Being as I like to eat food, and I feed a lot of other people who also like to eat food, I'm always on the lookout for a good opportunity to get me some. So when the chance presented itself to dance on out to a bean field when the harvester had done, off I went.
The dusty little bean plot was dotted with scavengers like Bestie and me, each picking our own little area in which to scrounge for dry pods to shell later, or sifting the little red gems out of the dirt. Well, almost everyone picked their own little area. One individual kept roaming the lot in a random fashion, chatting cheerily with himself, and eventually staking his claim on the row I had already selected as my own. I was a little taken aback, but, like Jeremy Renner, I can fight but I won't unless I have to, so I just moved to another row. And he did it again. So I relocated once more. And then he wandered away, still happily conversing with himself.
Bestie and I decided we were fulla beans, and as we left the field she leaned toward me and whispered, "I have to ask. Is that the Corn Stalker?"
"It was," I said. "But now...it's the Bean Stalker!"
Monday, December 28, 2015
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Armie Hammer Grill
Once upon a summer when a seasonal worker needed to borrow a temporary residence, we lent out our travel trailer. At season's end the trailer came home more furnished than when it left us. I returned the library books Mr. Seasonal had borrowed, tossed the leftover food that remained, kept the audio-cassette player left behind (I'm old enough to still own audio cassettes and I know how to use them), and claimed the brand-new looking George Foreman grill for The Precious.
The Precious is quite the chef with this handy appliance. He grills sandwiches, cooks hash browns, toasts buns and makes hot dogs. He uses his fancy gadget for snacks, breakfasts, snacks, lunches, snacks, dinners, snacks, and midnight...snacks.
There are only two problems with The Precious's use of this sweet little specimen of convenience. He never remembers to put it away, and he never remembers what it's called. So this is what I hear, all day long:
The Precious: "Mama, I'm getting out the Bob Dylan grill."
Pixie: "The Precious, I'm trying to clean up the kitchen. Put away the Patrick Stewart."
Lefty: "Wait, I brought home a panini from work and I want to heat it up in the Jim Parsons."
Treasure: "You mean the Rebel Wilson?"
Angel Doll: "Get the Jeremy Renner out of my way."
Hunneypunkin: "Are you talking about the life-size cardboard cutout, or the grill?"
The Precious is quite the chef with this handy appliance. He grills sandwiches, cooks hash browns, toasts buns and makes hot dogs. He uses his fancy gadget for snacks, breakfasts, snacks, lunches, snacks, dinners, snacks, and midnight...snacks.
There are only two problems with The Precious's use of this sweet little specimen of convenience. He never remembers to put it away, and he never remembers what it's called. So this is what I hear, all day long:
The Precious: "Mama, I'm getting out the Bob Dylan grill."
Pixie: "The Precious, I'm trying to clean up the kitchen. Put away the Patrick Stewart."
Lefty: "Wait, I brought home a panini from work and I want to heat it up in the Jim Parsons."
Treasure: "You mean the Rebel Wilson?"
Angel Doll: "Get the Jeremy Renner out of my way."
Hunneypunkin: "Are you talking about the life-size cardboard cutout, or the grill?"
Monday, December 21, 2015
Holiday Egglessness
Chicken eggs are an allergen unto The Precious and the ducks don't wanna lay in the winter, so I thought I'd get all creative with the holiday baking. I have learned that a half cup of applesauce can take the place of an egg in some recipes.
Turns out, applesauce can also substitute for sugar and shortening/butter/oil. Luckily for me, I still have two hundred and ninety-eight quart jars of home canned applesauce from a couple years ago when our two little apple trees declared their Best Year Ever and I dehydrated apples and froze sliced peeled apples in cinnamon sauce and canned apple juice and apple sauce and apple pie filling and cinnamon apples until I cried and hated apples.
Thus did I come up with evil plan number one: Fill all my holiday platters and bowls with applesauce and call it good. My scheme was vetoed by The Precious because he's just not an applesauce fan. (Hater.)
