Damn that clock

In my rented house, sitting on borrowed furniture, I holed myself up one cold winter night, reading. “It’s a girl,” said the little voice in my head. I stopped mid-sentence and laid the book against my chest, gazing ahead of me, as if I expected to find someone sitting at the opposite end of the couch. But no one was there. It was perfectly quiet. Patiently, I waited for more. I was delivered more silence.

The next morning, I made an appointment to see a doctor. A doctor. Because I didn’t have one. I never got sick. And since my current living arrangement may or may not be temporary, I never bothered to plant roots by selecting a “primary care” physician. There was no need. Until now. Apparently, there was a need. I had no idea.

A pregnancy test was run. I sat in the room, for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the nurse to return. “Yes, you’re pregnant,” she said with just a hint of a smile. She couldn’t decipher my expression to determine whether this was good news. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Pregnant? I had battled endometriosis for years and had decided that I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant even if I tried. I hadn’t tried. But I hadn’t not tried.

A man I once dated asked me if I wanted to have kids some day. I said I hadn’t really made a deliberate decision about it. If I was meant to have kids, it would just happen. And if I wasn’t, then it wouldn’t. I was okay with it, either way.

Well, now was the moment of truth. Was I okay?

“Because of your age, we’ll want to do an ultrasound.” “Oh, right. 35 is pushing the envelope,” I quipped in my head. She handed me a gown and opened the door to usher me down the hall. “You mean right now?” I asked. She looked back at me as if to say, “What, you have something better to do with your time right now?” She kept walking, her unspoken order for me to follow her.

Lying on the table, my mind raced. A kid. A baby. Me, a mother. A mom. Was I prepared? Could I do it? How did I really feel about this? I was unsure. The technician squirted the glob of cold goo on my belly and began her search, slowly and methodically moving the wand, eyes fixed on the monitor. My eyes followed hers. Her hand stopped and she smiled. “There. Right there. See it? That’s the heart beating.” She adjusted a knob, turning on the volume. The quick rhythm, beating in time to the pulse on the screen, was loud and clear. A Top 10 hit. A one-hit wonder. My heart melted and I was reduced to a puddle of tears.

Yes. Yes indeed, this was good news. I was more than just okay. I was overwhelmed. In the very best possible way.

I chose a boy’s name, you know, just in case. Just in case my intuition was wrong this time. But I knew that it wasn’t. It never is. It is always there, and it is always right. Seven months later, in the middle of one of the most horrific lightning storms I could remember, as promised, the Universe delivered. Laid on my chest was a perfect, beautiful bundle of warm flesh. She was full of life, love, and lessons.

She was a baby for about 10 years, during which time I got about four hours of sleep in total. And then, the day she went to kindergarten, everything changed. She began to grow and learn and ask all kinds of life questions. The following week, when she started her senior year of high school, she was still asking questions about life. What was my life like in college? What did I like least about living in an apartment when I moved to Chicago? What exactly happens when the government shuts down?

I swear, it was just this morning that I was sitting in our rocking recliner for a few minutes of peace when she crept oh-so-quietly halfway down the stairs at 5:30 a.m. Peering at me through the banisters, wearing that mischievous little grin, she was bright-eyed and bushy tailed, even at o’dark thirty. It was yesterday, I believe, that she was running through the sprinkler wearing her hot pink bikini, squealing with pure, innocent glee at the icy cold water blasting her little belly. A few weeks ago, she was admonishing me for not being with her at the dining room table, supervising her finger-painting. Last month when she was in middle school and we were talking about how kids can be so thoughtless and hurtful, I was struck by her wisdom. As I watched her back out of the driveway for the very first time all by herself last week, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of her clutching her favorite stuffed animal, the pink elephant whose little velour tail served as a pacifier.

The clock tick-tocks in the background as I sit waiting. Waiting for her to get up. Waiting for her to get ready. Waiting for her to finish eating. Waiting for her to come home.

