No Rest For The Wicked

Good god, my work around here is never done. There I was, snug as a bug in a rug on a Sunday morning. I hadn't even had a second cup of tea yet when all of a sudden the Mailman starts bugging me. Find the hole, get the pump, wet the hole, now put the rubber thingy on. Wait, wait, it's too soft, pump it up some more! I tell you what, mister, you better figure out how to do this yourself because I'm getting pretty damn tired of doing it for you. Better yet, why don't you just pay someone to do it for you, that way you won't get your hands all messy.













If I've told you once, I've told you one hundred times, it's your bike, learn to fix your own dang flat tires. It's not that hard.

Shop Talk

When ballet dancers say to one another, "I've got your back," it really is just a figure of speech.

Pointing Out The Obvious

This douche bag wears more jewelery than a five year-old girl.

And So It Begins

I had a meeting with The Moms the other day. School is finally out for most of Slim's friends and there was a get together for the kids at the lagoon. Unfortunately, none of my favorite moms could make it. Those that did show up are pleasant enough, but, and I swear I am not making this up, they spent one entire hour talking about mops. It is going to be one long, fucking summer. To make things worse, someone told the group newbie (a home schooler) that I was a home schooler too. Newbie immediately starts telling me about her "path to home schooling" and wants to know about my "journey." Well, you can imagine where it went from there. Just as I was beginning to wonder if I had remembered to pack my cyanide pill, Control Freak Mom starts in with her high pitched whining about how she's thinking of home schooling too. I swear I could see gnats exploding around her head. Summer has just started, folks. Stay tuned for further updates from the world of the ultra mundane. Oh, and by the way, that's not my ass. I know because I'm not an albino. Did I mention that?

#1 Way I'll Be Saving Gas This Summer

Instead of driving 400 miles to attend my dad's family reunion, I'll just set the thermostat to 100 and watch Carlos Mencia instead. It's just as loud, sweaty, and stupid, with none of the expense or hassle.

With Six You Get Husband And Wife Lung Slice

With the Olympics just... when the hell are the Olympics again? Seriously, people still watch that stuff? O.K., where was I, oh yeah. Chinese food. The Chinese government is really going out of its way to make sure that when Olympic tourists enter local restaurants and demand Kung Pao Chicken, they get exactly what they were expecting. I'll bet that last week, when you scarfed down that order of Mapo Tofu from your local take out, you had no idea that you were really eating something more traditionally known as "Bean Curd made by a pock-marked woman." Mmmm-mmmmm, that just rolls of the tongue, doesn't it? So now, instead of having to ask for "Chicken Without Sexual Life," you can just order the "Steamed Pullet." The Chinese government would like you to know, however, that this attempt at rebranding does not extend to its flourishing sex worker industry, where "Chinese Fingercuffs" will still be known as "Chinese Fingercuffs."

Oh My God

How in the holy hell did I miss this?!!! My one purpose in life is to have watched this video. Viva La Pequena Hillary!

We Can Rebuild Her

O.K., since it's the first day of the rest of my life yada, yada, here's what I've decided to do, based on exhaustive research (meaning a book from the library called "Menopause and You"). Number one, exercise more. I already do an hour a day, but apparently the effects of this are being canceled out by my shriveling ovaries. Today this means swimming, as it is going to be hotter than balls today. Second, clean up my diet. Add even more vegetables (to the butt load I already consume), chill on the potatoes and bread already, and reacquaint myself with my old friends, the legumes. Refried beans from Taco Jalisco do not count. Third, cut way back on the caffeine. Goodbye, Peet's Coffee, hello tea. This change will not be as tough as it sounds, since I only went back to coffee ever since my fabulous new dentist (Hello Dr. Ngyuen!) told me how bad plain tea was for my teeth. I can reduce the amount of the demon caffeine I ingest and protect the pearly whites by just adding milk to my tea. Fourth, stick to one beer or glass of wine per night. No exceptions. So there you have it, my plan for the new me. To celebrate getting healthier and not going crazy, I think I'll make fruit couscous with chicken tonight. Here's the recipe, such as it is, with options for our vegetarian friends.

In a large heat proof bowl, toss one cup of instant couscous, 1/4 cup dried and chopped fruit (think cranberries, cherries, or apricots), 1/4 cup cashews, some ground cardamom, and salt. Bring1-1/4 chicken broth (or vegetable broth, if you have a good one) to boil and pour over the couscous. Cover and let sit ten minutes or so. Once it's ready, fluff it up with a fork and add just about anything else you like. Grilled chicken, parsley, and feta cheese are especially good.

