Monday, November 30, 2015

NaBloPoMo #30: Coralineisms #109

I made it! One post every day in November. I didn't even run out of material to write about, so I need to keep going in December. Not every day. Who's that fucking crazy? But 3-4 times a week. I can do that.

I'm going to end the month with some Coralineisms. I've almost depleted my stash, but she's a renewable resource. In no particular order, here we go.

Tell me you didn't expect a vagina joke

Coraline: Look what I did to my spider. (Holds up one of those stinky, sticky, icky spiders you get in gumball machines. The ones that leave a greasy spot on the wall.)
Me: What did you do to it?
Coraline: I made it into a girl spider.
Me: Was it a boy before?
Coraline: Yes. And I made it into a girl.
Me: What did you do?
Coraline: I gave it a ponytail.

Modern-day vampire slayer

Coraline: I'm not afraid of any vampires.
Me: You're not?
Coraline: No. If any vampire tries to get me, I'm going to take him down and beat his attitude.

Big sneeze ...

Me: Oh, thanks. You just blew snot all over my arm.
Coraline: (Because everything is an argument with this child.) No, 
Mamá. That's not snot. That's just sneeze juice.

A woman's work is never done

Coraline: Mamá, I killed all the zombies!
Me: Who's going to clean that mess up?
Coraline: (heavy sigh) I guess I am. I'm the hunter.
Me: So you're the hunter and the cleaner?
Coraline: Yep. .... Mamá, I need a towel with some water on it to clean up that zombie mess.


Coraline: Did you have a fun birthday party?
Me: It was pretty fun. Small, but fun. Except that Linda .... remember Linda whose swimming pool we go to sometimes? .... she fell on the front porch and broke her shoulder.
Coraline: Oh.
Me: You don't sound very concerned. It's a bad hurt.
Coraline: I know, but she'll be OK. She didn't actually break it off.
Me: I guess that's one way of looking at it.

She's going to hate me for this some day

Coraline: I need to itch my vagina.
Me: You don't need my permission. Go ahead and do it.
Coraline: I can't. My jeans are getting in the way.
Me: Just stick your hand down the front. Your jeans are big enough.
Coraline: Good idea, Mamá. That's what we call a short cut.

A big thank you to Coraline for basically writing 3 of my posts this month. I needed her help tonight after I spent close to 2 hours cutting up a pink banana squash the size of a 2-year-old. For perspective, Coraline is 45" tall -- evidence of Vikings on both sides of the family.

In any case, that squash would feed a small country for a month. I thought I'd never get it peeled and chopped. I have no idea what I was thinking when I bought it other than that it was cheap and the bigger ones didn't cost more than the smaller ones. Well, bigger isn't always better when you have to wrestle the thing down and make it into something edible. Remember that.

Thanks for reading this month. I'll see you back here in a couple of days with some interesting news about vaginas. 

Hugs and kisses,

Sunday, November 29, 2015

NaBloPoMo #29: Would you eat from that bread box?

If you and I were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd call it a damn miracle if you got more than one glass out of it. Let's share a box tonight, OK? To be fair, I've enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend that started with food, and had lots of good times with family and friends in the middle, and ended with playing music with a friend. Who could complain?

I could. I could complain about mice, because for the first time since I moved into this house almost 2 years ago, I have fucking mice coming inside my house. And don't say everybody gets a mouse in the house every now and then, because 1. Not me. I do not get mice in my house. And 2. I've killed 9 fucking mice in the past month. Nine. (To be fair, I killed 8 and Crow Cocker killed one while I was at church one day. My dog is part cat, which is probably why he's such an asshole.) I even had to buy some fancy traps from Amazon, so I could dump the carcass and reload quickly. They're so efficient, I don't even have to replenish the peanut butter. I highly recommend them.

I still can't figure out where the little bastards are getting in, so I might have to spread a fine layer of flour all over my house and try to find tiny footprints. I suspect the reason they're moving in on me is because the house next door to me has been empty for 6+ years, ever since the pedophile who lived there went to prison. This past fall the bank finally put it on the market, and to do so, they cut down all the brush and vegetation in the yard over there, and cleaned out all the shit that gets left behind in a house and a garage when the owner goes to prison. That's the only thing that's changed, so I'm blaming my problems on the ecosystem being disturbed over there. Ultimately, it's the pedophile's fault.

I hate them so much. Fucking mice. They make me feel dirty. I'm at war!

