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.  

Probably.

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.)

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. 

dramatization

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........ ?  

No?

K.   

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. 

TrAaaalLLLlaaaalalalaaa

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 #2:  NooOoo 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 #2:  Hmm.. 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.  

Gone.  

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. 

It's Raining Body Parts in my Back Yard.

Snowman body parts. 

Bikini Bread Head. Why not?

Here is what is new with me:

Nuthin.

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. 

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. 

Duct Tape Hawkeye Jacket. Boom.

Okay, I'm kinda proud of this one.  Halloween at my house this year is all about making costumes out of duct tape.  You remember the duct tape bacon,  but here I've crossed into the world of actual duct tape clothing.

Duct tape super hero clothing.  I should probably start setting personal limits right away.. 

I give you... *imaginary drumroll*  Duct tape Hawkeye.  You know... from The Avengers?  Okay so it's not IDENTICAL.. after all it's duct tape and I only have a limited amount of time. 

Right?

Basically, I took his old Christmas button up shirt from Old Navy, cut the sleeves and collar off, cut the sides open under the arms, reshaped it to be more body fitting and tape tape taped while it was still on his body.  It took about an hour.  Then we added some leftover brown and silver.

I kind of wish I'd have photographed the whole process.  

I also made a quiver which is fairly straightforward.  It's a duct tape tube with a strap.  So... now I just have to concoct some kind of nonlethal bow.

Hm.

Hrmph.

You know, I don't know why my dog, Sunny has to look me straight in the eye when she's pooping. Right in the eye as though she is trying to bond with me.  If I was going to go poop on someone's lawn, I would have the decency to look away. 

Her droopy brown eyes bore into my psyche, "I'm pooping on your lawn right now, and there is nothing you can do about it.  How do you like THAT?"

In which I disparage e-readers & say the word, "disparage" to sound fancy.

I've been manic reading.  I'm on a bit of a bingier binge than usual.

What happened is that this summer, I read 11//22/63 by Stephen King.  I liked it well enough, but it had a few things going against it, namely #1 it is on Neil's ipad.  That means it isn't available for me to cart around everywhere I go, since it is not MY ipad.  I don't have an ipad.   #2, It's an e-book.  I hate e-reading.   #3 It wasn't THAT amazing. 

So it took forever to traipse through.  Every time I'd decided to plunk myself down and clap eyes onto my book, someone had lost my page or the ipad was needed elsewhere.  So it took forever.  FOREVER.  ALL summer.   My attention span is not that highly developed.  I need to get my book, get that emmereffer read and move on as soon as possible.  I basically violate them. 

Watch this until it gets to the part where Bruce Lee ninjas a book shelf.  LIKE THAT, YOU GUYS.  K...  Might take a second... THERE!  BAM!

I couldn't do that with Neil's ipad.  Pft.  

I hate not holding a real and true old timey book.  I hate pushing the button to turn the page (my e-reader is kind of ancient but I refuse to replace it lest I drop it in the bathtub). I hate when the battery dies and I have to read while plugged in somewhere leaving me unable to both read and attend to the rest of my shiz.  I hate not being able to flip around through the book at my leisure and reread passages because if I lose my page it takes 20 minutes to find it again by flip flip flipping through tedious e-pages "click....nope...click....nope..."  I can't look at the edge and guess where-ish the passage I want to reread is unless I remember my page number and go through the little calculator kobo systemy thingy and it just kills it.  I need real, tangible, burnable books. 

Ugh.  E-reading is only convenient when traveling or totally broke.   I also hate going to the library-  they always want their ruddy books back. 

The real problem is that I've been fully soaked into book after book.  Five this week.  That is a heavy load of novels for a fancy lady who is supposed to be doing other stuff.

I haven't been doing other stuff.  Not even my hair.  I'm in THAT place, Readers. 

This week I've read: Sussex Drive by Linda Svendsen;  Dying Inside by Robert Silverberg;  The Strange Case of Dr Jeykyll & Mr Hyde by Whatshisface; The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald and The Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.  

Because I read them one after the other after such a long drawn out, sporadic summer reading experience and because they are all very fanciful; they are all sloshing around in my head like classic-pulpy-scifi stew.   I read them too fast and now the plots are blending inside of my brain.  I'll be reading along when I confuse two plot lines, need to flip back but then remember:  I have a stupid e-reader so I CAN'T.
 

Why must real books be so expensive and why must I insist on book shopping in new book stores?   Why am I going to publish this without proofreading?

Some things are mysteries. 

The Anatomy of Spongebob

Spongebob (by Neil)

 

 

Spongebob's muscular system.

Spongebob's skeletal system. 

 Living with a cartoon professor never stops being educational.   Thanks Neil.