Giving in to the Temptation of Mediocrity

definition

~ mediocre ~

of no exceptional quality or ability

conventional, insignificant, mainstream, ordinary, pedestrian, uninspired, vanilla

New Year - New Blog - New Age

Back in the way back - I had a blog on Vox. And it was fun. Vox had an entertaining community vibe going on and many of the bloggers were creative and smart and hilarious!

Then somewhere in the middle of 2010 Vox decided to close up shop. The inhabitants of Vox lost their virtual town and without much fanfare the fun was over.

I exported my blog here and decided that the old blog needed to be cleaned up a bit but never felt inspired or obligated enough to jump on the project. If I don't start now I never will.

How Honesty and Karma work...

Leave it to honesty and karma meeting in a dark alley and plotting a way to kick me in my girl balls.

My last Vox entry concerned dreams I have been having about my mother. It took me a long time to be able to put those words together, say them out loud and wait for the fall out. Oddly enough, no one called me a horrible person for not being able to control my dreams - no one commented at all through Vox. Which in a way was a relief because I already feel bad enough.

Tuesday morning I got a call from my mother's good friend, Inez. Inez has a very thick accent but I had no problem understanding that she was following an ambulance to the hospital, my mother had a stroke sometime during the night and was being transported.
I don't remember the exact conversation but I understood that Mom was talking, her speech was slurred, and that no one could tell how long she had been half on the bed and half off. She couldn't get to the phone - it was my sister in Tennessee that alerted Inez when Mom didn't answer either of her phones.

I had talked to mom the day before for about 2 hours. She was telling me that she felt really good. REALLY GOOD! That the week before she had not felt as good, she lost a little weight because she was nauseated and wasn't eating much and that she was having a lot of gas and under the rib pain. We talked about gall bladder stuff and how when I have problems with the gall bladder I burp with almost every breath. We talked about herbs for the liver and gall bladder and a bunch of other stuff - it was a fine conversation. She sounded really upbeat. I finally had to tell her that I had to get off the phone because I wanted to cut up a fresh pineapple and I needed both hands.

I can't remember if I brushed my teeth this morning. The phone has been ringing so much. The phone woke me up this morning and I have been walking around the house in a sweater I slept in and underwear. My legs are cold. Seems like every time I think, "I should put on some pants" or "I should hop in the shower", the phone rings or I get an email I should answer.

My mom is paralyzed on the left side. She was on a feeding tube - now she isn't. She passed the swallow test and she wants some real food. She sat in a chair for awhile yesterday. She answered the hospital room phone all by herself when I called today. She is going to need acute therapy for a long time. She told the therapist that there was nothing "cute" about it. She also told an orderly to "cover her assets" when she realized her butt was mooning the world. She is cracking wise and ready to "blow this joint". But she can't. She can't walk. We don't know if she ever will. She wants to go home. We don't know when or if at all.

I feel horrible. I live in British Columbia and she lives in Arkansas. My girl balls hurt and I need to brush my teeth.

I dream of My Mother

This entry isn't about any particular dream about my mother - just most of them.
First of all, I want to make it clear that I have no desire to hurt my mother. I have put up with her my entire life and I love her. When I hear a voice in my head telling me I can't achieve or succeed - it is always her voice I hear. Her constant ridicule of myself (and others) shaped me into the criticizing, sarcastic, glass half empty kind of person that I am trying not to be today, and yet I still love her and try to do right by her. So when I recall these dreams, please remember they are just dreams of frustration and possibly enlightenment. But I love her...

Since the death of my father, most dreams of my mother consist of her talking nonstop and me hitting her square in the face or strangling her while screaming, "JUST SHUT UP!"

In some of these dreams, my anger comes out of no where. In others, my mother is badgering me about something and I just go nuts on her.

The first time I had one of these dreams - probably about 3 years ago - I was so ashamed. I hated myself for the day. I wanted to talk about it but who are you going to tell that you dream about pounding your fist against the side of your elderly mother's head? I mean, seriously? There were a few times during the day that I would approach my husband then when I thought about saying the words out loud I just couldn't even speak them. I couldn't even write it in my journal - a place for your dreams. Was I going to tell my mom?
"Hey, Mom...how's it going?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Oh, same as usual. I had the weirdest dream last night. You were talking about something and I kept going 'shh! shh!' and you wouldn't shut up so I just hauled off and smacked you one...when that didn't work I shook you until your head lolled back and forth..."
It's not much easier to blog about, for that matter.

I have had these dreams many times. Enough times to know that this a reoccurring theme. I had one a few days ago and I am still unsettled by it. They haunt me for days.
I don't know how many I had before I finally broke down and told the husband. I was hoping that maybe by recalling it out loud something would go PING and I would put together why I was so violent in my dreams. He sort of made the "ooooh!" sound and face when I told him - and nothing went PING.

Tonight I was talking to my oldest sister. We were comparing notes about our childhoods. There is a massive age gap between us and we have never been close. The last time I talked to her was when my dad died. She told me a few things tonight that I didn't know, some things that I suspected and other things that sort of filled in some gaps about my dad, mom and family. We both decided that after all these years of thinking our dad was the stingy one - we were wrong. And we laughed about it.

