Flap Meat

While My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I were in Virginia over the Thanksgiving holiday we did some amazing cooking with my Mom.

Chicken and dumplings. Steak, lobster, and scallops. Two turkeys, one fried one in the oven. Not to mention all the side dishes - spinach cheese balls, deviled eggs, cookies, etc.

The one dinner I was not too thrilled with was my Mom's Sichuan chicken. I love spicy food and love Chinese, so what's the problem? I didn't have one until I offered to help prep by trimming the fat off the chicken. Cutting the bags of chicken open I was horrified to find that it wasn't breast meat.

It was flap meat.

Seriously, what the fuck is flap meat? Where the hell is the flap of a chicken?

There was so much fat and gristle on the little bits of meat that it was impossible to trim. That kind of meat grosses me out and certainly isn't something I would want to eat.

To make light of the situation, MSMF and I started teasing one another about the flap meat - calling it the slappy flappy. Flappy yappy. Ol' flappy slappy.

This goes a bit further back than the janky chicken. MSMF can't stand to touch raw meat with his hands, which I find unique and totally hilarious. He also isn't the biggest fan of being teased by the sounds meat makes slapping together in your hands. You know the sound, that thick, funky slappy slappy sound like two people bumping uglies.

Thaaat sound.

So now we tease each other about our own private flap meats. Our shared flap meats. Our ol' flappy yappys.

I just have to remind myself not to make that sucking meaty sound with the inside of my mouth to accentuate our slappy flappyness. MSMF hates that and will give me a stern, "Baby!"

You're Like Borat

"You're like Borat."

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") lost his mind the other day. He denies that he said but he said it.  Or something like it anyway.

Me: "What!?"

MSMF: "You're like Borat."

Me: "BORAT!? You gotta be fucking kidding me."

MSMF: "I didn't say you are Borat. I mean your sense of humor or way of saying things for shock value is like Borat."

Me: "Seriously!? You're really comparing me to Sacha Baron Cohen?"

MSMF: "I'm not comparing you."

Me: "Dude. No. You said 'you're like Borat'."

MSMF: "Honey I didn't say you're Borat."

Me: "I know what you're saying but Jesus, am I really that crass and offensive?"

Honestly I was amused more than anything else and genuinely laughed at the comment. But it gave me pause to contemplate... Am I really like Borat? I'm not the biggest fan of Cohen or any of his characters. They're too obvious and obnoxious and only serve to upset or cause discomfort. That being said, I wondered to myself; am I obvious or obnoxious and do I try to upset and create discomfort with my humor?

I don't TRY to be any of those things. But I'm sure I have been. On occasion.

Here's a fun recent example that you can use to judge for yourself.

A few nights ago MSMF, JZ, Beyonce and I were at my girlfriend's place to help trim her Christmas tree. I gave her an awesome cat scratcher about a month ago that my own silly elderly cat couldn't figure out how to use and I was curious if her kitties took to it or not. She said one of her cats was into it but her other cat not so much. JZ and Beyonce suggested that she put a dirty sock on it, to associate her smell with it. I know that's a thing with pets but the comment struck me as funny, so I blurted out - "Yeah, I'm gonna go rub my asshole on it..." JZ and Beyonce just laughed but MSMF looked horrified and blurted out "BABY!"

The best part was the comment didn't die there; as MSMF said later we put our wadders on and went further into the muck of my inappropriate comment. We couldn't stop laughing while babbling about what things we could rub and grind on. I'd like to blame the eggnog martinis we were drinking but I'm sure it was simply the ridiculousness of my remark.

So...

Am I like Borat?

Ho Fuckin' Ho

Ho Fuckin' Ho!

The holidays are upon us with all the happiness and madness that the season inevitably brings, year after year. Christmas is always my favorite time of year, though truth be told, my love of the winter season starts just before Halloween.

Halloween and Christmas are just the best, with my birthday falling in between the two. Making the holidays that much better this year, I'm happy to say that My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I are back together. I came to my senses and realized this blog is just shit without him.

Strike that.

I realized that my life just wasn't the same without him. And that, yeah, the blog was shit without him.

It's not the silly shit I say; it's the silly shit we say.

Already the season is brighter and fuller with MSMF. More love, more laughter. I want to see him and sit together, looking at our gorgeous Christmas tree, every night but most of the week we're in two different places.

There's a longing in general that consumes me during Christmas. Nostalgia and memories of Christmas' long, long ago with my Grandmother affects me in strange ways. I feel so happy and excited for Christmas morning, as I did when I was a little girl, but as I've gotten older there's an underlying sadness to the season. My Grandmother has been gone for more than 20 years and with her my fading memories of Christmas' together. The sadness intensifies by the feeling and want of perfection because Christmas perfection is not real. As a child, one knew no better. But now, that adolescent innocence of Santa coming down the chimney and all being right with the world has grown into adulting. You try to banish the worry of finances and the future, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes after a long work day, clinging to the smell of the tree - the glow and warmth of the fire - and the embrace of someone you love next to you. Not wanting to let any of it go. Hoping that someone else understands the twinge of contentment and pain that these fleeting feelings and moments bring.

How Nat King Cole's Christmas Song and parts of Alastair Sim's A Christmas Carol can make me cry on cue.

I'm always giddy to give gifts - I'm an awesome gift giver - but I also feel a little gloomy, knowing that I'll wake up to find an empty stocking. I am Santa now. I'm always looking out for others, to be their Santa. To bring a small thrill to anyone I spend Christmas eve and Christmas morning with, by staying up later than anyone else or waking up the earliest so I can sneak over to the stockings and illicit that feeling of wonderment when the stockings are found filled Christmas morning.

The stocking was always my favorite part of Christmas. My Mom would stuff mine full of all kinds of goodies, including a single children's book. Two years ago, after my Mom and her husband moved away to Virginia, she sent me a box full of gifts including my childhood stocking. For weeks the box was missing by the postal service. I thought for sure my Mom and I were going to literally go postal. Luckily the box showed up, intact. The following year I visited her in Virginia, stocking in hand, telling her never to fucking send it to me again. If it had gone missing our hearts would have been shattered. Silly, such a response for something seemingly so small.

But holidays and memories are like that. They're not small and they're not simple.

I dread the arrival of Christmas eve and Christmas morning because as much as I look forward to those 48 hours I dread the vacancy left in its wake. All the songs and lights and dressing up and eating and drinking and feeling overall more merry and carefree comes to a screeching halt.

Until then I'm going to keep binge watching Christmas movies (MSMF and I are watching as many versions of A Christmas Carol as we possibly can - I think we're currently at 7) and bask in the reason for the season. No, not Jesus. Indulging in all the things and gaining weight while being blissfully thankful that I have MSMF by my side to laugh together while riding the highs and have one another to hold when the seasonal lows try to steal our joy.

Doin' It Way Big

DISCLAIMER - Wrote this weeks ago. Just now posting.

Have you ever had that day? That day or night where you just did it way big?

To quote Lil Kim - "Doin' it way big."

A week before my birthday I went way big.

I didn't apologize for saying or being who I was because I had my crew around me.  The same people that have torn me down but also the same people that can respect me.

And I dished it out too.  I probably used "cunt" and "fuck em" way too loosely but then again who doesn't say some stupid shit. Who wants to be taken too seriously? Seems everyone's lives are so serious these days.  If you don't have COVID you either don't care, care too much, or are going to get it.

I personally would like to just get it and move on but I'd probably be one of those sad mother fuckers that gets the worst version of it.

Tonight, on the almost week of my birthday, I talked about all the things.

I grew up poor.  My family suffered. And tortured one another, and still do, because they don't know any better. I shared my random socio-anthropological beliefs with the group because God damn it I'm unique. 

Or at least I was.