For right now, just for today, I will appreciate every minute. I will take an internal snapshot of every smile, every laugh, every missed assignment, dirty dish, wet towel on the floor, unmade bed, eye roll, and every long hair wiped on the shower wall. I will secretly record for my memory to play back at will every giggle as she watches the latest viral video and each gasp as clips of her friends jump at her from her phone screen. I’ll admire her tenacity when she argues her curfew with me, and smile at her taking a nap rather than unloading the dishwasher. I’ll savor every half-finished meal, silently step over every pair of shoes in the middle of the floor, and ignore every room that remains unkempt after numerous requests to clean it. I’ll be grateful for every request for takeout, the late night chats on my bed, and each time she begs to have her feet rubbed after getting home at 10:30 p.m. from a long shift at the restaurant, even though I’m exhausted from my own long day at the office. I’ll wrap my warm fingers around those smelly little toes and massage them, enjoying every minute.

Because in eight months, which is tomorrow, I’ll be holed up in our house, gazing at the opposite end of the couch over the top of a book, half-expecting to find someone there. But she’ll be sitting on borrowed furniture in a rented room, hundreds of miles away at college.

And although it will not be perfect, it will be perfectly quiet.

via Daily Prompt: Blink

Advertisements

I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

– Jack Kerouac

Why I detoxed and opted for clean living in 2018. (It’s probably not what you think.)

Long title? Yes. Long story? No. Well, maybe.

2017, and to be honest, for a couple years leading up to it… okay, to be real honest, for several years leading up to it… was kind of a clutterf*ck. Clutter was around me literally everywhere. The kitchen, living room, dining room (hello, #diningroomtabledumpingground), entryway, bathroom, bedroom, my work office… You get the idea. Pretty much every space I inhabited was enmeshed with stuff. Much of it was just shit that needed to get pitched or donated.

Over the holidays, I was off work for a little over two weeks. It was glorious. After about 10 days, I looked around – really seeing this time – and became (even more) disgusted with myself about how my living space had gotten out of control with clutter. My “lifestyle” had become paralyzing. Anyone been there? It’s too much. Too much to do, too much to think about, too much to deal with. Too time-consuming. Too mindboggling. Too depressing. It feels like there is so much to do that you don’t know where to begin. So you don’t. And you don’t. And you don’t. And before you know it, you’re on the Jerry Springer episode of I’m an Accidental Hoarder. I don’t even like the Jerry Springer Show. Is he even still around? I didn’t want to find out.

I would walk into my house and instantly be drained of all good vibes. One step through the doorway had the power to strip me of not only a good mood, but my spiritual well-being. A cluttered space leads to a cluttered mind. And a cluttered mind makes it hard for you to connect with the Universe. And when you can’t get connected with the Universe, you get stuck in this heavy, static state of spiritual toxicity. I was heading into about page 36 of my Give a Mouse a Cookie sort of life. I didn’t want to get to page 40 and watch the cycle repeat itself.

So little by little, I began the arduous task of detoxing my living space. Yes, it was overwhelming. Yes, it was exhausting. I stayed up until 2 or 3 a.m. most nights. And yes, it was embarrassing, even if I only shared pictures with a close friend. Verrrry close friend. But I did share pictures because I needed to come clean. Literally and figuratively. At times I felt like I was just moving shit from one room to another and I wondered if I was actually making it worse. But as I began to see progress, one room at a time, I picked up momentum. Every day became more productive than the last. And guess what? Every day I was in a better mood than the day before. Looking around was no longer as overwhelming. It wasn’t depressing. It wasn’t even disgusting. I took bags and boxes of unused stuff to local charity, and as each room became clean and tidy, not only did my home begin to feel lighter, but my spirit did as well.

I got into daily habits of making my bed, cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, and actually opening and doing something with every single piece of mail. Novel concept. Granted, it has only been two weeks (ha!), but walking into a room that is clean, organized, and clutter-free is so gratifying and peaceful. Before detoxing my bedroom space, I avoided going there except to sleep. It was oppressive. I didn’t sleep well and woke up exhausted. Now I look forward to going to bed early so that I can climb under the crisp covers to read before heading into dreamland. I sleep well and I wake up in a good mood. And when I venture into the kitchen for that first cup of coffee, I actually look forward to it rather than dreading the sink full of dishes or the clutter on the counter. And I can actually serve dinner on the dining room table because the only thing on it is the centerpiece.