Somehow we started talking about dreams and she said that she had a dream about dad awhile back and that he was stooped over a sewing machine sewing her a pair of bell bottoms. She thought this was funny because she never wore bell bottoms - even when they were popular. She said he was singing while he sewed. He did know how to sew - so there was nothing mysterious about that part. She said she walked out of the room into another and I was there. She said to me something about Dad being in the other room sewing and singing - but that he was dead. And I said that I knew this.

I told her that I had had some similar dreams - that I always seem to know he is dead in my dreams - then I just blurted out, "I dream about mom sometimes and...ugh, I hate to say it out loud...I always end up hitting or shaking her."
I think I was hoping she would say, "WOW! Me too!"
She didn't. She said she never dreamed about mom.

I have a few ideas why these dreams started after my dad died. I think it is mostly because without my father's presence I can see who my mother really is. The mean, the thoughtless and the petty...the true colors. Maybe I am angry for all the years I fell for my mother's vilifying of my father and how she tried every way possible to destroy any relationship he could have had with his children. Her jealousy was not going to allow us to know him as anything more than the monster she married and stayed with because of us. She did not want us to like him. Which was odd, because when it came down to it - she didn't really want us in the first place. She made that clear on several occasions and her early indoctrination against having children is a voice that has played heavy in my head over the years. Now, I am sort of long in the tooth to be planning a family...
Maybe my subconscious just can't hold it all in anymore.

...Like something from the X-files

I can't even flower this up. It's weird and it has me creeped out.

Over the summer the husband and I went to Kelowna and stayed at a big hotel. Not wanting to spend every waking hour eating or drinking or gambling in the casino, I decided to get my first ever spa facial. When I say first ever SPA facial, what I mean is my first ever professionally applied facial. Sure, I have been using mud masks and scrubs and toners and the like since I was in my teens - I have just never surrendered myself to a complete stranger to do to my face what I have done successfully for years. I don't really like stuff like this, mainly because I think the whole idea that we need to be pampered (a word I HATE) by being treated like royalty or that applying seaweed paste from my neck to the crack of my ass some how equals indulgence...ugh, it is just stupid. Anyway, I was going to see if it really was stupid or if it was as beneficial as the likes of Oprah and most makeover shows proclaim. I decided while I was there I would get my eyebrows shaped for the first time ever too. I was really stepping out of my comfort zone on this one.

So, I had seaweed goop on my back and a series of about 12 different cleaners, toners, masks and fudge-knows-what applied to my face over a 45 minute time period. When I left my face felt like sealskin looks.

About 2 days later my skin began to revolt. I had a series of small bumps come and go and one particularly large lump just between my right cheekbone and upper lip that seemed to be the queen zit.

Since having this professional treatment I have been fighting with this one stubborn pimple/cyst/thing. Note I said I had this treatment in the SUMMER. My skin was fine before all the ex-foliating and deep pore cleansing. My skin is one of the least troublesome of my features. Whatever was done was the equivalent pulling out a Ouija board during a nice, but boring, slumber party. A demon was unleashed that day.

So, this thing started as a hard knot under the skin then (after some prodding on my part) relieved itself of some weird white thick stuff, then turned into what looked like a flat cigarette burn then healed up and just when I thought it was over - it would start up all over again.

I rubbed onion on it (really good if you have a break out by the way), pimple lotions, manuka honey, peroxide, alcohol, hot compresses...just about everything. A friend's wife suggested Cetephil wash (great stuff, by the way and I recommend it to anyone with eczema). The skin around it would heal quickly, but there was something beneath the skin that was keeping this thing...alive.

Over Christmas I made the decision to leave it alone, let the skin heal over and then go to the doctor. This was not a regular old pimple and I was waving the flag of surrender. The spa-induced growth had won. I covered it in polysporin and a bandage...even wearing the bandage in public so as not to get germs and swine flu on it. I refrained from poking it - even though it was itching something fierce and burning deep into my cheek. It was feeling harder - like something was deep under the skin. Tingling and itching and burning and.

So, I left it alone...

Four nights ago I lost my mind and went at it with a sewing needle and a pair of eyebrow tweezers. After several attempts to grab a hard white thing the half size of a pinhead that was slightly visible just below the surface, I finally grasped it and slowly and gently pulled. What happened after that I should have documented on film because it was like something out of the X-files.

I slowly pulled and wiggled what looked like a grain of rice out of my face. It was giving resistance for it was bigger than the hole I was pulling it through. When I finally got to the end, where it was attached, I didn't know what to do. This thing was anchored in and not budging. Should I yank real hard? Leave it sticking out of my face and go to the emergency room? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?

I wiggled it gently until it came loose. Now I had a noticeable hole in my face. I immediately dripped some peroxide in the hole. It fizzed minimally, to my surprise.

I clenched the alien object in the tweezers and looked at it then the hole in my face, then at the object, then at the hole...then I yelled down the stairs, "Hey, would you come here and look at what I just pulled out of my face?"

So there it was. A rock hard alien object about the size of a small grain of rice but shaped more like a sesame seed.

"What do you think that is?"

"Uhhhh, wow, I have no idea."

"Looks like rice, or a sesame seed or the egg sac from some kind of bug."

Silence.

"Ok, I'm going to give the hole one good push to see if anything is in there...if worms or bugs or an alien head pops out be sure to catch me because I am sure as shit going to faint."