But as the years add on and my skin sallows, I realize that I refuse to age. Refuse to slowly die. I took a stand tonight because damn it all I matter. My life matters. This fucking frustrating no seeming result life matters. To me. I'm trying to scrape by, paycheck to paycheck, and act like I know what the fuck is going on.

And everyone at the table just smiled at me and we all finished our over priced beverages because that's what responsible adults do. 

And because I'm being open I'll tell you - we lied about having a kid in our 5 person pre-lockdown crew because we wanted chicken fingers.  This God damn mother fuckin' place wouldn't give us chicken fingers because it was a kids menu item. And we seemed to NOT fit the bill of having a kid status. So we made up a kid that we had to "take chicken tenders home to". 

Of course we proceeded to eat them at the table, secretly, the moment they served them up in the to-go container.

I resent leaving them 20%. Honestly.

But that's what you do when it's COVID. And that's what you do when you're goin' way big.

You say and do shit you shouldn't but I'm not going to look back and think - meh, I shouldn't have said or did that. I knew exactly what I said and did all night. And frankly...

I did it way BIG.

Poop Knife

Ok fam. Real talk.

Have you ever heard of a poop knife? Seriously. I'm not shitting you. Barum barum tss.

Poop knife. Two words I never thought I'd ever read or say aloud together.

I'm part of a strange and fun Facebook group, Weird Secondhand Finds, and one day someone posted a cool metal object. It looked like an antique letter opener but wasn't sharp or pointed enough and had a loop at the top. The poster said they weren't sure what it was but bought it because of the cool ram/calf head on it (see below).

Curious what people said the item was, I went into the black hole of comments and practically every post called the not-a-knife a "poop knife".

I couldn't help it. I had to know what the fuck a poop knife was.

Turns out there's a Reddit article that went viral, opening everyone's brown eye to the wonder of a butt blade.

https://www.reddit.com/r/confession/comments/7p8puq/light_i_was_22_years_old_when_i_learned_that_not/?st=JCCSBP5T&sh=f591af5f

Anyone who says they haven't looked down at the porcelain throne, curiosity turned shocked turned impressed, at the sheer size of what their behind is capable of is lying to themselves. Enter the poop knife.

I want to tell you more about it but honestly you should read about it yourself. It's not just about laying big turds and having to chop them up for the toilet to suck them down.

There's so much more silly shit. Literally.

You Outta Know

This post definitely isn't an Alanis Morissette song.

You outta know, all my unsubscribed readers, that I've been away. Duh.

I needed some time off.

Without my big vacation getaway, aka Burning Man aka most people's worst nightmare, I was left wonton for some time off work. Time off from working out and watching what I eat all the time and some time on with people I usually only see at the burn.

I also feel it's only fair that I share with you that My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I went our separate ways prior to my absence.

Shit happens. Sometimes love isn't enough but we loved deeply regardless. Sometimes something is so good in half of your life but completely devoid and inept in the other half. That's how it was for us; perfectly brilliant at home in our downtime but on completely different pages socially. The dichotomy was boggling and eventually created a sink hole.

As I told him, I'll tell you. I'm so utterly grateful and thankful for the time we spent together. He was my first subscribed reader lol!  I thoroughly enjoyed our time together, much of it filled with laughter. He is a wonderful guy that made me feel so loved and special. I'm in the unique position of being happy of our time together, rather than feeling used, embittered, and hurt. I never was one of those people that would write a social media "thank you Dear John letter" for everyone to read, to show how brave and bold and spiritually woke I was to dealing with life's disappointments and bullshit, but here I am. No one was wrong. No one did anything reprehensible. 

MSMF was a constant source of entertaining posts so I don't know what the hell I'm going to do now. 

I'll probably need to regale you with boring stories of my own stupidity or the idiocracy of good friends and family as I've done on occasion. Ya'll are just going to have to bare with me.

And while another man friend may come into my life he won't be MSMF. He'll be known to you all as someone else but he won't be My Special Man Friend. He gets to reserve that special title and I am forever appreciative for the time he spent with me and for inspiring this silly blog that I oddly care so much about.

Thank you.

But Do You Love Me?

It's great to be you. You know, you. All of you.

All the things you don't apologize for and frankly all the things you do.

But do you love you? All of you? And can you expect or hope that someone else will love you?

All of you?

Is it fair?

I have been loved when I shouldn't have. Loved someone else when I shouldn't have. Hated myself and hated others in the name of love.

But when you ask yourself or ask someone else - do you love me? Inevitability the answer is... yes?

Frankly, love is either born out of obligation - family - because we've abused each other enough years to warrant loving someone so long they can't quit you or love is born out of will - self/another - because we've abused ourselves enough to warrant the respect it takes to not quit, to lose is to fail and that is not an option.

I've been me for 40 years. And facing my 41st year all I can say is it has come at a price.

A price seemingly everyone else around me for the most part has been willing to pay.

I have always thought I knew sacrifice, commitment, love, affection, partnership... but apparently I don't.  I'm reminded each time I get it wrong that I didn't know what the fuck I was doing from the get-go. I know so many people around me, friends and family that have "figured it out", but my silly ass is still blowing out in the breeze.

The cruel irony of my life is all I've ever wanted is to be loved. For my love to be enough for someone else.

To be the one. The one. Enough for some one. To change. To be changed. To fall in line. The same line.

They tell you you have to be enough for yourself but the truth is I've been enough for myself for a long time. I grew up poor and alone and I'm sick of it. It's been long enough, scraping and fighting for scraps of love and affection and acceptance. I'm tired of it. 

I've made myself into this fit, beautiful, accomplished woman but to what end? At what price?

I endeavor to love me.

But do you love me?

Another One Bites The Dust

There hasn't been anything silly said or done recently. Sometimes life just isn't funny.

I've been known for finding humor even in the most inappropriate situations. But lately I've got nothin'.

So I'll regale you with an oldie but goodie story.

About 8 years ago my dear aunt's father passed away. I was never close to him personally but I attended the funeral to support my aunt as well as my cousin, who's more like a sister. As we walked out to our cars after the service, the heaviness and sadness of the day started to take a toll on my cousin. By the time we reached our respective car doors my cousin was borderline hysterical, sobbing and cough crying. I couldn't understand much of what the poor thing was saying, so I just stood there nodding, "mhmm-ing" and "I know-ing" through her meltdown.

In the distance you could hear an ambulance.

Barely audible at first but as the sound of the wailing sirens increased so too did the wailing of my cousin. Soon she was drowned out by the deafening sound of the approaching ambulance. We both stared in silence as the ominous and foreboding presence of the ambulance screamed past us. Now silenced we just stared at each other. I don't know what came over me but this is what I said and did next...

Head bobbing back and forth, I sang out "Mm mm mm. Another one bites the dust."

With her face red and eyes swollen my cousin's mouth dropped open. In shock. In horror. I'm not too sure.

The crying and hurt and sadness that filled the parking lot seconds before turned into inappropriate cackling. We fucking died laughing. We were now crying from laughing too hard. All of it was just so surreal; death of a family member, the ambulance flying down the street toward someone's fate, and then me - singing Queen. It was so terribly inappropriate and awful of me but so damn fitting. And funny. It brought my cousin out of a deep well of sadness and that's all that mattered to me. Offensive or not, it worked.

We still laugh about it to this day.

Sometimes life just isn't funny. But you can die trying to make it funny.

Startled Into Action - OH SHIT!

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and Jaja were sweetly cuddled up on the couch together while I was upstairs working the other day. I came down to see how they were both doing and laughed to myself with just how comfortable Jaja was.

I have definitely lost favor with her ever since MSMF and I started dating. MSMF will deny it but it's true.

