A couple of days ago while nursing the latest of a long line of toothaches, I decided that I will only be able to subsist on a liquid diet of pureed fruits, all organic, as is befitting my inner svelte goddess.
Having embarked on such a journey, at least in my mind, I decided last night to get out my expensive blender. This blender deserves special mention, as I bought it to match all my other appliances when I lived in a house and not in a hovel, and had dreams of becoming a domestic diva. That one crashed. At any rate, I get out the blender, a 20 pound Black-and-Decker behemoth with shiny chrome accruements, and proceeded to make smoothies as a dessert treat for my family and my best friend who is always game for my impromptu dinner parties. Last night’s theme was white trash cooking, complete with pigs in a blanket, and generic out-of-the-box macaroni and cheese, with a side of “French” green beans (shredded fresh out of the can, no doubt). At any rate, the dessert smoothies were a hit, and the process went off well… almost.
Imagine my surprise when my fancy, expensive blender emitted more noise than a dozen wheat threshers at harvest time. The smell of the pureed fruit that was enjoyed by my diners was lost on me; I was still suspiciously sniffing the hint of acrid burning that I swear still haunts my nostrils. And finally, having lugged the heavy glass container to the sink for a soak, I was disillusioned. Once again.
So my dreams are dashed of having an early morning smoothie before I go off to work my eighteen-hour days. My neighbor, who falls all over herself to make witty conversation with St Timothy of Bad Television, complains if my dog utters a single bark. I am sure she will go into apoplexy if I run my Fruit Mashing Burning Machine yet another time. Living with two loud children, an exuberant dog, and a drunk, I have to ration my noisemaking opportunities.
Guess I will keep using the hotpot to make strong, overly sweet Irish breakfast tea every morning to get that get-up-and-go.
And it will get up and go to my flab. Inner Skinny Chick, Shut Up.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
What a difference a Dexter makes...
As I am driving down the road actually having a real conversation with St Timothy of the Boondocks, it hits me.
“We were driving through the streets back in Rockford, and we were covered in mud, from wheels to the whites of our eyes. Everyone honked or beeped at us, howling, because we had been out in the Jeep, getting into whatever we could get into.”
No, this is not an exact quote. But it made me think. I remember days of bliss and action, doing dumb stuff with my friends - that was priority at that time in my life. And the world honked and waved back, because joy was contagious, or everyone was young once, or some such mutually fuzzy shit. Now my priorities are getting through the day, getting to all my jobs and doing the minimally acceptable amount – because I am too exhausted to do any more that that – and then going home to crash.
Yesterday, I spent the majority of time at home. I did venture forth to consume a bit of mediocre Chinese buffet, which I was unable to do with zeal because I had a hideous toothache. And we grabbed some stuff to make fruit smoothies, because the toothache had me thinking that I would starve and so need to consist on a liquid diet. My inner skinny person stretched and yawned and determined that when all my hideous teeth fall out I will be thin and will do yoga and where belly shirts and hip capris and will drink airy martinis and be elegant and sexy and only slightly curvaceous as I take younger lovers and drive a convertible SUV or perhaps a Mini Cooper. In reality, I went home to nap on the couch and finish watching Season One of Dexter on DVD. And read. And read. And napped. And read.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I am leaving work and a coworker remarks that I look much less frazzled today. Could a day make so much difference?
Anyway, I digress. Those days of bliss and action – where the action was always slightly bizarre but very entertaining – are long gone for me. Yet I cannot bear the alternative. Yesterday, just driving around with the Tiny Tyrant Tara and St Timothy, I came up with about three ideas for essays/articles…. at the very least, blog entries. It was almost as if my joie de vivre, dare I say my Muse? came back.
Scary stuff.
So two things are happening. I am giving less of a shit. And I am happier. And I might even write again.
“We were driving through the streets back in Rockford, and we were covered in mud, from wheels to the whites of our eyes. Everyone honked or beeped at us, howling, because we had been out in the Jeep, getting into whatever we could get into.”
No, this is not an exact quote. But it made me think. I remember days of bliss and action, doing dumb stuff with my friends - that was priority at that time in my life. And the world honked and waved back, because joy was contagious, or everyone was young once, or some such mutually fuzzy shit. Now my priorities are getting through the day, getting to all my jobs and doing the minimally acceptable amount – because I am too exhausted to do any more that that – and then going home to crash.
Yesterday, I spent the majority of time at home. I did venture forth to consume a bit of mediocre Chinese buffet, which I was unable to do with zeal because I had a hideous toothache. And we grabbed some stuff to make fruit smoothies, because the toothache had me thinking that I would starve and so need to consist on a liquid diet. My inner skinny person stretched and yawned and determined that when all my hideous teeth fall out I will be thin and will do yoga and where belly shirts and hip capris and will drink airy martinis and be elegant and sexy and only slightly curvaceous as I take younger lovers and drive a convertible SUV or perhaps a Mini Cooper. In reality, I went home to nap on the couch and finish watching Season One of Dexter on DVD. And read. And read. And napped. And read.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I am leaving work and a coworker remarks that I look much less frazzled today. Could a day make so much difference?
Anyway, I digress. Those days of bliss and action – where the action was always slightly bizarre but very entertaining – are long gone for me. Yet I cannot bear the alternative. Yesterday, just driving around with the Tiny Tyrant Tara and St Timothy, I came up with about three ideas for essays/articles…. at the very least, blog entries. It was almost as if my joie de vivre, dare I say my Muse? came back.
Scary stuff.
So two things are happening. I am giving less of a shit. And I am happier. And I might even write again.
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