 16oz. Beers
*Approx 18 Ibuprofen
*Two prescribed blood-pressure reducing pills
*Approx 9 acid reflux pills
*24% of my sanity
*67% T's patience
(These are of course, not including what she drank and/or consumed while T and I were attempting sleep or, oh, showering.)
I hate to fly and I was counting the damn hours until we went back to the airport.
I had forgotten why I did all the driving. My mother is willing to put the car into third gear (If you're lucky)--No higher. She will happily go 35 mph, transmission screaming, down the left lane of a 70 mph highway.
I had forgotten how my mother loves to be catered to. I did all the cooking and shopping while we were there. (This is fine, but she demanded it. No "Oh, would you help me?" just a "You're cooking if you want to eat.")
My mother talks to the cats all day long. This is fine until it's 4am, you have finally drifted off to sleep on your prison-issue pallet of a mattress and are startled awake by high-pitched singsong talking, ten minute intervals of coughing and a cloud of cigarette smoke.
(I smoke. T smokes. But not like this. We don't smoke in the house, I don't give T cigarette 'Dutch Ovens' while he is asleep. Oh, and we don't live in a closet together.)
Sigh.
Anyway, more of that in a moment.
***************************************
This is Sprocket. Sprocket is a Taurus, enjoys being a terrible watch dog, chasing but not catching mice, and howling at odd hours. He dislikes being left alone for long periods of time and a man named Joe. His feelings on long walks on the beach and/or candle-lit dinners has not yet been determined.
Sprocket is also a wolf.
Sprocket is my mom's neighbor's pet. He is quite friendly, as well as huge.
Oh, and did I mention he is a WOLF?? (Does this strike a chord of mild panic and animal rights activism in anyone else, or am I weird?)
Anyway, I can now scratch "Get jumped up on and licked in the face by a wolf" off my list of things to do before I die. Also, wolves are huge. (Did I mention that already? I was raised with mastiffs--Huge in their own right--And I was impressed.)
This neighbor also has a lynx/tabby cat cross aptly named Bigfoot, who I did not have the pleasure of meeting.
*************************************
While we were there, T asked my mother for my hand in marriage. As she is the last living parent I have, and this is probably (God willing) the only time T would see her in person until an actual marriage occurred, it seemed like a good idea. (I'm speculating here. Attempts to get T to guest blog have been thus far thwarted--So I am forced to assume.)
We are not engaged. Please keep this in mind.
My mother, who cannot keep anything to herself for more than 13 seconds (The longest she has gone without speaking while conscious--I know this because we have timed her. Seriously.) took it upon herself to call everyone we both know and inform them that I am engaged, probably getting married this summer, and all sorts of juicy details ranging from the type of flowers I will have to what shoes I will wear.
I didn't know this until the phone calls started today. (People are thrilled, apparently, at my betrothal. I hope they are equally as thrilled when it actually happens.)
When I called my mother to tell her to lay off, she was totally wasted. When I explained my position to her, that I didn't realize that she needed to be sworn to secrecy about everything--Even common sense things like this--she was faced with a dilemma.
She could demur, apologise, and move on.....
Or she could get angry, start name calling and casting blame stones.
She chose that second one.
So now, on top of being engaged, getting married this summer and wearing flats while carrying daisies and/or peonies, I am a whore and a liar whom T is having to settle for.
(And for all parties interested, she did give her blessing. After asking T, "What are you going to do if I say no?" and him responding, "Marry her anyway.")
(See why we aren't going back anytime soon?)
***************************************
In an attempt to lighten the mood, more photos.
First off, the view from our holding area at the local one-gate airport.
Second, through the end, proof that anti-anxiety medication works--I was calm enough to take photos as we flew, rather than tear holes in T's hand and the arm rest of the seat.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Checklist, Referrals and Protection
We are leaving on Sunday to go see my mother.
We are flying. I hate, despise, abhor, detest flying. Terrified of it. (Basically I wanted to give my mental health a round-house-kick to the nuts by FLYING to see my MOTHER.)
