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Pranks for the Memories


April Fools! 

I have no jokes to give.  My pranks run more to things like waiting until you turn out the light to snatch your pillow out from under your head, and that’s for a very specific audience, so forgive my lack of participation.  Sadly, I fall for just about every April Fools prank.  The year they were saying Taco Bell had bought the Liberty Bell, I just shook my head and sighed.  Corporate America…taking over everything.  And every moron who posts that they are pregnant, I congratulate like the easy mark I am. 

Easter was gorgeous this year.  Once the thunderstorms had passed, the weather was perfect, and we celebrated with a Lego party.  Thor had told his grandmother that he thought the best thing in the world would be for Mammaw (who is good at Legos), Granddad, Daddy, Grandma, Uncle Chris (who is the hands-down favorite of the bunch) and me to sit and play Legos with him.  So, we arranged a surprise party as his Easter gift.  You could not have found a happier boy yesterday.

He went to bed with the Lego spaceship he had built, and brought it to me this morning, bragging that both Daddy and Uncle Chris had helped him put it together.  He was still crowing. 

That boy is a delight.  Even when he is indulging the worst of his 7-year-old traits, that boy is a sheer delight.

 

A Day in the Life, movies, Thor

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pads


I went to see G.I. Joe with the boys today, and was fortunate enough to have my dinner upset my stomach badly enough that I had to miss about 10 minutes of the movie.  You know a movie is bad when you prefer gastric distress.  I knew it wouldn’t be great, but I thought it might at least be enjoyable.  Sadly, The Rock kept his shirt on for the whole thing, Bruce Willis was woefully underused, and that really dumb, cute one died in the first act–also without ever having taken his shirt off.  Storm Shadow took off his shirt, but his pants were so unattractive it didn’t matter.  (I’m not even someone who cares about looking at half naked men, so for me to have been actually disappointed that The Rock kept his shirt on should give you some more depth into just how bad the movie was.)

While I was washing my hands in the restroom, I noticed a woman crouched in front of the sanitary napkin/tampax dispenser, cranking that dispenser knob like she was a lab rat and it had given her cheese every other time.  She bounced the heel of her hand against the metal door a couple of times, then went back to twisting that knob.  I always carry a spare tampax, so as I was walking by her, I slipped it to her as discreetly as possible.  Passing the baton of sisterhood.  We did not speak, but in that moment, I know I made a lifelong friend.  If my life were a movie, in the third act, this woman would appear at some critical juncture to offer me a spare something-or-other that would be the key to my success.  That would make sense.  Unlike anything that happened EVER in G.I. Joe.

It’s funny how embarrassing feminine products can be when you are young.  I remember buying pads at Winn Dixie, when I was in high school, and lurking around the check out lines until I could dash forward into a line with both a female cashier and bagger.  The worst thing in the world was winding up with a boy bagging your Kotex.  And I wouldn’t buy tampons for the longest time because I was afraid of the stigma of them*.  I wouldn’t even buy Midol.  Someone might guess I was having cramps.  The most embarrassing, though, was having to ask my grandfather to go to the store for me.

Now, I don’t think twice about slapping down a couple of boxes in and among my fruits and vegetables.  Granted, now I could buy condoms without blinking.  Something I could not even do when I first got married.  And that’s something I think we should teach our kids to feel okay to purchase.  Instead of raising them to believe it reads, “I have the morals of an alley cat,” we should raise them to understand that it truly means, “I am responsible for my health, my partner’s health, and I am taking care to avoid unwanted pregnancies.”  Just changing that one perception would save lives.

Just ask Bill Gates, who raised himself even further in my esteem with his offered grant for the inventor of the next generation condom.  The grant offer challenges:

We are looking for a Next Generation Condom that significantly preserves or enhances pleasure, in order to improve uptake and regular use. Additional concepts that might increase uptake include attributes that increase ease-of-use for male and female condoms, for example better packaging or designs that are easier to properly apply. In addition, attributes that address and overcome cultural barriers are also desired.

We have to de-stigmatize barrier protection so that sexually active people aren’t so embarrassed or shamed by the product that they end up with life threatening, or life altering diseases, and bad cases of the babies.  I mean, I would certainly rather my child wait until he is old enough to be mentally, emotionally, and financially capable of handling all the potential fallout of sex, but if he’s going to become active before he’s 45 years old, I want him to feel comfortable going down to the CVS to buy some Trojans.  And I want his partner to be equally as comfortable.  Both XY and XX pairs should feel like it is as normal as buying mouthwash.  They shouldn’t have to sneak singles out of the jar in the nurse’s office.  Do nurse’s offices still have that jar?

To  bring this back around to the opening paragraph of this entry, I wish the makers of G.I. Joe had worn production condoms, and saved us from this travesty of a film. **

*This also had something to do with an encounter I had on a McDonald’s Playland as a child.  We had just moved to Texas, so I was not quite 11.  I was playing on the equipment, and some older boys wanted to be where I was.  I refused to budge, so they started bullying and name calling.  One of them yelled, “You need to go inside and change your tampon, Nasty, because you smell like dirty c—!”  I wasn’t sure what c— was, but I could infer that it had to do with ladybits because I was vaguely aware of what tampons were.  I did go inside after that because I was horrified.  I did not tell my mother exactly what was said to me because I knew I’d never get to go outside and play by myself again–and I would have to go visit her in jail after she threw the offending boy over the fence.

