Sunday, August 28, 2011

Brownies a go-go

These visuals go with the previously posted blog on how to make microwave mug brownies.  So simple, so fast, so naughty!  Remember: whatever you do, do NOT overcook the brownies or you'll be eating rubber brownies and be feeling mighty sad that your brownies suck.

(1) Find a mug and three minutes of your time:
 Gather ingredients--see actual recipe in previous blog entry OR via the link provided to the actual recipe:
 Mix the wet ingredients:
 Mix the dry ingredients.  Stir like there is no tomorrow.  I used a fork. The recipe says use a whisk.  I've never used a whisk in my life and don't plan on starting now:
 Nuke in microwave.  DO.NOT.OVERCOOK!
 Optional: Shove a Dove Dark Chocolate into the nuked brownie.  I made that part up:
 Optional: Put a bunch of ice cream or frozen yogurt on top of your mugged brownie.  I made this part up, too:
 Three total minutes later, Brownie in a mug!  Enjoy immediately.  Do not wait...not that you would:
 The hardest part? Cleaning the mug once you're done.
Thank you, oh great creator of the Microwave Mug Brownie!

For more specific information, please see my previous post.  For more more specific information, read the real thing:  Microwave Mug Brownie
Mugging Brownies on a Sunday

Before I get yipping about home made microwave brownies, previews of a new movie coming out and eating lunch at a local grocery story, I want to give a shout out to the new next door neighbor dog....who is 20 years old.

That's right: a dog that's TWENTY years old.   How many is that in dog years??? According to several websites, 20 years in a dogs like translates to "only" 93 human years.  I thought it would be longer.  What do I know?

I've never known a 20 year old dog, so I was pretty skeptical.  I've heard the record is 26 years old, but I personally have never known a dog over the age of 17, so I couldn't even imagine what a 20 year old dog would look like. I figured it'd have to be blind, deaf and in a dog walker. Well Ol' Salty is 20 and looking mighty spry.  He even jumps up on the door when he wants to get in to the house.  And, I do mean jump.  The age of the dog has been confirmed by many a source, so I know it to be true.  It's a cocker spaniel, in case you are wondering.  I'll try and sneak a photo for the blog. 


Twenty!  Do you hear that Freckles?  You've got some potential mileage ahead of you. 


Enough about the dog. I want to talk about homemade microwave mug brownies.  I was dying for something chocolate yesterday and was too lazy to drag my sorry you-know-what out of the house.  As I had spent most of the day on Book de la Face (a great time killer for when I'm on call and can't do much of anything, anyways), I was already seated in front of the computer.  I typed in "microwave mug cake," as I lost my previous recipe (how lame is this: it is posted in one of blog postings, but I was too lazy to even try and find it).  When I went to one of the food sites, I ran into Microwave Mug Brownies.  Oh my!  I like brownies a whole lot more than I like cake, so I was all excited about this.  I perused the ingredients and was uber-glad to see we actually had all the simple things needed.  Didn't even need eggs, which is awesome because we don't have any eggs and I'm trying to avoid eggs (vegan-esque reasons, no other reason). The wife didn't look too thrilled about me making anything, but I assured her it looked really, really simple.  Besides, it didn't involve the oven and I promised to share with her.


This recipe happens to be from Food.com. The link is Microwave Chocolate Mug Brownie Recipe - Food.com - 349246 I cannot take any credit besides making my own batch and having huge success.  I profess my love for the person who invented this tasty tidbit. 

All you need is: one mug (needs to be 12 oz size or I guess bigger, just not smaller); 2 TB butter (melted); 2 TB water; 1/4 tsp vanilla; 4 TB granulated sugar (thankfully, the sugar box used those exact words because I wasn't too sure about the whole granulated thing); 2 TB cocoa powder; 4 TB flour.  As I thought the mix in the mug looked a teeny, weeny bit dry, I put a drop or two (and I do mean only a drop) of EVOO (do I sound like Rachel when I say it that way?).  You mix the butter, water and vanilla first (right in the mug--don't you dare be making dirty dishes) and then keep mixing in the dry ingredients in the order listed here.  Pop that mug into the microwave for 60 seconds (or like 10 seconds more if you have a wimpy microwave) and wa-la--Brownies!!!!!

Seriously!  Brownies in a mug.  Even the wife had to admit they were very, very good.  The blop of frozen yogurt next to it made it even better. I will make one tonight and then post a few photos. 