Since coming clean, a few times I’ve started to absent-mindedly travel down the thoughtpath of how my living space had turned into what felt like a toxic landfill. But chaos can be a chatty bitch, so each time she’s wandered into my mental space, I tune out the static by turning to the Universe. And each time, it complies, washing over me in a soothing cleanse of mind and spirit. Along with my daily cleaning habits, I’m back into my daily spiritual practice that includes meditation, and have carved out bits of “me” time throughout the day. I feel connected again. I’m realigned.

End of story? I hope so. But chaos is not just a chatty bitch. She’s a persistent one, too.

Static
 

Self. Destruction.

Fighting the fight
to live the American dream,
pieces of us fall at our feet
and we trample them
on our selfish quest
to achieve,
to have more,
to do more,
to be more…
To win.

Is winning
all that matters
when we are broken,
divided,
hateful,
disrespectful,
and greedy?

Are we really just afraid?
Afraid of losing,
of being conquered,
of no longer fighting?

Can we bury our weapons,
stop the angry flow
of violent words
and actions?

Is this why we came here –
to conquer peace,
to forget love,
to kill kindness,
and become more
than each other?

Truth is delivered
in action.

Is being right
the choice
over being free?

Free to choose,
free to speak,
free to live,
free to worship,
free to just be.

Badass Roasted Chicken Soup with Noodles

Raw chicken disgusts me. That I ever manage to cook anything with it is, in itself, an amazing achievement. That I manage to cook anything delicious with it is, quite simply, a fucking miracle.

Behold: A Fucking Miracle. (quality phone pic)

Until about a year and a half ago, I was predominantly vegetarian, and had been for nearly 30 years. I grew up in a family of a bunch of savage (perhaps an exaggeration) hunting carnivores, and although I tried my damnedest to raise my offspring to embrace vegetarianism, it turned out to be an utter, disappointing fail. And although it was my personal choice to eat a primarily vegetarian diet for the better part of my adult life, I didn’t force it on anyone else and I didn’t (mostly) preach about why that was my choice. Bambi, Chicken Little, Babe

I eat turkey on occasion (here’s a jaunty little rhyme for Thanksgiving), and chicken on less occasion. And even less occasionally, I’ll prepare it.

One of the things I make with chicken is chicken noodle soup, and usually only when someone is sick. Well, yesterday was the day. The result of yesterday’s kitchen feat was some truly badass chicken noodle soup. Give it a go and perhaps you, too, will bypass the Campbell’s aisle forevermore.

I’ll tell you up front that this is a rather labor-intensive process for chicken noodle soup, but the sicklies loved it, so it was worth it… chicken fat (ohh, the chicken fat), bones, weird grisly parts, skin, and all.

Let’s move on before I gross myself out all over again.

Serves: 4-6, depending on your idea of a serving and how much everyone likes it.

Prep Time: I have no idea how long this took. It only occurred to me after-the-fact to write down the recipe, so I wasn’t paying attention to the clock much. Let’s just say it took what seemed like a long damn time considering I had to deal with the chicken twice. In reality, it probably took 2 ½ hours from start to finish, including roasting and simmering times.

Ingredients

1 large voluptuous chicken boob with bone, skin, and all that glorious, disgusting chicken fat attached. Don’t worry, we won’t eat the chicken fat.
1 quart chicken stock (you can use broth but I prefer stock because it’s heartier)
2 carrots, scraped (vs. peeled) and rinsed, ends removed, cut into 2” pieces
2 celery stalks (personally, I like the little tender ones with leaves on the inside of the bunch – partially because they’re so cute), cut into 2” pieces
½ onion, chopped
2 large garlic cloves, peeled, mashed and chopped
2 more large garlic cloves, peeled, mashed and chopped, because… garlic
2 T butter
1 T olive oil
½ t fresh thyme, divided (yes, it is possible to divide ½ teaspoon, and I realize it hardly seems worth the effort. You can use more, but this is how much I used.) (If using dried, about ¼ t. Good luck dividing that. And in that case, you might as well double the amount anyway.)
1 T fresh rosemary, divided (if using dried, about 1 t, divided)
2 T fresh parsley, undivided (if using dried, about 2 t, divided)
2 bay leaves
2 more bay leaves
Salt
Pepper
1 C egg noodles, preferably homemade… but I don’t make my own, so… (My egg noodles were homemade, but by my mom. So much better than store-bought. It’s that time of year for church bazaars, though, so maybe you can find one where the church ladies are selling homemade noodles. My grandma always made them and the recipe has been passed down. No comparison to what you buy in the store, but I have been known to buy them from the store. Not judging.)

