It's 29 degrees, or maybe by now only 17. I am appalled by a few things tonight, so I will name a few, keep my amblings brief or my briefs ambling which would be infinitely more entertaining.
First off, I must give tribute to my brother Terry's blog at www.organizationalstars.com. Terry's writing is thought provoking and insightful whereas mine is more like a mischievous wood nymph who rearranges QWERTY to mean something immoral. At first I was bitter and resentful that I would have competition from my brother on the blog circuit and then I understood that that's the beauty of blogging - there is room for all of us. I might get serious here, I started to and then digressed into MWN (see aforementioned reference). Maybe Mischievous Wood Nymph can be a separate column where I discuss life's quandaries like putting in panty liners wrong side up or forgetting to shave before you go for a pedicure. But, really, I do have some stuff I want to get out.
Oh faithful reader(s). I can use the conditional (s) because now there are 10 of you!!! Yea! If you had any idea how happy it makes me to be well received or at least mind-numbingly entertaining for 4 minutes.!!!
...pause here to change album on I-Pod, speaking of mind-numbing...
Thank you for following me, for reading my, uh, content..thoughts..writing. Oh dear, does this mean I'm an AUTHOR?
yes, apparently with the attention span of a stapler.
Okay, back to the weather (ironic, huh?). It seems that everyone is struggling. Last week, countless people tried to make sense of the execution of four police officers in Lakewood Washington. I cannot even fathom the devastation of their loss.
I read an article about two people who met in a warming shelter last winter and are now married. The woman is just two years older than me and has health problems and is in a wheel chair. At 46 years old, she's been living on the streets 32 years. I get cranky after five days of camping. And even camping, I usually have a dignified place to pee. I don't camp when it's 17 degrees outside... during the day!
But two people found love in impossible circumstances. They fell in love, homeless, and got married, homeless, and are now seeking shelter from bone-deep cold, hoping that the shelter they land in will allow couples to stay together. They smile in the newspaper photo, they have learned to tolerate the most heinous discomfort. For them, there are no holiday cocktail parties, no fat steaming turkeys festooning burgeoning tables surrounded by 20 bleating celebrants. No, they are content to be warm for eight hours before they are shuffled back onto the street. They are discarded unseen observers. Petulant shoppers will scurry by them, competing for parking spaces, digging for keys in deep Coach handbags. People will contemplate their loose change until the light changes and then they will speed by, cars with heated seats, avoiding eye contact.
And yet the couple smiles. They are in love. They will think about much more than loose change. Change doesn't come loose in their grip. It is revered and metered out in increments. $1.25 might buy them enough coffee to stand in the corner of a convenience market until toes and fingers are warm enough to trudge on.
These things overwhelm me. I have a particular esteem for homeless people. Many of them suffer from mental illness they can not escape. Origins are unclear and frankly without meaning at this point. They were somebody's precious child, ambitious adolescents, hopeful young adults. Dreams and determination succumb to the plague of addiction, abuse and poverty. Illness goes untreated, despair unanswered.
So, whatever you embrace as December locks out the daylight: Christmas, Winter Solstice, Kwanza, Chanukah, none of that is as important as celebrating your humanity, your comfort, and the gifts of faith and love.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
NAME MY BLOG AND WIN!!!
Can you come up with a clever name for my blog? If I choose your name, you may be already be a winner. DON'T DELAY, BE THE FIRST CALLER, BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE!
Really, I don't know how what I do here translates. What title would remind you to look here? What phrase might bring others to this rhetorical rain that I leave here...
Enter today and you could win...
1. A 20 minute supply of Ibuprofen
2. Medical grade orthotics
3. Barry Manilow's entire 8-track collection*
4. A set of 4 support socks in fashion colors
5. "Team Edward" tee shirt
6. Slightly used Harry Potter wand
7. 24 pack of Old Milwaukee
8. A First Edition Metolius Black Bucket
9. The Missing Keg Tap
10. Adam Lambert CD
Game on!
*my luck, one of you will actually want this and I wil spend $4700 on ebay getting it...
Really, I don't know how what I do here translates. What title would remind you to look here? What phrase might bring others to this rhetorical rain that I leave here...
Enter today and you could win...
1. A 20 minute supply of Ibuprofen
2. Medical grade orthotics
3. Barry Manilow's entire 8-track collection*
4. A set of 4 support socks in fashion colors
5. "Team Edward" tee shirt
6. Slightly used Harry Potter wand
7. 24 pack of Old Milwaukee
8. A First Edition Metolius Black Bucket
9. The Missing Keg Tap
10. Adam Lambert CD
Game on!
*my luck, one of you will actually want this and I wil spend $4700 on ebay getting it...
About the Chinese Hamster Ovaries
Okay, let me just say that mixing my overzealous romantic delusions about Adam Lambert with the topic of Chinese Hamster Ovaries was just too much even for me.
There will be more on this later but here is some food for thought. The medications used to treat Multiple Sclerosis range in price from $2500 to $5000 per month. A very dear friend of mine was recently diagnosed with MS. I don't know what I thought MS was but I didn't know much until now. How perfectly awful! And it seems so ridiculous, your own immune system attacks the myelin which is the casing around your nerves. Some of you are probably close to this disease or know someone who lives with it. This is a life changing event for me and my friend because up until now, ailing and aging was something that happened to other people, not us. She is strong and stoic and when I talk to her, she never crumbles. If her chins begins to quiver, she draws in a deep breath and talks about what she has done to arm herself in the battle or what’s for dinner. She can do that, she has a very toned “so what’ muscle and she uses it when she needs to kick the crap out of life.