My suggestions for your mug brownies? (1) Do not overcook it, or you'll be eating rubber.  (2) Eat it right away or you'll be eating rubber later on.  (3) Eat ice cream along with it--oh my, takes it to a whole 'nother level.  (4) Put a Dove Dark Chocolate right in the middle immediately upon taking it out of the microwave and push it down into that brownie.  To.die.for.  I suppose you could nuke the mug brownie with the chocolate in it, but I didn't try that so I am not recommending it.  You try it and get back to me. (5) It's over 500 calories--and, that is without the ice cream--so, you might want to share (but, I did NOT want to share with anyone because that's how much I liked it).

Speaking of food, the wife and I have discovered a favorite new place to go out for lunch: the local grocery store.  (We are so lame!) Now, if you live near a Foods Whole store, you are not going to be surprised by this, as Foods Whole have all sorts of salad bars, sushi bars, even olive bars and they are designed to give you a place to get some wholesome food from a bar.  Around here, not so much.  We have to drive over an hour to get to a Foods Whole, which is pretty far to go to eat lunch in a grocery store. We've got nothing unless you count the local buffet places and those don't count for anything healthy. Imagine our surprise when we stopped in to grab a salad and found a mighty tasty place to grab a bite to eat.  Delish, vegetarian friendly, hot, quick, well-made.  We went there two days in a row, we liked it so much the first time. 

The only complaint I had was I didn't notice any desserts....but, that's why they invented mug brownies.  Who needs dessert when mug brownies can be found at home?

As for the movie, tonight the MTV music video awards will feature the first official clip from the upcoming movie "The Hunger Games."  (Hate to put the real title into my blog post, as I'm never sure I want people looking for a specific topic accidentally finding the blog and confusing them to the point they need therapy...but, this movie needs the real title included or you won't know what the hell I am talking about.)  Read the books, loved 'em, can't wait for the movie.  They are supposed to be books for "young adults," which means they are in the same genre as Harry Potter books.  Very dark story, but don't let that stop you.  Well, if you don't like the idea of teens murdering each other, you might want to think twice....but, the murders are part of a game and there is no way around them, so read at your own risk.  Well written,  I think.  I read each book twice and will probably read them again before movie comes out next spring. I can't imagine translating the books into a movie, but here's hoping they can capture at least most of the story in an acceptable manner.  Thanks to Argo Warrior Princess and Three Hawk for introducing me to Katniss...and, may the odds be ever in your favor.

Bet Peeta woulda made Katniss a microwave mug brownie once the games were over.....

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

And, I feel fine (part II)

Well, I don't know how that last post posted on its own, but it did...and, thus I take that as a sign from the Universe that I am supposed to leave it there, unfinished in my mind, but finished in the Universe's mind.  Who am I to argue with Universe?  So, go back, read what got posted, then come back here and read what I would have written had I written it in the first place.

(NOTE: there used to be a photo here of Lady Gaga dressed as a drag king; however, I removed it lest I have legal issues of the copywrite kind.  Thank you for your understanding.  Envision a photo right here and then keep reading.)

Side note: This is Mother Monster.  Father Monster?  I dunno.  I am all good with Lady Gaga playing drag king.  Why not? It's not original and she makes one ugly dude...but, I can't be the only one hoping she shows up at the MTV Music Awards on Sunday night dressed in drag.

So, I really did get a coupon for ob tampons in the mail, which is awesome not only because I'll save a dollar, but also because it demonstrates that ob's are back on the shelves (albeit without my precious purple boxed bundles of love).  The company has no intention of bringing the ob Ultra back....why, I do not know.  Someone high-up muckity-muck in the company must have gotten wind of a toxic-shock-syndrome scandal in the making and bailed before poop hit the fan.  (I am making that up.  Totally making that up. TOTALLY.MADE.UP! Don't sue me for saying that.  I have no idea why the company got rid of its most beloved product.)  So, we the sullen sisters of the ob Ultra, remain at the mercy of Bay E to buy boxes of ob Ultras at $45--or more--a pop. 


That is NOT a typo.  That is over one dollar per tampon.

Actually, when you think of it that way, it doesn't sound as bad.....does it?