Jaja is such a daddy's girl now. If we're sitting on separate couches, Jaja will pick laying next to MSMF on his couch. I've even had him switch couches with me and sure as shit she'll get up and move to his new couch. If I leave the room, meh. But if MSMF leaves the room, Jaja is perched at the edge of the couch checking to see where he went. She not only begs him for her treats now but insists that MSMF play fight with her. This was something only I could get Jaja riled up enough to do. Now I'm just chopped liver.

She was completely stretched out against MSMF's leg, her head slightly tilted back with a little kitty smile and her eyes closed in bliss. As she stretched further, grinning as she slowly twisted onto her other side, Jaja must have sensed that I was there watching or caught sight of me because all the bliss left her body as she froze awkwardly in place for a second, eyes bulging out of her head.

If that wasn't funny enough, she started meowing way too loud to fit the mood all while suddenly writhing around, struggling to get up onto her feet. It was as if she was the secret mistress and I came home early to discover them cuddling on the couch - OH SHIT!

MSMF and I both started laughing as it was totally obvious that's what she was thinking, oh shit. MOM! OH SHIT! Meow meow meow meow! OH SHIT! Meow meow. You're my favorite, really. Meow meow. I love you more, believe me. We're just friends. Meow meow meow.

Now any time something happens that we weren't expecting or we're watching a show and someone gets caught off guard, MSMF and I will look at each other all bugged eyed and say:

OH SHIT!

He Just Crawled Away & DIED!

I got bit by something in the middle of the night a few weeks ago.

I can still see the lingering spots left by the huge welts I got from the bites. The bites were not completely uniform but it looked as though something with two mismatched fangs chomped into my upper thigh, about 6 inches from my hip. That or whatever bit me decided the first bite was so good it went in for round two.

Now I don't know about you but shit crawling around, biting you in the night annoys and creeps me the fuck out. I always wonder what it was that bit me and how the whole thing happened. It never fails in the Summer months that a few mosquitos find their way into the apartment, inevitably make it upstairs, and proceed to annoy me all night with little buzzing flybys. It's just insult to injury because they know as soon as you go to sleep you're going to toss the sheets off you, which you've been using as some magically impenetrable fortress. And you know they're going to come and chew on your ass as soon as you let your guard down, unaware and drooling on yourself.

As My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I lay in bed the next morning, I felt that familiar twingy itch. A bite itch. Sure enough there were the puncture marks.

Pissed and grossed out, I lamented to MSMF that I didn't want to be chewed on again later that night. Here was his sweet reply:

"He ain't coming back."

"He just crawled away and DIED."

Jesus. Thanks honey.

The way he said 'crawled away and DIED" was dripping with disdain and loathing. What was not so indirectly implied by MSMF was that whatever bit me wasn't coming back for seconds because I killed it. It was dead. Whatever I'm made of, in my blood and bones, sent this thing to its grave. Now, I found this mostly humorous and we've had a laugh about it ever since but am I not worthy of being bitten a second time? Is the poison within better than Raid or whatever the fuck you kill human feeding bugs with?

Again, still think it's funny. But... I also haven't been bitten again. So. There's that.

Shut Up So I Can Hear You

I fucked up tonight.

Big.

I went to an event that I was told was COVID safe and it wasn't.

I was planning to see my two favorite people on this Earth aside from my cat, my partner, and my Mom two days from now and instead I have to cancel with them because I fucked up.

I'm pissed.

Trusting people has come at a massively heavy price lately. And I'm tired of paying it.

I care more about my favorites living, in case I was exposed to the virus, than I am about seeing them Sunday. The disease has never been fully real to me until being grossly exposed to an overly dumb population of people that were being flagrantly nonchalant about the fact that they weren't wearing masks and could potentially be infecting one another - or even infecting the next group of people that they talked to. 

God damn it.

I've always been much more cavalier about the COVID bullshit than My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") but now I find myself having to make the call to tell him to fuck off because I care about him and because I got got. I James Bonded into the lion's den of COVID. It's an intense soundtrack that ultimately has a prophetic ending - Bond trips and falls and succumbs.

I'm the white night without a horse.

You're not doing anyone a favor. You fucked up and now you have to ride into town looking like the asshole that you are. On a donkey no less. It's not heroic or pretty.

No one wants to be the bad guy. The fall guy. The one that got all their family sick with COVID. That's what we've all been fearing right? You'd see some friends or go to the store or do your job that's high exposure and then suddenly - BAM! COVID. No one wants that burden or guilt. God forbid anyone get really sick or worse...

There were so many weird things that happened tonight. Like dominos laid up to inevitably fall. Was I a part of the plan or did I help lay the dominos?

There's so much sound in the deafening silence. Of my experiences these days. Of my mind.

Shut up so I can hear you.

Sports Hostage

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is a slave to sports. Basketball and football specifically.

Maybe slave isn't the correct word because he loves it. Longed for it and craves it now that it's made a COVID comeback.

Me on the other hand... I could give two fucks about sports.

Having swam and played water polo from high school through college, even participating in an olympic camp, most other sports were just not in my wheelhouse. And though I'm right at six feet I have had zero, ZERO interest in volleyball or basketball or any other sport that some dumb ass would ask me if I played.

What I find obnoxious about people that love sports is how all consuming it is. To their energy. To their time and to their life.

I just love when people jump off their barstools or hop off the couch to yell at the TV. Saying "we" when talking about the plays or the team. Pissed if their team lost, souring their mood for the day/night. Dude. These guys are professionals being paid millions to run back and forth with a ball up and down the court or field. What are you getting so worked up about? You're coming apart at the seams, taking hours off your life while these guys are banging hookers and doing blow in their off time. They're not flipping their shit or losing any sleep.

In the last month I have watched more basketball then in the last 40 years. Sure it's fun when some guy hits a sweet three point shot or the stupid announcer gives a live advertisement for a hamburger and over emphasizes the "pickles on a BRIOCHE BUN!" The same announcer also overuses the term "FROM WAY DOWN TOWN!" There was one game he must have said it 10 times in 3 minutes. I swear to God if I hear that guy say "from way down town" one more time I'm going to be the one beating my partner and the cat.

From what I'm told, MSMF has lost two relationships during the football season. His friends have reasoned that his love for the sport was a key factor. I don't believe that something you love or enjoy should be a factor in ending a relationship. That says to me there are bigger problems. I support MSMF's sporting vice. I've even enjoyed the Chargers pre-season documentary, Hard Knocks. What I don't support is his enjoyment of gambling on sports. But while he's busy watching games, it allows me to write or dick around with any number of other things that I don't get to do during the workday.

I'm just looking forward to the holidays and to the end of the basketball and football seasons, whenever the hell that is.

Dick Pillow

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has a dick pillow.

He calls it a "leg pillow" but we both know it's a dick pillow.

What else would you call a normal pillow wedged all up in someone's balls? A dick or balls pillow, right? See? I told you.

MSMF's body temperature runs unfortunately higher than most. Great in the winter for me, terrible in the summer for both of us. He says the leg pillow cools him off but I don't believe it. How can something stuffed all up in your sweaty parts make you somehow cooler? This kind of science just baffles me.

There are leg and contour pillows online that cater to every ache and pain in the body. Help with alignment and stability of your back and hips and provides overall support to your lower extremities. But not one of these products claim to "cool the balls" or "reduce the overly warm body temps of your sweaty ass".

As it is MSMF sleeps with 3 pillows. I sleep with 1. MSMF has 1 for his head, 1 to hold onto, and 1 for his dick. Thing is, and this always cracks me up, is that the holding pillow and dick pillow are really not differentiated from one another. So how does MSMF know if he's cuddling the holding pillow or nustling the sweaty dick and balls pillow in his face?

MSMF doesn't seem to care which pillow it is but I've taken to washing the pillow covers a lot more frequently.

Just in case.

And I know the below photo would be more suitable as a female version of MSMF's dick pillow but it was just too good not to share.