Before we leave, there is a laundry list of shit I need to do. T is working up until nearly the moment the flight takes off (Flight leaves 7 hours after his shift at work ends. He obviously wants to destroy his mental health as well.) and considering T normally does all the packing (I am useless. I know.) I have made myself a list of things to do before we go, in an attempt to not wake up the morning of and run schreeching around my house flinging mis-matched socks and the toothbrush I use to clean the grout into a suitcase. (You think I'm kidding. T packs for a reason--I cannot seem to be able to retain a running tally of what I need in the suitcase vs. what is actually in the suitcase. I most often forget things like, oh, pants, underwear or shoes. Seriously. But I will think I have packed accordingly and put the kitchen sponge in there or something.)
This is my list.
-Finish laundry
-Put away/hang up all clothes
-clean top layer of crap off of house
-change sheets
-get books together (My mom wants a shit load of books. She cannot understand why we have to check our bags. She wanted me to bring a coffee pot. I have tried to explain TSA to her, the laws and so on--how things like that are more of a pain in the ass for all parties than it is worth {A coffee pot?}, but she doesn't listen. She hasn't been on an airplane since you stopped being allowed to SMOKE on them, so her views are a little skewed.)
-clean out fridge
-make secondary list of what to pack
-pack all things on secondary list.
This is what I have done towards the list.
2 loads laundry, which is sitting on my couch getting wrinkled. Stripped the bed. Written blog entry.
Poor T.
***********************************
I finally went to my sitemeter thing to see how you kids get here. (other than the obvious reasons, of course.) Here are some of the search-engine referrals, in no particular order.
*Purring Sound
*How to deal with explosions
*How do you know death rattle discomfort
*Twelveteen, a.m. homes
*Rattle fluid lungs
*Sweaty Hockey Pads
*Mullet eating habits
*Humped by a horse
I can only hope this site offered some insight into those pressing matters. I often ponder mullet eating habits myself. (Some of them would make rockin' band names, though.)
***********************************
My computer, being the Vista plagued beast that it is, can be a terrible pain in the ass. Since we purchased it, the Internet only went where it saw fit--some websites it simply would not show. It would load completely but show a blank screen. I ignored this, mostly.
A few days ago, the "Protection" hoo-dad thing updated itself. Suddenly, we could not use the Internet. Nothing would load--I did all the diagnostic shit thinking there was some bug or virus or something and it came up clean. I climbed behind the desk to make sure we were connected and in doing so cut a huge gash on my shoulder from the razor sharp metal corner on one tiny part of the desk, resulting in me crying from pain (something I have not done since childhood, thank you) and making T get out of bed to put a band-aid on me. (again, I'm useless.) Nothing worked. The computer was telling me to contact my network provider, which I knew was crap advice because the laptop in the other room worked fine.
I finally shut off the 'protection' thing (which I have since researched and found to be useless in and of itself) and the Internet is back. All websites work. Instant messenger works.
My computer decided the Internet itself was too big a risk to take. Sigh.
We are flying. I hate, despise, abhor, detest flying. Terrified of it. (Basically I wanted to give my mental health a round-house-kick to the nuts by FLYING to see my MOTHER.)
Before we leave, there is a laundry list of shit I need to do. T is working up until nearly the moment the flight takes off (Flight leaves 7 hours after his shift at work ends. He obviously wants to destroy his mental health as well.) and considering T normally does all the packing (I am useless. I know.) I have made myself a list of things to do before we go, in an attempt to not wake up the morning of and run schreeching around my house flinging mis-matched socks and the toothbrush I use to clean the grout into a suitcase. (You think I'm kidding. T packs for a reason--I cannot seem to be able to retain a running tally of what I need in the suitcase vs. what is actually in the suitcase. I most often forget things like, oh, pants, underwear or shoes. Seriously. But I will think I have packed accordingly and put the kitchen sponge in there or something.)
This is my list.