As for the end of the world, well I am not sold, although I do get nervous when I think about how I was taught way back when (probably in some CCD class or maybe in some World History class or maybe it was in that movie with the "666" mark of the beast--I can't recall...details, details) that the An*T*chryst was alive and well on the planet, born in the middle east in 1962.  This was disconcerting to me not because some An*T*chryst was zipping around the planet--I was concerned that I might be the An*T*chryst because I was born in 1962.  (Maybe I didn't learn this in CCD.  Maybe I was a more disturbed child than I ever imagined.) I wasn't born in the Middle East but I was born in the Middle West--er, the Midwest.  Not much of a stretch.

For the record, I am not the An*T*chryst. 

(Please note: I am using "An*T*chryst" because I'm REALLY not in the mood to have all sorts of people googling the "real An*T*chryst word" and thus accidentally end up on my blog when what they really want is to find Bible verses to quote when the fire is pouring down upon them.  I have enough trouble without having people freak out about the end of the world while visiting the Addiverse. I have a lack of ultra tampons to worry about.  I don't have time for that nonsense.)

It is going to be a LONG 18 or so months, with this supposed end of the world creeping upon us.  If the past three day's three earthquakes--one of which was so minor (the California one) that it would have NEVER been reported or even noticed had the other two not first occurred--are signs we are doomed, I am going to be so disappointed.  Don't you think it should be bigger and grander and shinier?

I think a bigger sign of the potential end is that "She who must not be named" is hovering around the Iowa cornfields waiting to make an announcement.  Poised, waiting, hovering.  Of course, her supporters think the An*T*chryst is in the White House, and I really can't argue, as he is a middle-eastern-descent man born in almost 1962.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am going to be SO MAD if it turns out I voted for the An*T*chryst!


The media is going to make this end of world thing SO much worse.  They are going to get everyone all stirred up a billion times more than they would have been had we been left to our own devices.  I better start stocking up now before everyone starts hoarding emergency survival supplies like Hershey bars and bottles of expensive vodka.

If only I had stocked up on ob Ultra tampons.....


And, I feel fine

Three earthquakes in three days in three different places!  OMG, it IS the end of the world as we know it!  Take cover! Grab a bible. Hell, grab a bottle!

And, like ol' REM says, I feel fine.

Maybe I shouldn't feel fine, but I just got coupon for ob tampons in the mail (thanks, sisters of the LLL), so I know all is well in the Universe.
 
http://youtu.be/Z0GFRcFm-aY

Friday, August 19, 2011

Clear As Mud

This photo brought to you by this year's Japanese Beetles.  I.hate.them!

This is a first in the Addiverse: I am writing this post while seated in an ER cubicle.  I do so love a new adventure.  No worries--I'm not here for me or for anyone you know.  I'm here for work, sitting with a client, while I serve as the on-call supervisor.  I wish I could tell you the story, as it is very fitting for the Addiverse, but it would not be appropriate.  Every once in awhile, I squeak out  a bit of professionalism.


Remember the days when there were HUGE signs in ERs warning that cell phone use was strictly prohibited? Well, I guess those days are done because I'm sitting in an ER and I'm using the Internet...using THEIR Wi-Fi connection. Earlier, I was using my smart phone to make comments on Book de la Face.  I'm on call using an on call cell phone.  I love technology.  Makes having to stay up all night much less painless.


I find it quite telling that I forgot to bring a snack along but remembered to bring my computer. I never go to the ER without a snack because you never know how long you'll get stuck there.  Well, this was quite the faux pas as the ER iss packed, the labs are backed up like the landing pattern at O'Hare and the problem my client is experiencing is not exactly a life-threatening event.  (Well, I suppose it could be.  I'm no doctor and I don't play one on TV.  I'm gonna feel really bad if it turns out to be something awful. Boy, I so want to talk about the symptoms.....so appropriate for me, so inappropriate to share.  Damn confidentiality!)


Back to me, girl in need of a snack.  This was what I had planned on blogging about: the clear as mud-ness of being a perimenopausal woman.


Those of you who are or who have been my age will understand my confusion.  Those of you who are male or much younger will not understand one bit.  Well, piss on you!  I stand in solidarity with my perimenopausal sisters. 

