Archive for December, 2006
My day started with bloody pee, and that’s all you need to know to give you an understanding of my day. Whose bloody pee, you ask? Not mine, and not Adonymous (TwoBusy wins the Name That Husband contest!) No no. The cat. As if cat piss all over the house wasn’t enough, it had to be bloody cat piss, and man, it’s just… it just wasn’t a great day, but I don’t see how it could have been after that kickoff. I shuffled through the day under an intense air of irritation, and by 7 p.m., was feeling pretty guilty about it, but that didn’t stop me from whipping out the buttered toast fingers and uh, the white zinfandel, which was in the fridge and leftover from Thanksgiving. Shut up, I know it’s not real wine, but at least it was from a bottle, is what I’m saying, although the cork was totally…plastic, maybe? I don’t know. Some sort of fiber not of this earth.
Taking my cat to the vet is not for the weak. There is growling, screaming, wailing and I firmly believe that if cats could talk, mine would be screaming, “I am going to rip
your head off and shit down your neck!” A few years ago, he nailed me right between the eyes with a claw while I was trying to stuff him back into his carrier, and he drew blood – quite a bit of blood, if memory serves, because did you know that heads, for some reason, bleed more? I was expecting a gash of Frankensteinian proportions, but instead was greeted with barely a nick, which didn’t bode well for the retelling of the story. Ranting and raving about the “gallons” of blood that were pouring from your head tends to lose all credibility when all you have to show for it is a paper cut between the eyes.
Long story uh, longer, Snapcat has a ripper of a urinary tract infection – an infection caused entirely by me, as I changed his food to one that has a Ph that doesn’t agree with his delicate little manparts. I might add that I made this culinary change because it was a slightly cheaper brand than the ridiculously expensive gourmet canned food we’d been serving. Given that the cheaper food actually ended up costing us $300 in vet bills, when all was said and done, I’d say that I was a right idiot for even attempting to do such a thing. Why $300, you ask, when the solution was simply a round of Clavamox, which is $35? Because the vicious little darling actually won’t let anyone near him in the vet’s office, and he needs to be anesthetized in order for anyone to properly examine him. Knocking him out, by the way, requires the assistance of two vet techs wearing leather bibs and sporting heavy-duty falconer’s gloves, and last year, he bit two of them, injuring one of them badly enough that she missed work for two weeks. Compare and contrast this reaction with SunDawg, who would gladly let you chop her paws off one by one, panting happily all the way, provided you rub her head and tell her she’s pretty.
When not being growled at or peed on, I have been remarkably focused, which while good for my productivity in office-like situations, as well as matters of the home, it has been intensely boring. I think to some degree this reaction has been somewhat of a coping mechanism, because, well, a lot of shit has gone wrong in our house lately. Nothing life-threatening or too catastrophic, but enough that my brain isn’t really all that interested in working overtime, as it can only lead to an annoyed place. Tonight, for example, I went to the gym, and while it was frustrating because it involved gym-like things like sweating and listening to about 11 teenage boys lift weights and sing rap lyrics to each other, what was really frustrating was that I was unable to think about anything interesting. I wasn’t distracted by anything, I wasn’t daydreaming about anything, and I wasn’t thinking of anything remotely amusing. My mind was simply filled with bland thoughts such as, “I am listening to Carbon Leaf.” “I am on the elliptical trainer.” There wasn’t even an “Ooh! I’m at level 5!” or “Ow, this hurts!” It was simply, “I am at the gym listening to music. I am moving my legs.” I felt like some kind of weird automaton, completely void of anything pretty or interesting and if that’s how productive people live, I would just like to say that I have no desire to be productive. Give me scattered! Give me distracted! Ooh ooh – donuts! I did, however, drive to the eye doctor to pick up my glasses, grab dinner, then entirely forget why I was there, and then get really excited when Adonymous reminded me, because ooh! New glasses AND dinner! Exciting! …which meant that I was at least starting to resemble my usual goldfish self, so there’s hope yet.
Aaand, our TiVo just died, and given that the part for my disemboweled laptop hasn’t even shipped, my irritation is growing by the minute, no matter how much white zin I hoist into my gullet. Which means: enough. As Adonymous put it, it’s just time for me to stop sighing heavily, throw in the towel and start another day. It is going to be Friday, after all.
Have a great weekend.
*Ani DiFranco
December 7th, 2006
Lately, I’ve had this primal urge to cook again, despite alarming evidence telling me that I shouldn’t. Honestly, I just don’t want to be one of those parents who has to go out to eat all the time, and, perhaps more practically, I think of those long days of dealing with an infant/newborn/toddler where going out to eat just isn’t an option because of the wiggling or screaming or whatever. And I’d like to eat then, thanks. (Do you see how Jimmy can totally have asthma here? Do you see the thinking? Surely you must. Here’s the panicked logic: I must learn to cook gourmet meals, because when I have a baby, I will never be allowed to leave the house, ever, because Jimmy has asthma, which makes him scream a lot when we leave the house, which means that if I don’t learn to cook, WE WILL STARVE. As per usual, I am assuming that I will be a single mother, also living a cardboard box that may or may not have a stove.)
