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Puberty Love

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If you found this blog because of a dirty Google search, get help you perverted bastard. This is not a sick tale. I mean it is, just not in that way.

The sick part is how I take such pleasure in the routine torture of my family with remnants of my somewhat twisted childhood. My brother and I are products of the slight neglect of parents who had a great sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. The Hubster and company tend to think I’m making stuff up about my childhood as my brother and I always believed my father made up every song he sang while grocery shopping.

I have to prove my childhood memories. “I swear Attack of the Killer Tomatoes is a real movie!” My brother and I watched it every chance we got. Again, being the children of parents who tended to leave us be as long as we didn’t burn down the house (not that we didn’t try), we got lots of chances, late at night, when the Boogey Man roamed the streets.

My brother used to cue me to scream like this:

I rocked the crazy scream. It made big brother giggle. I did it silently during confirmation classes (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived). If I were not the old lady soccer mom that I am (I am that I am), I would make a great scream queen.

The hardest sell for those in tow of my thrilling reenactment is that the killer tomatoes are defeated by:

That’s right. As Video Killed the Radio Star, so too Puberty Love killed the killer tomatoes. My family might argue that my rendition of the same killed any interest they had in hearing more of my childhood memories, but that won’t stop me from spending the next few days singing Puberty Love.

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We should all be so well edited.

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No one questioned the published writing of the other 9-YO with whom I worked. Seriously, you can’t just be happy for the boy?

Here are the facts:
1) I showed him spell check.
2) He conducted interviews and used the interviewee’s words in paraphrasing.
3) Your favorite author could be a dictater.
4) Multiple drafts were involved.
5) There is an editor on the other end who is trying to foster good writing in kids and at the same time has a responsibility to the reading public.
6) Yes, the 9-YO boy wrote the article.
7) You can kiss my ass.

The editor has deleted the exciting conclusion of this blog because she’s pretty sure I can’t threaten to kill people.

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These are the days, my friends…

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I should start at the top of the morning. The 9-YO boy debuted his mad skillz as a photojournalist. He’s got reporting in his blood from Gramp-A-Long and a fair amount of language ability from both Gigi and Grammanina. Also, as he reported to KOLD, his mom is always at school and I guess his boredom with that or my insistence that he entertain himself inspired him. The story was written one morning after a Borton Community Garden meeting and during the time I take the girl’s class into the garden. Use the link since my scanned copy, well you can see the problem with it.


Then the Friday routine hit with the BELL coffee cart (donations welcome), frequent readers help (the 6-YO made a book mark and earned two books to reward her, er, frequent reading), work for pay, then help the newly single mechanic watch himself and his kid on television (Did you hear that girls? I have a single male friend who can fix stuff AND be daddy about school). Around lunch, I came home to find gently used shorts for the boy and these freshly picked goodies.


These oranges are HUGEMONGOUS! That’s one of the largest bowls we have and you can see the oranges dwarf it. I need a new descriptor for my friends because they are beyond “awesome” and “generous” to the degree of “intergalactic” and “magnanimous” or something like that. OH! I needn’t neglect reporting the glorious package from the artiste in Oklahoma with 50 YO heirloom 4 o’clock and lemon basil seeds, pet rocks, a pep talk, a totem for the chicks, and an indication that my pal also loves credit unions.


Oh, but that’s not the end of the day. The librarian sent to the planet to make my life wonderful set up a little RR viewing on the big screen. Robyn, point out to your mother that one of her hand sewn dresses made it onto national television. If you look carefully, I’m person in the crowd 1, person in the crowd 2, person in the crowd 3 ….


Hawt Mz was mas bella tan siempre (I’m trying to learn Spanish again), if a bit touchy at being the center of the universe for all of 3 minutes. HM, I know you love math, so how about this equation? 15-3= 12 more minutes of fame to account for. What’s next?

I hope it never ends.

Incognito on Rachael Ray

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The episode of Rachael Ray featuring the hard work of Hawt Mz. Molly and crew will be aired on March 6th. If you follow the link, there are two pictures of yours truly in a flash format, so I couldn’t easily steal them. Now do you think that’s fair? Neither do I, so I learned how to poach images. BTW, I’m not saying Ultimate taught me how to do that photo stealing trick, but you know, if you need some computer work done he knows his shiznit. If they threaten me, I’ll tear the photos down asap (or as soon as possible, Brett, whichever comes first) so look quickly.