Evil plan number two: Bake all the holiday goodies with applesauce in place of the eggs, and NOT substitute for sugars and fats. So far it's successful, and I even finally learned how to use that lonely second-hand cookie press from the back of the bottom of the least-used drawer in the house.
The Precious approves of the baking, but has expressed some limitations regarding the substitution of applesauce for eggs.
No bacon and applesauce for breakfast.
No applesauce and hashbrowns.
No over-easy applesauce.
No scrambled applesauce.
No applesauce McMuffins.
No deviled applesauce.
The Precious has declared that even Jeremy Renner would call these sugar cookies and gingerbread cutouts applesaucellent.
Turns out, applesauce can also substitute for sugar and shortening/butter/oil. Luckily for me, I still have two hundred and ninety-eight quart jars of home canned applesauce from a couple years ago when our two little apple trees declared their Best Year Ever and I dehydrated apples and froze sliced peeled apples in cinnamon sauce and canned apple juice and apple sauce and apple pie filling and cinnamon apples until I cried and hated apples.
Thus did I come up with evil plan number one: Fill all my holiday platters and bowls with applesauce and call it good. My scheme was vetoed by The Precious because he's just not an applesauce fan. (Hater.)
Evil plan number two: Bake all the holiday goodies with applesauce in place of the eggs, and NOT substitute for sugars and fats. So far it's successful, and I even finally learned how to use that lonely second-hand cookie press from the back of the bottom of the least-used drawer in the house.
The Precious approves of the baking, but has expressed some limitations regarding the substitution of applesauce for eggs.
No bacon and applesauce for breakfast.
No applesauce and hashbrowns.
No over-easy applesauce.
No scrambled applesauce.
No applesauce McMuffins.
No deviled applesauce.
The Precious has declared that even Jeremy Renner would call these sugar cookies and gingerbread cutouts applesaucellent.
Monday, December 7, 2015
A Real Live Nativity Story
Once upon a long time ago, though I had a happy hoard of holiday decor, my Christmas collection lacked a Nativity scene. You know, the little barn housing a donkey, an ox, and a holy swaddled infant, all topped with a glittery nova.
"You find the Nativity that you want," Nanny told me, "and I'll buy it for you."
For years after that, I searched for the perfect Baby Jesus scene. There were wooden Josephs, carved camels, glass Marys, china angels, tin sheep, and copper Magi. There were yard Nativity scenes large enough to include my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout. There were stuffed fabric Baby Jesuses designed for little children to not be suffered to come unto Him.
Nanny went to heaven before I chose a Nativity set. And then I inherited hers. And it's just the right one.
"You find the Nativity that you want," Nanny told me, "and I'll buy it for you."
For years after that, I searched for the perfect Baby Jesus scene. There were wooden Josephs, carved camels, glass Marys, china angels, tin sheep, and copper Magi. There were yard Nativity scenes large enough to include my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout. There were stuffed fabric Baby Jesuses designed for little children to not be suffered to come unto Him.
Nanny went to heaven before I chose a Nativity set. And then I inherited hers. And it's just the right one.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Bag Licker Vs. Corn Stalker
Once upon a too late evening following a too early morning sandwiching a too long day, I trudged on the verge of dropping dead next to Hunneypunkin while he steered an overloaded grocery cart through a noisy jumbo store, and I said, "This checkout lane is the shortest," and because Hunneypunkin always only takes my advice without question when I choose poorly, we promptly turned in there.
I discovered too late that perhaps the reason there were so few customers in that lane, was because the very nice elder gent working at the register had a horrifying habit of licking his fingers and thumbs to open the plastic bags into which our groceries would go. Wait, did I just see that? Oh, no way, he did it again. And again. Over and over. I was so. Grossed. Out. Did he not understand he was getting his spit all over the food I was buying and the bags in which I would carry it home, when he was licking his mitts and then grabbing the goods? I was too shocked and exhausted to suggest that he stop slobbering on my stuff, but all the way home I could absolutely feel the germs climbing off the shopping bags and up my arm hairs. The second I got into my house, I just crawled into the washing machine with my groceries and some bleach and gave us all a good spin.
