Sunday, December 7, 2014

Whoa... Hey there Campers.

Has it really been so long, Readers?  It has.

Couplefew things have changed.  I went to school last year.  It was horrible.  The program was a clown circus run by clown circus folk who expected student clownery to produce professional results...  which bless their pea picking hearts, some students achieved.

Other than that, it was great. I made the dean's honours list and EVERYTHANG.  Just the way a mature student such as I'm is supposed to do.

But I was traumatized because clowns.

So I switched programs.  Now I'm taking Graphic Design and it is 74 shades of better for me. Everythang is so fancy over at Graphic Design.  All Adobe and being snooty about kerning and leading and planes and linework and nearfield OH MY.  I can judge all of the signs I see now and feel totally superior while shivering and wishing I could afford a winter jacket.

Ha.  *cough* Aherm.

Being a first year student for two years in a row is like a long lesson in humility.  I like to think of myself as a first-year monk martyr.  Two years of being a Firster.  I made that word up.  Pretty good right?  College people like me know how to do that.  But really, the insecurity that goes along with being a noob combined with being THE oldest lady in my class who still says noob can be tiring.

Anyway.  Might as well blog about it.  Is anyone still there?

Another thing that has happened is that I've learned things and now I can barely tolerate the layout of this blog. *shivers*

And done.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


So..  I'm getting ready for college.  At least that's what I think I'm doing, you guys.  Basically I don't know what I'm doing or what I need.  Nobody distributed a "school supplies list".  I need that shit. 

So I went to Staples.  I bought:  2 fountain pens. Shut up.  They are disposable so that makes them modern and sleek.  But they have those adorable fancy, very pointy ends that I love so very much.  So pointy and fluid.  I want to write on the world with them. 

So this belies something about me that I wasn't expecting to face:  Generation Gap.  Already.   That's right, kiddies,  I plan to take notes.  With my pen.  On paper.  In a Multimedia Design program.   They are going to laugh at me, but I read an article that validates my position as a mature student:  It stated that people who physically write their notes retain their information better, okay?  I NEED ALL THE EDGES I CAN GET.

Yeah.  Shut up, you.  I need to write notes.  In cursive. With my new pointy pen.  The French call it a stylo.  That's "stee-low".  I think we both know that they know a thing or two about pens.  So fancy. 

So the other thing I bought?  (It seemed like a really good, practical idea when I was in the store).  The other thing, Readers?  Is the world's biggest binder.

I said shut up.  I need to write notes, I said.  In cursive.  IN A BINDER. 

So I get my brand new binder home.  I put it on my new desk and look at it.   I'm ready to admire the crap out of my new Five Star binder.  I get it all set up and then blammo

Holy God.  It is so big.  This is the biggest binder you can even get, I think.  But it didn't seem this big in the store.  It didn't seem hilariously giant when I was combing through the binders to select the perfect one that didn't say, "KEENER" or "TRYING SO HARD" or "MATURE STUDENT ALERT".  I mean, it's black and blue and rather respectable.  That's what I thought.  I'm only 34, you guys. 

But it takes up more than half the desk.  The desk is five feet across, okay?   It eats the new fifteen cent package of loose leaf paper that I went out and bought for it.  It eats it like so many dainty aperitifs.  

It has a damned handle.  WHAT WAS I THINKING?  A HANDLE???  That should be indicator numero uno that the binder is too large.  Neil made me do it.  He said I needed a handle so I could carry coffee at the same time.  Coffee, you guys.  I was suckered.   Yes, I could carry my coffee in one hand and my binder full of everything else I own.  Including the life vests. 

So now I have to go back, return it and worry over the smaller, less camping shelter sized binders that don't require a handle like luggage.  Because I am going to have a binder, yes I am; but perhaps not one that very well might take diesel fuel to operate.

Check it out.  I photo edited it.  OoOooh!