Here's the thing: I have a variety of mysterious "things" going on in my body right now.  I hate to call them symptoms, as I am not sure the things I am experiencing are anything of any consequence.  I can't tell what might be what. Is it my thyroid? Is it perimenopause? Is it mental illness? Is it stress? Is it an existing medical issue? Is it a new medical issue?  Is it my pathetic sugar-based diet? Is it the remnants of eating s'mores at every meal for a week? Is it some of these, all of these, none of these?  I don't feel like I'm stressed.  I think I'm shooting eggs out without issue. I think it's pretty normal that someone my age can't remember things and gain a pooch....but, really: How the hell does anyone my age ever figure out what something is or isn't?  It hurts my head. 

Everything is clear as mud. 

To seek knowledge, I went to webmd and plugged in my "symptoms."  I am here to tell you that webmd doesn't do much more than scare the poop out of you--it adds terror to your confusion. So, I may have one of 20 issues, 8 of which are frightening to consider, 10 of which seem plausible and two of which focus on having gas.  Since everything I type in seems to overlap with everything else, I know no more than I did before doing all that research and thus will go with having gas.

Since I'm in the ER, I thought about submitting my name for medical services when I registered the client for emergency services. 
I decided against that because I am not in an emergency. I am confused, not in crisis.  Of course, one look around the ER waiting room suggests that the majority of people here are not in an emergency, either.  I mean, someone just ordered a pizza and had it delivered to the ER waiting room.  Who the hell does that? People in crisis? Not! 

Hint: If you want immediate attention in an ER, grasp your chest and make sure "chest pain" is the first thing you mutter when approaching the registration area.  You get right in, no questions asked.  This is probably a really good thing because chest pain isn't usually a good sign.  That said, I couldn't believe the people I saw using this ploy: stagger in the door looking all strung out, crawl toward registration, choke out "chest pain," get brought right in.  Of course, they then get thrown back out into the waiting room once the ER staff figure out that supposed chest pain is really "I'm a mess from all that crack and ran out of pain pills."

(Oh my, I'm in a surly mood.  That's what happens when you put a perimenopausal woman on call in an ER in the middle of the night.)



I obviously have a lot of time on my hands during this ER visit and it appears I am going nowhere fast.....so, I have lots of time to search the web for clues to medical mysteries.   Or, I could watch the Disney Channel with the client......

Hell, screw webmd and the Disney Channel.  I'm going to go order a pizza.  




Saturday, August 13, 2011

Who We Are

There is nothing like spending a week with family that will show you exactly who you are.  If you pay attention, you can learn all sorts of things about yourself in a much faster, much cheaper way than therapy. You also learn how very much you--and your siblings--are like your parents.  Little, bitty clones with the same last name and the same neuroses.

This is St. Francis, my favorite saint, if one can actually have a favorite saint.  He was hanging out at the lake house when we pulled in, so I took that as I really good sign.  I got him in the party mode by putting a glow-stick-necklace around his neck.  He's giving the High Five sign as means of expressing his gratitude.  Or, is he saying "Paws up, little monsters???"

We went on a week long vacation to a lake house with the wife's family. First, let me tell you--those people know how to cook and they know how to snack. For that, I love them. I gained four pounds in five days.  THAT'S how to vacation.  I had to hide my chocolate supply from those snack hounds.  The wife's mother was all over my M&Ms and Hershey Bars.  I had to sleep with the chocolate under my pillow at night to keep her at bay. 

The wife's family never misses a meal and for that I love them even more.  Full breakfast, full lunch, full dinner, serious snacking.  I'm surprised the refrigerator didn't explode, with all that food shoved in there.  I swear the door couldn't close at times because the frig was packed to the gills.  They don't waste their time on pre-made stuff.  They make their meals.  It hurts my head to watch all of the commotion in the kitchen at meal times.  Salads--not the green kind, the naughty kinds--condiments, side dishes, main course, all spread out like a royal buffet.  Okay, so a lot of the snacks came in packages (think: Oreos, M&Ms, danishes, chips for days) but a lot of the stuff was made in some form or another: homemade trail mix (of which was genius), brownies dripping with caramel, s'mores, guacamole/salsa to die for (you have to make s'mores, so I think they count).

Of course, all that eating leads to a problem if you have the "I-can't-poop-when-on-vacation" issue. ('Fess up.  This happens to a lot of people. Embrace your vacation-cursed bowels right now and admit you've experienced this.) Thankfully, all I brought to wear involved nylon athletic shorts with elastic waistlines.  There is no way in hell I could have ever put on real pants.