Method

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

Put the vegetables and 2 bay leaves into an oven-safe dish (a clay roaster is perfect, if you happen to have one, or an enameled cast iron pot).

Rinse the boob and pat it dry. Leave all of the grossness attached. I did this partially because I wanted to avoid fondling it as much as possible. The fat and skin add flavor, though, so there is some cooking logic behind my wienie ways. But mostly it was to avoid dealing with it any more than necessary.

Smear 1 tablespoon of the butter all over the chicken. Shove some of the first 2 smashed garlic cloves and some of the divided rosemary and thyme under the skin in various parts, then press some of the garlic down on top of the buttered boob. Plop the other tablespoon of butter and any remaining garlic from the first two cloves in with the vegetables. (Reserve the other 2 cloves of garlic, 2 bay leaves, ½ the rosemary, ½ the thyme, and all of the parsley for later.)

Lay the boob skin side up on top of the vegetables and drizzle the olive oil over it. Sprinkle with ½ teaspoon salt* and ½ teaspoon pepper*.

*Not all salt is created equal. I often use Kosher or sea salt, but for another flavor dimension, my personal favorite is pink Himalayan salt. It does have a different taste, and it’s pink. Pink. Salt. Of course you can use regular table salt, or whatever you have. But… pink… salt. It also makes you look like Culinary Coolness when your friends come over and see that you use salt from the Himalayas.

*Same goes for pepper. Any pepper will do. I wasn’t going to mention it, but did you know there are pink peppercorns? Yeah, I know. I don’t have any, but I do have tri-color peppercorns, which is what I used for this recipe. It also tastes different than your run-of-the-(pepper)mill black pepper, but obviously use what you have.

Back to the dish. Cover your boob with the lid (or aluminum foil, if you must. I never – and I mean never – use aluminum foil to cook or bake with. Ever. Aluminum particles do lodge into your food, which you then digest. That shit accumulates in your body and screws you up. But do what you like.) Bake for 30 minutes.

Remove the lid/foil and turn the temperature up to 425. Bake for an additional 15 minutes. (Don’t ask me why I did this. I had no particular reason. Probably because the skin looked weird and rubbery and I wanted a tan boob when I took it out of the oven. It turned out to be a good idea because it was easier to take the skin off when it was crispy, thereby making it a less squeamish process for me.)

Remove from oven and let rest for 15 minutes.

Remove the chicken from the bone and discard skin, bones, fat and any other gross parts. (Or you could transfer it all to a pot, add chicken stock, broth, or water and cook it down (on simmer) to make bone broth.) Reserve the cooked vegetables and liquid. Cube, shred or do whatever you want with the chicken so that it’s in bite-size’ish pieces (unless, of course, you prefer big chunks; go for it) and put in a large pot.

Cut carrots and celery into bite-size pieces and add to pot. (Or you can discard the cooked vegetables and use fresh carrots and celery for the soup. If opting for this, I personally wouldn’t add onion, but do it if it’s your preference.) Discard bay leaves and any dried up herbs. Pour liquid from the roaster into the soup pot. Add stock and remaining garlic, fresh bay leaves, herbs, 1 teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper. Do not add noodles yet.

With the lid cracked, bring soup to a boil on medium heat. Stir, taste and adjust salt and pepper to your liking, then reduce to simmer. Simmer for 30 minutes, or 15 if you’re starving, stirring occasionally. (If you added fresh carrots and celery, you’ll obviously want to simmer until the veggies are tender.) Adjust salt and pepper, adding a cup or more of water or stock for a thinner soup or if it’s too salty. (I often add a teaspoon or two of Better than Bouillon to enhance the flavor.)

Turn heat up to medium to bring the soup back to a low boil. Add noodles by sprinkling a few at a time, stirring gently. Cook according to package directions or until noodles are al dente (cooked, but firm, not mushy). Tip: keep the soup from coming to a hard boil to prevent noodles from becoming tough, especially if using homemade noodles.