-Finish laundry
-Put away/hang up all clothes
-clean top layer of crap off of house
-change sheets
-get books together (My mom wants a shit load of books. She cannot understand why we have to check our bags. She wanted me to bring a coffee pot. I have tried to explain TSA to her, the laws and so on--how things like that are more of a pain in the ass for all parties than it is worth {A coffee pot?}, but she doesn't listen. She hasn't been on an airplane since you stopped being allowed to SMOKE on them, so her views are a little skewed.)
-clean out fridge
-make secondary list of what to pack
-pack all things on secondary list.
This is what I have done towards the list.
2 loads laundry, which is sitting on my couch getting wrinkled. Stripped the bed. Written blog entry.
Poor T.
***********************************
I finally went to my sitemeter thing to see how you kids get here. (other than the obvious reasons, of course.) Here are some of the search-engine referrals, in no particular order.
*Purring Sound
*How to deal with explosions
*How do you know death rattle discomfort
*Twelveteen, a.m. homes
*Rattle fluid lungs
*Sweaty Hockey Pads
*Mullet eating habits
*Humped by a horse
I can only hope this site offered some insight into those pressing matters. I often ponder mullet eating habits myself. (Some of them would make rockin' band names, though.)
***********************************
My computer, being the Vista plagued beast that it is, can be a terrible pain in the ass. Since we purchased it, the Internet only went where it saw fit--some websites it simply would not show. It would load completely but show a blank screen. I ignored this, mostly.
A few days ago, the "Protection" hoo-dad thing updated itself. Suddenly, we could not use the Internet. Nothing would load--I did all the diagnostic shit thinking there was some bug or virus or something and it came up clean. I climbed behind the desk to make sure we were connected and in doing so cut a huge gash on my shoulder from the razor sharp metal corner on one tiny part of the desk, resulting in me crying from pain (something I have not done since childhood, thank you) and making T get out of bed to put a band-aid on me. (again, I'm useless.) Nothing worked. The computer was telling me to contact my network provider, which I knew was crap advice because the laptop in the other room worked fine.
I finally shut off the 'protection' thing (which I have since researched and found to be useless in and of itself) and the Internet is back. All websites work. Instant messenger works.
My computer decided the Internet itself was too big a risk to take. Sigh.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Southbound
So we're back from our little road trip to the Metropolis south of here.
It was fun.
The End.
No, no. I mean, yes, it was fun, but of course I have to tell everyone all about it.
We drove down on Saturday, with beautiful weather. When we arrived, it was 81 degrees. (Seriously? Thought something was wrong. Haven't been that warm outside in months, I tell you.)
We checked into our motel, and our room was situated out of the way, in a corner, with it's own little hallway. Slightly excited, we thought that perhaps Priceline was going to redeem itself after the plight that was our hotel experience at T's sister's wedding.....
Then we went inside.
I think they may have been concerned with us leaping to our deaths. Sigh. (It doesn't really matter. It's just the view. Our other options were the parking lot or the airport.)
Anyway, we went over to my cousin's house for a 'Southern Genteel' party, where we drank Hurricanes and I hurled an entire bowl of screaming hot melted chocolate to the floor and shattered it. (We did not have devils food cupcakes for dessert. You're welcome, dieters.)
Also, I swore a lot in front of a reverend (Sigh.), told the Vomiting Grandpa and Adult Boobie Sucker (Welcome, Googlers!) stories, and laughed. It was nice.
The next day we went back to my cousin's, for a rousing morning of crosswords and coffee.
Did I mention that my cousin has 4 cats? And T is allergic?
The cats don't care. T takes a lot of medicine before we go over.
Anyway, we came back through NOT 81 degree weather.....
And everything is fine.
We leave for my mom's on Sunday. God help us all.
(AnnieB--Please don't be mad that I deleted your comment. I try to discourage name calling in the comments--Given names, anyway. {And I know how stupid that is considering I post photos. I just don't want anyone searching for my name and getting this site--it's happened before and was really, really bad.} I should have told you that before hand. I are not smart. Anyway, I'm so glad you likey, and thank you. {You should come up with some weird moniker for me or something. Can you smell the freshness?})
It was fun.
The End.
No, no. I mean, yes, it was fun, but of course I have to tell everyone all about it.