So, she is telling me the price range of Interferon drugs used to slow the progression of the immune system’s attack. I am incredulous, sad, livid. She then explains to me why. The drugs are not produced chemically, in other words, the pharmaceutical companies don’t just cook this and add that and make a pill. No, she tells me, they grow the compound in Chinese Hamster Ovaries.
Really? I am still studying her as though she just explained how one might change a light bulb. And then I feel the slightest tension in the corners of my mouth. It starts as a giggle, one that I try vehemently to stifle. I can’t. It’s just too funny. Every aspect, Chinese Hamsters? Not North American or Peruvian or PetCo hamsters? Do they import them or are they churned out of local “hamster farms”. Are female hamsters forced into high-production breeding? I picture little fuzzy beige rodents hooked up to mini-machines, exchanging whatever fluids must be combined to produce something that preserves myelin in a human being.
Seriously? Chinese Hamster Ovaries? I am gone now, I start to hitch and cough. Now she is laughing, we are crying. For 15 minutes, $3000 a month medication, an uncertain future, our fear, our mortality is pushed off. For days Chinese Hamster Ovaries will chase off a number of demons.
So what?
ADAM LAMBERT..TWITTER PATED AT 44!
First of all, you can't judge me... I FREAKIN LOVE ADAM LAMBERT. For those of you who don't know, he was the runner up in last year's American Idol competition. He's dubiously gay, or bi, or not. He did a most controversial performance at the American Music Awards last week (dragging leather-clad, half naked men and women around stage on leashes - if you're interested go watch on YouTube) and now everyone is talking about how over the top it was, but to be fair, somebody thought it was good idea, you don’t get a prime time performance on AMA full of innuendo ‘n stuff and nobody noticed before you go live that it’s, um, inappropriate.
But I don't care about any of that. He was remarkably adorable and infinitely talented on AI. Sweet, unassuming, liquid silver eyes (yes, black liner aside, silver). I have forgiven him for being prettier than I am because he offsets it with spikes and leather and rivets and manly things that make him an almost irresistible boy-goddess. I say that because he is very attractive, even when he's got more make up on than a Mary Kay Cadillac. I remember in high school when Boy George graced the cover of the, oh crap, I'm going to have to Google the name of the band, what the hell? Suzanne will tell me later. Anyway, I was indignant that a fairly “unattractive girl made a band’s album cover. It wasn’t until later that I realized that ugly “girl” was Boy George.
I am NOT prettier than Adam Lambert and I’m really okay with that. When he sings, out come sounds like melted caramel. The songs cover every visceral romantic experience from lust to heartache to redemption. His new album, For Your Entertainment, is stellar in my opinion.
I love every song on it, it is mostly teenager friendly (be prepared to explain a few things), you can dance to it, it's makes you happy, sad, giddy - all at once.
Okay, so when did I turn my blog into an album review? I have no musical discernment. My father is a gifted musician and when he plays the piano in the background while I'm setting the dinner table, his music fills the room like warm firelight. Today's pop music lacks tonality, melody, chord complexity and overall musical meat for the most part. I listen to music for the emotional response it evokes. It has to reach me in the part of me that sees life in colors and textures. Music inspires me to write, to cry, to feel things that are often just out of my consciousness. Adam Lambert's songs do something like that to me. And I can say that I knew him when... When what April?... when you sat your sorry ass on the couch eating Moose Tracks ice cream and drinking bad Cab?
He was just a pudgy 26 year old with sometimes overdone hair and black eyeliner hoping that he would get that infamous yellow ticket to Hollywood (see AI website if you're lost here). Somehow because I watched him evolve over every episode last season, I feel like we're old friends. Remarkably though, I have a crush like a sweaty 13 year old girl. I can see putting Adam Lambert posters up in my room and downloading his songs as ringtones. I suddenly want to stock up on the black mascara that comes in the pink and green tube and can be acquired at any 7-11 checkout counter. What's going on? Like I actually get a little, okay, wait for it...
twitter-pated.
you heard me. I haven't been twitter-anything since 1982 when Kent Buehler asked me to meet him at the Portland Club Plaza. I thought it was physiologically impossible to twitter-pate at 44. There are some other -ate things that still work for me.
Migrate (downward facing boobs)
Urinate (only when I laugh or sneeze)
Flatulate (eeeww)
But twitter-PATE? Oh hell no.
So, I just had to talk about Adam Lambert, he's my new favorite thing. He will be on Barbara Walters' 10 most fascinating people of 2009 on 12/9/09 just in case you wanted to know. Funny thing is, Adam didn't win American Idol. It was Kris somebody. Jessica says that Kris should call his first album, Kris Who? And when Kris won, he was shocked that Adam didn't win. They hugged, Adam smiled and wished him the best. He knew...
..."I'm gonna take you to the top to the brink of what you believe."
-Sure Fire Winners, For Your Entertainment
Adam Lambert
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
CANADIAN OIL, LOW ACID
My friend Suzanne is brilliant. She is articulate, beautiful, funny, wise beyond measure and brilliant. I had to say it again because even though I've known this for some time, I really want to be sure you are paying attention.