If you and I were sharing a box of wine, I would ask if you've ever heard of using vaginal yeast to make sourdough starter. Or maybe a better question is whether you'd eat bread made from sourdough starter that had vaginal yeast growing in it. Or I should say possibly had vaginal yeast added to it that didn't grow, because there's no way to know if the vaginal yeast survived. Anyway, would you? I ask because of a blogger named Stavvers, whose blog is titled "Another Angry Woman." When she realized she had a yeast infection blooming down under, she dipped into her bread box and collected said yeasty discharge on a dildo and made sourdough starter with it. I don't need to recap the entire experience. You can read it here.

I'm going to answer first and say I don't think I'd enjoy eating sourdough bread made from (possible) vaginal yeast. It's not because I think anything about the vagina is disgusting. I'm sure a number of you have dined with pleasure on such a delicacy before, and more than once. In other words, people eat pussy. I just can't let go of the connection between how a yeast infection feels so burny and itchy and the idea of putting that yeast infection in a loaf of bread and then eating it. That's why the other animals wouldn't help you make that fucking bread, Little Red Hen!

However, yeast does grow in the vagina all the time. And other places in our bodies too. It's only a problem when it gets overgrown, and then we call that an infection.  So .... if I say I don't want to eat vaginal yeast bread, does that mean I need to work on my love of the vagina? Maybe it does. I don't know.

Your turn. Would you eat it? The bread, I mean. Please answer in the comments section.

If you and I were sharing a box of wine, I would complain that the final harbinger of winter has finally arrived. I tried, as I do every year, to pretend that winter simply wasn't going to happen, and the lovely fall weather would carry through until spring hit us with mud. This in spite of the fact that I had my furnace on early in October. And then there were all those leaves that fell off the trees and the garden dying back, the pumpkins on the porches and the taste of pumpkin pie spice in every damn thing. I had warning enough. But this morning, I had to give in, because this morning  .... This morning, damn it, I had to put lotion on my butt.

Winter is near, my friend. Let's pour another glass. We'll be switching to hot toddies soon enough.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

NaBloPoMo #28: Get your scare on

I want to share a short scary film with you tonight. It's not just any scary film, but one that a friend and former colleague from my university days co-stars in. I used to think Brady was pretty menacing when I'd see him stalk into his classroom the first day of school with a baseball bat slung over his shoulder. He's something like 8 feet tall, and I'm pretty sure nobody would have messed with him even if he didn't have a bat. I hear he stopped carrying it because somebody thought he was intimidating. What?

He's also a horror writer, which I suspect means whatever is inside his head is pretty scary too. (His book is Back Roads and Frontal Lobes. You should buy it.) However, in this film, which is based on an HP Lovecraft story, he's subtly terrifying. I wouldn't want to meet him in an abandoned house.

Now that you've watched the film, I'd also like to mention that I had not watched this movie before I wrote my post last night about looking up at the ceiling when a drop of blood fell on the counter. I felt an unpleasant shiver go through my entire body when I saw the end of the film, along with a slight sense of justification for having looked at the ceiling first.

Friday, November 27, 2015

NaBloPoMo #27: Not tonight, honey, I've got an aneurysm

I experimented last week with a thing other bloggers do called "If you and I were having a glass of wine...." One reader said he didn't like it, because it seemed too clunky or contrived. But I decided I do like it, because it makes me feel like I'm actually writing to someone and not sending my words out into the black void of space. So I'm going to use it sometimes. Like tonight.

If you and I were having a glass splitting a bottle of wine, I would tell you that I was going to go out tonight, but I had to stay home instead. I rarely get headaches, but tonight my head felt like it had an ax stuck in it. And as the night progressed, because I so rarely get headaches, I became convinced that I was just seconds away from dying of a brain aneurysm. And don't try to tell me the thought wouldn't have crossed your mind, because ..... well, we're all a little bit crazy. Right? Right?

I put 911 on speed dial just in case the aneurysm burst slowly.

I stayed home, and I took a long hot lavender- scented bubble bath, because what better place to die than in a big old claw-foot bathtub? I mean, yes, it would be embarrassing to be found naked in a tub of cold water tomorrow, but I'd be dead! I would not give one fuck about how fat my corpse looked or whether my house was clean enough or even whether my bed was made. (It was. Of course.)

As you've probably guessed, I didn't die in the tub. But I did get hungry, so after my bath I poured a glass of wine and opened the bag of lime tortilla chips, because if I was going to die, I could at least die with something delicious in my mouth. As I pulled the top of the bag apart with a pop, I saw something hit the countertop. I leaned over and looked. A drop of blood? Could that really be a drop of blood?