Anyway, having not sufficiently learned my lesson before, what with the flaming pot roast, chicken that tastes like excrement, melting electronics, etc., I thought I’d try one of my mom’s recipes tonight – Szechwan chicken, a modified Joyce Chen recipe – and I’m a little proud to say that it didn’t turn out that bad. Well, my husband hated it, but he fully admitted that it had more to do with the fact that the recipe included ginger and sesame oil, both of which he claims to hate, even though we’ve eaten both extensively without his knowledge, but when he knows they’re there, OH MY GOD, the tragedy and woe. He’s like a child like that. If he knows it’s in there, he hates it. If it’s sneakily added, like spinach in spaghetti sauce? He’s blissfully clueless, and he chows down without a care in the world.
Sadly, our culinary tastes are night and, well, day I guess, if I might say something so completely trite, which means that if I want to cook something, it must be simple and in my opinion, flavorless. Ask him, and he’ll tell you he prefers “tasteful, unembellished meals,” whereas I like them “busy and gaudy.” You know, with beads and sequins. Sigh.
(Incidentally, Hubs doesn’t really love his name being used here, so uh, should we call him Abe? Bob? Weehawken? Work with me.)
The recipe required that I fry some hot dried peppers in oil first, which went fine, for the most part, and I managed to avoid a grease fire from smoking oil. What I did not avoid, however, was one of the hot peppers exploding, which had a very interesting effect, and by “interesting,” I mean, I basically pepper sprayed the entire downstairs. The explosion was like a shot of fire to the lungs, and there was no escape anywhere, God, it was like a fog of pepper. I had to go outside to breathe, thinking it was a one-time shot and would be clear in an instant, but in fact, no, I was wrong. It was everywhere. I started coughing. The cat started coughing. The dog started gagging.
I finished the meal from behind the collar of my shirt, my nose running all over the place, and when Abe/Bob/Whoever came downstairs, it was much of the same. He started gagging and coughing and, well, we miserably coughed our way through dinner and now can’t go downstairs, because it hurts down there, because – oh yes – there is still a cloud of pepper, and I’m quite certain my lungs are bleeding. On the upside, I have virtually zero chest congestion anymore, having horked it all up in a fit of pepper-induced mucal expulsion. But really, it tasted fine! Sort of. I mean, good enough that I’m having it for lunch tomorrow, too, although admittedly, I’m not a picky eater.
By the way, one recent success was TwoBusy’s broccoli ale soup-type thing, and dude, it’s fantastic, and I highly recommend it. Bear in mind, however, that apparently I like my meals gaudy and embellished with lace, rhinestones and maybe wearing garter belts. (Personal note to Teeb: I did not make and freeze any, as I fell ill, and thus, have no update on its freezability. Maybe this weekend.)
This cooking venture also means I am back in the habit of reading cookbooks in bed, which is completely illogical, but also makes me immeasurably happy, even if it means I’m going to bed starving and dreaming of cupcakes. Which, speaking of cupcakes, if I don’t have one soon, it’s possible I might die. To prevent certain death by cupcake deprivation, I’m making a batch this weekend from a recipe I found in (cringe) a People Magazine special report out of a Desperate Housewives cookbook. And quite honestly, the only reason I’m attempting such a daring act vs. making them from a bloody BOX, is that they are called fudge cupcakes (mmmm….FUDGE) and include a recipe for frosting that is made solely with…wait for it…heavy cream and caramel. And uh, that’s it. HEAVY CREAM AND CARAMEL. Come over, I’ll serve you cupcakes. That is, assuming that I don’t ruin them, which is highly probable. But still. Cream. Caramel. CREAM. Honestly, cream is by far my favorite food item in the universe. I like bisques, butters, tea and coffee with cream, whipped cream, whipped cream frosting, mashed potatoes with cream, ice cream, creamed corn, cream with a spoon, cream in a milkshake, I will take cream however I can get it. Just don’t tell me it’s thick, because it will be completely ruined.
In other culinary news, am I the only one who is upset by the mere sight of the Wendy’s Jalapeno Cheddar Double Melt thing? Two beef patties, jalapeno jack cheese, a layer of jalapenos and Cheez Whiz between them. Oh oh, and bacon. Of course bacon. I just don’t think that a digestive system can tolerate that level of…stimulation. I honestly don’t, and I have a sinking feeling that ERs across the country are handing out Kaopectate like candy, because that is just too unnaturally…stimulating…for normal people.