She has for years collected and retained information that the average person would have reason to recall only if they were on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, which is stupid, like, Regis or Meredith, duh, who DOESN'T want to be a millionaire? I think that would be a funnier show, but I digress. Back to Suzanne, information you need to know say if you're getting a doctorate in philosophical-sociological rhetoric of the 21st century and it's technical applications, notwithstanding the use of slang and antiquated knowledge.
I just made all that up... Suzanne has, for years, been absolutely stoic in the delivery of statements that rendered me useless for no less than 10 minutes. I will describe this more later. Her comedic timing is unintentional which makes it even more amazing and her delivery of information is methodically sincere, she has no particular agenda, no intention to correct or overbear. She just has facts and knowledge, stored up in her gray matter like a reassuring supply of beans and bacon during a famine. And if there was any person well versed in combatting intellectual famine - it would be Suzanne.
Some people revel in telling you stuff they think you ought to know. The purveyors of "THEY SAY", self-proclaimed experts on matters of health, money, child rearing, and relationships. They say you shouldn't eat red meat...they say you should invest in mutual funds...they say you should get your oil changed every 3000 miles. Is that so? Well who are THEY and why do THEY think they run the universe? Suzanne on the other hand, never quotes, THEY except very accidentally and because it's a life-long habit of circumstance. Try running a bibliography of every snippet of good advice or interesting factoid in your head to credit the origins of things you happen to know. Sometimes THEY are just those guys who you can't remember who printed an article in a ladies' magazine you read while having a pedicure. And THEY say, canola oil is better for you than vegetable oil and sometimes even olive oil. Seriously, I'm not making this up. (totally plagiarizing Dave Barry here.)
Suzanne and I use the buddy system to shop at WinCo. WinCo is one of those warehousy grocery stores replete with overgrown families trolling the aisles keeping toddlers at bay. It's not like Costco which has lighting that makes even the flimsiest diamond sparkle, it's more a big discount place, cheaper this and cheaper that, no credit cards and you have to do the grocery bagging (the pressure of which causes me great anxiety) yourself and God help you if you forget something because it takes 15 minutes to get back to dairy - if you have your own golf cart that is. Suzanne and I go together because we hate it and we comfort one another while managing the large unwieldy shopping carts and navigating throngs of people. Why it is that no one seems as anxious to get their goods and get out as we do is a mystery. But today, Suzanne's list is small, she needs a few essentials, coffee, cheese, cereal, broccoli and COOKING OIL.
Well, if you haven't bought cooking oil lately, let me tell you, you're gonna need a spreadsheet and a couple of field manuals to make sure you don't screw up and end up with something totally likely to congest all of your heart valves. Watch out for HYDROGENATED anything, once the miracle butter replacement, hardened, artificially-colored petroleum products, while handy and less expensive than butter, are apparently responsible for high cholesterol, bad skin, heart attacks and Donald Trump's hair. So, unless you're baking competitive pie crusts, the SHORTENING (what does that mean anyway? Suzanne probably knows..) is out. Okay, so olive oil then, good for you, natural, plenty of Omega-3s and it costs roughly the same per quart as your first car. And please God, don't get the plain old olive oil it tastes like something moldy also from your first car. No, you need virgin olive oil (will someone explain what it hasn't done yet that makes it virgin?) slightly nutty, good at high temps for cooking, very good for you. But wait!
THEY SAY NOW THAT CANOLA OIL IS EVEN BETTER!!! So down the oil aisle (say that fast 3 times) and I find myself slowing our mutual cart down because I'm a mother and I'm about to mother Suzanne even though she doesn't need me to and I know better, but THEY SAY THAT CANOLA OIL IS BEST, so before I can filter, I just blurt out, "Here's the Canola oil!" But before I can impress upon Suzanne my cache of understanding about the superiority of canola oil, she levels me with, "You know there is no such thing as a canola."
What? Immediate confusion, fear.
What do you mean? Olive oil is from pressed olives, corn oil from pressed corn and canola oil is from pressed canola. Right? It never even occurred to me that canola wasn't some leafy green thing that probably stinks but makes heart-healthy oil when pressed or boiled or irradiated. Isn't canola a plant? Didn't my grandmother grow those or was it columbine or calendula? I refute her statement, vehemently for about 107 seconds. That's all it takes to absorb how remarkably funny that statement is. She didn't even twitch the corners of her mouth, her lips remained motionless and her marbled blue eyes dead on. Suzanne is NOT a jester or yanker of chains. I just laugh, almost to the point of peeing a little which has become a constant hazard since bearing a child and reaching the age of 40 (okay, passing it, whatever). Suzanne sees that not only do I not believe her, she will have to elaborate if she plans on getting me to push the cart any further.
"What do you mean there is no such thing as a canola?" I beg. "It's some kind of oil developed by the Canadians." she spits out and with incredulous shock, I mock her. She can see that I've had to cross my legs in my stance a bit. I still think she's out of her mind and making this up. Who would know that? And why? And surely they don't call it Can-ola because it's Canadian Oil. Really?
