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.