Pleasant dreams.

Chocolately PayDay Bar Epilogue - Ungettably Got

So, it turns out you CAN find a chocolate PayDay bar in Los Angeles.

As a follow-up to my blog post, Chocolatey PayDay Bar - The Ungettable Get, I'm here to tell you with a lack of enthusiasm that My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") triumphed in his mission.

I'm really happy for him, honestly. But it's just a fucking naked Baby Ruth.

https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2020/09/chocolatey-payday-bar-ungettable-get.html

I thought after weeks of searching every grocery and drug store, gas station, and bodega in Ventura and Los Angeles that MSMF had given up his obsession with finding the latest release chocolate version of the original peanut and caramel PayDay.

I was wrong.

I should never infer that seeming resignation and disappointment on the part of MSMF means that he has given up. On the contrary I should remember that MSMF and I share this personality trait in common; an obsessive, die-hard stubbornness to not throw in the towel. I should have known that he was going to will the damn chocolate bar into existence or keep searching every candy isle for the next 10 years.

I should also always assume that MSMF has ulterior motives. He says he doesn't but experience and his willingness to admit the truth has proved otherwise on more than one occasion.

He said he just wanted to get out of the apartment and go on a bike ride.

He said it was just by chance that he saw the gas station 7-11.

He said it was just luck that they had the chocolate PayDay bar.

But I smell a rat! He may not have known that the 7-11 was the secret hideout of this otherwise elusive candy bar but why the bike ride? Why the bike ride past one of the few places MSMF has NOT checked?

The bike ride was just an excuse to check yet another place. If MSMF had asked one more time to check out this place or that place, he knows I probably would have rolled my eyes, laughed a little and said "Babe, really?!" So he goaded me with cooler temps outside the apartment and exercise. Two things I couldn't say no to. And it worked.

I'll say it again, honestly, I am happy that he found the damn chocolate PayDay bar. I love him and just want him to be happy. Even if that means being on an obsessive mission to find a mediocre Snickers knockoff. Now we're just going to be onto the next thing, whatever the hell that may be.

The sweetest part wasn't the candy bar but the sound MSMF made when he threw open the 7-11 glass doors and yelled, "BABY! THEY HAVE IT!", scaring the living shit out of me and almost knocking me off my bike. He was so happy he couldn't wait the minute and a half to make his purchase and then triumphantly tell me. He had to tell me the second he spotted the brown box.

After I steadied my feet and realized he wasn't being robbed, I told him to take my wallet out of the bike basket and grab the few remaining bucks for his bar. I should have known 1 wasn't going to be enough. MSMF walked out with 4 and the biggest smile on his face.

He immediately tore the wrapper off the first bar and chomped down, Mmm-ing away as he did a little happy dance right there is the 7-11/76 gas station parking lot.

Bulgur - The Bane of My Existence

Bulgur. Middle Eastern cuisine staple. Whole grain superstar. Bane of my existence.

Frankly, I don't even remember what recipe I needed bulgur for but what I do know is that I have a metric ton of the shit sitting in my pantry cupboard taking up way too much damn space.

I should have known the dish was going to be some bullshit when I searched every nearby grocery store, including my local Indian and Thai bodegas, and couldn't find bulgur. If you can't find whatever exotic shit you're looking for at your little niche bodegas, move on and throw that recipe away. It's not worth the headache.

But we're talking about me here. And I'm stubborn, persistent, and wanted to try something new. There's only so many times My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I can do variations of meat and veggies or pasta before you want to flip the fuck out.

So I did what anyone on the verge of flipping out would do when they can't find something. I checked Amazon. And let me just say there are dedicated memes and reddit chats dedicated to the shit people thought they bought on Amazon vs. what showed up in the mail.

I am one of those assholes.

Popped onto Amazon, bing bang boom, and ordered up some bulgur for next day delivery. I thought I had bought a typical sized plastic bag of the stuff, like you'd find beans or rice in at the store. What I ended up receiving that next fateful day was a SANDBAG size of bulgur. A family dedicated to eating a dish everyday with bulgur wouldn't get through this fucking thing in a year. Or maybe even two. This is the pitfall of buying from Amazon; if you don't check the price WITH the product details you really are buying blind. Case in point - check out this Bored Panda article.

https://www.boredpanda.com/funny-online-shopping-scams-fails-expectation-reality/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic

Annoyed with myself I figured, ok. There's got to be a way to save this. So I Googled "what can I do with leftover bulgur". Turns out a lot of shit I don't want to make and that sound terrible. Cilantro Lime Tuna Bulgur Salad, Jesus no. Bulgur Bell Peppers, nope. Bulgur Zucchini Patties, yeah if I need a door stop or two. The only thing that looked mildly good was the Bulgur Falafel but the amount of bulgur needed for the recipe wouldn't even make a dent in the bag.

The best part about my quest to figure out what the fuck to do with all this bulgur was an article titled, "Good Question: What Can I Do With Bulgur Wheat? posted by kitchn. One of their daily food magazine readers, Nathan, had submitted the same question I was pondering - what can you do with bulgur? Reading his post had MSMF and I rolling with laughter. This guy, our unkhown homie Nathan, bought WAY too much like we did. Doesn't know what to do with it, except eat tabouli for the next five years. And better yet called it a 'sizeable bag' of bulgur. I'm dying laughing even now.

https://www.thekitchn.com/good-question-what-can-i-do-wi-1-82011

How many homes are being plagued by oversized bags of bulgur? How many Nathans are there in the world pinned down in their kitchens, their cat slowly eating them instead of the bulgur in hungry desperation?

I feel for my kindred brobro that I never met. RIP Nathan.

Corned Beef Conundrum

What's the deal with dishes that are described as having corned beef but have very little corned beef?

For example, corned beef hash. This was the first dish I ever ordered with corned beef. It came highly recommended by the restaurant and just sounded good; home-style potatoes, grilled onions and peppers, egg whites scrambled (my preference) and in-house made corned beef hash. Makes my mouth water just writing about it. But when this meant to be glorious dish was placed in front of me I couldn't help but wonder - where was the fucking corned beef?

I mean seriously. Is there a reason to be stingy with corned beef? Is there some secret restaurant rule that you can only put so many grams of corned beef on any one plate or in any one dish?

My original corned beef experience was good, considering I never order something new off a menu. I'm a stickler for routines and liking what I like. I was happy with the change of habit but it left something to be desired. Namely more damn meat on the plate!

The first case of corned beef missing in action ended up not being the last time. Every time, and I mean every time, I have ordered a corned beef dish it is served with the smallest amount of corned beef allowable to not be sent back to the kitchen. I just don't get it.

I have since looked up the mystery of corned beef hash, whether it's expensive or if there's some other reason for it being a no show in it's own name sake dish. I hate to break it to you but there is no mystery. No rhyme or reason. You don't use the leanest or most expensive piece of beef on the market and you douse the shit out of it with salt. Both things making it fairly unhealthy but that can't be the reason. When you're at a diner do you think they give a shit about the calories you're consuming? Hell no.

So why the lack of fucking corned beef!? It's ponderous.

Way too much butter on your toast? Check.
Overly greasy, gristly bacon strips? Check.

Cinnamon rolls larger than basketballs? Check.

There are tons of other things that restaurants love to serve you that will damn near clog your arteries and kill you on the spot. So it's not about price and it's not about how unhealthy corned beef hash is.

I may never learn this great mystery but my quest for a decent ratio of corned beef to eggs and hash browns continues...

What's Your Chowder?

"Would you rather have New England or Manhattan clam chowder?"

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") always has the funniest thoughts and questions for me in the mornings. I love it.

Me: "Neither? I'm not the biggest chowder person."

MSMF: "Really?"