"Oh, it gets better, she says and now she's delighted herself. “It's made from rapeseed oil, they couldn't just call it rape-oil now could they?" Too late, I've laughed into hitching gasps and water is streaming out of my eyes, pants-peeing is really a given here, but I manage to hold on by posturing. I can't breathe. Suzanne is only beginning to laugh but not at how hilarious she is or how clever - no she is starting to laugh because I am just about laid out on the floor, aisle 15 of the local WinCo thinking about rape-oil and the non-existence of the friendly canola plant. So, I bust out the I-Phone, because still, REALLY?
Google, and Wikipedia...wait for it...wait for it.
Canola is one of two cultivars of rapeseed or Brassica campestris (Brassica napus L. and B. campestris L.).[1] Their seeds are used to produce edible oil that is fit for human consumption because it has lower levels of erucic acid than traditional rapeseed oils and to produce livestock feed because it has reduced levels of the toxin glucosinolates.[2] Canola was originally naturally bred from rapeseed in Canada by Keith Downey and Baldur R. Stefansson in the early 1970s,[3][4] but it has a very different nutritional profile in addition to much less erucic acid.[5] The name "canola" was derived from "Canadian oil, low acid" in 1978.[6][7] A product known as LEAR (for low erucic acid rapeseed) derived from cross-breeding of multiple lines of Brassica juncea is also referred to as canola oil and is considered safe for consumption.[8]
From this day forward and forever more, Canola will no longer grace my grocery list, no indeed, it will only be called, Canadian oil, low acid. Hey, I need some Canadian Oil, Low Acid for my stir fry. Or even better, let’s stroll into Albertson’s and ask what aisle is the rape-oil on.
How did Suzanne know that? Why does she know that? How in the hell did she remember that? That's why we love her because there is room for that in her precious mind and she seems able to dish it up (or spoon feed me) when it is most important that I laugh on a Tuesday night at the grocery.
She has for years collected and retained information that the average person would have reason to recall only if they were on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, which is stupid, like, Regis or Meredith, duh, who DOESN'T want to be a millionaire? I think that would be a funnier show, but I digress. Back to Suzanne, information you need to know say if you're getting a doctorate in philosophical-sociological rhetoric of the 21st century and it's technical applications, notwithstanding the use of slang and antiquated knowledge.
I just made all that up... Suzanne has, for years, been absolutely stoic in the delivery of statements that rendered me useless for no less than 10 minutes. I will describe this more later. Her comedic timing is unintentional which makes it even more amazing and her delivery of information is methodically sincere, she has no particular agenda, no intention to correct or overbear. She just has facts and knowledge, stored up in her gray matter like a reassuring supply of beans and bacon during a famine. And if there was any person well versed in combatting intellectual famine - it would be Suzanne.
Some people revel in telling you stuff they think you ought to know. The purveyors of "THEY SAY", self-proclaimed experts on matters of health, money, child rearing, and relationships. They say you shouldn't eat red meat...they say you should invest in mutual funds...they say you should get your oil changed every 3000 miles. Is that so? Well who are THEY and why do THEY think they run the universe? Suzanne on the other hand, never quotes, THEY except very accidentally and because it's a life-long habit of circumstance. Try running a bibliography of every snippet of good advice or interesting factoid in your head to credit the origins of things you happen to know. Sometimes THEY are just those guys who you can't remember who printed an article in a ladies' magazine you read while having a pedicure. And THEY say, canola oil is better for you than vegetable oil and sometimes even olive oil. Seriously, I'm not making this up. (totally plagiarizing Dave Barry here.)
Suzanne and I use the buddy system to shop at WinCo. WinCo is one of those warehousy grocery stores replete with overgrown families trolling the aisles keeping toddlers at bay. It's not like Costco which has lighting that makes even the flimsiest diamond sparkle, it's more a big discount place, cheaper this and cheaper that, no credit cards and you have to do the grocery bagging (the pressure of which causes me great anxiety) yourself and God help you if you forget something because it takes 15 minutes to get back to dairy - if you have your own golf cart that is. Suzanne and I go together because we hate it and we comfort one another while managing the large unwieldy shopping carts and navigating throngs of people. Why it is that no one seems as anxious to get their goods and get out as we do is a mystery. But today, Suzanne's list is small, she needs a few essentials, coffee, cheese, cereal, broccoli and COOKING OIL.
Well, if you haven't bought cooking oil lately, let me tell you, you're gonna need a spreadsheet and a couple of field manuals to make sure you don't screw up and end up with something totally likely to congest all of your heart valves. Watch out for HYDROGENATED anything, once the miracle butter replacement, hardened, artificially-colored petroleum products, while handy and less expensive than butter, are apparently responsible for high cholesterol, bad skin, heart attacks and Donald Trump's hair. So, unless you're baking competitive pie crusts, the SHORTENING (what does that mean anyway? Suzanne probably knows..) is out. Okay, so olive oil then, good for you, natural, plenty of Omega-3s and it costs roughly the same per quart as your first car. And please God, don't get the plain old olive oil it tastes like something moldy also from your first car. No, you need virgin olive oil (will someone explain what it hasn't done yet that makes it virgin?) slightly nutty, good at high temps for cooking, very good for you. But wait!