 Seriously.  That is a 17 inch Macbook in the background there, okay? 17 inches.  I would die of embarassment if I had to open this sucker up in front of people on the first day of school.  Die.  Dead.  No, no no no no... I need to buy a much more discreet binder.  Perhaps a tiny binder.  One that fits in an altoids tin or pack of gum so I can hide while I physically write notes with my new pen in cursive.  One that only holds sticky notes. 

Hey!  That reminds me!  Look at what I got for F-R-E-E at Staples when I bought the megabinder:
It's a sticky note Happy Apple!   (Photo Edited fancily to prove that I'm not a Luddite.) 

 I think they were probably just impressed with the size of my new binder.  I hope they don't think I'm overcompensating for something.  

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Random Acts of Unkindness?

So I had this dream the other night where I was tasked with washing the feet of the city's homeless during the heat wave we've had.

I just used the water bottle, soap leaves and cloth that I obviously carry in my Mary Poppins dream-wallet.

I was humble in my dream.   Quietly keeping to my work; ignoring the curious onlookers.   People wondered if it was like, a church thing.  It wasn't, I assured them.  I was just trying to help my fellow downtrodden peers cool down in such a way that I would wish to be cared for if I were at my lowest.  It was moving to reach out to people and physically help.  

So humble and saintly I was.  Such a martyr and a hero.  Such a kind hand in a cruel world.  That's me.  But what could it mean?  Don't weep at my feet yet:

So then I was outside the book store in real life yesterday.  A man uncomfortably asked me If I could give him some change for a sandwich and I blatantly lied that I didn't have any (yep.. just debit) and sheepishly went into the store.

Not shown: dark, secret chamber full of evil. 
But then I couldn't focus on anything in the store.  Nothing.  I circled around and around with the dream and the real situation boiling around in my brain.  I felt so guilty that I was shopping for nothing and that maybe that guy really was going to buy a sandwich with the change and not the xyz things that I personally disapprove of.  Who the hell do I think I am?   I went back and he had gone somewhere else.   I wasn't going to wash his feet-  but I was thinking I'd at least get him the damned sandwich. 

I feel like I really screwed up that prophetic seeming dream.  What made me lie to that man?  I am generally a complete sucker for this kind of thing.  As in, I see myself and my family in them sometimes and my heart breaks times 1000000000.   I lied to him, even as the dream weighed heavily in my mind.  Me, the person who loves random acts of kindness more than I love gay parades and baby orangutans.

What the hell, Self? Now I will worry about that man for basically ever. 

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Something New

I'm going to college.  For 2 years.   I'm all signed up.

Hold me. 

What if all the cool kids think I'm a dweeb?  What if I don't know what anyone is talking about? What if I don't know what to do?  What if I get lost every day for the first month?  What if nobody picks me to be on their team and I have to be teamers with the teacher? 

Monday, April 8, 2013

Pickled Eggs up in Hrrrr. I pizzled the ezzles..... No? Fine. Jerks.

I'm just still trying to be cool.  Also, winter will never end.  My life is like that wintery place in Game of Thrones where it just snows and zombies show up and everyone is dressed like they just stumbled out of a circa 1991 Heavy Metal video.  Even the fat, unpopular kid.  Especially him.  

Well maybe my life isn't exactly like that.  Plus I haven't been paying very much attention to Game of Thrones because whenever I do, I get the lyrics to "To Be With You" by Mr Big stuck on loop in my head  and then Neil wants to leave me.  He hasn't said it, but whenever I serenade him with it, I can see his eyes flash with tiny red hate-fires.  So that's why Game of Thrones isn't a big deal around here.  Plus you can't just serenade someone with To Be With You nice and quietly.  You have to belt out the, "AHM THE Waaaaa-AH-OOooOOOOOOOOONNNNNE" part and you have to do your own back up vocals at least until you can train the 5 year old. 

If they were dressed like The Clash, Neil would be all over me.  ALL.  OVER.  ME.  


Eggs in jrrrs Y'all.
So I pickled up some eggs in the houuuuuze.  (I'm practicing talking like that because I have a teenager and I want him  and his friends to know that I understand the youth of today.  Which I don't.  Mainly I grieve for their future.  Sorry about the whole ocean full of plastic/mutated monsanto heads, grandchildren of my verrrrrrrry distant future.  Here, have some pickled eggs.  *Memaw wants you to have one, honey.) 