So one fine day when an opportunity arose to visit a cornfield where pickers were welcome, I jumped at the chance to bring my family home some healthy, saliva-free sustenance. I found myself a lovely row of stalks far from where other harvesters were picking and began to pull the ears off the stalks and then knock the empty stalks to the ground as was customary in this field. From out of nowhere a random dude appeared to pick immediately beside me. He was yammering quite happily as he harvested his corn, which was lovely except for the fact that he was all alone. He wasn't talking to me, and he wasn't sporting a Bluetooth, he was just...talking. Perhaps he was speaking to the ears of corn? I found a new row in which to pick where I would be out of his way, but he reappeared to continue his harvest immediately beside me. When he knocked me in the head with a cornstalk, I again relocated to an unoccupied row. And he again materialized beside me. At that point I stalked out of the corn before the corn-stalker could bean me with another stalk of corn. Now I know how Jeremy Renner feels. http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/entertainment/news/jeremy-renner-stalker-stole-cat-28767511.html
I don't know what's more horrifying, slaver on my comestibles or a stalker in the corn. My Treasure suggested a poll, so cast your vote in the comments. Which is worse: a bag licker, or a corn stalker?
I discovered too late that perhaps the reason there were so few customers in that lane, was because the very nice elder gent working at the register had a horrifying habit of licking his fingers and thumbs to open the plastic bags into which our groceries would go. Wait, did I just see that? Oh, no way, he did it again. And again. Over and over. I was so. Grossed. Out. Did he not understand he was getting his spit all over the food I was buying and the bags in which I would carry it home, when he was licking his mitts and then grabbing the goods? I was too shocked and exhausted to suggest that he stop slobbering on my stuff, but all the way home I could absolutely feel the germs climbing off the shopping bags and up my arm hairs. The second I got into my house, I just crawled into the washing machine with my groceries and some bleach and gave us all a good spin.
So one fine day when an opportunity arose to visit a cornfield where pickers were welcome, I jumped at the chance to bring my family home some healthy, saliva-free sustenance. I found myself a lovely row of stalks far from where other harvesters were picking and began to pull the ears off the stalks and then knock the empty stalks to the ground as was customary in this field. From out of nowhere a random dude appeared to pick immediately beside me. He was yammering quite happily as he harvested his corn, which was lovely except for the fact that he was all alone. He wasn't talking to me, and he wasn't sporting a Bluetooth, he was just...talking. Perhaps he was speaking to the ears of corn? I found a new row in which to pick where I would be out of his way, but he reappeared to continue his harvest immediately beside me. When he knocked me in the head with a cornstalk, I again relocated to an unoccupied row. And he again materialized beside me. At that point I stalked out of the corn before the corn-stalker could bean me with another stalk of corn. Now I know how Jeremy Renner feels. http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/entertainment/news/jeremy-renner-stalker-stole-cat-28767511.html
I don't know what's more horrifying, slaver on my comestibles or a stalker in the corn. My Treasure suggested a poll, so cast your vote in the comments. Which is worse: a bag licker, or a corn stalker?
Not a Real Thing
You wanna know what bugs me? Why, thank you for asking. You KNOW I hate artificialness. http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/real-thing.html So you'll understand how phrases such as "too much cheese" send me into a paroxysm.
Too much cheese is not a real thing. There's never enough cheese. Cheese cures what ails ya. The king of all foods is cheese. If you can't eat all your cheese, gimme. I'll do it.
Guy and girl best friends is not a real thing. No matter what either of you say, if you're over age twelve and your best friend is an opposite, we all know where your heart went whether your mind meant to or not.
Sharing-size candy packages are not a real thing. I'm going to eat it all. You can't have any. There will be no sharing. Pixie will back me up on this; she knows. Buy your own.