Dinner! Serve with crusty French bread, crackers, or just your spoon.

For a truly amazing bowl of joy, ladle into oven-safe individual dishes and top with a piece of Gouda, provolone, or other favorite cheese and put on the top rack of the oven on a cookie sheet. Broil for a few minutes until the cheese turns golden brown, bubbly, and crusty. Carefully remove from the oven and serve with a warning. I wouldn’t do this for little ones, of course, but for you… And with that crusty bread? Wow. Serve with a glass of wine, or beer if that’s your thing. Yum it up.

After dinner, have someone else clean up the kitchen because the chicken remains are repulsive and you shouldn’t have to deal with them a third time.

Meanwhile, have yourself a piece of dark chocolate and a cup of coffee with real cream and call it a night.

Care for a side of monkey kidney with your vaccine?

‘Tis the season. Flu season, that is. To vaccinate or not to vaccinate?  That is the question. Let’s have a little chat about it.

Those who know me know that I am mostly opposed to vaccinating. This isn’t to say that I am against all vaccines. It’s a much bigger conversation than simply “for or against” them. But that can-o-worms conversation is for another time.

Because our state “mandates” certain vaccines for children, I had to basically jump through hoops to have my high school daughter exempted from the mandatory meningitis vaccine. When looking up the vaccine, I found a list of ingredients for many common vaccines.

Do you know what is in the vaccines you get for yourself and your children? Do you know what the culture media is? Do you even know what a culture media is?

There are several different flu vaccines, so the culture media depends on which vaccine you opt for. Most are chicken embryo. Yeah. A whole different kind of scrambled eggs. What about chicken kidney or canine kidney? Lots of you have dogs. Or you just plain love animals. Maybe you’re vegetarian or even vegan. How does that strike you? Are you excited to learn that some vaccines contain tissues from aborted fetuses?

Other potential ingredients:

  • formaldehyde (yes, embalming fluid)
  • hydrolyzed porcine gelatin (know what porcine is? Pig.)
  • thimerosal (mercury) (although methylmercury is toxic to the central and peripheral nervous systems, the toxicity of ethylmercury derived from thimerosal (which is what is in vaccines) is not well studied… So if it hasn’t been well-studied, why would I agree to have it injected into my body? And if it really isn’t harmful, then why is there a thimerosal-free version?? Why aren’t all versions free of mercury?? Oh, wait. None really are mercury-free:

“The FDA changed the rules so vaccine manufacturers do not have to include thimerosal on the label as an ingredient unless it is used as a preservative. According to the FDA, if thimerosal is used in the manufacturing process but it is not used as a preservative, the vaccine can be labeled “thimerosal-free” when that is not the case. You can read more about this semantic trickery and what it really means for your child here.” (http://vaxtruth.org/2014/09/dr-oz-flu-shots/)

And no, I don’t get any kickbacks or affiliate incentives for sending you to that link. It’s just important stuff.

  • aluminum hydroxide. Manufacturers of certain deodorants and baking powders proudly advertise their ingredients as aluminum-free because there is a known and scientifically proven correlation between aluminum and Alzheimer’s disease. So why would I have myself injected with it? It doesn’t easily leave the body. It can accumulate and stay there, wreaking havoc for years, possibly forever. It crosses the blood-brain barrier and fucks with your brain. Ask me. I know.
  • monosodium glutamate – Yes, MSG. The additive you probably try to avoid at restaurants and in processed packaged foods (like ramen). Would you give your “informed consent” to be injected with it? Not me.

Guess what’s in the Japanese encephalitis vaccine? Mouse brain. Another vaccine has monkey kidney. Think I’m kidding or just using scare tactics? Look it up on the manufacturer’s websites. You’ll have to dig because they don’t make it easy for you to find the information. For good reason.

I urge you to educate yourself about vaccines in general. Don’t take your doctor’s word that it’s “perfectly safe.” Most doctors don’t know the true risks, which are alarming. Doctors are brainwashed trained during medical school and are led to believe that all  vaccines are the best action against the diseases for which they are manufactured. But what they are not taught is that for many people, vaccines can cause great harm, including death.

