It’s too hot to think

I cannot wait until sweating season is over!  Currently I am in a constant state of physical melting.  Like I think I may actually be melting into a pool of person kind of Dr. Who style.

Perhaps I was meant to live in the Arctic Circle?  I freaking love knitting, toasty fires, and being snuggled under pounds of blankets.  How the hell am I supposed to survive in Texas?

Last weekend I sat in a heat index of 105 degrees watching my husband play softball while knitting wool socks.  When I got up to leave there was a literal (not at all figurative) pool of sweat around me on the bleachers.  It may not have been human pool size, but a small rodent surely could have used it as a splash park.  It was that bad!!!  I have mocked up a picture of said rodent for your enjoyment:

mouse in rain

He’s a dapper little fellow splashing in a pool of my sweat with his little mousey umbrella.  SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF THIS HEAT!!!!!!

Useless!

Yesterday I was viscously attacked in my own home.  It was horrifying.  You think that home is a safe place until the unthinkable happens to you.  In my struggle to get to safety I did manage to get a photo of the invader:

gecko

I know it is a blurry picture, but I was too scared to get close so I had to use the shitty zoom function on my phone.  Don’t let his size fool you.  Those beady little eyes mean trouble.  As I climbed my own walls in disgust this little bastard just made his happy ass at home.  He crawled up onto the sofa like he owned the place.

Home alone, I cried out to the cats for help.  After all they spend many evenings staring at the front door, oblivious to the physical properties of glass, trying to kill creepy crawly things on the other side.  I figured I would finally take my payback for all that kibble I have been buying over the years by having them knock off the intruder for me.

First the old cat Lucy tried:

luck and gecko_Fotor3

Now annoying as her ignorance was I figured she is past her prime and perhaps she just couldn’t see the little bugger.  I reluctantly forgave her and went in search of the younger, more spry cat.

ethel and gecko_Fotor2

Son of a bitch!  That pussy just sat her ass down on the couch with the gecko to Netflix and chill or something.  TRAITOR!!!

Sometimes I don’t know why I keep these cats.  Luckily my husband came home in a few minutes and he was able to rescue me using a pickle jar. 

ryan and gecko

My hero!

Questionable Grandparenting

My parents are two of the most normal people you will ever meet.  They are not controversial in any way, shape, or form.  The same cannot be said for my grandparents.  To be honest all four of them were all a little odd, but one of them in particular stole the crazy flag and ran with it.

I called her Memere, which is French for Granny.  She was first generation American as her parents had immigrated from Quebec.  Good ole Memere had a lot of quirks about her beside just speaking in a sort of Fren-glish.  She drank Ancient Age whiskey by the fifth, smoked like a dirty chimney, and said what she thought with no filter.  She was a hell of a lot of fun as a babysitter too!

Occasionally she would entertain my sister and I while my parents went out to dinner.  That is when we really got a show.  Memere would feed us plates of spaghetti bigger then our heads and then for dessert show us how to flip crepes with our bare hands.  Playing with hot pans was something mom never let us do.  It was great fun to see who could get the crepe flipped over best without obtaining third degree burns.

After dinner Memere was known to give lessons in anything from poker to blackjack.  We did a lot of gambling before we reached double digit ages.  Pennies were passed out and the games began.  There was no handicap, it was every man for themselves.   We learned when to go all it, and when you needed to fold.  And oh the joy, when you got to rake in all of your sister’s money as she sat across the table pouting.  What fun!

As the evening went on and the Ancient Age bottle got lighter and lighter the entertainment became a bit of a floor show.  Memere had a dummy, a real genuine ventriloquist’s dummy, and she knew how to use it.  She would sit in her nylon nightgown and house shoes with her cigarette hanging out the side of her mouth and that dummy on her knee.  She would tell jokes and bob his head up and down as my sister and I rolled with laughter.  My sister and I stared in wonder at how Memere was able to keep that cigarette in her mouth the whole time the dummy was talking.  It was really something special.

Being babysat at Memere’s was the five year old’s equivalent to a night on the Vegas Strip.  As we got older though Memere never dulled in her unique ability to care for us.

When I was about nine I asked Memere if she would take me to get a Mother’s Day present for my mom.  She immediately accepted and off we went to Sears.  I had saved up about $35, which was big money in the 1980’s, and I wanted to get something really special for my mom.

Memere and I wandered all around Sears looking for just the right gift.  We passed the kitchen department, the linens, and the women’s wear, and ended up in the lingerie department.  And that is where with Memere’s guidance I found the world’s most inappropriate gift for my mother, and it was perfect!

I was so excited and so proud.  I passed over the counter the black, lacy teddy neglige I had picked out special just for my mom as the sales woman stared back in horror.  Then I slapped my money down on the counter as Memere looked on with an approving smile.  The look of confusion on the sales woman’s face was epic.  I guess you don’t see a kid buying trashy lingerie with her grandma everyday.

When Mother’s Day arrived I was giddy with excitement as mom tore open the package I had carefully wrapped for her.  Boy did she try to look thrilled as she held up that black scrap of sexy lingerie!  I mean what mom wouldn’t be proud to have her nine year old pick out risqué unmentionables for her.  Memere and I looked at one another with knowing grins.  We had done it, we had picked out the best Mother’s Day gift ever.

Childhood with Memere was never dull.  While she never quite had a grasp of the age appropriate, she did know how to show a kid a good time.  That is for damn sure!

Did I just sexually abuse a chicken?

I love cooking!  Ok, that is kind of a lie.  I actually don’t like cooking as much as I adore eating.  Eating is truly a pleasure I indulge in as frequently as possible.  There are very few things in the world that make me happier than stuffing my face.  Thus cooking is really just a means to an end.