THEY SAY NOW THAT CANOLA OIL IS EVEN BETTER!!! So down the oil aisle (say that fast 3 times) and I find myself slowing our mutual cart down because I'm a mother and I'm about to mother Suzanne even though she doesn't need me to and I know better, but THEY SAY THAT CANOLA OIL IS BEST, so before I can filter, I just blurt out, "Here's the Canola oil!" But before I can impress upon Suzanne my cache of understanding about the superiority of canola oil, she levels me with, "You know there is no such thing as a canola."
What? Immediate confusion, fear.
What do you mean? Olive oil is from pressed olives, corn oil from pressed corn and canola oil is from pressed canola. Right? It never even occurred to me that canola wasn't some leafy green thing that probably stinks but makes heart-healthy oil when pressed or boiled or irradiated. Isn't canola a plant? Didn't my grandmother grow those or was it columbine or calendula? I refute her statement, vehemently for about 107 seconds. That's all it takes to absorb how remarkably funny that statement is. She didn't even twitch the corners of her mouth, her lips remained motionless and her marbled blue eyes dead on. Suzanne is NOT a jester or yanker of chains. I just laugh, almost to the point of peeing a little which has become a constant hazard since bearing a child and reaching the age of 40 (okay, passing it, whatever). Suzanne sees that not only do I not believe her, she will have to elaborate if she plans on getting me to push the cart any further.
"What do you mean there is no such thing as a canola?" I beg. "It's some kind of oil developed by the Canadians." she spits out and with incredulous shock, I mock her. She can see that I've had to cross my legs in my stance a bit. I still think she's out of her mind and making this up. Who would know that? And why? And surely they don't call it Can-ola because it's Canadian Oil. Really?
"Oh, it gets better, she says and now she's delighted herself. “It's made from rapeseed oil, they couldn't just call it rape-oil now could they?" Too late, I've laughed into hitching gasps and water is streaming out of my eyes, pants-peeing is really a given here, but I manage to hold on by posturing. I can't breathe. Suzanne is only beginning to laugh but not at how hilarious she is or how clever - no she is starting to laugh because I am just about laid out on the floor, aisle 15 of the local WinCo thinking about rape-oil and the non-existence of the friendly canola plant. So, I bust out the I-Phone, because still, REALLY?
Google, and Wikipedia...wait for it...wait for it.
Canola is one of two cultivars of rapeseed or Brassica campestris (Brassica napus L. and B. campestris L.).[1] Their seeds are used to produce edible oil that is fit for human consumption because it has lower levels of erucic acid than traditional rapeseed oils and to produce livestock feed because it has reduced levels of the toxin glucosinolates.[2] Canola was originally naturally bred from rapeseed in Canada by Keith Downey and Baldur R. Stefansson in the early 1970s,[3][4] but it has a very different nutritional profile in addition to much less erucic acid.[5] The name "canola" was derived from "Canadian oil, low acid" in 1978.[6][7] A product known as LEAR (for low erucic acid rapeseed) derived from cross-breeding of multiple lines of Brassica juncea is also referred to as canola oil and is considered safe for consumption.[8]
From this day forward and forever more, Canola will no longer grace my grocery list, no indeed, it will only be called, Canadian oil, low acid. Hey, I need some Canadian Oil, Low Acid for my stir fry. Or even better, let’s stroll into Albertson’s and ask what aisle is the rape-oil on.
How did Suzanne know that? Why does she know that? How in the hell did she remember that? That's why we love her because there is room for that in her precious mind and she seems able to dish it up (or spoon feed me) when it is most important that I laugh on a Tuesday night at the grocery.
Congratulations Nicole Dell You've Just Won...
Dear Nico,
Thank you for being THE VERY FIRST FOLLOWER OF MY BLOG!! YOU ROCK!
And congratulations, with your membership you will receive one complimentary dollop of hair gel, odor-eating shoe liners, a plastic (including the Biphenol PolyCarcinogens) water bottle with a poorly written cliche on it, some world class stainless steel bobby pins and my love and adoration for as long as you live.
Hurry, don't delay, these gifts are YOURS today, just for signing up. They also happen to be readily available at my home which explains a lot.
Really, thank you for signing up. I shall happily ridicule Suzanne who will now be #2. Which is better than going #2. Well, perhaps.
Now for a mind-bending discussion on Canola Oil...
Love,
April
Thank you for being THE VERY FIRST FOLLOWER OF MY BLOG!! YOU ROCK!
And congratulations, with your membership you will receive one complimentary dollop of hair gel, odor-eating shoe liners, a plastic (including the Biphenol PolyCarcinogens) water bottle with a poorly written cliche on it, some world class stainless steel bobby pins and my love and adoration for as long as you live.
Hurry, don't delay, these gifts are YOURS today, just for signing up. They also happen to be readily available at my home which explains a lot.
Really, thank you for signing up. I shall happily ridicule Suzanne who will now be #2. Which is better than going #2. Well, perhaps.
Now for a mind-bending discussion on Canola Oil...
Love,
April
Monday, October 26, 2009
Burnt Pumpkin Seeds & Cabernet
To be clear, scorched pumpkin seeds and copious amounts of Cabernet do not constitute a well balanced meal. Also, just so you're sure, neither of these items inhabit the confines of my new diet. Now I have lost 12 pounds in about 4 week despite my best efforts to replace three of the four food groups with something that comes out of a corked bottle. But, everything I consume (cab aside) comes from little foil pouches. It starts out powdered and things that would normally be hearty and perfect for the cooling fall weather have been, well, pulverized. They are easily reconstituted by a mere minute in an 850 watt microwave and although I am sure that the grainy little beige chunks are meant to be chicken (for all I know it was chicken of some kind at one point) but taste rather like unsalted cardboard.