Ask for the package insert BEFORE you get any vaccine and go home to do your own research so that you have plenty of time to read and absorb what you’re about to give your “informed consent” for. Because if you do proceed with a vaccine and, heaven forbid, suffer injury as a result, guess what? You can’t sue. Nope. Congress passed a law to protect manufacturers from lawsuit. No lie.

The National Childhood Vaccine Injury Act (NCVIA) of 1986 (42 U.S.C. §§ 300aa-1 to 300aa-34) was signed into law by President Ronald Reagan as part of a larger health bill on Nov 14, 1986, in the United States, to reduce the potential financial liability of vaccine makers due to vaccine injury claims. The legislation was aimed at ensuring a stable market supply, and to provide cost-effective arbitration for vaccine injury claims. Under the NCVIA, the National Vaccine Injury Compensation Program (NVICP) was created to provide a federal no-fault system for compensating vaccine-related injuries or death by establishing a claim procedure involving the United States Court of Federal Claims and special masters.

Pretty special, isn’t it? After reading more, maybe you won’t actually go back for the vaccine.

Personally, I would rather have the flu than be injected with known toxins, poisons, chemicals, human and animal tissue, and other cancer-causing agents. If you have a healthy diet, a strong immune system, and stealth avoidance techniques, it’s possible that you don’t need to worry about contracting the flu. And even if you do get the flu, it’s a hell of a lot better than the potential consequence.

Think about it logically and investigate. Don’t take my word for it. Don’t take anyone’s word for it. But by the same token, don’t just disregard what I’m telling you because you think I’m a crackpot. Yes, I am a crackpot. But this is a critical subject and the information I learned has been truly life-changing.

Consider watching the first episode of the video series The Truth About Vaccines. Nope again. I don’t get any kickbacks or affiliate incentives for that link either. This was just a huge eye-opener and I think it contains important information for everyone to learn from – particularly parents. And particularly particularly parents with children who were perfectly healthy before they were vaccinated.

You may or may not believe or want to read or hear more about this. Even so, I ask that you share the information with loved ones and friends because many people have no idea what lurks behind that needle and may like to learn more. This was my case two years ago when I got the Tdap booster that caused an avalanche of health issues. I would have welcomed information about the possible side-effects and the negative long-term consequences of that vaccination.

Please don’t make the choice for someone else whether they get the information. Everyone makes their own decision to read, watch, or listen, but they can’t make any choice at all if they aren’t even offered the information.

Okay, I’m stepping down off the soap box now.

And in case you’re wondering? The Tdap vaccine I received contained aluminum and was manufactured by Sanofi Pasteur, the company that is currently under fire for its dengue vaccine.

Trick-or-Eat!

Yes, I know, I’m a little slow on the draw. Halloween has come and gone, and in fact Thanksgiving has now come and gone as well. Christmas is just three weeks away. (Eek!) I’ve been a slacker about dumping my Halloween story out of my brain and finally got around to it. Better late than never, as they say.

I didn’t plan to be at home this Halloween, so I didn’t bother buying candy for the neighborhood munchkins. Besides, we don’t typically get a lot of trick-or-treaters, so even when I have purchased candy in the past, all that sugar and fat usually ends up getting eaten by me. I’m sure you’ve been there… We usually don’t get (m)any trick-or-treaters, but I’d better get some candy *just in case.*

Well, this year my brain didn’t ever have a “just in case” moment because I was “certain” I wouldn’t be at home. So of course I found myself at home “by accident” right at the time of trick-or-treating. But still, I was sure we wouldn’t have any chilluns knocking at our door. It was cold, windy, and a bit rainy, so I didn’t run out to the local Walgreen’s to grab up armfuls of Snickers, Kit Kats, and peanut M&Ms (cuz, you know, if they didn’t come, I’d wanna have my favorites within arm’s reach) like I did last year.

Just about the time I finished my fist-pump, thinking I was in the clear and had made it almost to the end of the designated trick-or-treating fanfare of the year, there came a loud knock. Crap. Maybe if I’m quiet they’ll go away. Yeah, I know. That’s rude. But I didn’t have any candy, so. Louder knock. Lights were on, so somebody’s home, right? I slid into the kitchen and flung open the cabinet door to see what I could come up with. Jackpot. I grabbed the bin and quickly made my way to the door.