Since I love eating so much, it is only natural that I search constantly for superior ways to cook and prepare food.  Last night however, I may have gone too far.

I velveted meat.  It sounds so dirty, like something a fluffer on a porn set might do to someones manly bits.  I did it to chicken.  And I liked it.

Turns out velveting is a secret crappy Chinese food take-out way of tenderizing otherwise tough sinewy meat, which magically transforms it into delicate tender goodness!   Dear god it is special. 

All you do is mix up a paste of egg, oil, wine, cornstarch, and salt.  Then you immerse your sexually vulnerable meat in it for an hour or so.  When you cook that shit up-BAM!  You end up with succulent pieces of meaty heaven.

I may now be a poultry sex offender, but it was totally worth it.

My Pussy Has A Brazilian

You know how sometimes changes sneak up on you.  Like one day everything seems totally normal, and then the next day suddenly shit has gone down and it is a total surprise.

Yeah, well this morning I woke up to this:

cat with brazilian

That is my cat Ethel, and yes, what you are looking at is some kind of Brazilian wax look she has managed to obtain.  Yes, those are her nipples you are looking at, it is scandalous I know. 

cat with brazilian_Fotor

It is actually quite the mystery.  I swear to god yesterday she had a belly full of luscious fur.  Today, naked.  I have a few theories about the missing hair:

A. She is molting.

B. Ethel is so tubby that her belly is dragging on the stairs and nuditizing itself.

C. She is pulling it our herself because of some unknown kitty stress that is serious affecting her sanity.

D. Or perhaps there is some tom-cat that Ethel just wanted to look a little sexy for.

I am now going to have to call the vet and explain that my cat has mysterious awoken with an unexplained bikini wax this morning.  Let’s see how that goes over.

#PETAdon’thatemeIamtakinghertothevet

I am not a midget

Recently I went grocery shopping to pick up the staples for the week.  I needed chicken.  Instead I got some mutant meat from a gigantically boobed chicken.

chicken

For scale you should know that I am not a midget.  My hands are pretty average in size.

Yet somehow this chicken seems to have bigger breasts that I do!  I can only imagine what this bird must have looked like alive.  Dear god!  How did it stand up with boobs that big.  Wouldn’t it just tip over and constantly beak-plant into the ground?  I mean come on!  That is at least a DD cup.  Unbelievable.

I never really had a problem with genetically modifying or hormone treating food, but I think things may be getting a little out of control.  I draw the line when there are a bunch of chickens strutting around barnyards with bigger boobs than me.

I’m no genius, but maybe someone should sell those chicken hormones of the street in the black market.  They could make a mint from people that can’t afford a boob job.

I was thinking about moms

A few weeks ago my husband’s mom, Kay, passed away after a valiant nine year battle with ovarian cancer.  We got to spend a great deal of time with her towards the end, for which I am so grateful.

Watching Ryan deal with grief has left me tumbling through my memories about his mother, mine, and even my grandmothers.  That has been what has stuck me as the simplest, yet easiest thing to forget about life.  When life is over all that is left is the memories.

I only knew her for about six years, but in that time Ryan’s mom furnished my mind with some tremendous and sometimes strange memories.

When I first met her I was terrified, because she was quite possibly the most prim and proper church-going person I had ever seen.  She was a church secretary that knit prayer shawls and always covered her food in the microwave with wax paper.  Her hair was miraculously never out of place nor a nail ever chipped.  It was stunningly astonishing to me to meet someone who actually lived that way.

When Ryan first introduced me to his parents we went to a baseball game, which seemed like a low pressure way to break the ice.  Until their whole church showed up.  As a non-practicing somewhat jaded catholic myself, this was horrifying on so many levels.  I was trying to damn hard not to cuss or fart on accident that I could hardly concentrate on anything else.

As we sat in the bleachers watching a game I knew not a single rule to, in one action Kay made my scared little heart relax just a little.  About halfway through the game that tiny little woman bought herself a foot-long margarita and sucked it down like a champ.  And with that large gulp I knew Kay and I might just get along after all.

A few years later I had finally tricked Ryan into marrying me.  Two weeks before our wedding his house had sold and he was going to  (scandalously) move in with me.  I was in a constant blush as moving commenced in part due to the 100 degree heat, and in other part because the jig was up and it was pretty clear to his parents that I was not a virgin bride.  I was jittery with nerves as we packed up all of Ryan’s spectacularly bacheloresque possessions.

Kay was in the kitchen with me helping to toss out three years expired boxes of cereal and maggot infested flour when we came across a drawer of matches.  I shit you not, it was full of matches.  In Ryan’s quest for frugal living he must have at some point come across a Costco size bargain box of kitchen matches.  Serious, how many matches does a modern man need?  It is not like he was a caveman discovering the convenience of preprepared fire, and besides he doesn’t even like camping.

Seeing the absurdity in having so many matches I tossed one package of them in the moving box and announced that we should leave the rest in the drawer as a “housewarming” gift for the new owners.  Proud of my cleverness and firm in my desire to live an uncluttered home I continued to pack.

Minutes later I turned around to see Kay shoving all eleven remaining packages of kitchen matches into the damn moving box!  Apples And Freaking Trees!  I knew at that instant that my husband to be was truly his mother’s son.  Frugality ran strong with this one.

I shut my mouth and said nothing.  To this day I open my cabinet and think of Kay every time I see the mountain of kindling she smuggled into my house.  She managed to ensure that I will keep her in my memories for decades to come, as I am pretty sure that it will take us 75 years to use up all those freaking matches.

I miss you, Kay.