Meat As Metaphor

The good news is that I've had a moment of clarity, the bad news is that it took $50 worth of rib eye steaks falling into the dirt to make it happen. Here's the deal. I've been on edge for some time now. For a while I thought it was just the stress of finishing the school year and everything that went along with it. My vacation was supposed to chill me out, remember? But it didn't, it only made things worse. I found myself getting pissed off at stupid little things, arguing with inanimate objects, and mentally referring to anyone I had to deal with as "Douchey LaRue." Over the past few days, I was really trying to get over it, without knowing what "it" was. Spreading sweetness and light is a bitch, but I was trying. Anywho, Father's Day comes along and it was supposed to be a nice day of hanging out with the family. The boys went off to see a movie and do whatever it is that they do, and I was convalescing in the backyard watching the birds do their thing. Later, when it comes time to cook dinner, the Mailman is about to throw the steaks on the grill when he drops one onto the patio. Whatever, sweetness and light, right? He can eat that one. Then, when he goes to take them off the grill, he drops another one. Mine. "Motherfucker," I believe I said, directing my words not at him, but just out into the cosmos. At that point I just kind of walked away and sat by myself for a while, nearly in tears, and it was then that I realized that the gritty piece of beef waiting for me in the kitchen was the perfect metaphor for the past month. Something I should have been enjoying, but now was cursing. I couldn't even eat it, because I figured if I ended up breaking a crown on a piece of grit, well fuck it, that would just be the perfect little swirl on the pile of crap that the past few weeks have been. But, getting back to the moment of clarity. I realized that everything, the mood swings, the physical aches and pains, the sleeplessness, these were all symptoms of a larger problem. Everyone else in my life hadn't changed, I'm the one that's changing. Menopause, people. That's got to be it. I'm 47, it's about time. So I'm taking comfort in the knowledge that I'm not nuts. I'll make an appointment to see my doctor, get some information and direction. And no more arguing with the pots and pans.

Happy Father's Day

Dear Dad:

Remember that time we went to Lion Country Safari and you rubbed the station wagon with bacon beforehand? That was freaking awesome!

Kirby

I'm Thinking About Dick

Is it time to stage an blogger's intervention for Dick Small? First he's Dick, then he's Joe, now he's back on the Dick. Listen Mister Man, if I have to update my blogroll one more time...

I'm Here To Remind You...

That if you tend to obsess about breaking up with third-rate actor boyfriends and turn your obsessions into a bunch of craptastic screeching, the problem might not be with your third-rate actor boyfriends. The problem might be with you, chica.

Just Following Orders, Part 2

The sleep of reason produces monsters, or so they say. Since it's part of the blogger code and all, it's high time I tell you about one of my dreams. You can think of this post as a sort of companion piece to go along with the obligatory cat post I did a while back. Normally, my dreams are quite vivid, and this one was no exception, brought on no doubt by all the over the counter meds I've been quaffing lately. When the dream starts out, I'm at some sort of political victory party. I can't tell who the candidate is, but I'm very happy and just sort of wandering around enjoying myself. Then, someone who looks like that guy Wash from "Firefly" comes up and asks me to
dance. He's quite charming and we dance the night away. The party starts breaking up, and he asks me to go home with him. "Sure," I say, and then up in the sky, the stars start buzzing around and rearranging themselves over our heads. It's clear to me they are spaceships fighting like taxi cabs to take the guests home. One woman, a space princess of some sort, is pissed that our cab is first in line instead of hers and she starts a ruckus. I think to myself, "Bitch, please," and I grab an orange and hit her square in the face with it, knocking her out. For some reason, during all this nonsense, I realize that Wash is not really Wash but Cthulu in disguise. Am I freaked out by this? No. In fact, I think to myself, "How nice that he's arranging a taxi so that tomorrow, I don't have to do the interplanetary walk of shame." And that's it. I wake up laughing. I never get to see what Bo Squiddley here is like in the sack. Now what do you make of that?

Picture Time

The view from Bright Angel Point.

The view from down near Supai Tunnel.

Our mules taking a break.

Art Appreciation 101.

Utah or Arizona. It all pretty much looks the same after a while.

A Worthy Fuckin' Read

Slim picked this book up the other day. Mark it dude, it's got something for everybody, whether you're a park ranger, an achiever, or a dip-shit with a nine-toed woman.

Germs? Get 'Em Off, Get 'Em Offffff Meeee

Here we are at the start of summer and I am sicker than a dog. I thought this shit was supposed to take place in the dead of winter. Unless, it's not an actual cold, but some sort of physical manifestation of my wicked foul mood. That's always possible. Either way, I'm screwed. I had so much I wanted to do this week. I'll definitely have to postpone my getaway. It's bad enough being sick at home, where I have access to cable television and snacks. I don't need to run off and squat in a tent while I'm sick. Don't worry, my lovelies, I'm adhering to a strict regimen of Myquil (it's like Nyquil, except it's made from vodka and any colorful juice from Trader Joe's the Mailman remembers to pick up) so I should be back on my feet in a few days.

Not So Deep Thoughts

Well, I'm back. I can't say that this was one of the most relaxing vacations I've ever had, because it wasn't. In spite of planning the trip together, each person seemed to have a totally different agenda. Twenty minutes into every hike, the Mailman would start wondering out loud what kind of sandwiches the lodge deli sold. And Slim? Forget about it, we lost him on the first day of the trip when we drove through Vegas. The only thing on his mind was heading back to town just to stare at the tits on the billboards. We all enjoyed the mule ride, though. That was pretty fun. Except for that woman who spent the entire time freaking out and complaining about how she was scared of heights. Dumb ass. There are warnings posted all over the place about how people who are afraid of heights should not ride the mules into the Grand Fucking Canyon, and yet she did it any way. Idiot. Of course, the Mailman spent the whole time trying to calm her down. He's just that way. The rest of us were mentally drawing straws to see which one of us would have the pleasure of pushing her over the edge. I don't think the hot mule skinner would have ratted on us.

Here's what I learned on this trip. People are lemmings in sheep's clothing. When faced with the ridiculously beautiful North Rim of the canyon, what do 99.98% of all people do? They pull out their cell phones and make a call to see if they have service. Plus, I learned that there is never a good time to tell a kid his hamster has died. That's it. I was hoping to have gained more insight on this trip, to come back refreshed and ready with a killer post, but that apparently isn't in the cards. So, did I miss anything while I was away at camp?