We drove down on Saturday, with beautiful weather. When we arrived, it was 81 degrees. (Seriously? Thought something was wrong. Haven't been that warm outside in months, I tell you.)
We checked into our motel, and our room was situated out of the way, in a corner, with it's own little hallway. Slightly excited, we thought that perhaps Priceline was going to redeem itself after the plight that was our hotel experience at T's sister's wedding.....
Then we went inside.
I think they may have been concerned with us leaping to our deaths. Sigh. (It doesn't really matter. It's just the view. Our other options were the parking lot or the airport.)
Anyway, we went over to my cousin's house for a 'Southern Genteel' party, where we drank Hurricanes and I hurled an entire bowl of screaming hot melted chocolate to the floor and shattered it. (We did not have devils food cupcakes for dessert. You're welcome, dieters.)
Also, I swore a lot in front of a reverend (Sigh.), told the Vomiting Grandpa and Adult Boobie Sucker (Welcome, Googlers!) stories, and laughed. It was nice.
The next day we went back to my cousin's, for a rousing morning of crosswords and coffee.
Did I mention that my cousin has 4 cats? And T is allergic?
The cats don't care. T takes a lot of medicine before we go over.
Anyway, we came back through NOT 81 degree weather.....
And everything is fine.
We leave for my mom's on Sunday. God help us all.
(AnnieB--Please don't be mad that I deleted your comment. I try to discourage name calling in the comments--Given names, anyway. {And I know how stupid that is considering I post photos. I just don't want anyone searching for my name and getting this site--it's happened before and was really, really bad.} I should have told you that before hand. I are not smart. Anyway, I'm so glad you likey, and thank you. {You should come up with some weird moniker for me or something. Can you smell the freshness?})
Friday, April 11, 2008
Come Back When You Can Stay Longer
I was talking with a friend of mine tonight who requested that I post a particular story about my father that she is tertiarially involved in.
Don't say I don't do anything for you, love. :)
Alright.
I have made mention in the past about my fathers abiding love for Rachel Ray. If she told my father to eat goose poop on a dust bunny salad, I would be cooking it for dinner. (Don't ask me where I would find the geese. Dust bunnies I can do.)
Also, please keep in mind that my father grew up during the depression. He was by no means homeless or starving (unlike a good portion of America in that time), but he did learn to eat and appreciate some of the weirdest and/or grossest things on the planet. (Like Tomato Aspic Salad. Fucking GROSS. Or my childhood nemesis, Pea Salad. Green jello, into which you pour chopped raw cabbage and CANNED PEAS. You gel it, then serve it with mayonnaise on top. I still will not eat jello is there is anything in it. ANYTHING.)
So, with my fathers culinary indiscretions in mind, onward.
I am on the phone with my friend at the time--who is a consummate cook herself and was married to a professional chef--while attempting to fix dinner for my father. This was at the beginning of the "What will dad eat?" phase, where I cooked anything and everything, whether or not I found it appealing (Chicken livers, anyone?) in attempt to get dad some caloric intake.
I am muttering to myself about various casseroles, sandwiches....Asking my friend for ideas. From the living room, my father yells:
"Ham Hawaiian, Babe!"
I ignore him, having seen the recipe on the counter already.
"BABE!?? Ham Hawaiian! I left the recipe on the counter! Rachel (they were on a first name basis, apparently) made it yesterday!"
My friend is laughing. Wants to know what Ham Hawaiian is.
Gross, that's what.
You take ham steak. (Not the normal, good, salty and delicious ham steak you are all thinking of. No, the canned, processed, pre-sliced 'ham' steak that comes in a plastic wrapper filled with its own putrescent juices. The sweet, chewy, cloying false ham that was so huge in the state I used to live in.) You then char this....ham....in a pan with a 'glaze' made of mustard, brown sugar, pepper, clove powder, pineapple and grenadine. It has the potential to be good, with some tweaking. Like, oh, on a real fucking ham, perhaps. (I have seen REAL Hawaiian ham recipes. They look delicious. Nothing like this one. Ms.Ray, you dropped the ball here.)