Now don't get me wrong, as far as diets go, this has been the most successful and manageable one I've ever tried. My weight loss success is unprecedented and I haven't felt deprived - except for the fruit of the vine.
What is it about that soft pop of an evacuated cork that makes my spine tingle? Even after I've had a few too many, well several too many, truth be told, I can smell that toasted oak or black cherry or rotten leaves and dried socks or whatever and my palate literally quivers. Even as I squeeze one eye shut to keep Desperate Housewives (don't judge me) on one screen, I fill the glass. I remind myself later I will surely regret this. Later I will wish that I could breathe through both nostrils and that my mouth didn't have that weird sanded feeling. I will chastise myself and impose sturdy recriminations for my wanton lack of self-control.
Then comes the bewitching hour, say sometime between 5:30 and the next day, where my defenses are low, my willpower intimidated by bigger emotional bullies, my day sucked, my job is stressful, the perpetual recounting of the Simpsons dialogue by my 12 year old is driving me crazy, I'd rather drink red wine than eat pulpy pudding. This nuisance of a dialogue continues until the clatter in my brain either gives up and quietly pours the remnants of last night's bottle or I defy my craving and beat it back into it's black hole.
See, truthfully, the thrill of "getting into those skinny jeans" eludes me. I am more in favor of sexy shoes although my arthritic ankles mock me in anything over 2 1/2 inches. Sexy shoes can make your butt look smaller, it's a proven fact. Sure, I'd like the smaller pants - they take less room in the washer, but clothes are clothes and while I may don a smaller waist line, there will never be a reversal in the lowering of "the girls".
My breasts currently can be compared to "grapefruits in tube socks" and losing weight might shift them to lemons, but the infrastructure remains the same, they will hang down. They might perk up a bit but I have no delusion about their shape and the effect age, gravity and weight loss will have on them. I don't care about skinny jeans, I want to wear a cute tank top with no bra! Or be gingerly supported by a pretty cami under something sheer and billowing and not XL. How about a bathing suit that doesn't have be held together with carabiners after the flimsy plastic latch gives way under the pressure? (true story). So see, the pursuit is convoluted and lacks any of the instant gratification of pulling that cork out of the next bottle.
Well, that's enough of that. Back to the cab. I recently had the privilege of touring Columbia Valley, Washington wine country with my dear friends, one of which manages a vineyard in Easter Washington. We yellow school bussed it around several tasting rooms. I was given instruction on identifying "corked" wine and watched in awe as my friend, Kent, dumped out a full glass because it was corked. Really? I would never have thought of that. But now that I have a more discerning palate, I might be tempted to do so, as long as there is a back up bottle. I also learned the name of some chemical that creates the flavor of green pepper in some wines. I know that their rich, complex flavor is really an amazing balancing act of grape, sugars, the miracle of fermentation, the right barrel and very astute vintners (someone check me, is that what the wine maker or the grape grower is called?). And the glass does make a difference, the shape of the globe serves more than to grace a table with regality, but becomes a fragrance diffuser which adds to the overall experience. They offer classes on this stuff so that you can hone your palate to recognize the good from the bad. I will love the homework!
So, ode to the goblet or carafe or box even, you are sorely missed on my "health" journey. I ferreted away my bounty from the wine trip, wrote the dates and places I purchased them on each bottle with silver Sharpie. I will wait for the right dinner party, the right pity party, the right I just really want a glass of wine party and will rejoice in the grape, the amazing friends and maybe even skinny jeans.
Now don't get me wrong, as far as diets go, this has been the most successful and manageable one I've ever tried. My weight loss success is unprecedented and I haven't felt deprived - except for the fruit of the vine.
What is it about that soft pop of an evacuated cork that makes my spine tingle? Even after I've had a few too many, well several too many, truth be told, I can smell that toasted oak or black cherry or rotten leaves and dried socks or whatever and my palate literally quivers. Even as I squeeze one eye shut to keep Desperate Housewives (don't judge me) on one screen, I fill the glass. I remind myself later I will surely regret this. Later I will wish that I could breathe through both nostrils and that my mouth didn't have that weird sanded feeling. I will chastise myself and impose sturdy recriminations for my wanton lack of self-control.
Then comes the bewitching hour, say sometime between 5:30 and the next day, where my defenses are low, my willpower intimidated by bigger emotional bullies, my day sucked, my job is stressful, the perpetual recounting of the Simpsons dialogue by my 12 year old is driving me crazy, I'd rather drink red wine than eat pulpy pudding. This nuisance of a dialogue continues until the clatter in my brain either gives up and quietly pours the remnants of last night's bottle or I defy my craving and beat it back into it's black hole.
See, truthfully, the thrill of "getting into those skinny jeans" eludes me. I am more in favor of sexy shoes although my arthritic ankles mock me in anything over 2 1/2 inches. Sexy shoes can make your butt look smaller, it's a proven fact. Sure, I'd like the smaller pants - they take less room in the washer, but clothes are clothes and while I may don a smaller waist line, there will never be a reversal in the lowering of "the girls".