Photo 1. ‘Member my pal who teaches me how to fix my car? ‘Member the guy who taught me how to use power tools? Well, he and I totally built this farm stand. By “he and I” I mean he did the work while preventing me from circular sawing off my oppositional thumb (it’s like the rest of me). I am not clearly in this photo, but my work is. Unclearly, I am in the back ground in the jeans and whiteish shirt next to my pal Lori who didn’t sign a release and loudly cursed while proclaiming her judgeship. She did sign a release later, but she claimed it was bullshit. Judges get to talk like that.


Photo 2. I’m way more clearly in this photo. See me? Behind the kale? I cropped (oh, an unintentional, but awesome garden pun) out the rest of the photo, but you can follow the link to see the whole thing.

If this is going to be the most highly rated Rachael Ray show of all time, you need to tune in on March 6th and watch it. If for some reason, they air me not in obscurity, there is an antidote. Rubbing sand in your eyes will rid you of this vision.

Jesus Can Suck It

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With Ash Wednesday almost over I’ve made no Lenten promises. Just as well. In no way, large or small, have I been the sort of reflective, repentant, renunciationitive* Christian my parents and community of worship has taught me to be during this finite time each year.

I didn’t go to church for ashing (sloth). My diet consisted of potato chips, ice scream sandwiches, chocolate, and soda pop (gluttony). I ruminated over hawt Mz. Molly freezing her ass in Rockefeller Center (envy). I overly enjoyed the visage of my sparkly daughter in her sparkly hippster hat (pride). I stole kisses from an unwilling 9 YO boy (greed). I pinched the hubster’s behiney while he did dishes (c’mon who wouldn’t lust over all those clean dishes!).

AND THEN – I dropped $3.04 and the F bomb at Sonic. Ignoring the fact that the fam is on a spending freeze and I shouldn’t even be enjoying Happy Hour, I wanted an iced tea. We nearly hit 90 degrees today! When it came, I asked if the car hop brought sugar. “You should have asked for that when you ordered.” What? I just tipped the bitchette a buck. She can’t give me some damn sugar with a smile? “I’d like a packet of sugar,” I insisted. Clearly unhappy, the carhop walks away in a manner I’m sure my parents recall from 1985 or so. Not that I would ever have rolled my eyes at a dorky adult who couldn’t order right. The car hop returns later with pink packets. Pink packets! Is she TRYING to give me Alzheimer’s? “No thanks,” I say. Then as I turn to back up I say “I just wanted some fucking sugar” to the slushy grins of my children. Rooster plucking mother trucker! (WRATH ALL OVER THE PLACE.)

You know, I haven’t eaten red meat today. That’s always a good Lenten promise. Okay. Phew! I feel all better now. I love you Jesus!

* Okay, I made that word up because I love alliteration. It just goes to show (internal rhyme) how much I suck at Lent as I ignore all the rules.

Begging Your Pardon

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Daddy-o’s thought for the day for February 19th:

One who forgives an affront fosters friendship, but one who dwells on disputes will alienate a friend. Proverbs 17:9


From childhood I was taught to seek Jesus in everyone. The result is that I’m easy pickings for spare change requests. Earlier this week I was accosted at the grocery by a guy who wouldn’t shut it on his beg. This guy wouldn’t let up. He stood there blah blahing while I loaded the groceries from my cart to my car. I finally said, “That’s enough. I have $2 you are welcome to all of it.” I also gave him a banana. He walked off without even returning my cart as people usually do when I give them cash. That’s was definitely NOT Jesus nor even a friend.

Later I received a real-time communication that read, “Shouldn’t you be out raising chickens or saving the world or something?” I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist. The writer immediately slammed the virtual door upon making this quip, leaving me no chance to reply. Well, looky here. I haven’t blogged since Daisy died and it’s not because I’m in mourning (though that really SUCKED). I’ve been living my not so fabulous life.

The past week, this life has required two souls to execute it and so the Hubster has helped as my right handed man – Mr. Right in all the right ways. Today as I was buried under Girl Scout cookie boxes, the Hubster attended church services for me. He summarized the sermon for me in part:

[The sermonizer] preached about “sodomy” as “inhospitality” in sacred ancient texts, not ass sex. Jesus didn’t talk about sex, he talked about the poor and the sick.