Me: "I mean, I do like it. But not on its own. It needs to be in a sourdough bowl or something like that. I just don't like the funky chewiness of the clams. Grosses me out a little."

MSMF: "Hmm."

Me: "Which one do you prefer?"

MSMF: "The creamy New England."

Me: "I wonder how many different chowders there are?"

MSMF: "I'm not sure."

Curious, I whipped out my phone and googled how many kinds of chowder are there. Turns out there are quite a few. Mushroom chowder. Corn chowder. Seafood chowder. Many are just variations of either the clam chowder or some other version of seafood or vegetable with bacon. Bacon makes everything better.

MSMF: "So what's my over/under on chowders that you're going to make me in the next 40 years?"

Me: (laughing) "What?"

MSMF: "What are my odds of you making chowder?"

Me: "Zero? Not that high. And why are we only going to live until our 80's?"

MSMF looked pretty disappointed even though he's not a soup guy. But I could be an everyday souper I love it so much. LOVE IT. So I thought about it a bit more and figured I could totally get on board with a corn chowder or some other version with bacon. And with the cold months fast approaching I could totally add a chowder recipe to the mix.

To lift his spirits I told MSMF we'd put a chowder into the mix while saying chowder as silly as I could, because it made him laugh. More like chow-da or ciao-da. CIAO-DA. Trying to think up different ways of saying it silly, I blurted out chode-r. CHODE-R. MSMF immediately stopped laughing and wanted me to stop saying chowder. In fact he was over talking about chowder altogether. I knew exactly what I was saying and thought it was funny but our silly morning bedtime chowder banter abruptly came to an end.

So what's your chowder?

Chocolatey PayDay Bar - The Ungettable Get

Who gives a fuck about PayDay bars? Seriously though.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has been obsessed with finding a new version of the original PayDay bar.  Apparently, Hershey's has re-released an oldie but forgetie - a repeat performance of the 90's version PayDay bar WITH chocolate.

I wasn't aware that there was an audience for the original PayDay, let alone the need to reinvent it by dipping the bar in chocolate. And it's not just making a seasonal debut. It's back permanently. Praise the candy bar Gods! The Snickers bar runner up has made a return!

Early in MSMF's pursuit of the nutty chocolatey PayDay bar I wanted to know WHY he wanted one so bad. I'd love to say it's in homage to his belated father or some other noble quest but it's not. He read an online article hailing it's return and just had to have it, figuring it must somehow be better than the original. Or at least worth the time it took someone to write the comeback article, let alone read it.

In obsessive pursuit of the 2.0 PayDay MSMF and I have been to at least 5 liquor stores and 6 grocery or drug stores. Each time MSMF left empty handed his craving to find the elusive sweet and salty treat only got stronger. Tired of all our running around, sneaking peaks at check out lane candy racks, I suggested MSMF look online. eBay or Amazon must be selling these damn bars. Turns out to get 3 chocolate PayDays shipped from an online candy store it would cost over $20 in shipping. To hell with that.

MSMF has now, in desperation, decided to make his own chocolate PayDay. I reason it'll be just like the real thing, if not better. But I think we both agree that it'll probably still suck.

It's a fucking PayDay bar. It's only going to be so good.

https://thetakeout.com/taste-test-chocolate-payday-hersheys-upgrade-on-a-neg-1844611581

Social Media Is Like Walking Through A Mine Field

I swear to Christ. Navigating social media is like walking through a mine field.

There's going to be something or someone that's going to trigger you.

Creepy Uncle comments on your sexy new dress post - KABOOM!

2 Facebook friends get into a comment war over some stupid shit, putting you in the middle - KABOOM!

Just laid Fluffy to rest? Check out this animal abuse fundraiser page or adoption video - KABOOM!

Instagram suggests you follow your shitty ex-boyfriend? KABOOM!
Then you see his new girlfriend, you know, the one he cheated on you with. KABOOM!

Stressed out about the state of the world? Don't worry, here's some more bad news via these news articles - KABOOM!

What's with the KABOOM?

Jesus. I'd like to check in socially every now and then without getting a limb blown off, my heart gouged out, or battery acid poured in my eyes.

Whatever happened to simple updates about you, your friends, and your family? Photos that illicit awws or aww yeahs? Not oh hell nos. The programs are so "smart" that I don't even see 90% of the posts from the people I'm "friends" with. And yeah yeah I know, something about algorithms, blah blah blah. It doesn't need to be this difficult. Or painful. Or unpleasant. Even during supposed quick phone sessions on social media, swiping around, I've fallen down a rabbit hole ending multiple hours later. Feeling like shit.

Hopefully my attempt at a fun, funny little blog has given you respite. But now that I think about it, maybe it hasn't. Maybe my whining about being triggered has made you feel triggered.

KABOOM!

Slip 'N Slide & Crocodile Mile

Have you ever heard of a Slip 'N Slide? Crocodile Mile?

Have you ever had the pleasure of owning one or other similar aquatic Summer lawn product?

I recently read that due to the heatwave we're going through in California and COVID keeping us away from the water parks, Slip 'N Slide sales are booming. It gave me a chuckle as it made me nostalgic and happy to know that companies like Wham-O is still fucking kids up.

Maybe I was just an overzealous kid that ran too fast or didn't use the product right, but whether I had a Slip 'N Slide or a Crocodile Mile my ass always ended up careening off the far end of that all too warm plastic. And I'm not talking oh whoops, I missed the end zone - giggle giggle - pick yourself up and start again. I'm talking by the time I hit the last length of slide or the "splash pool", I was hydroplaning sideways at 5-7 miles an hour with nothing to stop me but grass and my face. I used to use the Slip 'N Slide so often in the Summer that a small pool of water would build up at the bottom of the little down slope my Grandmother had in the backyard. It served as my sludgy grass Crocodile Mile splash pool until they actually came out with the damn thing.

I was always told as a kid to "go out and play." The adult version of I don't want you inside annoying me while I drink my boxed wine out of a coffee cup. Never you mind if there was anything or anyone to play with. As you can infer by the previous sentence money WAS an object when I was young, so imagine how out of my mind crazy I was when I got a Slip 'N Slide. Problem was of course the water. I couldn't very well run the hose all damn day. The water would flood the grass and my Mother and Grandmother would have to take up second jobs to pay the water bill. If I had a dollar for every time my sweet meats met hot, burning plastic without water on it I would've had enough for my college tuition.

Crocodile Mile by Marchon also took layers of skin off your limbs, though if you could get your Superman form perfected to slide hard enough and long enough to hit the splash pool you were heaven. I mean, LITERALLY in heaven. The crocodile tarp, blow up bumps, and pool were meant to slow you down and welcome you to a nice cool down because your bathing suit more than likely caught fire from the friction of your spandex suit and plastic tarp slide. In reality though, the bumps only served to launch your flaming body into space, well over the splash pool, landing face first into the hard grass. Did Wham-O and Marchon test these damn things with real kids before sending them into mass production and out into the world?

Crocodile Mile's catchy jingle "You run, you slide, you hit the bump and take a dive!" is 50% true until the 'bump' and 'dive' part. Realistically it should go - You run, you slide, you catch fire, you launch into orbit, and you land a crumpled grassy mess somewhere in your neighbors yard. Slip 'N Slide at least kept things honest. They weren't overselling shit. You got a tarp and two metal stake fasteners. That's it. Their jingle, "Sliiiiip. Slip 'N Slide" is an honest sell and as simple as the product. Honest but again not telling the whole truth of the experience. It should have been - Sliiiiip. Judge your running speed carefully. Or - Sliiiip. Slip 'N Glide (into the bushes or whatever else you put too close to the end of the small tarp runway).