This is the dog that spent time with us.  It's not like I can actually post photos of the wife's family but I figure posting a photo of their dog isn't off limits.  This was one party pup, always up for a boat ride. 

I could talk about each and every glorious meal, how much I hate fishing (I thought I was going to die when one of the kids announced, "Ewwww, the hook is in his eye!"), how one of the persons in attendance tripped and fell head-first in the lake (no, it was not me or the wife, but out of respect, I shall not mention who it was), how nice the location and building was, how driving to town to find Wi-Fi was of the utmost importance, how people had a really hard time dealing with the fact that cell phone reception at the lake house was basically non-existent, how I really am a curmudgeon....but, instead, I shall reflect on how much the wife and her siblings are like each other and how much they are like their parents.

I am quite familiar with the wife's worry, worry, worry way of being and about her obsessive compulsive approach to life, but I never realized any of her siblings might be the same way; after all, we usually only see family members at parties and gatherings of some sort, for a few hours at a time.  You don't really get to see the "full" person in such artificial settings in such short durations of time.  Everyone always seems calm and collected.  After spending a week with these people, I was stunned at how much all of them worry and "get stuck" on things....how much they follow rules and obsess on things....on the ways their brains keep anxiety in the forefront.  It was almost exhausting to see so many people worrying & obsessing at the same time.  Surrounded by clones--I was surrounded by wife clones! I started to good-humor-idly make fun of two family members with a third one-the one I thought the most laid back of the bunch by far, but stopped making fun when he whispered, "I think like that, too.  I find myself worrying about that.  I can't help it."  Oh.my! 

Who knew her siblings were worrying about the exact same things in the exact same manner?

This worry-obsess-compulsion-anxiety thing is not a bad thing, nor is it a good thing.  It is just a thing, so please don't misconstrue my observations as judgements.  It was more of an entertainment and an enlightenment than anything.  It explains a LOT about the wife and the way she approaches life.  It helped me to understand each person "more" than I had before. It also reinforces my belief that a lot of "stuff" we carry is biological, not just environmental.  One family member (of who shall remain anonymous) got stuck on one particular concern and never let it go for the entire duration of the vacation; in fact, this person pulled me aside and whispered, "Don't say anything because everyone will just give me a hard time.  Will you please help me with this by using your phone for me?"  I'll leave out the details.  Suffice it to say I was the only one who had a cell phone that actually worked, so I was a hot commodity.

And, I thought I had anxiety!  Shoot, I had to hide the snacks AND my phone by the middle of the week.

We shall not speak of how obsessed all of them are with sports and specific teams of their homeland.  I knew they all had that in common.  No news there.  They bleed green and gold.  I know they fret over every game, every play.  I guess I didn't realize that the wory and fretting involves many subjects, not just sports.  Can I just say that the wife's dad makes fretting an art form?  Oh.my.my.my.

Our families have the power to profoundly effect every facet of our being, as noted during this small snippet of time gathered together.  This is both a wonderful and a terrifying thing to know for all you parents out there.  Another reason to just have dogs and call it a day.

During all this reflection and observation of others, it was only fair that I consider my way of being, too.  Suffice it to say, there were times I was stunned by the things that came out of my mouth, by my perspective on this or that, by my fear someone would take all my snacks.  At one point, I thanked one of the wife's sisters for not slapping me in the head after making a particular comment. 

(I'd like to note that not being able to poop for such a long duration of time after eating such an overwhelming volume food makes you crazed, so I cannot be held accountable for all my actions.)

So, we've returned from vacation, knowing a bit better who we are.  Who they are.  How we came to be who we are.  How we really don't need to change a thing about who we are now that we know how we got here.

Now that vacation is over, I have to start my withdrawal from all that food and try and lose those four pounds that came home as my souvenir.  I've already had cookies and ice cream with my breakfast, so I'm off to a really poor start.  I should be shaking by the end of the day from sugar withdrawal.  Heck, maybe I'll wait until Monday when vacation is REALLY over.

The wife's announcement that she somehow lost a pound while we were gone (how the hell did she do that?) gives me motivation to step away from the computer and the snacks and go do something calorie-burning.  Or, maybe not.  After all, who I am involves a serious sugar addiction.....I am powerless over sugar and my snacking has become unmanageable.....I know who I am.  Pass me the Oreos.  I'll worry about all this on Monday....