I am muttering to myself about how I don't want to make this. How if I do, I want to tweak the recipe to my own specifications and not make it candied, which is what it is going to be. My friend is laughing her ass off.
My father does not agree.
"BOO! (Yes, that was my nickname. My whole life. He wasn't just trying to startle me into compliance.) (It's the shortened version of another more embarrassing nickname that I will not mention here.) Doesn't it look good? I think it sounds great....will hit the spot!"
I cannot change the recipe. He will know.
I make the damn candied fake ham, but I put more mustard, more pineapple chunks. Some ginger. I hide the recipe so he won't be able to compare.
I serve.
Dad takes one bite. (I am off the phone by now, having reduced my friend to a puddle from her laughing at my candied ham plight.)
He looks at me, eyebrows furrowed.
"You screwed with the recipe, didn't you?"
He doesn't give me time to defend myself.
"Hey, Rachel is a PROFESSIONAL. She gets paid to think up great recipes. Has she ever made something that wasn't good? I doubt it. That's why she's famous! She has her own goddamn TV show, for chrissakes. Don't try to fix it if it isn't broken, babe. I mean, come on."
Sigh.
"Dad, if it doesn't taste good, there's more 'ham'. I can make it again."
"No, babe, it's actually really good. I was worried hers was going to be too sweet."
It's my turn to furrow my eyebrows.
"But you still shouldn't screw with a masterpiece."
**************************************************
Since we are on the topic, I have another one for you.
My father was a recliner man. (Can't blame him there.) His last recliner, which I still own, was an off-white leather la-z-person, positioned so that it made a perfect triangle with the wood stove, the TV, and the ashtray/coaster where his drink was located. We still refer to it as the "Captains Chair".
My designated place in the living room was the couch--one corner specifically. It was as close to the TV/Ashtray/Wood stove as I could get. It was also just out of arms reach of my dad.
Sometimes I would fall asleep on the couch. (What? I can hear all of you gasping in disbelief. Really?) Hey, it happens.
If my father needed something from me while I was sleeping, or, most often, wanted to see if I was asleep, rather than say something, or, oh, look, he would pick up the newspaper and hit me in the head with it.
I'm serious. He wouldn't roll it up or anything, but he would still rap me in the head. Depending on my reaction, he would either laugh at me, apologise, or quickly pretend that he hadn't actually hit me at all.
I hated this.
He would also bang the unfurled newspaper to illustrate a point. I'm not sure what point is illustrated by hitting your youngest daughter in the forehead while she is asleep, but I'm not a parent yet. Maybe this is the sort of thing my mother keeps referring to when she says "You'll understand when you have kids."
Don't say I don't do anything for you, love. :)
Alright.
I have made mention in the past about my fathers abiding love for Rachel Ray. If she told my father to eat goose poop on a dust bunny salad, I would be cooking it for dinner. (Don't ask me where I would find the geese. Dust bunnies I can do.)
Also, please keep in mind that my father grew up during the depression. He was by no means homeless or starving (unlike a good portion of America in that time), but he did learn to eat and appreciate some of the weirdest and/or grossest things on the planet. (Like Tomato Aspic Salad. Fucking GROSS. Or my childhood nemesis, Pea Salad. Green jello, into which you pour chopped raw cabbage and CANNED PEAS. You gel it, then serve it with mayonnaise on top. I still will not eat jello is there is anything in it. ANYTHING.)
So, with my fathers culinary indiscretions in mind, onward.
I am on the phone with my friend at the time--who is a consummate cook herself and was married to a professional chef--while attempting to fix dinner for my father. This was at the beginning of the "What will dad eat?" phase, where I cooked anything and everything, whether or not I found it appealing (Chicken livers, anyone?) in attempt to get dad some caloric intake.
I am muttering to myself about various casseroles, sandwiches....Asking my friend for ideas. From the living room, my father yells:
"Ham Hawaiian, Babe!"
I ignore him, having seen the recipe on the counter already.
"BABE!?? Ham Hawaiian! I left the recipe on the counter! Rachel (they were on a first name basis, apparently) made it yesterday!"