I looked up at the ceiling, because that seemed to be the most logical place it could have come from. Nope. The ceiling was pristine white. And then I remembered I might be dying of an aneurysm, so I felt under my nostrils. Nope. No blood there. Hmmm. If this were a movie, I would probably already be dead, and not of an aneurysm.

I couldn't think of any place else a drop of blood could have some from, so after I stared at it for a while, I decided to just leave the room. Always a good way to deal with a mysterious drop of blood. I grabbed a white paper napkin, picked up my bowl of chips, started to pick up my glass of wine and noticed more blood on the napkin. I looked left to right. Still all alone in the kitchen.

Finally I looked down at my hands and noticed more blood right where you'd expect to see blood. On the back of the index finger I'd cut open the day before while I was cutting up sweet potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner. The liquid bandage I'd brushed on earlier in the day had peeled off in the bath water, and it was bleeding. Not the ceiling. Not the aneurysm. Not even a ghost. A cut on my finger.

Didn't I feel foolish?

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd tell you I can't drink another glass tonight, because I'm going to bed now. But I would be glad to finish this bottle and even open a second fresh one tomorrow night, because I do have several things I wanted to tell you, but later, when I don't have an ax in my head. (Which is how this would end if it were a movie.)

Thursday, November 26, 2015

NaBloPoMo #26: Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving!

There. Writing that took most of the energy I had left. I'm grateful for the day though. It was an unusual Thanksgiving here, partly because I didn't invite a houseful of people. In fact, for the first time in so many years I can't count, we only needed my dining room table, because it was just the kids and me. Six people. We had a wonderful dinner with lots of laughter, and the only spill was a glass of water and the blood from the 2 fingers I tried to chop off.

In fact, at one point Coraline led the entire table in a rousing rendition of "Rolling Down to Old Maui" (listen below), and I started to say to Montana that I wished I had a video of that to post in opposition to all the memes on Facebook about how awful Thanksgiving and families are ...  but then Elvira knocked over a glass of water and blamed it on Coraline, and I didn't get to even finish saying that until much later when it was no longer relevant.

We also ate several hours later than usual, because Montana and Drake had a wedding to go to. On Thanksgiving Day. The best holiday of the year. What? Who does that? But it was fine. We roll with shit like that here. For the first time ever I didn't have to clean my house or get up at the asscrack of dawn to put the turkey in the roaster and start the rolls. I cooked a lot of food, but I had all day .... OK, all week really. Because T-day dinner takes at least 4 days to prepare and about an hour to eat.

Monday was shopping day. I caught myself looking at the 22-pound turkeys and realized I didn't need to cook a bird the size of a 3-year-old this year. So I found one that was 13 pounds. Who knew they even grew turkeys that small? Practically an egg.

The grocery store was kind of a zoo, but I just kept smiling and eating free samples and reminding myself that the privilege of having access to all that food far outweighs the asshole who parks his cart sideways and then walks halfway down the aisle to look for Jello, or presses up against me from behind trying to get to the free samples, or says "excuse me" and tries to push my cart out of the way with his cart when I obviously can't go anywhere .... Oh, wait. That was only that one guy. Asshole.

Filling my tank for $135/gallon made it all worthwhile.

Tuesday I prepared the pumpkin. It took both the oven and my biggest pot to cook the whole thing, and it made close to 3 gallons of pumpkin puree. I could have made at least a dozen pies with all that, but it will freeze, and we'll have pumpkin pie in the summer too. And next Thanksgiving. And maybe the one after that. It might actually last that long .... and did I mention I have a few other pumpkins too. OK, I might have over-invested in pumpkins this year. I get excited about pie.

Oh, and I put the frozen solid rock of turkey ball in a salt brine in my roaster. I've never done that before, but I'm sold now. The turkey thawed in the brine on my counter, and it was the best turkey I've made .... maybe ever. Even the year I killed my own.

Wednesday and Thursday .... well, you know how it goes. Peeling, chopping, rinsing, mixing, sauteing, baking, roasting, making a dozen trips to the compost, and running and unloading the dishwasher over and over. This is the 5th Thanksgiving I've written about here. I don't know how much more I can say about the food. It's delicious. I ate way too much, and I have leftovers. The idea of them makes me sick, but I know that won't last. I'll be eating hearty again tomorrow.

How was your Thanksgiving? Any good stories come out of the day?