"Ewwwhhhhw!"

2009 turns into 2010

I don't really like going out for New Years. I don't mind a house party if there is an invite - but in general I have become intolerant of drunks and screaming girls. For some reason New Years Eve is a celebratory event for lightweight drinkers and girls who run in giggling, shrieking packs. BLAH!

I thought we should try to do SOMETHING for New Years - so we decided to see a movie then find some food. We got to the Scotia Bank Theatre in plenty of time - but everyone else got there earlier so we were forced to sit on the second row from the screen. I lasted about 30 minutes into Sherlock Holmes before my stomach started to churn. It's probably a good thing that I forgot my glasses. I'm not sure if a sharper image would have kept me from wanting to projectile vomit onto the screen. I was close enough to hit it without much effort. Luckily, after that explanation to the box office attendant, we were able to get our money refunded.

We went next door to Pacifico Pizza - and after a tall glass of Sprite I was up for some good pizza. And it was Great pizza!

The buses were running for free last night, and if I had known that sooner I would have arranged to just ride the bus all over Vancouver until midnight (perhaps stopping at a few bars along the way or carrying a flask just to add to the festivity of the evening). Well, there is always next year.

We stopped at Earl's for some drinks and made it home way before midnight.

Nothing epic, but at least we got out of the house.

I dream of Camera Mart

It was about time I had my re-occurring Camera Mart dream.
Back Story: I worked at Camera Mart for 5 or 6 years in the late 80's and early 90's. I loved it at first then grew to hate it. I still dream about working there after all this time. I have never dreamed about the place and not known in the dream that I didn't really work there anymore or that I have been away for many years and I am just coming back for a quick visit. I always have a sense of "this is not real, but let's see where it goes."

The Dream
As usual, I am wandering around the store trying to find something to do. I see Mike (who in real life has been deceased for about 3 years or more). We talk but I can't remember what about. I wish I could. Talking to dead people in my dreams seems like it could be important.
He looks really thin, and I make a mental note of this. He is dressed in his usual pocket front t-shirt, 70's style basketball shorts (the really short and tight ones with the piping) and sneakers. Usually the dreams look very blue shadowed, this time it was just sort of murky and lowly saturated.
The dream was pretty boring, other than there seemed to be a problem with some new workers...and even though the other people in the store were really bothered by this, I didn't seem to care. This pissed off the people who were complaining about the new workers. I also noticed there weren't any cameras or film processing equipment in the store, so I have no idea what everyone was doing there.
At one point Nancy (the other owner) told me to go outside and clean up the parking lot. Sure, Nance! Anything to get the hell out of that store.

Gross Vampire/Zombie Stuff

 

Volunteer Vampire Hunter T-Shirt by VeryScaryCarnival
Get a shirt at zazzle

 

 

Zombie Party Invitation Postcard by VeryScaryCarnival
Design picture postcards on www.Zazzle.com

 

 

 

 They are a bloody mess.

Carrot Cake Cupcakes and New Kitchen things.

Carrot Cake Cupcakes Recipe | Simply Recipes

http://elise.com/recipes/archives/007...

I find that you can tell a lot about someone based on the type of carrot cake they make. I find that those who enjoy pineapple and coconut in their carrot cake are a bit more flamboyant and unpredictable than the average baker and, likely, have a tiki shirt in their closet. Those who prefer heavy amount of cloves and raisins are traditionalists; they have a penchant for nostalgia and reminiscing over their fragrant and fruity carrot cakes that encapsulate their childhood. Others prefer orange juice - modernizing the classics and stirring up cocktails to pair with them.

I am always looking for great carrot cake. I found a recipe a few weeks ago for Brazilian Carrot cake. Oddly enough it didn't have a bit of visible icing on it...
The cake was good, and from what I read in the comments, very authentic. Thing was, there wasn't much in it but a bunch of carrots and a bunch of oil. I ended up adding vanilla and spices to it because it just read so blandly. I got the best ever banana bread recipe from this Simply Recipes site - seriously the best ever banana bread. So my next adventure in baking may very well be this cup cake. AND it came just in time because I recently bought myself a muffin tin at Ikea to replace the one lost in the move.

Speaking of replacing things lost in the move...
As my good friends know - I lost my most favorite lasagna pan in that move. (Yeah, Ellen, I am STILL talking about that freakin' pan). Well, we live across the street and over from an IGA store. The one thing I like about this IGA - besides being so close that I can walk to it and back whenever I feel like it - is that they sometimes do these stamp collecting offers. You buy 10 bucks worth of groceries, you get a stamp. Get enough stamps and you get the item of your choice. Since the husband can blow 10 bucks on peanuts and Dr. Pepper and newspapers, this deal is great!
I have replaced my beloved lasagna pan with a Wedgewood covered pan. Oh, sure, I still think about my Corningware with fond memories - even reminiscing about the day I found it at a garage sale for TWO DOLLARS(!!!) but now I have a new one that is far more versatile. I like that lid.
My Christmas Lasagna was great - even with the setbacks.

Christmas Lasagna

On top of that I have aquired a round casserole dish with lid and a small stockpot (which I really needed and I absolutly LOVE). My latest "freebie" is a Wedgewood Nonstick Springform pan. AND I AM SO EXCITED!!!
I have wanted a springform pan for quite some time for that cheesecake I keep telling myself I am going to make....

 

Homemade Bacon Vodka

While in Seattle awhile back I had a Bloody Mary that was made with Bacon infused Vodka. Yes, it was AWESOME - and I rarely use that term to describe anything. The awsomeness might have less to do with the bacon and more about being Bloody Mary deprived in Vancouver. If you ask for a Bloody Mary in Vancouver they bring you this thing really called a Caesar...which is Clamato Juice and Vodka and a celery garnish instead of a Tomato Juice and Vodka with celery garnish.

Bacon Bloody Mary, bitches!

Anyhoo, I am big on throwing things in Vodka and seeing what happens. I have a 1/4 bottle of homemade Pepper Vodka and about the same sized homemade Vanilla Vodka. I see Bacon Vodka in my future.

Homemade Bacon Vodka

http://www.browniepointsblog.com/2008...

The Recipe!

 

QotD: Pinching Pennies

What are you doing to save money during this economic downslide?
Submitted by Jenn.

 

 

Good Gawd, I am already the cheapest person on earth! What more do you want from me?

Because I have been frugal for the last 30 years, I don't have to do a damned thing to save money during this economic down slide! I will just keep doing what I have been:

I will not buy stupid useless crap. Seriously. I am outraged when I walk through a Wal-mart or Target and I see all the stupid useless (mostly plastic) crap...someone must be buying it. Stop buying that junk!

I will not pay full price and I will browse the sales racks first.

Junk food is expensive.

Coupons are good only if the item is something you need. They are doubly good if the item is on sale. Then it doesn't matter if you really need it or not.

When coffee is on a good sale - I buy it. You never know when Juan Valdez is going to be taken hostage. I have 6 lbs of coffee in my closet just waiting for the end times. I might not get into heaven, but I will have enough coffee to last until the flesh falls from my bones.

I got really irritated the other day watching the news. Some politician is going to spend a month on food stamps to see how well he can grasp the situation. So they sent him out with an "expert"...a woman who has to finagle the food stamps in real life. They cut to a shot of her grocery cart and I spotted a box of instant potato flakes. WTF? You can get 10 lbs of REAL potatoes for the price of 2 boxes of that garbage! So that's my last offering - dispense with the junk and overly processed foods. You are paying for that from your pocket and from a nutritional stand point.

 

 

Christmas Lasagna

or why I probably need bifocals.

About 2 weeks before Christmas I start asking the husband, "So what do you want for Christmas food?"
We aren't very traditional in the sense that we eat the same thing every year. The only tradition is that there is usually enough left over to feed us into the new year. Last year I did the rack of lamb thing, the year before that a really nice pork loin. In the past I have soaked whole turkeys in brine and cooked a prime rib in a 1 inch crust of salt. This year when asked the question the husband said, "Well, I have two ideas. The first is a lamb again, last year's was delicious...or...the second...a giant lasagna."

Normally, I don't make lasagna with a recipe, I just make it. Since it was Christmas I decided to follow the directions on the noodle box as closely as possible. Let me tell you, I read the instructions about 6 times. I read the ingredients about 6 times. I referred back to the box as I was assembling the thing.

Cover and cook in a 180°C (150°F) oven for 40 - 45 minutes

"Wow, according to the box I am supposed to cook this at 150 degrees. The oven only goes as low as 170! That's weird." I said to the husband.

After 30 minutes the cheese was still sitting on top of the lasagna - in tact and not at all melty.
The phone rang. It was my friend, Brian. We talked for about 15 minutes and I said, "Yeah, I'm trying to cook this lasagna. I never go by a recipe but this year I thought I would follow the directions to the letter...It's taking forever!"
I picked up the noodle box and said, "Yeah, it's the weirdest thing...the directions say to cook it at 150 for 45 minutes..." at that point I lowered the box about an inch and everything popped into focus, "OH SHIT BRIAN, this says 350 degrees! Not 150 at all!"
Anything to give Brian a laugh at Christmas.

The husband remarked, "I don't know what should have tipped you off first - the  ONE EIGHTY CELSIUS or the fact that our oven only goes as low as 170!" Christmas dinner was a little late this year but once the cheese got melty and bubbly it was delicious.

 

Random Asian Kid Wears Random American T-shirt

Canada Day. We caught up with him at a hot dog stand on a busy corner of Robson Street. Tim poked him on the shoulder and said, "Hi!”
Tim pointed to the kid's shirt. He said, "West Memphis Three" then pointed at me. I repeated the words and pointed at the kid. Then Tim asked if he was involved in the case. The boy looked confused.

I pointed to my shirt then back at his and told him we had the same shirt, the same message.

I could tell he was trying hard to comprehend. Then, slowly, he said, "Ahhh West Memphis Three...I do not know what it means."

"You don't know the story of the West Memphis Three?" I asked to make sure I got that right.

Then carefully, with a blank face he said, "No, I do not know West Memphis Three. I bought this shirt in Korea."

I laughed. Then he laughed. I asked if I could try to explain who the West Memphis Three are and he nodded. I began acting out the story with hand gestures and limited words.