My friend is laughing. Wants to know what Ham Hawaiian is.
Gross, that's what.
You take ham steak. (Not the normal, good, salty and delicious ham steak you are all thinking of. No, the canned, processed, pre-sliced 'ham' steak that comes in a plastic wrapper filled with its own putrescent juices. The sweet, chewy, cloying false ham that was so huge in the state I used to live in.) You then char this....ham....in a pan with a 'glaze' made of mustard, brown sugar, pepper, clove powder, pineapple and grenadine. It has the potential to be good, with some tweaking. Like, oh, on a real fucking ham, perhaps. (I have seen REAL Hawaiian ham recipes. They look delicious. Nothing like this one. Ms.Ray, you dropped the ball here.)
I am muttering to myself about how I don't want to make this. How if I do, I want to tweak the recipe to my own specifications and not make it candied, which is what it is going to be. My friend is laughing her ass off.
My father does not agree.
"BOO! (Yes, that was my nickname. My whole life. He wasn't just trying to startle me into compliance.) (It's the shortened version of another more embarrassing nickname that I will not mention here.) Doesn't it look good? I think it sounds great....will hit the spot!"
I cannot change the recipe. He will know.
I make the damn candied fake ham, but I put more mustard, more pineapple chunks. Some ginger. I hide the recipe so he won't be able to compare.
I serve.
Dad takes one bite. (I am off the phone by now, having reduced my friend to a puddle from her laughing at my candied ham plight.)
He looks at me, eyebrows furrowed.
"You screwed with the recipe, didn't you?"
He doesn't give me time to defend myself.
"Hey, Rachel is a PROFESSIONAL. She gets paid to think up great recipes. Has she ever made something that wasn't good? I doubt it. That's why she's famous! She has her own goddamn TV show, for chrissakes. Don't try to fix it if it isn't broken, babe. I mean, come on."
Sigh.
"Dad, if it doesn't taste good, there's more 'ham'. I can make it again."
"No, babe, it's actually really good. I was worried hers was going to be too sweet."
It's my turn to furrow my eyebrows.
"But you still shouldn't screw with a masterpiece."
**************************************************
Since we are on the topic, I have another one for you.
My father was a recliner man. (Can't blame him there.) His last recliner, which I still own, was an off-white leather la-z-person, positioned so that it made a perfect triangle with the wood stove, the TV, and the ashtray/coaster where his drink was located. We still refer to it as the "Captains Chair".
My designated place in the living room was the couch--one corner specifically. It was as close to the TV/Ashtray/Wood stove as I could get. It was also just out of arms reach of my dad.
Sometimes I would fall asleep on the couch. (What? I can hear all of you gasping in disbelief. Really?) Hey, it happens.
If my father needed something from me while I was sleeping, or, most often, wanted to see if I was asleep, rather than say something, or, oh, look, he would pick up the newspaper and hit me in the head with it.
I'm serious. He wouldn't roll it up or anything, but he would still rap me in the head. Depending on my reaction, he would either laugh at me, apologise, or quickly pretend that he hadn't actually hit me at all.
I hated this.
He would also bang the unfurled newspaper to illustrate a point. I'm not sure what point is illustrated by hitting your youngest daughter in the forehead while she is asleep, but I'm not a parent yet. Maybe this is the sort of thing my mother keeps referring to when she says "You'll understand when you have kids."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Thieving Bastards!
I stole this. Like, totally. From here. (It's ok, because they stole it too.) Also, some seriously funny stuff over there. May have to dig a little for the gems, but if you have time to waste and a weird sense of humor....Go there.
Anyway, read. Stolen. Hilarity. (it was origionally marketed as a real thing, but, sadly, it is fiction. Real questions, real answers, just not from the tourism website officials.)
These were posted on an Australian tourism website and the answers are the actual responses by the website officials, who obviously have a sense of humor.
Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia? I have never seen it rain on TV; how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.
Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.
Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden )
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles; take lots of water.
Q: Are there any ATMs in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville and Hervey Bay ? (UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?
Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia? (USA )
A: Africa is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Australia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not ... oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.