Also! Also! A cautionary tale, lest you be as dumb as I am. A while back, Leah and Simon posted about honey martinis, which sound like heaven to me, given that I love honey and-martinis and what better way to combine two great loves? Her recipe, however, calls for some obscure honey mead liqueur-type thing that can, it seems, be obtained only in a specific region of Germany. Being very far from Germany and also, creative, I thought that maybe I could make my own honey martini using diluted honey and vodka. I am here to tell you that you cannot, for honey does not chill well, and in fact, globs all over the place and actually gets quite gross and snot-like, leaving you with nothing more than snotty, chunky vodka. And though that seems like a big, fat obnoxious NO SHIT, it seems that my job in life is to try the obviously impossible and prove that indeed, it is obviously impossible. And also, perhaps I make people feel better by being just that dumb. I help in any way I can.
And finally, today in a professional context, I referred to myself as a “frequent eater-outer,” as in, I go out to eat a lot. It was only later, as in five minutes ago, that I realized how completely inappropriate and foul that statement actually is, and quite honestly, I’d like to die. Eater outer. God.
*Belly.
December 6th, 2006
There is a long, painful list of words I don’t like. Some of them are on the absolute, do not say ever or I will rip your ears off list, and others are just meh, marginally irritating. Thick, for example, is a word I strongly dislike, unless it’s used in very specific circumstances, perhaps by describing a deliciously thick, luxurious mattress for me to lay my tired head upon. Other than that, thick just conjures…well, it brings to mind some dirty images, and not even in a good-dirty way, just in a dirty-dirty way that makes me very unhappy. I don’t even like it to be used in the description of hair, as in, “Cindy Crawford probably has thick, lovely hair!” Because when I hear ‘thick’ in conjunction with ‘hair,’ I instantly think of a thick, lovely mustache, which is more upsetting than I can really convey. So, you know, down with ‘thick,’ particularly when used with ‘hair’ and especially, my God, when used with ‘creamy.’
Socks, on the other hand, might just be the greatest of words, for it’s extraordinarily evocative of warmth, coziness and happiness, even if I can’t wear them to sleep in, and even if I haven’t worn them in about 10 months, because dude, if I haven’t mentioned it before, it’s still hot and humid, which is oh so…holiday festive. But anyway, I dare you to say the word out loud and not feel happy. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Socks.
Today’s word of irritation is ‘authentic,’ and it seems like it’s making a comeback, although it’s been around for a long time in the ‘keeping it real’ context, and I’ve just ignored it, I suppose, because I actually didn’t think anyone could use it in a serious manner (I am certain I would start laughing). The first time it ever really seeped into my consciousness was during the first season (for me, anyway) of Starting Over (shut up), where a contestant/participant/whatever’s main goal was to become ‘more authentic.’ Honestly, authentic screams Franklin Mint to me, as in, that limited edition coin set emblazoned with Shirley Temple is totally authentic and not a knock off, even though one would have to be beyond batshit insane to create a counterfeit Shirley Temple coin set. Further, I can’t help but get the impression that by using the word in that context, one is being…well, not all that authentic, because it screams ‘PRETENTIOUS’ to me. And nothing gets under my skin more than any kind of pretense, really. I’m not good at it, I’m not good at dealing with and in fact, when I see it, I have an overwhelming urge to pick at it like a scab and rip it off until the, uh, authenticity is exposed. Or whatever. You know.
I promise I’m not thinking of any specific situation or person when I bust out with this, and if you’ve used the word in this context, I completely forgive you, and it’s unlikely that I even noticed. Because at the end of the day, I’m honestly not that observant. However, I am super-observant of fake people of any kind and I can’t say I’m a fan, although I don’t know anyone who is, so that might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, but really? How hard is it to just…be real? And uh, if you’re still seeking authenticity and are fake because you’re not sure who you are, then maybe you could be real about that, too, and just say, “Hey dude, I’m going through this really weird period of self-discovery and man, it’s hard! Hoo boy!” Just don’t call it authenticity, or I will beat you over the head with a carton of Madame Alexander dolls with certificates of authenticity, and I mean that from the bottom of my cold, cold heart.
I have no idea where I’m really going with this, it was just irking me the whole damn day after someone used it this morning (No one you know. Relax.), along with a frillion other things, not the least of which is that my laptop is sitting in what Adam calls “the ICU,” for it is just sitting there on our office desk….disemboweled (sob!). Looking at it makes me want to throw myself in a fit of tears over its sad, empty parts spread all over the desk. He claims – no, he promises – that he knows what he’s doing and yet I am completely panicked, for I *love* that laptop, and if I have to spend the next year hard boiling my ovaries, I am not going to be pleased. No, not pleased at all.