**Thor loved the movie.  He came out grinning and pulling Snake Eyes moves, demanding to be photographed in action.  It was worth it to see him so happy.  I’m still glad I missed a chunk of it.

My little ninja.
My little ninja.
A Day in the Life, Chef Lane, Diet, Family, Food

4 Way Chicken


Start with your crock pot.  On the bottom, layer half a large onion and 2 minced cloves of garlic.  Cover those with salt, pepper, cilantro, and parsley, and whatever else you like.  Nestle 3 large chicken breasts (skin on, bone in) on top.  Layer the other half of the onion and about 1/2 lb of carrots on top.  Season again.  Turn it on high for an hour or two, then turn it down to low and go to bed.

Get up a little early and turn off your crock pot.  Remove the carrots and set aside to cool.  Remove the chicken and set aside to cool.  Pour the broth through a strainer to catch all the grody bits, and set broth aside to cool.  Go put on your makeup, fix your hair, and wake up your kid.  While he is looking for his socks (they are in the bottom drawer, where they are every day) dish your cooled carrots, chicken, and broth into separate containers and refrigerate.  Tell your child if he can’t find his socks, he can never play Wii again.  He will find them instantly.

Take the boy to school, go to work, go to the grocery store and pick up 2 squash, 2 zucchini, more onions, red grapes, pecan halves, chicken broth (15 oz or so), 2 cans of white kidney beans, 1 can of corn, 1 can of diced tomatoes, some light sour cream, and some Peeps for the boy’s Easter basket.  And a giant, stuffed duck that you thought was a chicken.  You will realize your mistake when you sit down to write a blog entry.

Go home, unload and put away groceries, and help the boy with his homework, do laundry.  Fold the boy’s clothes and put them away (remember that you left your own clothes in the dryer when you are partway through a blog entry. Curse having thought you were finished for the night.)  Accidentally rewash husband’s clean clothes because they are sitting on top of the washer and you are feeling helpful.  When your mother says, “You look tired,” do not snarl.  Send mother home with hugs and kisses (no snarling), then move living room, dining room, and patio furniture around to be able to drag old sofa to the curb (with aid of husband) to accommodate new, improved sofa which will be delivered tomorrow.  Discover that the time the boy barfed on the sofa Christmas day, the reason you thought the volume seemed light compared to the sounds he was making is because all of it had run down the side crack of the leather seat, to congeal in a disgusting disc on the carpet beneath is.  Run the sweeper.

Return to kitchen and wash hands, find cutting board and proceed to slicing a large onion.  Use the finger guard on the mandolin slicer so that you don’t slice through your thumb and bleed into the onion.  Or, ignore that advice, and find band-aids.  Utilize.  Return to slicing.

In a large stock pot, warm 1 Tbs of olive oil.  Toss in your diced onions and 2 cloves of minced garlic.  While that gets going, open all your cans.  This will be difficult to do while bleeding profusely, but you will manage.  Once onion is translucent, pour in your drained cans of beans (both cans) and corn, and your whole can of tomatoes.  Add your chicken broth and simmer.  Salt and pepper to taste, then dump in about 1Tbs of chili powder.  Accidentally.  Or serendipitously.  Depends on how spicy you like your chili.

Remove cold chicken, carrots and stock from the refrigerator and grab a grocery bag.  Debone a breast of chicken, tossing grody bits into bag.  Remove skin and any remotely inedible yarf and discard into bag.  Dice chicken and shred, then add to pot.  Bring to a boil.  Taste broth and season as needed.  Decide to toss in some cinnamon–about 1tsp.  Mmm!  This will yield you about 5, 2-cup containers of chili, worth about 6 WWPPV each.  Serve or freeze for lunches.

While that is going–simmering about 20 minutes after the boil, add another stock pot to your stovetop and empty out the refrigerated chicken broth.  Use your mandolin slicer (properly this time, you learned) to slice the squash and zucchini directly into the pot.  Add the carrots, then prep another chicken breast, this time only dicing it.  Drop all that into the pot, add 2 chicken bouillon cubes, bring to a boil, then cover and simmer 15 minutes.  This will yield you about 4, 2-cup containers of soup, worth about 2 WWPPV each.  Serve or freeze for lunches.

Finally, prep your last chicken breast and halve the meat.  Chop up about 1/2 a cup of red grapes, crush up about 1/4 cup of pecan halves, add 1TBS each of mayo, dijon mustard, and light sour cream, then stir half the chicken meat into that.  Season to taste.  Refrigerate and serve on top of greens as a salad, or in pita bread as a sandwich.  Yield is 2 large servings a 6 WWPPV each, or 4 small servings at around 3 points each–you could make it lower with low fat mayo, but that stuff is more disgusting than the 4 month old vomit you found under the sofa, so why bother?