An adorable little fairy and her slightly older brother, Luke Skywalker, stood before me, eyes fixed on the box of treasure I clutched to my chest. They repeated for the umpteenth time the catch-phrase of the day. I heard “Trick-or-Eat!!” It was crystal clear and I obliged. I put a would-be hot, hearty meal in a cello-sealed bag into each of their grubby little paws: ramen. Luke was off his game and didn’t pay attention. He said his “thank you,” turned on his boot heel and marched down the steps to his parents, who stood shivering in the cold. Tinkerbell, on the other hand, sassy even at a mere 3’ish years old, best I could guess anyway, inspected the package, turning it over in her hand. The only resemblance to a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup was that the package was orange. Her eyes lifted without moving her head, looking up at me from under her brow. Clearly unimpressed, her expression said it all: Are you fucking kidding me, lady? “You’re welcome,” I said, and closed the door. Of course she didn’t actually say that, but she obviously didn’t fully appreciate this random act of kindness.

I thought it was genius. Never mind that it wasn’t a premeditated “treat” – this was probably the best idea I ever had for Halloween. (Except for that time in high school when two friends and I went to school dressed as prostitutes. Or the time in college that my roommate and I thought it would awesome to carve out a watermelon and fill it with Everclear.)

Think about it. Kids get pounds of candy every year. It’s disgusting, really. Loads of sugar and fat, and for the sake of argument, I’m gonna say that most kids never eat all of the candy they collect. Oh sure, they hoard it and keep it from their siblings and parents because “it’s mine!!” But I don’t think any kid ever eats all of their Halloween candy. Let’s face it. No one wants to eat all of those Tootsie Rolls.

And at the end of the two-hour stint, what parent wants to go home and make dinner? Bam! Dinner is literally in the bag. But what about all the sodium and MSG?! you ask? Yes, well there’s that. While MSG is also disgusting, let’s weigh the pros and cons. Here’s this 10-pound bag of sugar, corn syrup, fat, and god knows what else, then there’s this 3 ounce package of dried noodle food(ish) with a small serving of chemical-laden monosodium glutamate in a foil-sealed pouch. The reality is that that stuff is so potent, there’s probably less than a teaspoon of it. But still, it’s one lousy meal. (Granted, the emphasis is on “lousy.”) Now you tell me: which is more disgusting at that point in time when the parents are “done” with Halloween?

You may be wondering why I even have (had, actually, at this point, because I haven’t replenished the meager supply) ramen in my cabinet, because I am the very first to admit that it is a disgusting food-ish product and is laden with chemicals, grossness, and poor nutrition. Here is why: 1) For the very reason I described above – it’s an emergency provision. 2) It’s one godawful meal in a sea of many, many good, nutritious meals and ain’t nobody gonna die from one package of ramen. 3) That shit is cheap! 4) When all else fails and there’s nothing in the fridge and nothing else in Mama Hubbard’s cupboard, dinner can be had in 3 minutes. Three minutes, people. Hot ‘n ready. Besides, it’s some weird stand-by comfort food my daughter likes on occasion. Don’t ask me why, because I really do think it’s an unhealthy bag of dehydrated sponge with a side of sodium, and I don’t want (or let) her eat it on a regular basis, but once in a great while? Who cares? It’s one less meal I have to cook. Just like the night of Tom & Jerry, I just look the other way when she makes it.

Of course, there is no escaping that aroma…

Okay. Are you effing kidding me?

In an interview, singer Morrissey is quoted as saying, “It seems to me that Spacey has been attacked unnecessarily,” referring to recent sexual allegations against Kevin Spacey.

Morrissey claims the alleged victims knew exactly what was going on and chose to play along. Seriously? A 14-year-old knew what was going on and “chose” to “play along”? WTF is the matter with you? He wonders where the boy’s parents were and essentially says the kid knew when he went into the bedroom what would happen. Whether he did or didn’t isn’t even the point. It is ILLEGAL for a fucking 26-year-old to molest a 14-year-old. Period.

Morrissey goes on to basically say that Spacey (and Harvey Weinstein) are the victims here. Okay, whatever dude. You obviously live in a different kind of world than I do.

I have always loved Morrissey as an artist and musician. But this interview really makes me wonder what skeletons are in his closet.

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: