Lately I haven’t posted much, not because I haven’t been writing posts, but because all of the posts I have written are so horrendously depressing I felt guilty at the thought of forcing people to read them. I’m not kidding those posts would suck the happy out of a room quicker than a turd in the punch bowl. Anyway, I figured today perhaps I should write something that will not make even the vampires bleed tears.
So let’s talk about the X Box. My husband has our X Box hooked up to do facial recognition and voice control for our television. Honestly it is scary as shit to think that the folks over at Microsoft get a live feed of me streaking across the living room to get my pants from the dryer, but I try not to ruminate on it too much. Besides all the other things the X Box does with the television are pretty cool.
It is fun to sit down and have the television pop up an avatar of you and say, “Hi Kelly.” But honestly I feel like I missed out on a little opportunity there. I should have given myself a more interested name so X Box would say something fun like, “Hi You Sexy Dame, You,” or, “Hi Glitter-Bug Yum Yum,” or maybe, “Hi Brilliant and Ravishing Goddess of All Things Good In The World,” so that every time I watch television I get a little self esteem boost.
Aside from just welcoming me X Box lets me do all sorts of other things like changing channels and inputs just by talking to it. Which is awesome, except my mouth seems broken. When I want to watch a DVD I have to switch the input. So I say, “X Box go to Blue Ray Player.” The problem is every damn time I try to say that what falls out of my mouth is something to the effect of, “X Box go to Boo Way Player.” At which time the X Box chastises me and is like, “What the fuck lady, I don’t know what the hell you want me to do. Learn to talk right, dammit!” I have tried and tried to say it correctly, but it always comes out wrong. Thank god I have no speech impediment in real life; mine seems only to emerge when speaking to electronics. I have no idea why. I suspect Nargles steal my ability to speak clearly to the X Box. #Nargles #Firstworldproblems
I suffer from chronic foot in mouth disease, which is basically an affliction causing me to vigorously shove my own foot into my mouth using only my words. It afflicts me more than I would like to admit.
I find myself constantly saying shit and then realizing I have inadvertently insulted someone. Or worse, I give an opinion only to recognize that I have horrified everyone in the room, or I instantly look foolish as said opinion is promptly ruled ridiculous by the party at large. This leads me to believe I should never, ever say what I am thinking because somehow it is always wrong. It is also the reason I don’t like leaving my house; when I am sent into the wild there is no telling what will spew from my lips. Probably a foot, actually, as chances are I have already managed to shove it in there.
It seems safer just to shut up and never say anything out loud. Once I have shoved my foot in my mouth I feel so terrible that I want to crawl in a hole and die. This ins and outs of interpersonal communication baffle me. Just when I think I’m doing ok I say some shit and then commence the sleepless night replaying it in my head and cringing. Nothing I can say can make anything better. It totally blows.
I just want to be a good person, but it is really hard to exist with my mouth taped shut.
Does anyone else miss catalogs? Growing up I loved it when that giant Sears catalog would fill up our mailbox. It was more than just toilet paper for my grandpa; inside one glossy tome you could peruse anything from a mail order house to toys.
Personally I spent most of my time looking at the jewelry section. Even as a young girl I still preferred shiny bobbles to anything else. I spent hours staring at pages littered with glorious gemstones. One page would show off tens of different offerings. I loved it.
I went page by page and picked out my dream piece on each one. Time melted away as glittering daydreams kept me occupied. Then I learned that if you cut carefully you could make paper jewelry. I meticulously trimmed out all my favorite piece and cut slits in the backs of the rings, necklaces, and bracelets. Then I could wear them. A little tape on the back of the earrings and voila, you had yourself a brand new pair of stunners. It turns out all those little jewelry pieces were printed fairly life size if you are an industrious enough eight year old and are willing to power through a few paper cuts around your neck.
Now the days of those mammoth books delivered straight to your mailbox are gone. Instead web pages display wears, but somehow it is just not the same. I miss the smell of the fresh ink and the crinkle of the pages as I flipped through them. And I really miss being able to try on my favorites.
The Grammy’s were last night. I didn’t watch them, but it did remind me of a question that has baffled me for many years. How come British and Australian people have accents when they talk but not when they sing? WTF?
I don’t even want to admit how long it took me to figure out that Adele was a Brit. She sounds like a damn red blooded American when she sings. But listen to her talk and the vowels are stretched as far as possible. It’s bizarre. How come she doesn’t sing that way?
Last week I saw Keith Urban on the Today show. That is about the time I remembered he was Australian because you would never know that when you hear him sing. He sounds like he is straight out of Nashville, not New South Wales.
And Mumford and Sons are the worst offenders. They sound more American than the Beach Boys when they sing. Yet somehow they are from England!
I do not understand. Why is it that singing erases accents? The only accent I have found that is strong enough to remain even in song is the god-damned southern drawl. Of course that would be the one that sticks.
As part of the Great De-Clutter of 2017 I have been trying to organize and thin my recipe collection. This is no small task as I collect recipes like normal people scrapbook. I make special little spots for them mounted on white paper in nice clear sleeves.
The problem is I never throw out the ones I make and do not particularly adore. That is how I wound up with three notebooks full plus an ever growing pile of clippings waiting to be cemented into my treasured notebooks.
So this week I have begun the surprisingly painful process of ridding myself of the recipes that did not pan out. During this process I discovered my grandmother’s pork stuffing recipe. When I was a little kid I would freaking beg for this stuff. Every Thanksgiving she would make a big bowl of heaping grey stuffing and I would pile my plate as high as my mom would let me.
Now looking at the recipe I am horrified that I ever ate it at all, much less bagged for it. For the love of god all it is it ground pork with a bit of seasoning and a potato. I was literally eating a pile of pure ground pig.
I got a little curious if anyone else eats pork stuffing so I did some digging on the inter-tubes. I got a few hits that looked promising. But when I clicked on the first few sites they were all, “Did you mean dressed pork chops, or pork roast? Who the hell would eat pork dressing, you weirdo?” After being chastised by the internet I was starting to wonder if the recipe was just something my ever unique grandmother made up.
The third hit down game me a little clarification. It directed me to “Yankee Bread Stuffing,” which seemed totally promising since my grandmother was from Rhode Island. Upon closer examination it was kinda similar. It at least had ground pork as an ingredient along with celery, onion, and bread. It definitely had a bit more going on flavor wise than the pile of pork I used to eat.
After clicking through some more hits it seems apparent that only my carnivorous family ate their dressing sans bread or at least a bit of celery. In the end the pork dressing recipe from my grandmother is a keeper. I can’t imagine actually making it to feed to someone, but its part of me and so it stays.
I have that sensation like the ground has been pulled out from under me and my stomach is dropping to my knees. I have two friends going through terrifying medical ordeals, the kind you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. Both of them are coping amazingly well. They are calm and collected and both are facing each new challenge with strength. I would never have a chance of handling the situation half as well as they are if it had befallen me.
Anytime something like this happens it makes you think. I know I should be grateful for every healthy day I have. I should pay attention to all the little things that happen everyday. So today I am going to rejoice as I clean up the litter box because I feel good and healthy and lucky. Cat shit has never seemed so uplifting before. Here’s hoping my friends will both feel well enough to happily shovel shit someday soon too!
I would like to talk about an issue that is near and dear to my heart. Technically I suppose it is more near to my nether region. Can we talk about the perils of lady’s underwear?
I do not understand why science has not yet mastered the construction of panties. All I want in the world are some under-roos that don’t roll down when I sit, floss my butt crack when I walk, or cut off my circulation from overly aggressive elastic. Is that too much to ask?
We can put a freaking man on the moon, but we can’t seem to engineer comfortable knickers. I feel like the whole industry thinks I want to either have a string up my ass or bikinis so low riding they slowly work their way to the ground.
I get downright jealous when I watch my husband slip into some cozy looking baggy shorts for his underwear. Meanwhile I am left to squeeze into my cotton/poly blend cellulite suckers and hope for the best.
Recently I have realized there are several jobs for which I would totally kick ass at:
1. Ice Cream Taster (I never get brain freeze. Perhaps I just have an exceptionally warm mouth…or I may be lacking a brain. The jury is still out.)
2. Kitten Snuggler
3. Sloth Race Winner (That’s a race with all sloths…except for me…and I would totally win.)
4. Sofa Tester
5. Massage Therapy Test Dummy (People could rub my back all day long, you know, for practice.)
6. Cheese Maker
7. Movie and Television Critic
8. Professional Napper (I would get paid to take naps for people who don’t have time to take their own naps.)
9. Plastic Peeler (I will come to your house and peel that amazingly thin layer of plastic off all your new electronics.)
10. Palace and Castle Squatter (Have a palace, or a castle? Need someone to live in it for you? I’m your girl!)
I’m writing up my new resume now.
I have had a new writing buddy for the last few weeks. His name is George and he has been visiting while my parents are on vacation. George is an little elderly man, but boy does he make a great foot warmer! I’m telling you he is better than lamb’s wool lined slippers. Every morning when I sit down to write George has plopped himself down right under my desk and on top of my feet. He is so damn toasty and fluffy! It’s spectacular. Every writer should have one of these dogs!
I know it is hard to see from this picture, but I promise he has a head.
See here it is.
Unfortunately the interloper seems to have annoyed my original writing buddy. She finds everything about this situation bothersome.
Yesterday I went on an adventure and had a craniosacral therapy session. I went thinking it was going to be a regular old “rub me down until I am loose like cooked spaghetti” massage. It was not. Apparently it is a kind of massage where the therapists manipulates the synarthrodial joints of the cranium. This is supposed to flush your body of the toxins in your cerebrospinal fluid. Now my pervious understanding was that all you had to do to flush the toxins was to sleep and your body would woosh away all the bio-trash. According to the therapist that is true but stress and inflammation can cause your systems to struggle to do this on their own. This was all news to me. But ever the curious patient I let her have a go and treat me.
Instead of rubbing down my muscles Swedish style, the therapist moved my head about and pressed her fingers around on my face. It was not unlike what you see blind people do when meeting a new person in the movies. Then she fussed with my lower back. At one point she was cradling me on the table like a giant baby with one hand under my head and the other positioned precariously under my bum-ish area. I managed to stifle my laughter at the bizarreness of it all and surprisingly the session did seem to clear my sinuses. And to be totally honest I felt a little taller when I stood up at the end.
Then when I got home I looked craniosacral therapy up on Wikipedia. It unfortunately falls into the category of pseudo-medicine and its benefits are labeled as placebo. Oops! It was relaxing, but I think I prefer plain old massage to having my cerebrospinal fluid cleared. Live and learn…live and learn.