With the last half of the meat, make chicken quesadillas with diced jalapenos, about 1/4 cup of cheese (your choice, I like Jack) each, and some Bacon Bits if you’re fancy.  Serve those for dinner.  Screw the WWPPV–you’ve worked them all off already.

Put boy to bed.  Put boy back to bed.  Put boy back to bed a final time.  Let dog out.  Let dog back in.  Wonder vaguely where husband got off to almost 2 hours prior.

Sit down and enjoy a bowl of soup.  Write a blog entry as a means of avoiding the dishes still needing to be done.

Get up.  Get your laundry.  Put it away.  Take a bath.  Go to bed, secure in the knowledge that at least you don’t have to cook tomorrow.

2011-11-19 21.59.40

 

Explaining the Strange Behavior

…as a doornail


When I die (I am not planning on dying anytime soon, I’m just saying) I don’t care about funeral arrangements*.  If my people need to have a funeral for closure, so be it.  Me?  I’d rather they take the money they would spend and go on vacation–do something nice for themselves.  I’ll be dead.  Why on earth would I want my family to spend upwards of $20k (and probably far upwards of that by the time I get around to croaking) on my corpse? 

Just cremate me–because you have to do something with the body, and I’m creeped out by the idea of being given to science–do what you will with my ashes, and go do something fun.  Remind each other of how much I loved you, and get a suntan–something I’ve never been able to do!  My legacy will live on in the people I have loved, and they’ll be taking a little piece of me wherever they go.  I hope they go somewhere with good food.

There are days when I miss my grandparents with the same intensity of the first few weeks they were gone.  I don’t think a day goes by without me thinking of them at least once, and usually because I am thinking, “Oh Grandma/Boom/Granny/Grandaddy would have loved that!”  Or because I can hear one of their voices in my head, advising, or needling, or encouraging me.

I think that is the sweetest aspect of memory–having known someone so well that you can “remember” what they would have said in any given situation.  Maybe you don’t know the exact words, but you know the spirit of where their thoughts would land.  I know just what my grandparents faces would have looked like if they were seeing Thor.  I can easily imagine what about him would have delighted them.  And, in some small way because I can do that, I can share them with him. 

It occurs to me that one day I will be a wizened old crone.  In absence of any looks worth vanity, I wonder what I’ll wind up preening?  When I am too old to bother with makeup outside of a little lipstick, and too arthritic to fool with my hair, who will I be?  I hope I’ll still be me, finding joy in the youth and decoration of others.

*If my people must have a funeral, I’d like it arranged so that during the visitation, my eyes are open.  Pop in some glass eyes if necessary.  If people are going to come stare at me, I ought to be able to look back at them.  A trip wire that triggers calliope music whenever anyone gets too close would also be appreciated.

Uncategorized

Racing, Friends, and Frogs


I don’t understand the concept of having to pay to run in a race.  I mean, I understand why race fees are charged (charitable contribution, tshirts, and all that), but I don’t understand paying to run 26 miles.  Then again, I don’t fully understand running 26 miles.  I’m pretty sure Pheidippides would have preferred to drive.

Maybe it is because I have never felt any particular joy in the act of running.  I get a true thrill out of swimming, and I really enjoy playing tennis or ping pong, but otherwise, I’d prefer to drive.

I’ve had Junior High on my mind for the past couple of weeks, since hearing that a former classmate was in the final stages of cancer.  She passed away over the weekend, and all the colors, and smells, and sounds of 1984 have been at the front of my brain.  Turquoise and neon pink.  Polo and Aquanet.  Motley Crue and Journey.  We’re still young.  Not so young as we were then, but much too young to be dying.  Much, much too young for death.

For many reasons, I’m not afraid of death.  I am afraid of the process of dying–afraid of pain, or afraid of dying voilently–but I am not afraid of death.  I don’t want to die.  I like being alive.  I love my life, and enjoy it.  I want to be alive to experience my family and friends, and weather, and travel, and art, and music–there is a lot going on that I don’t want to miss!  On the off chance that what comes after this life isn’t nearly as interesting, I’d like to stay here as long as I possibly can.

Which is why I am drinking more water.  Even though drinking water is boring.

Yesterday, I turned a cartwheel at Thor’s behest.  I was a little surprised I could still do it.  Video replay (I did this at the Perot Museum, where my movements were recorded to be played back side-by-side with an Olympic gymnast’s own cartwheel–her form was much better) showed a little, round, khaki-colored, froglike woman spinning across the screen.  So, last night, when I wanted a donut, I asked myself, “Do you really want a donut?  Do you really want to remain round and froglike, or would you prefer to have a glass of water?”

I ate the donut.

Ha!  I’ll bet you thought I was going to say I drank the water.  No, I ate that donut and I enjoyed it, and I added it up to the count I’ve been keeping for the past month.  I still had enough to fit it in without going over my self-established daily goal.  Sometimes, you have to eat the donut.  Today I am drinking the water.

Anyway, frogs are cute.