Q: Which direction is North in Australia ? (USA )
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.
Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia ? (UK )
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.
Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Austria is that quaint little country bordering Germany, which is ... oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.
Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? (UK)
A: You are a British politician, right?
Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney, and is milk available all year round? (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.
Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in America, which is where YOU come from. All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.
Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.
Q: Can you tell me the regions in Tasmania where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay night clubs.
Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in Australia? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.
Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first
Anyway, read. Stolen. Hilarity. (it was origionally marketed as a real thing, but, sadly, it is fiction. Real questions, real answers, just not from the tourism website officials.)
These were posted on an Australian tourism website and the answers are the actual responses by the website officials, who obviously have a sense of humor.
Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia? I have never seen it rain on TV; how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.
Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.
Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden )
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles; take lots of water.
Q: Are there any ATMs in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville and Hervey Bay ? (UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?
Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in Australia? (USA )
A: Africa is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe. Australia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not ... oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.
Q: Which direction is North in Australia ? (USA )
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.
Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia ? (UK )
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.
Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Austria is that quaint little country bordering Germany, which is ... oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.
Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? (UK)
A: You are a British politician, right?
Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney, and is milk available all year round? (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers. Milk is illegal.
Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in America, which is where YOU come from. All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.
Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.
Q: Can you tell me the regions in Tasmania where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay night clubs.
Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in Australia? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.
Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first
Photos, Rockband and the Like
So I bought a new digital camera. I hate the color, ("Copper", it tells me. Not so much.) but it's all they had and the price was right. So there.
Anyway, I can now photograph my adventures across this great nation. Considering I don't travel that much, sounds like an easy project.
Alright.
I am camera shy. Like to be behind the camera, mostly. Proof?
T was trying to take a picture of me while I cleaned the bedroom. I hid in the bathroom, as you can see. (And yes, I often use my drawer-pulls as closet space. So there.)
Anyway.
T and I went to the home of the F/A conglomerate last night to play Rock Band--Which is like guitar hero only rather than just playing the guitar, you play bass, drums and sing. (well, you and three friends.) It is a game that causes me emotional duress and hours of fun. (I'm the singer. That should tell you how bad at this game I am.)
Prior to the game, I made F take pictures of T and I, so I can show off the new haircut (Which is not fixed properly in these, but you get the idea).
For instance:
You can see up my nose in this picture.
Anyway, we had fun. I love this photo, so I am sharing it.
F disagrees with....my....skin? Tattoo? Shoes? (I was taking my shoes off. Honest. And my hands look so much like my mom's in this photo that it's creepy. Only my nails are fake and hers are bitten to the quick. Close enough.)
There are a few more embarrassing photos. Lets end on the one that I took of myself, where I am rockin' the "Runaway Bride" eyes and my skin looks feverish. Oh well.
Anyway.....probably more later.
Anyway, I can now photograph my adventures across this great nation. Considering I don't travel that much, sounds like an easy project.
Alright.
I am camera shy. Like to be behind the camera, mostly. Proof?
T was trying to take a picture of me while I cleaned the bedroom. I hid in the bathroom, as you can see. (And yes, I often use my drawer-pulls as closet space. So there.)
Anyway.
T and I went to the home of the F/A conglomerate last night to play Rock Band--Which is like guitar hero only rather than just playing the guitar, you play bass, drums and sing. (well, you and three friends.) It is a game that causes me emotional duress and hours of fun. (I'm the singer. That should tell you how bad at this game I am.)
Prior to the game, I made F take pictures of T and I, so I can show off the new haircut (Which is not fixed properly in these, but you get the idea).
For instance:
You can see up my nose in this picture.
Anyway, we had fun. I love this photo, so I am sharing it.
F disagrees with....my....skin? Tattoo? Shoes? (I was taking my shoes off. Honest. And my hands look so much like my mom's in this photo that it's creepy. Only my nails are fake and hers are bitten to the quick. Close enough.)
There are a few more embarrassing photos. Lets end on the one that I took of myself, where I am rockin' the "Runaway Bride" eyes and my skin looks feverish. Oh well.
Anyway.....probably more later.
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