My T-shirt is an older model. A row of mug shots printed across the chest in white on black jersey.
I pointed to the photos and said, "These three men are The West Memphis Three. They are in prison in the United States for murdering 3 children." I held up three fingers then lowered my hand to the height of a child.
He said, "Ohhhh."
I waved my hands and explain that there are a lot of people out there, around the world, who think they did not do it. I tell him, "There are a lot of people out there wearing these kinds of T-shirts. We think they should be free."
I point to the face in the middle of the row of mug shots. "This is Damien Echols. For this crime he is going to be executed," I hold my fingers like a gun because acting out lethal injection is too much of a task, "and a lot of people do not want to see that happen. He is in prison - on death row in a place called Arkansas."

"So, I wear this and it is good?" He asked.
"I think it is really good." I answered.
Then I took his picture.

Wm3kid

SOUP!

I love soup.
Here is a quick soup I threw together last night after the husband asked, "can we have soup with dinner?"

1 can of white kidney beans
vegetable or chicken broth (I used chicken this time)
3 kinds of onion type things - chopped. I used leek, red onion and sweet vidalia.
smoked paprika - look! no ham bones!

slightly saute the onions add the broth. Simmer. Add half the can of beans - I prefer to rinse my beans. Simmer. Add salt, pepper and that delicious smoked paprika. I also tossed in a packet of Oxo.
I poured half of the pot into my food processor and spun it around for awhile then poured it back in the pot to simmer a little longer. I also added the rest of the beans.
It was thick and delicious!

Me and My quesadilla Platter are getting the hell out of here

I don't mind kids as much as I usually mind their parents.
Last night we went for some Mexican food. We hadn't even gotten our chips and salsa when a guy with two kids comes in and plops down at the table next to us. The place was near empty, but he had to sit right next to us. I was fine with it until:

1. He refers to himself as "daddy".
example:
"Bobby, Daddy wants you to sit in that chair."

I immediately hate this guy, his relatives and everyone he knows. I can not stand it when parents talk to their kids like this.

2. He takes the two boys to wash their hands and when he comes back he slathers antibacterial gel on their hands.

3. He orders food for himself, his kids and his wife. The wife is not there but will be joining them soon.
How do I know this? Because he not only told the waiter, but he told the kids something like 10 times.
"Mommy will be here soon. Watch for mommy."

4. The younger of the two boys, looked to be about 3.5 years old, starts shrieking. He does this a few times. My husband is ready to move to another table when we hear a baby wailing in the back end of the restaurant and realize there is no place to hide.

5. The food comes. The kids are quietly eating. The husband and I can have some conversation...Until the little shrieker announces, "I'M FINISHED!!!"
He would say this over and over again until in walks the Mommy.
The kids acknowledged her quietly.
Not satisfied with the mediocre greeting she received from her spawn, she whips them into a frenzy with overly loud and overly contrived mommy-ness.
"MMMMMMWAH! MWWWWAAAAAH! BIG KISSES! MWWWWWAAAAHHHH!!!! BIG KISSES FOR MY BOYS!!!"

I wanted to say, "look lady, we are the only ones close to you...no need to put on a show, because we do not give a shit."

6. Once Mommy got there we learned that she just got back from a baby shower. We also learned more about the gyn of the mommy-to-be and herself than we really needed to know, especially at the dinner table.

"She is really worried about this delivery."
One of the kids says, "Why is she worried, Mommy?"
To my disgust she answered in the most ridiculously dramatic way I could have imagined. In a sing song baby talk voice she said to this kid who was probably - at the most - 6 years old, "Well, with her first baby she had a real hard time, she had to have a C-section. She was delivering the baby and it broke her pelvis...Do you know how many C-sections Mommy has had?"
Silence.
"Two! One for each of my boys!"
Then, to prove just how ridiculous this whole scenario was, the boy said, "When I grow up I'm going to have a C-section too!"

I can vomit at will, and I had already decided that if she said the words "mucous plug" I was going to turn my head and unleash my newly chewed pork and verde sauce quesadilla in her direction.

7. They went through a round of WHAT'S MY NAME.
"What's Daddy's name?"
"What's Daddy's name?"

I could tell by the look on my husbands face that he was getting ready to say something...

"What's Daddy's name?"

Wanky McFartknocker.

I whispered, "keep it in. I know you want to...but just keep it in..."

 

"What's Daddy's name?"

We probably would have stayed for a few more drinks, but the chatter at their table seemed like it was more for our benefit than theirs. You know, those conversations that people have that are just a notch or two too loud to be meant for just them. If I wanted an improv show, there are plenty of places in Vancouver where I can see the professionals do it.

8. I got up to put on my jacket, it has been really cold up here, when I noticed the "I'M FINISHED" kid that had just polished off chips and salsa, spanish rice, beans - and whatever else was on his plate - was attached to her boob.
First off, I am not against the breast feeders of the world - and I do not mean to sound that way. The world needs more of it. It is healthy and that's what those things are there for, but I do believe in a little modesty. Feeding your kid in public doesn't need to be a statement of some kind if it is the natural thing to do. Cover up so I do not have to see your boob stretched like a banana in the mouth of a kid with a full set of baby teeth and taco breath. A doily would do it...
Why I would expect someone as ostentatious, obnoxious and just plain annoying to cover up a bit is my own issue, I suppose.