Don't believe me? All you need do is watch the below original commercials from the 80's to see what I mean. These kids are laughing their asses off in the commercials but I'd bet my imaginary college tuition money after the take that they were holding their shin and sitting in the grass a little bit shook wondering what the fuck just happened. User experiences may vary.

F*cking Fleas

My Special Man Friend's ("MSMF") roommate's cat Sushi (God that was a mindful) has fucking fleas.

We didn't know this until we showed up for a couple night stay. I saw she had a flea collar on and was itching now and then but it wasn't until I saw the tell tale black flea eggs, that look like pepper, that I knew we had a problem.

I don't think anyone on this planet likes fleas. Having grown up with pets most my life, fleas were just a nuisance you had to take care of every Summer season. My dislike of fleas went from no thank you to eat shit and die sometime in the early 2000's. I was dating a Special Forces Ranger who moved off base with a couple military buddies. There was nothing special about the house but there was something special about the room he was staying in. With just a lamp and a mattress on the floor, we tucked in for our first night there. Before turning the light off, I could have swore the floor was... moving. Wondering if I was just seeing things, I sat up and looked around. The floor as well as the comforter were in fact moving!

FLEAS WERE JUMPING EVERYWHERE!

Naturally, I freaked the fuck out. I won't get into the details but suffice it to say they were everywhere. Turns out the prior tenant kept their nasty little dog in that room. We dumped so many chemicals in that room that it was basically inhospitable. I felt like my skin was crawling and felt phantom bites for weeks after returning home. You don't just get over something like that.

So what do you think happened when we went to bed that first night back at MSMF's place? I found a flea chewing on my ankle. I either brought it upstairs with me or it was already there, waiting in the shadows for me. Regardless I slept fully under the covers, sweating my balls off. Fucking fleas. The part that really pisses me off the most is not the restlessness and constant checking of your exposed skin to see if there's a flea there but that fact that we're probably going to bring flea eggs home to my place! My sweet Jaja is an indoor kitty and never has fleas. God help me if we bring fleas back to LA and Jaja gets them.

The only fun I've had with this 2 day flea drama is sliding up close to MSMF, latching my hands and feet onto him while clacking my teeth together, pretending to play bite him. I make the cutest flea - nem nem nem nem~!

Massage Brothels Cont.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I have been diligently working out and for the most part eating healthy, even with the pandemic and my ankle surgery getting in the way. Though he's been running every other day, I've kept up my cardio somewhat with body combat. I love it! It's an awesome way to burn a shit ton of calories while feeling like a badass.

We've both been rubbing and wincing various parts of ourselves. After a particularly long run the day before, MSMF felt a bit more sore and stiff than usual.

Me: "Why don't you let me give you a rub?"

MSMF: "I'm ok babe."

Me: "Well what about a massage then?" (laughing)

MSMF: (laughing) "No. I'll pass. I just need someone's elbow in my ass."

Me: (laughing harder) "Whoa whoa whoa, what?"

MSMF: "I mean rub a spot on my butt, not in my ass."

Me: "You said 'in my ass'. That's a huge difference babe."

MSMF is being stubborn about it but as soon as our local massage place opens back up we're both going in to get someone's elbow in our asses.

Massage Brothels

Any time I've mentioned getting a massage to My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") he'd shoot me a strange look. And for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it meant. Until now.

Last night while unwinding from the day in bed, MSMF and I started chatting about my recent Paul Reuben post, better known as his zany adolescent man-boy persona Pee-wee Herman. He was arrested in the early 90's at an adult theater for playing with his trouser snake. Now, as many conversations with MSMF go, he's already deep into a topic mentally by the time I get brought into his thoughts. So sometimes it's hard to catch up.

Me: "While I don't think the punishment matched the crime, why couldn't Reuben just play with himself at home!?"

MSMF: "Well what about massage places?"

Me: "What about massage places?"
MSMF: "People get 'happy endings' there don't they?"

Me: "Nooo... typically people are not touching your junk at professional massage spots."

MSMF: (looking at me confused)

Me: "Babe. What exactly is it that you think is happening at places where people go to get a massage?"
MSMF: "That you're getting a rub or tug at some point?"

Me: (laughing) "No. Babe. No. Not professional places anyway."

MSMF: "So those kind of places don't exist?"

Me: "No, they do but any place that does that kind of thing would be super seedy."
MSMF: "Well, what about the New England Patriot's owner? He got in trouble for some funny business at a massage parlor. And I even experienced some inappropriate touching while getting my hair cut."

Me: "Wait, what?"

MSMF: "Yeah. At a place called Sport Clips. I got the 'MVP' package with a hot towel and massage but while the lady worked on me her breasts were rubbing up against me."

Me: "Ok. What is it that you're saying?"

MSMF: "I'm saying that massage places are just a front for a brothel."

Me: (dying laughing now) "Ok. Wait." (laughing some more) "Come on. Ok." (slowing enough to breath) "You think massage places are brothels?"

MSMF: "Well...aren't they?"

Me: "Jesus babe. No. They're not."

MSMF: "So there's no secret menu? Like, if I go in for a normal massage but then I say or do something wrong and suddenly I'm getting the secret service?"

Me: "No...they're places to go get knots or tension or even injuries worked out of your muscles. Or to relax. There's no secret menu and there's nothing sexual going on. Or I should say there shouldn't be."

MSMF: "Oh."

Me: "So, this whole time when JZ or I would talk about getting massages you thought we were getting sexual favors?"

MSMF: "No. Well, I don't know. Maybe you were getting a tug..."

Me: (dying laughing again) "Babe, I wouldn't get a 'tug'. Jesus. What do you think is going on down there? A rub maybe but not a tug."

MSMF: "Ok, a rub. A rub!"

Me: "It's no wonder why you've never wanted to go get a massage. They're really nice but God if you thought they were just places for unsolicited or hell solicited yank jobs, I can see why the thought made you uncomfortable."

I don't know about you but I cannot wait to get rubbed and tugged from a massage brothel.

Tell Em' Large Marge Sent Ya!

This morning My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") was reading an article about Pee-wee Herman and the 35th anniversary of the 1985 film Pee-wee's Big Adventure. I was never much of a fan of Paul Reuben's show, Pee-wee's Playhouse and don't own any of his movies on DVD. Oddly a few years back I went to a Pee-wee Herman art event in Los Angeles and commissioned an artist to do a small Large Marge piece. I love it.

As I said I'm not big on the film, otherwise I'd own it, but I enjoy the silliness at times and of course love the Large Marge part. It's so ridiculous. Sadly when MSMF mentioned the article was about Pee-wee Herman the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "didn't he get arrested for exposing himself or indecent exposure or something like that?" Of course MSMF responded with a "baby!" But I mean, what? Didn't he though?

The question MSMF had for me in return is a good one and that was, should someone like Reuben be forever plagued by one mistake? On the one hand I think to myself, of course not. On the other I think, well, he was a fucking kids tv and movie personality. What the hell was he thinking going to an adult theater to begin with let alone fondling himself and getting slapped with an indecent exposure arrest?  It's also not the only incident involving Reuben and an adult theater or being found in possession of erotic collectibles, some of which were of young men. While I don't agree with celebrities or anyone in the social limelight being hounded and required to live up to the expectations of every fan or viewer, where is the separation? When is it okay to have a public life as well as a private life? Or is it?

Sadly it seems for most celebrities that once a certain level of exposure or success is achieved their life is no longer their own. And that goes for their thoughts, words, and deeds. There's a constant level of scrutiny and an expectation of angelic, better-than-you-or-I-am mentality. I can be a total piece of shit human but my kid's role model better not be. What the all too frequent media frenzies just go to prove is that people of power or influence, on the field or in the studio, are just as fucking normal and stupid as the rest of us. They cheat on their spouses, they gamble, get arrested, do drugs, and/or turn into power hungry ego maniacs. The recent Ellen DeGeneres, is she or isn't she mean debate, is a silly example of what I'm saying. Seriously, are we in high school? Who gives a shit if Ellen isn't nice? It's a shame she isn't but is it really that surprising?