Giving a hundred and ten percent is not a real thing. I'm going to puke on the next person I hear say that. Mathematics, people. You only have one hundred percent. If you're giving one hundred and ten, you just stole from somebody else and now they only have ninety. (Remember that I said this, so that next time I tell you I gave a hundred and ten percent, you can call me out, because I say it all the time.)
The Precious recently coerced me into watching the movie Divergent. I'm looking forward to seeing the sequel, Insurgent. The Precious says they're making a third show, which I'm convinced will be titled "Detergent". But The Precious tells me that's not a real thing. Lefty, however, says if it were, he wouldn't mind having his pants washed in that film.
No, Jeremy Renner was not in Divergent.
Too much cheese is not a real thing. There's never enough cheese. Cheese cures what ails ya. The king of all foods is cheese. If you can't eat all your cheese, gimme. I'll do it.
Guy and girl best friends is not a real thing. No matter what either of you say, if you're over age twelve and your best friend is an opposite, we all know where your heart went whether your mind meant to or not.
Sharing-size candy packages are not a real thing. I'm going to eat it all. You can't have any. There will be no sharing. Pixie will back me up on this; she knows. Buy your own.
Giving a hundred and ten percent is not a real thing. I'm going to puke on the next person I hear say that. Mathematics, people. You only have one hundred percent. If you're giving one hundred and ten, you just stole from somebody else and now they only have ninety. (Remember that I said this, so that next time I tell you I gave a hundred and ten percent, you can call me out, because I say it all the time.)
The Precious recently coerced me into watching the movie Divergent. I'm looking forward to seeing the sequel, Insurgent. The Precious says they're making a third show, which I'm convinced will be titled "Detergent". But The Precious tells me that's not a real thing. Lefty, however, says if it were, he wouldn't mind having his pants washed in that film.
No, Jeremy Renner was not in Divergent.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Blog is About You
Unless you're Jeremy Renner, in which case this blog is, in fact, about you.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Older and Meaner
I was totally rude to a customer service guy on the phone just now and I don't even feel bad. The older I get, the meaner I become, and the happier I am about it. What is happening to me? Back in the late 1900's, I was so nice.
Maybe it's because I've done my time BEING the customer service guy to whom customers are totally rude, so now it's my turn to be wicked.
Perhaps it's a rite of passage of being in my forties. Is forties considered "middle-aged"? I never really understood what "middle-aged" meant. How do you know what middle age is when you don't know how old you'll be when you die?
I spent my twenties feeling as though I needed to prove myself to the world, but the world never seemed interested in my provement. In my thirties I felt the only person to whom I needed to prove myself was myself. Fortunately, it turns out I'm pretty easily impressed, so once I had reached my forties I liked me so much I quit needing to prove anything and my life got so rad.
Being a girl version of Jeremy Renner, however, is no reason to be poopy to customer service guys. I should be ashamed. I'm sorry, Customer Service Guy.
Maybe it's because I've done my time BEING the customer service guy to whom customers are totally rude, so now it's my turn to be wicked.
Perhaps it's a rite of passage of being in my forties. Is forties considered "middle-aged"? I never really understood what "middle-aged" meant. How do you know what middle age is when you don't know how old you'll be when you die?
I spent my twenties feeling as though I needed to prove myself to the world, but the world never seemed interested in my provement. In my thirties I felt the only person to whom I needed to prove myself was myself. Fortunately, it turns out I'm pretty easily impressed, so once I had reached my forties I liked me so much I quit needing to prove anything and my life got so rad.
Being a girl version of Jeremy Renner, however, is no reason to be poopy to customer service guys. I should be ashamed. I'm sorry, Customer Service Guy.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
How We Rock Apple Blossom
Hunneypunkin was in pain and wanted me to fix it, but I suspected there was a gallbladder or appendix problem which is beyond my scope of practice, as is diagnosis, so I did the only thing I could do at a million o'clock: I went to sleep. But when a billion o'clock rolled around, Hunneypunkin developed chills and tremors that shook me awake. (Rude! Also frightening.) So I Googled his symptoms because THAT will alleviate your fears when it's dark outside. I took a shower and told Hunneypunkin I was going to pack him a nice overnight bag and we were going to take a little ride to have some of his internal organs removed. So he stayed in bed till his alarm clock started singing, and then he went to work.