I said to the husband when we were out on the sidewalk, "Did you notice that kid was breast feeding?"
He answered, "How did I miss that? How did the boob look?"
"Well, the kid's head is the size of a large honeydew melon and he was stretching that boob as far as he could so he could recline on his back...you draw the picture."
"I don't know anything about it...but wasn't that kid kind of big for that? He had to be 4 years old."
"Oh, I'm sure that there are some people out there who would say that you do it until they don't ask for it anymore, but I kind of feel that if they are old enough to ask for it by name - they are getting too old for it."
"But the kid was eating Mexican food...chips and salsa." The husband said somewhat questioningly.
"Eating like a big boy with a fork. He also had a virgin strawberry margarita." I said back.

So, I really don't hate the kids, just their parents.

BEARS!

I just saw this ad on my vox and I have to wonder what in the hell I said that would conjure up an ad like this. The mention of kd lang and Vanity Fair should have at least brought out an L-Word or Project Catwalk ad...

GBearD

Are these guys REALLY bears? My idea of a bear is totally different. These guys just look plain old gay to me.
In my day a bear was a hefty and hairy fellow of a certain age, not a buff and manicured 24 year old.

As you can see in my next photo, I have captured a lovely moment of two bears enjoying a drag show. Drag shows are not their usual habitat, I know, but once in awhile you can get lucky and capture them in the wild yet somewhat out of their element. Although these two look adorably comfortable.

Bears from the Past

 

 

2007 - Where Did the Time Go?

I just turned 45. It doesn't seem like it has been a year since I was complaining about turning 44...

2007 - where did the time go and what exactly did I do with it?

2007 - HOW CAN I TELL YOU ARE MOURNING IF YOU ARE ALWAYS BUMMED OUT?
2007 started out with much mourning. My father died a few days before Christmas in 2006.
The new year is always a boo hooey time for me as it is. Each year that passes and I am conscience - I know I skated through and somehow didn't end up in a box...but the box is inevitable. My birthday is January 2 - which only adds to my lamentation. Not only am I kissing goodbye another year, but I am saying hello to another candle on a cake. Getting old is a drag. Mourning the past, future and the present...must be my gift.

On the first anniversary of my father's death I did what every good daughter should do and called home. My mother talked for a very long time about her dogs and the renovations to the house and what she had for dinner the last few nights - but never brought up my father or that he had died exactly 365 days ago. Neither did I.
She called me back the next day only to tell me that the packages from Amazon had been delivered. She also wanted to know if I had gotten the Christmas card she sent. I had not.

My dad never really said much but every year there was a check stuck in the Christmas card. Some years it was for 50.00 bucks, other years as much as 500.00.
The yearly parental Christmas card has been a small source of anxiety for me for years because I felt that after a certain age a child really shouldn't expect or accept funds from their parents. I sometimes refused the checks. When this got tiresome I would simply get a gift card for one my parent's favorite store equaling the estimated check amount. This way I was giving them back some of the money - one way or the other.

Late in 2006 I got the Christmas card the day or so after my father passed. In it was a check for 1,000.00 dollars. I could not believe it. There was also a note explaining that the check was so big so the "tax man" wouldn't get more than he deserved. I didn't cash that check for almost 6 months. If I would have waited 7 or 8 more days, it would have been automatically voided. So, why did I cash it? Because I bet my sisters cashed theirs...within the first week.

2007 - THE HUNT FOR HOUSING!
We bought a condo! That took up a lot of time and effort. I really love where I live although living in a small space is a challenge I am not exactly taking too. I have a lot of stuff - the husband has a lot of stuff - together we have a lot of stuff and we don't even have a fraction of the stuff we had before we moved! I don't want to throw/give away any more of my things! Which leads to...

2007 - POWER TOOLS TO THE PEOPLE!
I bought a power drill. I'm gonna make some holes in stuff.
Actually, I am going to try and put up some shelves.
If I don't hurt myself with the drill my next purchase may very well be a saw of some kind!

2007 -  THE ARTIST FORMERLY KNOWN AS ME
I applied and was accepted (YAY) into a local art group called Artists in Our Midst - first meeting is this coming Monday. The group is limited to people who live in a certain area of town, and luckily we bought in the area.
I tried starting a painters group when I first moved to Vancouver but found that it was very hard to get people to commit to meeting in real life. I also found that even though the name I tagged the group: VANCOUVER PAINTERS MEET - was not descriptive enough to make people understand that the group was for PAINTERS in the VANCOUVER are to MEET. I got people from as far away as Malaysia joining the group! So after two years of really trying to get it off the ground, I gave up on the idea of hosting a real life local group. I will say that I met some very neat people and two Vancouver artists in particular who are really really good.

After having a ZAZZLE account for who knows how long, I finally threw some paintings and graphics on it as t-shirts and postcards and such. I have no delusion that this will rocket me into pop culture or MTV type stardom, but it has motivated me to get out the art supplies and learn what all those things in GiMP can do.

I painted a little this last year, not as much as I should have, but I was reunited with all of my old work that had been setting in the storage unit. They took the wait just fine and are now setting in storage in my closet.

I also donated 4 small works on paper to Skeleton Key Auctions and hope to see them on the virtual block very soon. The auction benefits the defense fund of the West Memphis Three. More of that when it happens.