Monday, August 08, 2011

Happy Campers

Oh! I forget to report how the camping trip went.  All that belly banter distracted me from doing so.

We--a handful of men with chronic mental illness and I (who may or may not be considered chronically mentally ill)--went camping as scheduled last week.  (See previous post to learn more about this event)  There were supposed to be four guys, but one guy wimped out at the last minute.  The three of the remaining guys reported camping experience, so I hadn't been too worried.  We arrived at our beautiful campsite, right on the lake.


It quickly  became quite evident that my little campers had misrepresented their camping prowess. It didn't take long for me to realize I was the only one who really knew about camping....and, trust me--I know very little about this complicated use of leisure time.

 I explained to the guys that we'd need to put the tents up first, then gather firewood.  I pointed to the sky, noting that the sun was already on it's way toward the horizon.  "Tent first, firewood second, fun third."  I added, "Don't forget--don't go anywhere without a buddy.  Even if you are just going to the bathroom, take someone with you.  Got it?"  All three of the guys nodded yes.  As I never know if they are ever really listening, I asked them to verbally respond.  All three gave a resounding "Yes!"

Three seconds later, one of the guys announced, "I'm going for a hike!"  He then started toward the lake.  Alone.

So much for my directives.

I shouted at him to come back.  I muttered to the other two: "He wasn't supposed to go anywhere without a buddy.  We need to put up the tents before dark.  Didn't I just say that?"

They nodded in agreement, too smart to say anything beyond the nods.

The guys dumped the tents out onto the ground.....and, just stood there.....looking at the little piles of tent-makings.  Here's what it looked like:

Oh boy.  This is an issue.  I ask, "so, does anyone know how to put up a tent?"

The blank stares and teeny little shakes of the heads told me what was already obvious. I turned to one of the guys. "You told me you had gone camping lots of times and knew how to put up a tent.  Do you know how to put up a tent?"  He stared at me and then quietly squeaked out, "no."  Dear god, we're going to rely on ME to set up the tents?


Man Number One started to wander off again.  In no uncertain terms, I made it quite clear that he would be staying with me and putting together HIS tent.  He stopped, came back, stared at the tent-makings, making no effort to put the tent together.  Trust me, he learned how to put up a tent.  Forty five minutes later, two tents were up and ready for action.

Next came the firewood search.  Who knew none of the three had never made an actual fire during their
extensive camping adventures?  When I saw the few twigs and branches--which MIGHT qualify as kindling-- they brought back, I knew I was in really serious trouble.  "Um, I don't know how to tell you, but that's enough wood for about 15 minutes.  You'll have to find more.  Think bigger."

Suffice it to say we had to go to the concession stand on the other side of the lake and buy cords of wood.  I was disappointed that we had to do this, as it seemed like cheating, but I wanted a fire more than I wanted to not cheat, so I got over it quickly. The sun was quickly setting and I so did not want to be in the middle of nowhere without electricity and no fire. I am pleased to report that I got a fire going without much issue.  Thank god for Girl Scouts.  We didn't have any paper, so I did cheat at one point by spraying a stick with bug spray and then used that to get the fire going a little faster.  (I do NOT recommend this method of building a fire.  If you are ignorant enough to do this, make sure you are far away from the fire when spraying the stick....and, don't tell anyone what you are doing.)

We enjoyed traditional camp-type activities--hiking, roasting marshmallows, making S'Mores, texting, taking anti-psychotic medications...you get the picture.  I forgot about the medication part.  I was going to tell the guys to take their meds a little later so they could stay awake longer, but too late--the guys took their meds at 8 PM and by 9 PM they were going to bed.  Here we are in the middle of a beautiful campsite, on a gorgeous night, with a great fire crackling.....and, they go to bed.

Suffice it to say, I had a lot of time to be with myself.  The guys I thought would be up all night were snoring before I could check my Book de la Face profile via phone.  Around midnight, after the fire had died out and the snoring was getting even louder, I realized it was going to be too warm to sleep in my car (couldn't open the windows due to the bugs), so I made myself a little set up using two chairs and a cooler.  As the daddy long legs were running rampant, I put on a baseball hat, put on my sweatshirt, tied the hood tightly around my head so literally only my glasses and brim of the hat were peeking out.  I then sprayed the shit out of my hood and brim with bug spray.  I settled in, thinking how cool it was that I was about to sleep under the stars, praying to the gods of the Woods that the daddy long legs wouldn't crawl into my face.  I shut my eyes, hoping sleep would come.  It really was a beautiful night.