My breasts currently can be compared to "grapefruits in tube socks" and losing weight might shift them to lemons, but the infrastructure remains the same, they will hang down. They might perk up a bit but I have no delusion about their shape and the effect age, gravity and weight loss will have on them. I don't care about skinny jeans, I want to wear a cute tank top with no bra! Or be gingerly supported by a pretty cami under something sheer and billowing and not XL. How about a bathing suit that doesn't have be held together with carabiners after the flimsy plastic latch gives way under the pressure? (true story). So see, the pursuit is convoluted and lacks any of the instant gratification of pulling that cork out of the next bottle.
Well, that's enough of that. Back to the cab. I recently had the privilege of touring Columbia Valley, Washington wine country with my dear friends, one of which manages a vineyard in Easter Washington. We yellow school bussed it around several tasting rooms. I was given instruction on identifying "corked" wine and watched in awe as my friend, Kent, dumped out a full glass because it was corked. Really? I would never have thought of that. But now that I have a more discerning palate, I might be tempted to do so, as long as there is a back up bottle. I also learned the name of some chemical that creates the flavor of green pepper in some wines. I know that their rich, complex flavor is really an amazing balancing act of grape, sugars, the miracle of fermentation, the right barrel and very astute vintners (someone check me, is that what the wine maker or the grape grower is called?). And the glass does make a difference, the shape of the globe serves more than to grace a table with regality, but becomes a fragrance diffuser which adds to the overall experience. They offer classes on this stuff so that you can hone your palate to recognize the good from the bad. I will love the homework!
So, ode to the goblet or carafe or box even, you are sorely missed on my "health" journey. I ferreted away my bounty from the wine trip, wrote the dates and places I purchased them on each bottle with silver Sharpie. I will wait for the right dinner party, the right pity party, the right I just really want a glass of wine party and will rejoice in the grape, the amazing friends and maybe even skinny jeans.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Using the blender...
Chinchilla aside. Here is excellent advice. When using the blender, PUT THE LID ON BEFORE PRESSING "MIX" that is unless you really want to wear a spray of roasted tomatillos.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
More on Barking LIzards
As expected, if you Google "Barking Lizards" you wind up with a plethora of web pages, my favorite being a list of Limerick slang phrases and their Dublin equivalents. Go there and read it's funny.
The Surrealists hotline...
I started out with the title, Musings and Meanderings which I thought was quite clever until I Googled (just when did that become a verb?) it and found a bazillion web things with that phrase. So, check this out, I quoted from a long ago used answering machine message in which I ramble off a series of non-sensical and totally unrelated words and inform callers they've reached the "Surrealists Hotline". The script of this left several friends doubled over in laughter, even pants-peeing, and I used it for a long time, except of course when I was looking for a job. Someplace in my files, I have the original yellow note paper with the whole thing and I will replicate it here for someone's (or no ones's) amusement.
The point was, I wanted a title that was unique on my new blog, which is my favorite new thing. The baffling part for me is that I don't know how to Google my blog. How does one find me on the internet. I tried putting in "chinchilla blender" and oddly the search returned roughly 1,101,000 items for this. I looked through several pages but can't believe there are that many websites or blogs or even topics that entertain both chinchillas and blenders under the same heading. Nonetheless, putting in any combinations of the compenents that make up my blogspot title, name, heading, whatever, produced the annoying "no pages match whatever you typed in up there. Did you mean, april finally waits or april ferrets cats or april formally loses it? NO, dammit, I meant, APRIL FINALLY WRITES, it's my blog. This, I discover is not original either. I still contend that you will be hard pressed to beat slack worms or chinchilla blender. Barking lizard is probably a no brainer. I'm going to google it now and get back to you, faithful reader. And I assume there is only one of you right?
The point was, I wanted a title that was unique on my new blog, which is my favorite new thing. The baffling part for me is that I don't know how to Google my blog. How does one find me on the internet. I tried putting in "chinchilla blender" and oddly the search returned roughly 1,101,000 items for this. I looked through several pages but can't believe there are that many websites or blogs or even topics that entertain both chinchillas and blenders under the same heading. Nonetheless, putting in any combinations of the compenents that make up my blogspot title, name, heading, whatever, produced the annoying "no pages match whatever you typed in up there. Did you mean, april finally waits or april ferrets cats or april formally loses it? NO, dammit, I meant, APRIL FINALLY WRITES, it's my blog. This, I discover is not original either. I still contend that you will be hard pressed to beat slack worms or chinchilla blender. Barking lizard is probably a no brainer. I'm going to google it now and get back to you, faithful reader. And I assume there is only one of you right?
What I know about Mortgages aka DEATH PLEDGE
Okay, I can't stand it anymore, I have to write about the rise and fall of the Subprime Mortgage Empire, of which I was an unwilling foot soldier for several years.
I underwrote loans, lots of them, sensible of course in the beginning. For some reason the bank thought it prudent that your mortgage payment only be 36% of your income and that you should prove you earned income and could repay your loan. Greed is a funny thing. I remember when two goons from Express Funding showed up in my small mortgage broker's office in 1993 and proudly proclaimed that they would make loans to people with "not so perfect" credit. Really?