Other than this being HI-larious, as are most things the Hubster says, I am reminded of the myriad ways I’ve been inhospitable this past week. On the other hand, a friend delivered the most thoughtful apology this weekend. An apology shouldn’t have been required had I been more heartfully hospitable. More indication that my friends are way more awesomer than I – except for Wampus. He’s a snark and I can’t wait for the chance to slam the virtual door after I cut him to the quick with my quick wit. If only I had one.

A Breath of Fresh Air

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Those who know and love me understand that I am going to let them down at the holidays. It’s just not my thing – not that I haven’t tried. Not that I haven’t tried to do it up, that is, not not that I haven’t tried to let folks down. It’s inevitable that I let you down, because even though I try, I’m not that good at doing it up. Huh?

Point is, I suck at holidays regardless of my intention, but I’m a spectacular holiday voyeur. If I were to do Valentine’s Day for all ya’ll, I’d give you the gift of clean, fresh air. TreeHugger just posted a list of the plants I would consider for you. How cute is this Philodendron oxycardium (in lay terms, heartleaf philodendron)? It’s perfect for Valentine’s Day and a good air filterer to boot (whatever “to boot” means). Incidentally, you can buy a whole book, How to Grow Fresh Air: 50 House Plants that Purify Your Home or Office, on this subject. Maybe you could even pair the plant and book.*

I’m sure that I’m breaking some bloggy rule by reposting for a third year in a row an excerpt from a Valentine’s Day past post, but no one is paying attention anyway. This year, I think I might rather like some Garbage Soup.

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February 12, 2007

Please don’t go out on Valentine’s Day and drop a chunk of change on flowers that were coated in pesticides, kept in a green house, and shipped across the country. What is that supposed to say? “I love you so muchly that I’m giving you something unnaturally begotten. Also, in its making a part of the world was poisoned. Lastly, even with the aspirin dissolving in the water, it’s doomed to die leaving nothing to show for the cash. THIS is the symbol of my love for you.” Please. Save your money.**

…

I am compelled to request that you forget the expensive roses! Instead, share this recipe for Garbage Soup, from Dining with the Desert Museum* (with editorial). It would be good for your wallet, the environment, and an honest statement about the longevity of love.

INGREDIENTS:
water (the elixir of life)
vegetable waste (eggplant sounds like elegant fare for a Valentine dinner, but gack!)
coffee grounds (from the pot you shared over morning breath)
eggshells (you already walked on them so they are nicely crushed)
other similar kitchen waste (so not the shit you sling at each other like monkeys after the kids are in bed)
not grease (this is about living plants not the yummy goodness of slaughtered lambs)

DIRECTIONS: Chop waste in food processor or blender with equal parts water. Mix it up until it’s as convoluted as your fights. Bury soup around outer edges of plants along side the hatchet.

Commercial fertilizers can kill beneficial microorganisms in the soil. This recipe for plants can be used in lieu of those fertilizers. Can you feel the love?

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* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

** Populist, perhaps you could illuminate for us the reasons why guys buy temporary tokens of their love as you told me outright last year, “Your understanding about why men give Valentine’s gifts is obviously different from mine.” I’m willing to wager dollar to dime even in this recession that you know a damn sight more on the subject than I do. What would Grace think?

My House of Carbs

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Look at this, wouldja? Just look it! Robyn gave me some Amish Friendship bread.


Robyn isn’t Amish. I think she just wanted a bloggy shout out. She’s such a blog whore. If it were possible for me to exist in Arizona, or Earth for that matter, without Robyn – forget it. It’s not possible and I don’t want to contemplate an Earth without her. I wanted to hate her friendship bread because she’s always so sickeningly spectacular (Girl Scout leader, social worker, gaiety engineer), but I couldn’t. The crust was sweet and chewy, the center oh so moist. I still don’t want a baggie of dough sitting on my counter cluttering my tidy collection of clutter, thank you very much, but I’ll take more bread.

Ah, but this wasn’t my only gift of grub. The Interim Rector’s wife gave me some of her Irish soda bread.


Her ingredient list includes currants, orange peel, and brandy. Add some butter and lightly toast it. HEY OH! She recommends marmalade or honey as a topper. I have it pictured here with the last bit of the Hubster’s aunt’s pepper jelly. You wouldn’t want to use it, but it sure makes a pretty picture.

Once again my friends shine with generosity.