Separately, since I’ve been sick, I’ve been drinking an inordinate amount of tea. As in, I’ve honestly had somewhere in the range of 10-15 cups of tea a day, and I’m not exaggerating. Thus far, Pomegranate Pizzazz is my favorite, followed by black vanilla, but the point here isn’t the tea, it’s the fact that ever since I’ve been drinking tea, I’ve been putting honey in my tea, and it wasn’t until today that I realized (oh my God) that I’ve eaten/drank more than 3 pounds of honey in the last five days. Three and a half pounds of honey, to be very specific, and if you break down the calorie content, well, it’s not good at all, is what I’m saying, and I’m not even the calorie-counting type. It may be natural, but holy God, it’s heavy.
Coherence is overrated.
* Jesus and Mary Chain.
December 4th, 2006
I am not a fan of Christmas. I hate to be so obnoxiously grumpy and…cliché, but God, I hate that there is an entire month where I can’t leave the house without wanting to scoop someone’s eyes out with grapefruit spoons. As I’m sure throngs before me have noted, Christmas is like Disney in that it’s supposed to be this grand magical childhood experience where memories are made, and yet the only kind of memories I see unfolding before me are those of whining children being screamed at by their worn-out parents. I just want to wipe the holiday from the calendar and make Christmas some sort of flexible event for families to celebrate at their leisure, because this kind of month-long pressure just isn’t fair for anyone, least of all the CHILDREN, for the love of God. There is also no reason why I should have to circle the Target parking lot for 45 minutes for a quick run for sundries, which, if I’m honest, is where the current of rage began its holiday course.
I think the aggravation is partially spurred on by the leftovers from Thanksgiving, which consist of the cold we’ve been quietly suffering that has been recently brought to a raging boiler of a head (which might be the grossest thing I’ve ever said, and I’m so sorry). It seems that we were fooled into some sort of complacent lull of health before being overtaken by the germs within, and it’s like Dawn of the Snortling Dead over here. I finally washed our sheets, and was able to enjoy two whole nights with them before being banished, once again, to the relative comfort of our well-appointed guest suite, where I will snorf my way through at least one more night in diagonal-sleeping solitude. This banishment, by the way, is of my own choosing, lest you think I’m married to a cruel, mean man who refuses to move himself. If I leave the room instead of him, it confuses the pets, which means they sleep past 7 a.m., since they can’t smell me and oddly, they can’t figure out where the hell I am. Therefore, they cannot wake me, and instead just roll over and sleep for a few more hours.
It’s sort of sad, sleeping away from Adam, but in a way, it’s really exciting, because do you know how nice it is to be able to stretch out and use the entire bed without a single restriction? The few times we’ve had to do this, I’ve been amazed at the sheer joy of laying out each limb from end to end without having to worry about flailing my arm into someone else’s face. And this is in a king-size bed. I cannot imagine, nor can I even remember, how it was when we slept on a queen or worse, the Summer of the Full-Size Bed, so help us God. There are cuddlers, I suppose. People who love nothing more than to sling a romantic arm around their spouse in a sleepy gesture of love and affection, and to those people I say: you’re crazy. I need freedom when I sleep: freedom to move, freedom to breathe, freedom from someone else’s sweat and morning breath. I do not like to be touched, and the very idea of spooning gives me an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia that is only matched by wearing socks to bed. In keeping with the theme of somnolent freedom, I cannot tolerate anything restricting my feet, and that includes covers of any kind, because the feet, they need to ride like the wind or I cannot sleep. This is perhaps because as soon as I fall asleep, my body goes into Furnace Mode, and I spew forth unnatural amounts of heat in my slumber, and more often than not, wake up as sweaty as if I’d just run the Boston Marathon. Hot sleeping, by the way, is also why I am perplexed and awed by those who are night showerers, because for me, that would be like showering before you go to the gym, then heading to work, fresh as a mildewed towel.
I would have perhaps written something with some sort of purpose and/or coherence, except that my own laptop monitor died a horrible death, complete with melty-screen and big black LCD holes of death. This makes me immeasurably sad, although it is tinged with relief, for it means there is no heavy-duty working of any kind happening at home until it is fixed, and I am forced to sit back, relax and – because I am sick as a dog – do nothing, for large, wondrous stretches of time. This time, by the way, included watching Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, and if you haven’t seen it, it was utterly delightful. Until it’s fixed, I am getting by on a spare Dell Inspiron that runs at a temperature hot enough to turn my ovaries into little omelettes, and is likely reducing my child-bearing years by months with every passing moment, which means those moments will be brief.
Incidentally, and apropos of nothing, Adam recently discovered that Tootsie Rolls are chocolate flavored. Although he is an avid supporter and eater of Tootsie products, he vehemently argued with me when I referred to them as a “chocolate candy.” When asked what flavor he thought they were, he simply replied – with a hilarious air of utter indignance – “TOOTSIE. They are TOOTSIE-FLAVORED. DUH.”
Duh.
*Counting Crows.
December 3rd, 2006
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