It was 1 AM and I was still wide awake.  I stared at the stars, checked my Book de la Face, sang little tunes..... I heard a small "crack."  I took out my flashlight and turned to my right, shined it on the tents.  Nope.  No movement.  Still snoring.

Snap.  Crack.  Snap.

I realized something was very close.....coming closer....I turned my flashlight and pointed to my left....

ACK! A RACCOON! Big as a toddler!  Close enough to scare the hood right off my head.  I don't know how those three guys didn't wake up because I was hooting and hollering for that damned thing to get away from me.  That thing was too close for my comfort. "GET AWAY! WE DON'T HAVE ANY FOOD!"  This was true, as I had put it all in my car to make sure we had no unwanted visitors.  I could tell it was not in any way afraid of me or my rantings.  It finally decided I must be crazy and I really didn't have any food; it turned and rambled slowly toward a the nearest tree....and, crawled slowly up the trunk...it then perched itself on a branch and stared at me. Seriously.  Little gold eyes glowing at me from above.

It is then I decided it was no longer too hot to sleep in my car. 

I slept from 2 AM-6 AM in my car.  For the record, it is REALLY hard to sleep in a Civic.  I was treated to a beautiful sunrise and a raccoon-free campsite.  It was the perfect morning--well, besides the kink in my neck from sleeping in a Civic.

As for the guys? They slept right through the night and didn't get up until I made them at 6:30 AM.  They ate some chips for breakfast, stuffed the tents into the little nylon bags, questioned my sanity when I told them about the raccoons and waited for the van to arrive. They were happy and refreshed, ready to return to the site so they could appropriately brag of their camping prowess and of their survival skills.

As for me? I went home and took a nap.  After all, I had to get some rest so I, too could brag about how I wrestled that killer raccoon to the ground....

Friday, August 05, 2011

Belly Banter

Today, I had the pleasure of going for my "annual," as women say.  Men turn their head and cough.  Women get to scoot, scoot further, scoot again, damn it!...and then, get  fondled, prodded, poked, widened, swabbed.  I mention this appointment because I see the same doctor as the wife....and, if you've been reading, you know what happened to the wife when she went to the doctor last week....

....he cleaned her belly button.

Suffice it to say, I took a good, long, hard look at my navel before getting dressed today.  There was no way in hell I was going to let some guy pick lint out of my button.  I made sure I had no little friends hiding in there.  My stomach was red from how hard I scrubbed that little puppy.

So, there I was on the table, still sitting upright, talking to the doctor.  He's a chatty guy, so that makes it a bit less painful (well, I think it's helpful--the wife hates it--she wants him to shut up and be done with it).  He's looking at my tonsils (seriously, he was looking in my mouth--although, I did feel at one point like he was trying to see my tonsils from a different vantage point) and he asks me something.  I don't remember the question but he added something about knowing my partner is a woman (big points for him) and I answered, "Yes! And, you cleaned her belly button last week!" 


He replied, "Really?  I clean a lot of belly buttons.  I always look at everyone's belly buttons."

I'm not sure if I should be impressed or horrified.  Is this a bonus service, a fetish, good practice or just plain weird? 

At this point, he has me lay down....and I noticed that he did indeed take a glance at my belly button. 

As he is getting ready for the ever-so-thorough breast exam, he asks his assistant, "do you have a clean belly button?" She immediately straightens up & barks out, "Yes! My belly button is very clean!" He offered to clean it for her, but she assures him it is very clean.

(This dialogue sounds ridiculously sexual or perverted but really it wasn't at all. It was fun belly banter.  I don't know how to write it any other way...so, perverted it will continue to sound. Every time I start to write something, it sounds inappropriate, so I end up erasing it. I swear to you it wasn't like that at all. But, how can I write about how "I hear you have a special belly-button-cleaning instrument?" without sounding somewhat naughty?)

The doctor then went on to talk about belly buttons in general--and, I kid you not--he looked down and pointed to his own belly button.  I thought he was going to untuck his shirt so I could see it but for some reason he stopped before doing so. Thank you, baby Jesus.

I told him that the wife was mortified by his action, adding that she had no idea she had a dirty belly button.
"You said she has a really deep belly button and that those are hard to keep clean."