The pickled eggs are fascinating.  I've never actually had a pickled egg in my life.  I've always looked at them, and they've looked at me and we've had an agreement that our lips would never touch.  Eggs have lips, right?  They have potential beaks which is pretty close.  I don't want to find out.   Anyhow, the agreement has been going swimmingly until I found a recipe for them and decided that it is time to test out whether my pickled egg truce was in vain.  Plus I'm bored from all the winter and I don't know how to make hooch in the bathtub.    Plus they might be awesome. 

"They have to pickle for 3 more days", the recipe says.  "Don't keep them for too long", it says. 

It didn't say that my fridge would smell farty, though.  THAT is something the recipe did not indicate.  The preserved lemons I discussed last time made my house smell like a candy factory.  The pickled egg smell has killed every last lovely lemon and licorice scented breeze in this whole house.  

This version has Spanish subtitles.  You're welcome.   I have to go shake my lemons now.  Literally.

* I plan to make my distant future grandchildren call me Memaw.  I don't know why, stop asking questions.  I'm too young to give sound answers.)

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Shake your Lemons

Alright, so I'm a follower of Punk Domestics.  A website filled with strange and magical preserved things and homemade cheese and vinegars and stuff that I don't actually undertake, but I might.  

I imagine myself being a real and true punk domestic one day- with a dark cellar (note to self:  start digging) filled to the tippy top with old timey witchy foodstuffs and little pickled jars of voodoo radishes with heart shaped gingers stuffed into them.  I picture myself skipping merrily through the woods, foraging for edible foodstuffs and rooty types of things.  I would bring them home and boil and ferment them into healthy jars of old-timey-amazing that my kids would never eat, not for a thousand dollars- but I would still make them stick out their tongue and at least taste them.  Then I would feel like a good earth mother because my kids licked a probiotic thing before attacking their Walmart Easter basket like feral little badgers- ergo leaving their guts filled with some kind of marvelous bacterial culture that would no doubt turn them into geniuses.  Is "geniuses" a word?   

Oh.. was that probiotic??  I feel invigorated!!
This would leave me more time to watch Walking Dead reruns and less time trying to figure out kid-math homework.  Geniuses don't need help with homework. 

There is always a method to my madness, and it is usually an elaborate way to avoid doing kid-math. 

So I was clicking around on the punk domestic website when I came across something that looked pretty interesting to me:  Moroccan Preserved Lemons.

Did you feel that zing up your back?  If something is touted to be Moroccan, it's automatically spicy and mysterious.  Even if it's just an ottoman or pottery barn lamp or lemons stuffed in jars filled with their own juices and kosher salt and adorable anise stars. 

I bit. 

I spent a week scouring my city for organic lemons, because apparently the lemons have to be organic.  If they are not, you will grow another eyeball.  That's because you pickle the rinds:  The part the government sprays with pesticides and mind-control drugs.  Duh.

I refuse to have my mind controlled by my lemon preserves, so I spent about 5 days looking for organic lemons and finally found them at secret organic Farmers Market in an old medical building behind the Canadian Tire. 


I'm not kidding.  That's where I found them.  I dropped $20 for 24 lemons and laughed all the way home to make them.

Here is the proof:  
Yeah, Look out, PINTEREST.  I can take arty photos of lemons with the best of 'em. 
OoOoh... can I frame that photo, Michelle?  Yes you can, for $100.   

I do so much work.  It's delightful. 

There.  3 Salty Moroccan jars of mystery.  That's 8 lemons per jar.  I know because of math. I can't escape it. 

 Also, The recipe I followed can be found here 

But I have to shake them every day for a month, I'm told.  Neil made a reminder for my kitchen wall chalkboard area.  I think I'll leave it there forever because that is just good advice.

So these lemons are apparently some kind of wonderful when you want to cook chicken and fish and anything that you want to add lemon voodoo to.  I have to wait a month.  I have to shake them.