Pee-wee Herman and Paul Reuben turned into overnight pariahs after his arrest in 1991. Though the end of Pee-wee's Playhouse was already planned, many of Reuben's future scheduled projects and events as the wacky character were permanently shelved. It was almost 18 years later before Pee-wee Herman would come back to life. So did the punishment match the crime, as MSMF asked? In Reuben's case, I don't think so. It's unfortunate though it's also a shame that he didn't practice better sense when it came to his actions. Do people just think that they're not going to get caught or that they can just click their fingers and make it all go away? Unfortunately, the later holds the majority truth. Even Reuben's said he'd hold a children's benefit for the sheriff's office if the whole arrest incident 'went away.' That's pretty sketchy.

It's too bad Large Marge wasn't in the theater seat next to Reuben. She could've scared him into going home and finishing himself off in privacy.

Could You Cut Your Arm Off?

Could you cut your own arm off if you were pinned by a boulder?

This was a recent discussion My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I had in bed the other night.

MSMF: "Could you cut your own arm off?"

Me: "Are you talking about that hiker guy that got pinned by a boulder and had to chew his own arm off?"

MSMF: "Yeah. But he didn't chew it off. He cut it off."

Me: "Yeah I totally could. Would you?"

MSMF: "I don't think I could."

Me: "Dude but you're going to die if you don't."

MSMF: "Yeah... I don't think I could."

Me: "Not only would there be the immediate threat of dying but I'd think about my Mom or the most important people in my life that I'd never see again unless I did it. That's how I'd get through it."

MSMF: "So think about you and Jaja?"

Me: "Yeah. It's like motivation or finding a will to live."

MSMF: "I think I'd still wait to be found."

Me: "So what did happen exactly? How was he found?"

MSMF: "I think he called out for help but when things got serious he drank his own pee and cut his arm off."

Me: "So how was he found?"

MSMF: "I think on a path nearby."

Me: "God, then why didn't he just keep calling out for people to hear him if he was found that easily?"

MSMF: "I don't think it was that close by."

Me: "Hmm."

So it turns out Aron Ralston had to make his way through the canyon he was pinned in, rappel down a 65 foot drop, and hike 7 miles to get to safety. That's after being pinned for 6 days and cutting off his own arm! I'm sure the delirium helped but man, facing cutting off your own arm is not something I would even want to dream about let alone have to do.

MSMF and I have such wonderful pillow talk. Pleasant dreams!

                         

Just F*cking Let Go Already

I have the hardest time letting something go. Someone. Something. Any of it. All of it.

Except for the things or people in my life that I have willfully pruned away, letting go of changes that have occurred by ACCEPTING that they have happened has always been a long and painful process. I thought by this point in my life I'd be better at it. But I'm not.

Lately the little nuggets of shit I haven't been able to let go of have been plaguing me. In dreams, random thoughts while I'm awake. The best let-go's always rear their awesome little heads typically when I'm having a grand ol' time. You know the ones - you're buzzed and having the time of your life so naturally some stupid shit you haven't been able to let go of or that you THOUGHT you let go of - pokes it's head in on your good time to ensure that it's summarily ruined. That or at least brings you down a peg.

It feels like there's a laundry list of let-go's right now that are making me edgy, annoyed and overall broodish. What that really means is that there has been a lot of change in the last year or so. A good portion of which I believe I got dealt dirty on. It's hard to not let change in your life linger in the negative sense when you gave something your all or were a good human and still got fucked. You still took an "L". It creates a "why?" thought and emotion that for the life in me just won't clear. I'm sure there are answers to the question. I even thought I found resolution in a few instances or solid reasoning to justify the let go. But if I did, then why are they lingering around like those weird gnats that hang out in the middle of the room of certain restaurants. WHY ARE YOU HERE? GO THE FUCK AWAY. NO ONE WANTS YOU.

COVID has been odd and alienating not to mention a huge challenge for many to accept in terms of the impact it has had on life. On the world. Putting the pandemic aside, in 2020 I have grappled with my neurological health from Vestibular Migraines, the end of a big relationship and 2 friendships, attempting to come to terms with my 19 year old cat's terminal illnesses, being grounded from ankle surgery, and the general quandary of what the fuck am I doing with my life.  When I read that back it's no wonder I started drinking more, let alone feel on edge.

So how do you let go? Or is it just the way of things; that old memories, poor choices, and lingering frustrations will always come and go?

A colleague once told me her way of dealing with things was simple. When something was overwhelming or if she was unable to deal with an issue at the time, she'd shelf it.  Mentally,  emotionally and maybe even physically, she'd put the matter at hand on the shelf. It doesn't mean the problem or pain has gone away, it just means that you have relieved the immediate burden and weight off your shoulders.

God forbid there's ever an earthquake because my shelved bullshit will bury me!

Corn

Tonight My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I grilled up some chicken with a side of corn.

As we chomped away I noticed that MSMF had a completely different way of eating his head of corn.  One half was stripped clean as he continued to work in a steady, consistent circle around the cob.

Me: "Funny. You're style of eating corn is completely different than mine. I have a typewriter style of left to right."

MSMF: *gnashing away*

Me: "What do you call your style?"

MSMF: "The carwash."

Me: "Like the big round washing contraption with the bristles at the carwash?

MSMF: *nods his head*

While we worked away on our corn, my fur baby Jaja jumped up on the couch to scream at us. She has gotten way too comfortable yelling at us every night while we eat dinner, hoping to grab a morsel from one of us suckers. So far this past week she's had crab, halibut, steak stirfry, chicken and even mint and chip ice cream.

Me: "Do you think Jaja would like some corn?"

MSMF: "Babe, no."

Me: *offering my corn up to Jaja* "Oh my God! Babe look! She's eating it!"

She couldn't get enough of it. It cracked me up seeing her little teeth as she bit at the corn, tearing off little pieces.

Weird Quirks

It's been hot as balls here.

Honestly it's been worse in LA. But with temps in the 80's and no air conditioner there's only so much a fan can do. Feels like it's just spitting regurgitated sweat air at you. I was hoping My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I could get out on bikes for a little exercise and cooler temps at the beach this weekend but my podiatrist put the "No" on that. Damn surgery.

Speaking of air conditioning, I have this weird thing about using the air conditioner in the car. In anyone else's car I don't give a shit. Crank that thing up. But in my own car, you better roll your window down. I don't really know where this quirk came from though I think it's somehow rooted in the fact that I've never, EVER owned a new car let alone one in the same decade. I suppose running the air conditioner felt like a luxury that every car just couldn't take, otherwise it would break down. Each time I attempted to flip the switch, the engine and car would shutter and run funny and you could visibly see the gas meter going down. A car's air conditioner may have nothing to do with gas consumption or the way the engine runs but in my mind those things are associated and cemented.

I said roll your window down earlier because that's exactly what anyone would have had to do in my first car, a 1972 Chevy Chevelle. I got "Beast" not long after I got my license at 16. Beast got the nickname Beast because that car was fast and volatile. 350 V8, 4 barrel carburetor with a high lifting cam. Caramel interior with a red exterior, just like a caramel apple. It even had the original air conditioner. Which of course didn't work. While Beast had an awesome engine and looked pretty that God damn car was a pain in the ass and unpredictable at best. Overheated constantly, broke down frequently. Even caught fire once! No joke. To try to keep Beast from overheating I would run the fan on high, which partially sucked the hot air off the engine and blew it into my face inside the car. I'm pretty sure the carbon monoxide from Beast has taken a few years off my life.