He whole-heartily agreed.  "Yes, very tough to keep clean. I have a really deep belly button, too."

"She said you were digging to China! She said you have a special pair of really long belly-button cleaning tweezers."

He laughed.  "Yes, I do!  It's really hard to clean out belly buttons.  Most of the time, the people just end up shoving the dirt deeper into their navel."  By this time, he has started the breast exam but keeps talking. He pauses, turns to the assistant and asks, "Do you remember the patient we're talking about?"

The assistant laughs and admits she does indeed remember the cleaning of the belly button, as she was present for this sacred event.  "You WERE digging to China!"  She then gets a slightly perplexed look on her face and asks me, "You know the person whose belly button he cleaned?"

Before I could answer, the doctor said, "oh yes, she knows that belly button very well." He looks at me and then suggests I should be cleaning the wife's belly button.

Dear god, let me off this table!

He had some pointers for cleaning the wife's belly button, but I wasn't listening as now I was the one who was mortified.  As for the assistant, she laughed, shook her head and went on with her business.  He thankfully went on with his business, but I have to say there were times I wished we were cleaning my belly button instead of doing what I was paying him to do.  Yeow!  (I especially did not enjoy the "tour of organs," where he announced each part of my anatomy he was smashing-pushing-squeezing-poking.)

In case you already have your own gynecologist and don't want to change doctors in an effort to get a clean belly button, may I suggest this link:  http://www.wikihow.com/Clean-Your-Belly-Button

If you do want to change doctors so OUR doctor can clean YOUR belly button, give us a call.  We're sure you'll love the end product of a lint-free navel and you'll enjoy the deliciousness of belly banter.  I can't guarantee he won't charge me more, but I do guarantee that you'll have the cleanest belly button in town.

Wednesday, August 03, 2011

Gimme S'more

Tonight, I am going camping--of which I am not a fan--my idea of camping is staying at a three star hotel with no amenities. Camping is for young people or drunk people or really, really sporty people.  While I love nature and love being outside and looking for birds, I am not fond of roughing it in some humid-soggy-fied tent, putting on dew-dampened clothes while swatting bugs away from me. I love roasting marshmellows (which I give to someone else to eat), like to eat marshmellow-less S'Mores, sitting by the campfire, going for nature walks... but, I'm no fan of peeing in the woods or being far away from sources of electricity. To give you an idea of how long it's been since I actually went camping, here is a photo of me camping in 1987: 


Sums it up, don't you think?

As further evidence of how long it's been since I went camping, here is a photo of a camp-site mate from my last known outing, with her dog, Spot.  In case you are wondering, Spot is invisible. 

I told you: camping is best left to the young, the drunk and the brave.  I'll let you decide which one of those things Spot's owner is.

I do so miss the '80s.

I hope she wasn't using that bucket to pee in.  (Actually, I think it's Spot's water bowl, but it's hard to tell.)

I still am rather incredulous that I agreed to camping with anyone, let alone some guys from where I work--guys who are thankfully big fans of camping-- and just happen to be chronically mentally ill. 

I tell you that only because it has the potential to add to the fun, not as means of a novelty.  I adore the guys with which I work and certainly have no fears beyond fears related directly to camping.  The guys will be fine.  I hope they will take good care of me.

Their plans include fishing all day, fishing all night, roasting Twinkies (who thinks to do that?), eating S'mores until their heads explode.  They'll have tents in case they do decide it would be nice to get an hour or two of sleep. Normal, everyday camping.  Me? I plan on eating marshmellow-less S'mores, staying up late, looking for electricity, not drinking any form of liquid (don't want to use the outhouse more than necessary) and sleeping in my car.  If I find electricity, I'll be on line or working on my computer.  If I don't, I'll weep softly in my car.

Although I tell myself I will be sleeping and weeping in my car, I know better.  These guys will stay up all night, which means I'll be staying up all night. They will talk the night away and probably not catch any fish.  That's not the point of fishing, anyways.  To them, just having the opportunity to do something "normal" will be all they need.  For that, I am grateful.  Just the opportunity to "give" them such a small gift means much to me. 

Tomorrow, I will be tired and crabby, as I will have been up all night watching four guys fish.  Four guys who just want to be seen as "normal."  If only they knew how really normal they are and how those without mental illness really are not.

Do you think there will be any electrical sources near the shore so I can play on my computer while they fish?