 Remember when I was making raisin yeast?  And I sang to you about fizzy raisins?  Well you can probably expect a lemon shaking song in the near future because lemons are a going concern in my house right now, well at least until later because later today I am making pickled eggs.

Everybody sing!

Piiiiickled eggggggs
In a jaaaaaaaar........ ?  



Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Leave it to Me to Lose my Panties in an Approximately 1x1 Meter Examination Room

That's right, Reader, I disappear for months at a time, only to return and regale you with what I think is really important: Stories about my lady business. 


Right, so Everyone? I have a new doctor.  This means I had to get a physical today.  *stressful violin scree*.  

 But first, I think you should watch this video because it's the "I'm getting a physical" song.   It ran through my head all day.  In fact I'm doing the one-shoulder-shrug dance and I've wrapped a bandana around my forehead right this second.  Plus I'm super stressed out over the whole thing so I'm acting weird. 


Annnnyhoooo....  I forgot that physicals include a lady-exam and vaccination needles and invasive questioning.  I was happily living in denial for 4 entire years of having no doctor.  Also, they involve paper gowns.

Now, I know what you're thinking, Reader.  Paper GOWN?  GOWN?  That word denotes some kind of glamorous starworthy accoutrement, right?  A GOWN is something you get married in.  Yes, an origami frock worthy of the longest runways and frothiest of fashion aficionados.  Why, to devise and execute such a practical garment would simply have to be the work of none other than the likes of Versace or Lacroix.  I bet it looked AMAZANG, like-a-this: 

 Nope.  It's really just a big joke the medical staff is playing.  I looked more like a chewed up lunch bag with oddly pasty legs.  *sad trombone*

Medical Staffer #1:  So, we have a new clinic!  Should we get some proper cloth gowns for our stressed out patients who are about to have a new doctor/total stranger slap on a miner's head-lamp and safety goggles so that they can peer deep into the dangerous nether-junglezone of their ladymine?

"Jeee-uust a few more seconds and we'll be all done here. I just need oooone more quick sample."

 Medical Staffer #2NooOoo no no no, how about let's give them one of these gowns made out of feeble, kleenex-thin birthday wrapping tissue? Then, give 'em each a 4-inch long hunk of garbage bag plastic to tie around their waists, tell them to put it on backward and to give the plastic a tug so that it will stretch into a belt.  *slaps hands together because his work here is done*

Then we'll see if they EVER complain about actual hospital gowns again.  Amiright? High five anyone?  

Medical Staffer #1 But... doesn't that seem a little bit... y'know... cruel?

Medical Staffer #2 Fine.  Give them each a tissue blanket too- in case one of the nurses leaves the door open...  but to save money, we'll cut the blankets into four! SAVINGS!

Medical Staffer #1:  So just a kleenex for a blanket then? *writes on official medical clipboard*

 Medical Staffer #2Hmm.. name brands are pricey.  How about a ValuePlus toilet paper square?

Medical Staffer #1: Vallluuue... Plus.  Got it.  I'll start separating the two-ply.

 Medical Staffer #2:  Attaboy.  Way to be a team player. 

Right so, I put on the gown and carefully arranged my toilet paper square so that I wouldn't get too much of a draft.  And I left on my gear.  My undergear.  Okay?  Because at this point, I still hadn't realized that I was going to be explored liked a prospective coal mine and I was wearing a paper birthday napkin and I had a strip of garbage bag wrapped around me and someone had taken my blasted waist measurement and they told me I was getting a mumps shot and a tetanus shot and a diphtheria shot and they asked me if I do street drugs and I don't, but I suddenly felt worried that nobody would believe me.. like I would do some kind of twitchy nervous "tell" that only doctors know about, but I didn't mean to get so nervous because I was  just trying to be a model patient- so I went off on a tangent about my elbow and how it doesn't straighten quite right ever since I broke it 9 years ago....