Well, we simply didn't have any clients like that, how shameful. Besides, who would pay 10.95% for a mortgage loan when prime was 8.25%. I know that subprime lending had sprouted after the fall of the savings and loan business. If you're really interested in that drivel, Google it, I have better stories to tell.
The mortgage business, at least my slice of it, seemed to be plagued with drama, incest and such a penchant for unscrupulousness that I began to think all the world behaved that way. Oh and did I mention rampant narcissism, reckless endangerment of the dollar and promiscuity?
To be fair, I may have slept with another mortgage professional at one point but I knew deep down if one of them wanted to start a family, I was out - I never saw the mortgage business as a viable future - and, I was right. Dang it.
I worked for the largest financial institution in the world and thought, great, I'll have job security. Nope. While the institution remains, the paltry manufactured home financing business they scooped up during an acquisition is long gone. We were told that they were going to reinvent sub prime lending. The purchased a multi-million dollar proprietary computer program (which failed as had others - more on this later) and sent legions of sales people out to conquer the dreaded question, "What's your niche." That loosely translates into what can your company do for me that the other five companies that came in here earlier today can't do?" This nefarious question made my skin crawl. It didn't matter, what left our mouths was a brief parroting of "We have stated income for wage earners, 90% LTV down to a 580 credit score and imminent default programs" or something like that. I'd like to think that mortgage brokers were loyal but you could bust your ass for two weeks pushing their ugliest file and when you called to find out where to send closing docs, you'd discover that some account executive with bigger boobs and a .25% better rate scooped it up and funded it while you were screaming at the document department to get your closing package out asap or else!
More on this later
I underwrote loans, lots of them, sensible of course in the beginning. For some reason the bank thought it prudent that your mortgage payment only be 36% of your income and that you should prove you earned income and could repay your loan. Greed is a funny thing. I remember when two goons from Express Funding showed up in my small mortgage broker's office in 1993 and proudly proclaimed that they would make loans to people with "not so perfect" credit. Really?
Well, we simply didn't have any clients like that, how shameful. Besides, who would pay 10.95% for a mortgage loan when prime was 8.25%. I know that subprime lending had sprouted after the fall of the savings and loan business. If you're really interested in that drivel, Google it, I have better stories to tell.
The mortgage business, at least my slice of it, seemed to be plagued with drama, incest and such a penchant for unscrupulousness that I began to think all the world behaved that way. Oh and did I mention rampant narcissism, reckless endangerment of the dollar and promiscuity?
To be fair, I may have slept with another mortgage professional at one point but I knew deep down if one of them wanted to start a family, I was out - I never saw the mortgage business as a viable future - and, I was right. Dang it.
I worked for the largest financial institution in the world and thought, great, I'll have job security. Nope. While the institution remains, the paltry manufactured home financing business they scooped up during an acquisition is long gone. We were told that they were going to reinvent sub prime lending. The purchased a multi-million dollar proprietary computer program (which failed as had others - more on this later) and sent legions of sales people out to conquer the dreaded question, "What's your niche." That loosely translates into what can your company do for me that the other five companies that came in here earlier today can't do?" This nefarious question made my skin crawl. It didn't matter, what left our mouths was a brief parroting of "We have stated income for wage earners, 90% LTV down to a 580 credit score and imminent default programs" or something like that. I'd like to think that mortgage brokers were loyal but you could bust your ass for two weeks pushing their ugliest file and when you called to find out where to send closing docs, you'd discover that some account executive with bigger boobs and a .25% better rate scooped it up and funded it while you were screaming at the document department to get your closing package out asap or else!
It really took me this long?
Having been intimidated and threatened by the mere mention of the word "blog" for about the last five years, I finally set one up. Seriously? It was that easy? I thought "blogging" was some mysterious internet mechanism reserved for the precious few tech heads who understood cobalt basic or quantum physics or something. I have my own domain name which remains a fetal website, just a name with a webpage that says something like, "THIS SITE MAY BE FOR SALE BECAUSE THE MORON WHO PAYS $115 A YEAR FOR IT WOULDN'T KNOW HOW TO SET UP A WEBSITE TO SAVE HER LIFE." This is interesting because my former spouse amongst others are web designers who actually know what HTML stands for. All I know about HTML is that if I don't read my emails in that, they're boring and the animated emoticons are just meaningless puncutation marks.
So I created a blog, just like that. I labored over choosing a background template, what if I don't like the colors? What will people think? This is just silly, really. Now I'm perplexed. After decades of scribing the most impressive narratives about my world, I sit here, exposed, anyone in the world might read this (wouldn't that be cool?) and I'm suffering a creative stall.
Good enough for now. Welcome to my world, I have lots to say, with any luck it will be interesting and entertaining. At the very least, I can finally tell Suzanne that I published - even if it's only my own blog, I'm in print now dear and there may be an available audience.
So I created a blog, just like that. I labored over choosing a background template, what if I don't like the colors? What will people think? This is just silly, really. Now I'm perplexed. After decades of scribing the most impressive narratives about my world, I sit here, exposed, anyone in the world might read this (wouldn't that be cool?) and I'm suffering a creative stall.
Good enough for now. Welcome to my world, I have lots to say, with any luck it will be interesting and entertaining. At the very least, I can finally tell Suzanne that I published - even if it's only my own blog, I'm in print now dear and there may be an available audience.
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