Hunneypunkin came home not long past noon, napped around the house until the walk-in clinic was closed, and decided he should see a doctor after all because it's more fun to pay an emergency room bill. Plus, this is Apple Blossom weekend, so driving into Wenatchee at thirteen yards-per-hour on Friday night is awesome.
The ER peeps were friendly. Hunneypunkin got intravenous fluids and some pink smiley-face tape on his arm. I got some apple juice and a heated blanket because I cease to produce my own blood sugar and body heat when I run on no sleep. Doctor Niceness said Hunneypunkin had an infection of some sort but they would need to run some tests to know anything more.
Next a tiny Nazi woman with a tight little bun (in her hair I mean) entered the room to administer the WASL, MSP, SAT, and ACT.
This is admittedly the first time Hunneypunkin has ever been in public in his jammie pants, which was a little embarrassing at first but I was glad later because those hospital gowns don't want to stay closed in the back. I had to beat several nurses off Hunneypunkin with a stick because in a hospital gown he looks like Jeremy Renner as Hawkeye the Avenger.
Ultimately we were sent home with the assurance that Hunneypunkin is likely to die from something not related to what he is currently experiencing, and probably a long time from now. He's feeling a little slow today, but he's sort of up and around. Which is good, because Saturday is Caramel Mocha Day, and if Hunneypunkin couldn't take me out for coffee, I'd have to go out with Fernando the Pool Guy, and I don't understand Spanish very well.
Next year I'm going to come up with a better idea for Apple Blossom weekend.
Hunneypunkin came home not long past noon, napped around the house until the walk-in clinic was closed, and decided he should see a doctor after all because it's more fun to pay an emergency room bill. Plus, this is Apple Blossom weekend, so driving into Wenatchee at thirteen yards-per-hour on Friday night is awesome.
The ER peeps were friendly. Hunneypunkin got intravenous fluids and some pink smiley-face tape on his arm. I got some apple juice and a heated blanket because I cease to produce my own blood sugar and body heat when I run on no sleep. Doctor Niceness said Hunneypunkin had an infection of some sort but they would need to run some tests to know anything more.
Next a tiny Nazi woman with a tight little bun (in her hair I mean) entered the room to administer the WASL, MSP, SAT, and ACT.
This is admittedly the first time Hunneypunkin has ever been in public in his jammie pants, which was a little embarrassing at first but I was glad later because those hospital gowns don't want to stay closed in the back. I had to beat several nurses off Hunneypunkin with a stick because in a hospital gown he looks like Jeremy Renner as Hawkeye the Avenger.
Ultimately we were sent home with the assurance that Hunneypunkin is likely to die from something not related to what he is currently experiencing, and probably a long time from now. He's feeling a little slow today, but he's sort of up and around. Which is good, because Saturday is Caramel Mocha Day, and if Hunneypunkin couldn't take me out for coffee, I'd have to go out with Fernando the Pool Guy, and I don't understand Spanish very well.
Next year I'm going to come up with a better idea for Apple Blossom weekend.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Parental Discretion Advised
Breasts are in the way.
They have to be worked around to shave under the arms or to see the bathroom scales. I tire of having to turn sideways to reach stuff on the top shelves.
I cook in small kitchens, I work in small offices, I shop in small aisles, and I can't focus all my energy on the tasks at hand because, even though I'm not all that stacked, I still have to make a conscious effort to keep those babies from running into things. Or people.
Hugging can be awkward. If I just wanna give somebody a hug, I just wanna give somebody a hug, so I usually just give somebody a hug. But then I wonder if I should have side-hugged. Or maybe I should just lean forward a bit. Maybe it would be better if I gave more of a loose hug. But really, when you love somebody, don't you just want to get them as close to your heart as you can? So you squeeze!