So when my doctor donned the headlamp and safety goggles (SAFETY GOGGLES??), and told me to hunker down and put my feet in the stirrupy things- I began to feel nervous.  Nervous as though, you know, she might be planning to send in a canary or something, too.  

"Alright, little fella... it's time." 

So I had to be reminded that I can't wear my underwear during a ladytime exam.  I was hoping she wouldn't notice, that she'd just laugh this whole papsmear business off and forget about the whole thing.  
So.. you want me to take these off huh?  Say, is that a marching band over there?  Wakka Wakka.  How about my wonky elbow, eh?  Huh?  How about it?  Wanna see?  My elbow?    *bend bend*

So the doctor left for 30 seconds while I sort of panicked and scrunched up my face and tried to remove my under-euphemisms without shredding my gown.  But I was already tangled up in the stirrup things and the paper on the vinyl bed getting transmogrified and the worrying and the twisting and the trying to hurry, because I didn't want anyone to see any of my stuff and then the clamminess and the ringing in my ears... and then the getting stuck and writhing around like a seal and then the wadding up of the underwear and sort of just hiding them to the side under my toilet paper square while regaining my composure.

But it looked like I had taken a hand mixer to my gown and the paper sheet on the exam table, and there just wasn't time to fix it. 

"I'm in here, doctor.  I'm ready!"

But I survived.  It wasn't that bad.  The main thing was that I was allowed to get dressed again.  Phew.  The doc left,  I got up and peeled the remains of my gown and the sheet from around my neck and felt around for my undies.  


Seriously gone.  And the next appointment... and it already took too long... and the polite knocking on the door....  

But they were gone.  I looked beside the bed, I looked in my pants, I looked in the wads of paper that where everywhere like the dregs of a toddler birthday party.  They were gone with the wind, with the tide..  lost in space.  

My panties were gone.  My hanes comfy fit panties.  My goin-to-the-doctor practical panties.  gone.  But then I had a eureka moment.  OF COURSE!

UNDER the solid metal exam table.  There they were, as though a heavenly light was shining upon them.  I could see the edge of them peeking out from way underneath, against the wall behind the drawer unit.  The only problem?  I was going to have to discreetly, nudge the table over to the side.  Surely, I'd have some kind of heroic adrenaline rush to help me.  How heavy could one of these things be?  

Keep in mind that I had no pants on.  So I silently and quickly nudged the table over.  

"SCREeeeeeeeeeeEEeEEeEEEEEEEEEeeeEEEeeeeeCH" said the examination table. 

Retrieved my underpant-a-lettes from the pile of suspicious medical dust bunnies and went home commando.  

The End. 

Saturday, December 8, 2012

It's Raining Body Parts in my Back Yard.

Snowman body parts. 

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Bikini Bread Head. Why not?

Here is what is new with me:


Made some bread.  I feel meh about it, even if it was a beautiful poster child loaf of bread.  I'm not even getting ugly bread right.  It's turning out all beautiful and pefect with a perfect tan and white teeth and a bikini, judging all the other regular loaves of bread who are just trying to get by on their seeds and bits of rosemary.   Such a miserable brawny loaf.

"Oh look at me!  I'm so PeRFEcT!"
Look at my perfect golden tan. *Sigh*  I wish I could be more pale like YOU... but alas, it's a career hazard.  And all these CARBS.  I feel positively SWOLLEN!

I can't believe I put that on the internet, either.  But you know how it goes, I have to contribute to this amazing web of information when I can.  You know, leave my legacy.  *aherm*

Also, I can't believe that this woman is still gorgeous, even with a loaf of bread for a head.  How is that even fair??  How is this good for my self image? 

So I've perfected bread.  Now what?  Why even go on baking?

Maybe I should finally learn how to weld. 

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Sunny Hates Zombies.

But she loves Neil so much.  This whole thing is very confusing.  You know how the old Veterinarian reacted to his family turning to zombies in the Walking Dead, right?  He locked them in the barn and threw them live chickens because he still loved them, Reader.  HE STILL LOVED THEM. Even though they might eat his intestines. 

That's how Sunny felt. 
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