2007 - THE YEAR OF LIVING JOURNAL-LESS-LY
2007 was the first year in nearly 20 that I did not keep some sort of a paper journal. I started one on January 1st and never picked the freaking thing up again. Maybe I figured VOX was enough. Come to think of it, I didn't even buy one for this year either...

I'm sure there was more going on in 2007...but damned if I feel like talking about it.

Between December 21st 2007 and January 1st 2008 my mother asked me about 6 or 8 times if the Christmas card had been delivered. With each day that passed and that card wasn't delivered - she grew more and more worried that it had gotten lost in the mail. I countered that she would probably get it returned to her in a few days - not to worry too much about a Christmas card. She kept saying that she really hoped I liked the card. She really hoped I liked the card? At one point I thought I was going to have to send her a Wild Oats gift certificate for a million dollars the way she fretted over this card. Good Lord! Had she slipped a gold ingot in the envelope with this thing?

My mother's Christmas card arrived on my birthday. She had neglected to put a postal code on the envelope.
When I got the card I did like I always do with my parental Christmas card - I look at the envelope for a few seconds. I take in the hand writing, the stamps, the stickers. This year my mother forgot the 's' at the end of our last name. Which is ok because she has been calling my husband 'Jim' off and on for years so it is sort of expected.
One of the stamps had a dreidel on it - the other a knit teddy bear. The envelope was embellished with stickers of Christmas presents and angels. It didn't feel heavy enough to hold a gold bar.

Inside were 3 photos. Two of the photos were of grand nieces and nephews that I had only met once. The third photo was this one:

Pretty Baby

on the back was written:

Pretty Baby

No check, just gold.

Grilling on the Front Porch - What's Dangerous About That?

Father's Day - 2006

We were visiting friends and family in Arkansas. We drove from our new home in Canada with our cat in the back. This time it took 5 days because we drove across Canada and border crossed near Winnipeg. Glad we got that out of our systems. Our vacation just happened to land over the Father's Day weekend. I thought it would be nice if we came out to the double wide and had some BBQ. I told my mother that I wanted to grill up some burgers and such for Dad...He didn't even need to touch the grill - all he had to do was chew. I should have known better.

Dad didn't have a grill, but when Mom told him what I wanted to do, he went "downtown" to Big Lots and bought one. He hadn't had one in years, the last one rusted out, so this was a big event.

I don't know about you, but my childhood scrapbook is not filled with happy camper, hazy lazy days of summer, picnic images. Oh, we grilled a few times in the summer or when the grandkids would visit, but it was never an EVENT. Dad did not fall for the hype or epitomize the stereotype that all dads are kings of the grill. From the time of the Flintstones; men have supposedly been the proud masters of the fire. Somewhere along the way his family line lost this instinct. No pride here. He just didn't care. He would buy meats of low quality, cook the meat in the most horrible manner, then complain all night about stomach aches and how he couldn't tolerate grilled food. Never did it occur to him that his grilling technique was the problem. The food was the innocent victim.

His way of starting up the fire was to spew half of a bottle of lighter fluid on the coals, usually without removing the cooking surface. Before any of the liquid could soak into the charcoal or evaporate, he would jam a flaming rolled up sheet of newspaper in between the spokes. PWOOOOOF!
If my mother would have let him, he would have used gasoline. His theory was why have two accelerants on hand when one was perfectly good to start his lawn mower and start fires.

He never put the coals in a pyramid. He never waited for the coals to go white. He always put the tomato based sauce on right away. The meat would catch on fire and my mother looked like a screaming villager chasing a man-made monster up a hill. Her torch being a flaming chicken thigh atop a long handled fork. The faded house dress and bare feet were a nicely added touch.

Then there was that one time my sister brought some squirrel down from Tennessee to toss on the grill...another story for another time.

Until I acquired a propane grill, I thought all outdoor cooked foods were dry and black on the outside and raw or overcooked on the inside. I thought nostrils and gums tingling with the distinct flavor and aroma of petroleum was part of the experience. After cooking with a gas grill, I couldn't understand why anyone would prefer charcoal. The gas grill prompted a chain of experimental dinners. I have grilled everything from burgers to lobster to pineapple. We grill in the dead of winter. We grill on a whim...

Grilled Pineapple

I figured there had to be a better way to grill with charcoal, so I did some homework and felt satisfied that perhaps I could teach an old cranky bastard some new tricks.

Excited to show Dad that you can grill very tasty food with briquets and much less starter fluid, we headed out to the country. When we got there the grill was on the porch. Although the porch is not enclosed, like all good porches it is attached to the house and covered. Besides being on the covered porch, very close to the house, the grill was setting on a varnished wooden table right behind a supporting beam that secured a brand new Stars and Stripes. (Dad never takes his flag down unless he is putting up a new one) It was waving in the breeze, and by the looks of it, made of a material that would have been recalled if used for children's sleepwear.

I could smell the fluid as I approached. I groaned to the husband. Dad had already gotten to the virgin briquets.

I had piled the briquets in a nice pyramid, only to have Dad flatten them out before I could get the fire going. He wanted to put more fluid on the struggling coals. I said, NO! NO MORE FLUID! IT RUINS THE TASTE OF THE FOOD!