Am I too concerned about this? Should I be more concerned?
Half the world is trying to avoid touching the chestical area while the other half is trying to cop a feel. Seriously, people, they're just fat blobs in an undergarment. (At least, you hope they're in an undergarment. For the record, mine are in an undergarment.)
I'm not saying I want to be rid of the pair that I sport. I'm simply stating a fact of life. Breasts are just in the way.
For those of you who are looking for a Jeremy Renner reference, he won't be making an appearance in this post. That would be too awkward.
They have to be worked around to shave under the arms or to see the bathroom scales. I tire of having to turn sideways to reach stuff on the top shelves.
I cook in small kitchens, I work in small offices, I shop in small aisles, and I can't focus all my energy on the tasks at hand because, even though I'm not all that stacked, I still have to make a conscious effort to keep those babies from running into things. Or people.
Hugging can be awkward. If I just wanna give somebody a hug, I just wanna give somebody a hug, so I usually just give somebody a hug. But then I wonder if I should have side-hugged. Or maybe I should just lean forward a bit. Maybe it would be better if I gave more of a loose hug. But really, when you love somebody, don't you just want to get them as close to your heart as you can? So you squeeze!
Am I too concerned about this? Should I be more concerned?
Half the world is trying to avoid touching the chestical area while the other half is trying to cop a feel. Seriously, people, they're just fat blobs in an undergarment. (At least, you hope they're in an undergarment. For the record, mine are in an undergarment.)
I'm not saying I want to be rid of the pair that I sport. I'm simply stating a fact of life. Breasts are just in the way.
For those of you who are looking for a Jeremy Renner reference, he won't be making an appearance in this post. That would be too awkward.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Acceptance Speech
I love to hate awards shows. Or maybe I hate to love them. Listening to acceptance speeches gives me an ulcer. They all sound equally awkward whether or not they're rehearsed or pre-planned.
Is it negligent to not write out an acceptance speech if you know you've been nominated? Is it presumptuous to write out an acceptance speech when you don't know you'll win?
I've decided to plan my own acceptance speech now so I'll be ready for the awards I'm certain to win in the future. They may only be World's Crappiest Blog awards, but I believe in being prepared. Here goes:
"I'd like to say I'm humbled to be nominated for this award because all the other nominees are my heroes, but the truth is I know I deserve this award more than they do.
I thank my family, who supported me. As well as my family who didn't.
Thanks to all my fans, you both rock.
[Next I'll extend my gratitude to My Besties and a list of seventeen random names no one will recognize.]
I also thank Fernando the Pool Guy, my good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine, my sisters-in-law Lovesme and Hatesme, Jeremy Renner, and Jake from State Farm for being my inspiration whether they knew it or not.
But first I'd like to thank God, because He owns everything anyway, whether you believe in Him or not. I just couldn't say that first or some atheist would've shut off the mike."
Is it negligent to not write out an acceptance speech if you know you've been nominated? Is it presumptuous to write out an acceptance speech when you don't know you'll win?
I've decided to plan my own acceptance speech now so I'll be ready for the awards I'm certain to win in the future. They may only be World's Crappiest Blog awards, but I believe in being prepared. Here goes:
"I'd like to say I'm humbled to be nominated for this award because all the other nominees are my heroes, but the truth is I know I deserve this award more than they do.
I thank my family, who supported me. As well as my family who didn't.
Thanks to all my fans, you both rock.
[Next I'll extend my gratitude to My Besties and a list of seventeen random names no one will recognize.]
I also thank Fernando the Pool Guy, my good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine, my sisters-in-law Lovesme and Hatesme, Jeremy Renner, and Jake from State Farm for being my inspiration whether they knew it or not.
But first I'd like to thank God, because He owns everything anyway, whether you believe in Him or not. I just couldn't say that first or some atheist would've shut off the mike."
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