My next car was my Grandmother's gold hand me down 1985 Buick Somerset. Nothing screams eligible bachelorette like a ghetto paradise mid-80's Buick. She called it her "bread and butter". Not only did it look like a stick of pimped out butter but it's what she drove to work at McDonald Douglas everyday until she retired, earning her her daily bread and butter. By the time I got the car it had a million miles and the headliner was sagging due to years of my Grandmother smoking in the car. Not long after driving it the power window on the drivers side stopped working followed by the transmission losing fourth gear. And do you think once I lost the power window that I ran the air conditioner? You bet your ass I didn't. There was still the passenger's side window. It was sentimental loss more than anything the day a flatbed came to take Grandma's bread and butter away.

My next and current car is a tank. Not literally but figuratively. The most beat up but hard working and best running car I've ever had, a 1994 Toyota Corolla. Also a hand me down from my ex-fiance. He bought it as a commuter car while we were dating, as he was living in Los Angeles and I was in Costa Mesa. It wasn't long until I moved in with him in LA. After things fell apart and he moved to the East Coast for work, the tank became mine. Over the years people have hit it, scratched it...but I still love it. It's got a silver paint job with what I imagine used to be dark grey interior. Due to sun bleaching it's now an amazingly bad purple-brown color. Did I mention it has almost 300,000 miles? Yeah, it has almost 300,000 miles and I've barely put any money into it that wasn't standard maintenance. It just won't die (knock on wood). It's not sexy and sure at times, when I started dating someone new, I felt humbled and embarrassed about my classy as fuck ride. But that car is a work horse and actually fun to drive, so I stand by it. I don't want to make it harder on my little tank by throwing on the air conditioner. I can hear the engine work harder and shudder every time I turn it on because someone else is in the passenger seat complaining and sweating. Will my 4-banger give up the ghost with a perfectly good, fully charged air conditioner? Probably.

But I don't give a shit. I'm going to power my windows down, throw on my shades, and bask in my own discomfort and sweat. All because I'm weird and I've got quirks.

What's your weird quirk(s)?

Crispy Parmesan

"I wish you were a piece of crispy Parmesan."

Laughing, I roll over slightly in bed to face My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") who is still biting at my shoulder and neck meat waiting for a response.

Me: "Crispy Parmesan huh. Why?"

MSMF: "So that I could take tiny nibbles out of you each day."

Me: "Hmm. Parmesan though? Not Sharp Cheddar or Spicy Jack?"

MSMF: "No. Parmesan."

Me: "How many nibbles a day are we talking?"

MSMF: "Maybe three. Four nibbles."

Me: "But honey, if I were a Parmesan crisp, I would disappear in a matter of weeks."

MSMF: "Well I wouldn't want that."

Me: "Still wish I were a piece of crispy Parmesan?"

MSMF: *said in a disappointed tone* "No."

I get asked about being all kinds of things.  Yesterday morning MSMF asked if I would want to be a piece of french toast. While tasty, I would absolutely NOT want to be a piece of french toast. I can't stand having my fingers coated or sticky. Even after putting lotion on I immediately have to wash the front of my hands off.

But can you imagine being completely slathered in butter and thick, sticky syrup?

Fuck no.

I'll be crispy Parmesan over french toast any day.

Getting Old Is Awesome Part II

Nothing says getting old is awesome like crawling around your apartment on your hands and knees after surgery.

I have a walking boot from my recent ankle surgery but the God damn thing hurts so much I said fuck it and have been crawling around on the floor instead. Even did the stairs on all fours last night. The cat just looks at me, all wide-eyed, like what the fuck... My Special Man Friend ("MSMF"), like the cat, looks at me all wide-eyed as well. Except he's got his phone out and is recording me. I can't tell if it's sexy, since I'm doing all this crawling around in a loose shirt and underwear, or if it's blackmail material for a later date.

I reached the height of sexy blackmail fodder with today's big goal - a shower. I could have paid $20 for a fancy shower boot but fuck that. That's MY $20. Funny the things we'll spend money on and the things we won't. Instead, MSMF bagged and tapped up my foot so I could feebly sit half in the tub half out to quickly rinse my bits and wash my hair. It's amazing how good warm water feels on your skin after you've been sweating in your own post-surgery juices for two days. Usually seeing your partner glistening and clean from the shower would illicit flutters and tingles but I'm sure all MSMF saw was a pathetic Thanksgiving turkey missing one of it's turkey booties. I had him snap a picture for posterity sake.

I wish I could say that I've been spending my days laid up high on Oxycontin but sadly the stuff makes me pretty sick, anti-inflammatory meds like Advil I can't take and extra-strength Tylenol doesn't do shit. So I've been mostly moaning in bed and restlessly dragging myself from room to room. MSMF has been the best live in nurse sex and favors can buy. I can't express how grateful I am for the help and support he has provided. The biggest and most heartfelt surprise for me is his ability to comfort me. I'm not the easiest person to be close to at times but MSMF does it with such ease and grace. I want him to be near and he wants to be near. Knowing I'm hurting he doesn't just fall asleep or let me lay there and suffer alone, like my ex did. He tells me that I'm strong and reaches out to tenderly rub my leg.

One could argue that having that kind of love and companionship would make getting old awesome.

Gummi Bears? Gummy Bears?

Is it gummi bears? Or gummy bears? 

I LOVED gummi bears as a kid.

Definitely my go-to sweet treat. My favorite brand was Heide Gummi Bears, which has been around since 1869 though seemingly disappeared overnight. When I looked up Heide this morning I found a Facebook page dedicated to my favorite gummi as well as a Reddit page "Bring back the best Gummi Bears of all time!" So I'm assuming they're no longer on the shelves.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I share a mutual fondness for these chewy sweets. Over the weekend we rode our bikes to Peet's for a little lunch and coffee. The soft serve shop next door to where we were seated outside proved to be too much temptation for MSMF. When he sat back down next to me he had two different flavors covered in mini-gummi bears.

Me: "Gummi bears huh?"

MSMF: "Mmmhmm."

Me: "I loved gummi bears as a kid. Still do. And though it was tempting, I never liked them on soft serve or ice cream."

MSMF: "Why is that?"

Me: "They get cold and turn into tiny bricks."

MSMF: *poking at his gummi-bricks* "Hmm."

Me: "See what a mean!"

MSMF: "You ever get the Coca-Cola bottles?"

Me: "Oh my God I love gummi Coca-Cola bottles. And cherries. They are the only two things I would ever buy from those candy bin stores that cost $20/pound."

MSMF: *listening to me while he devours his frozen treat*

ME: "Actually my favorite version of the Coca-Cola gummi is the slightly sour and crunchy one, with the sprinkled sugar coating. That paired with the cherries is THE best."

MSMF: "Just got a hard one."

Me: "Told you. So what gummi's were your favorite?"

MSMF: "The Coca-Cola bottles. Bears. Worms. Anything gummi really."

While MSMF and I both agree that gummi bears should only come in the traditional 4 or 5 colors and in original flavors like orange or apple, I have a particular dislike for Heide's yellow gummi bear. Traditional color, yes. Original flavor, yes. Hated, yes. After having half a chewed up yellow one come out of my nose as a kid, which burned like hell, I just haven't gotten over it. And don't get me started about gummies all being the same. Haribo doesn't have shit on Heide. They're too greasy and don't adhere to the traditional colors/flavors, though they sadly seem to be the last bear standing in the candy isle.

Here's a fun little history about the chewy bear:

https://www.bonappetit.com/entertaining-style/pop-culture/article/history-gummy-bears

Random side note - When I first started this post I was calling gummi bears gummy bears. I didn't know that "gummi" bears are a sugary, gelatinous material used to make candies whereas "gummy" bears translates to 'showing the gums'. I almost wrote a whole post about loving to eat bears with a gummy grin. Am I the only one that thought gummi was gummy?