The fuel was puddling in the ash catcher. The ash catcher looked like a coffee can with holes the size of half dollars cut in to it. I pointed out the excess and he took a strip of paper, lit it and stuck it in one of the holes. PWOOOOOOOF! A fireball shot up through the coals.

He jumped and yanked the strip out of the ash catcher. A 2 inch flaming piece landed on the hand towel that was folded and placed neatly next to the grill. After scrambling to pat out the hand towel, I suggested that the husband find a water hose and pull it as close to the porch as he could...just in case.

He wasn't convinced that there was enough stink on the briquets, so I got some whisky and chucked it on the coals and PWOOOOOOOF!

I tried to explain to Dad that there is an art to grilling with charcoal and part of the art is patience. Yes, me lecturing someone on patience. Use less and allow that stuff to burn away and, for Stubbs sakes, don't get it on the cooking surface. If I wanted my ribs to taste like a gas station attendant's shoe soles, I would splash some of the starter in the marinade. Patience means white hot coals, so you are cooking with heat and not flame. Grilled food doesn't have to look like the charcoal briquets you used to cook it. How many cows must die in vain? If you are going to sacrifice the animal, at least do it up right and show some respect to the flesh!

When all the cooking was done, Dad suggested that I lift the 1798 degree grill from the table to the front yard so I could hose it down with water to put out the coals. I smacked my head. So that is why every grill we ever owned rusted out and never made it through a second year! I told him I would have no part in his blatant abuse!

Well, when it was all over...the burgers, ribs, chorizo, brats, potatoes, corn...was pretty tasty and not as burny and gum numbing as past cook outs. Usually my goal when spending time with the parents is to avoid leaving mad or crying. Four out of five times it's one or the other...or both. This time was one of those rare days when I feel sad because there weren't more days like it.

06/18/06
--------

That would be the last Father's Day and one of the last times I would see my Father. We said, "see you next year" and headed back to Canada a few days later. He died that December.

It's all about the Cornbread

 

Cornbread

 

Basic Cornbread - big pan
 1 1/2 cups of yellow cornmeal
 2 1/2 cups of milk
 2 cups of all-purpose flour
 3 TBLSP of granulated sugar
 2 TBLSP of baking powder
 1 tsp of salt
 2 eggs
 2 TBLSP of molasses
 1/4 cup of vegetable oil

I mix the cornmeal and milk and let it sit for about 8 or 10 minutes.
I often use two kinds of cornmeal of different grind. Not necessary, just something I do sometimes...
If you like a sweeter cornbread, add more sugar. I like a hint of sweet.
You can also add whole kernal corn, mexican spices, chopped green onion, garlic powder, crushed red pepper, cracked black pepper or a few spoons of bacon grease added to the vegetable oil, etc.
Preheat oven - 400f
Combine the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in large bowl. Add egg, molasses and oil to cornmeal mixture. Mix well. Add to dry ingredients, stirring just until combined.
Pour into a lightly greased 9x13 inch pan and bake for 35 - 45 minutes. I prefer a cast iron skillet for my cornbread and this would probably make two regular sized skillets of bread.

Cornbread

 

Mona VS the Drain

The story I am about to tell is true with little, if any, exaggeration.
A few hours ago I was getting ready to leave the apartment, just a quick walk down to Davie Street for some shopping, when I pulled the drain plug from the bathroom sink and took a look down the drain hole. It didn't look all that bad, but it didn't look all that good either. It looked pretty typical of a drain that has to deal with my constant hair loss, the husband's shaving, toothpaste and soap. Plus other people have lived in this hotel/apartment, but I would imagine that the cleaning crew would clean the drains in between renters. The drain hasn't been running slow, but as a precaution I thought I would gouge around down there with a wire hanger anyway. Oh, my. Ok, it was worse than it looked at first, but still what I would expect from two people and a cat. I won't describe what it looked like in detail, but I will say that with the hanger I yanked out a fair amount of goop, mostly hair.
I thought it was clean and that I was done, until I pointed the beam of a mini flashlight down the hole. I needed more tools.
Now I was armed with a flashlight, a wire hanger, a pointy ended chopstick and a butter knife. I was not expecting the next series of events to happen...
I loosened, and scraped and worked gunk around with the butter knife then with the chopstick pulled out what I can only describe as a 5 inch long sausage casing of hair and slime and mold.
And then I threw up.
I threw up, ya'll.
Not just a gag or a lurch. I threw up.

 

The Dr Pepper Cake

I almost forgot about that cake!

Here is what it looks like in a pan...yeah, I know, it reminded me of something I once saw in a medical text book too.

DrPepperCake

 

Here is what a slice of it looks like.

DrPepperCake2

As I have said, baking is not what I do best in the kitchen. If my attempt would have come out more evenly and less bulgey in the middle, I would have given myself 5 stars, instead I give 4.5.

The cake was good, the husband thought it was fantastic but as far as the recipe goes:
Gads there is a lot of sugar in this thing! I used a 1/4 of a cup less than called for and it was still really sweet for me. And I am not sure what good the marshamallows serve. All they seemed to do was make the top of the cake look like a bad make up job from a 50's sci fi film about mole men. The ones in the batter just sort of melted away. You couldn't really taste the Dr. Pepper either.

RECIPE