Wednesday, August 28, 2013

That Is NOT How I Meant For You To Use It!

A while back I attempted to make infused vodka.  I sliced up cucumbers into a mason jar and filled it with vodka.  I did the same with peaches.  Then I made a fatal error.

A dramatically delicious fatal error.

I left the fruit in the vodka too long.  Or the vodka in the fruit too long...

The peaches turned the weird brown that they do when you buy the peaches in the plastic cups for snacks, but you had to go to the discount food store to buy them because the checks wouldn't be deposited for another three days.  That brown.

Well, the error was a fatal one...for the peaches.  I was looking forward to chomping a healthy vodka snack one afternoon when the kids were both in school.  I couldn't get over the Aldi color though.

 ...Aldi is actually a pretty cool grocery, but you have to rent the carts for a quarter, and wonderfully, they don't give out bags.  So bonus for being weird.

So I filtered the vodka through a coffee filter, but since I left the fruit in for too long, it was very syrupy, so I just squeezed the vodka fruit like a sponge, and filled the mason jar with vodka syrup.  Then to the freezer it went.

You know when you were in college, and you tried to make jello shots, but because you were in college, you put way too much 151 in and it ended up being a jello slushie that caused regrets?

Well I ended up with a peach vodka slushie that causes orgasms.   ...If used properly.

I added some to orange and mango juice.

 Now I'm just having to wait until my husband gets home.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Fugie, Ocean Queen, ...but Not in NC

I'm crowning myself Queen.  I'm struggling with the 'of' part.  Queen of Dreams? of Smelly Feet? of Contradictions?

But in the event that I never find my 'of', I'll be happy with plain ole Queen.

It's all because I crossed into my 37th year yesterday, and I thought I deserved a new name.

I really like how some cultures give temporary names to kids, then when they discover more about themselves, they choose a proper name.  When I was a kid, I heard about George Foreman naming all his kids George.  George Jr, III, IV V, VI...and poor Georgeta and Freeda George.  I'm going to pretend he did it so they have to find their own name.  So, good call, George!

I'm pretty happy with the number 37, even though when you ask me how old I am, the number that quickly and easily slips past my lips is 26.  Maybe now I'll own up to being at least 27.

As a wiser 27 year old, I have some disturbing knowledge to impart to you.  I learned this from my wonderful parents last night.  And it has to do with this...

Fudgie the Whale.

You see, last year all I wanted for my birthday was a Fudgie the Whale cake.  Unfortunately, I waited until after my birthday to let anyone know.  Even though each person in my family has at one time or another claimed that they have the power of telepathy, not one of them picked up on my yearning for Fudgie.  ..liars, every last one of 'em!

Fortunately, my parents' power of memory is a million times better than the claimed telepathy skills.  And this year, they went on a mission to find Fudgie.  

Three, then four stores didn't have Fudgie.  I'd actually be surprised if the clerks knew who Fudgie was...Carvel isn't very big here in NC.  After the failed attempts, they actually called the Carvel people.

Have I said I love my parents yet?  Because who does that?  My awesome parents, that's who.

And now for the bad news....

Fudgie isn't shipped to NC.

I am heart broken.  Until yesterday, I have found little to not love about living in this diamond in the rough. (did you hear about the ACT scores? Out of our great country of 50 states, NC came in DEAD LAST.  But that's another blogday)  

The Fudgie realization made my faith in NC falter.  I got over it though... now I have a new mission!  I will bring Fudgie to the NC masses!  I am going to start a petition, and I am going to send it to Carvel.  Hopefully with a little faith and trust, and a little bit of Fudgie dust, I will succeed.  WE will succeed!

Friend Fudgie on Facebook for future information about the petition! Bring Fudgie to NC!

On the dawn of my 37th year, I have a purpose! 

Friday, August 9, 2013

You Can't Make Me Smoke....but do you have an extra one?

As a reformed smoker, I was happy when the world had its little paradigm shift away from indoor smoking.  It was extremely difficult to go to a bar, have a beer, and NOT smoke.  Dare I say, impossible?  At least it was for me.  I could have avoided the bar scene.  But then there was the smoking in restaurants, on patios, at the ice cream shop, at the mall, it was everywhere.  ...and who am I kidding? Avoid the bar scene?!

 That bit has gotten easier since I have had kids.  Turns out, having two small people at the bar with you that can unexpectedly leak out of an orifice, isn't particularly sexy.

It's still difficult for me to not smoke when I'm around smokers, even though it has been more than a decade since I quit.

I love Japanese signs!

I enjoyed smoking.  More importantly, I looked cool doing it.  I had a friend, and this is way back in high school mind you, that I would do smoking tricks with.  I would inhale from my cigarette, then we would lock lips and I would exhale as he inhaled what I was blowing out.  Then he would blow out my smoke.  ...what isn't cool about that? (I know, pretty much everything...)  I could also 'French inhale', which I'm not sure is a real thing, but in high school, it was an art. (consequently, I looked it up, and it is a real thing.  I was going to post a picture of it, but they all look horribly disgusting, which makes me think perhaps I wasn't so cool in high school.  Depression is setting in.)

So here's my point in all this drivel... we ex smokers need the equivalent of AA.  And since I'm the one creating this group, it's going to be named something like Anonymous Smoking Secession.  And our meetings will be in a hospital room filled with oxygen tanks and trachea stomas.

But seriously, when I meet someone that trusts me enough to let me know that they once were an alcoholic, and have been in AA for x number of years, I am in awe.  That's more impressive than figuring out how to stay married.  It's more impressive than climbing Mt. Everest.  More impressive that becoming a CEO at 20.  I could go on and on.  I look at the person with a little more respect.  I think that's most people's reaction.  Mostly because we all know how hard it would be for us to quit anything.  And I could never imagine hearing someone say 'oh c'mon, quitting was silly, here, have a shot on me..'  What I expect to hear is 'wow, that's awesome!'

But smoker's, we are a heartless breed.  We thrive on each other's weaknesses, because it makes us feel less horrible for being the last holdouts.  I say 'we' because I have been that person.  I have been the one that leaves classroom during break and makes the long trek to the smoker's section that is out in the sticks.  I have been the person that holds out my pack with a twinkle in my eye and says to the ex smoker, 'oh, come out with don't have to smoke, just keep me company.' The entire time knowing that I have hooked another one to do the deed with me.  Because what is the harm of having just one smoke?  And just so that I am confident in my portrayal of the black hole that smokers use to suck in our victims, I was attacked in such a way JUST last evening!

I stayed strong.  I said I can't come out to the smokers area because I would want a smoke.  And she said 'that's ok, you can have one of mine.'

It was very sweet.  In a 'I'll wait until tomorrow morning to murder you' kind of a way.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

On The Other Hand...

There is a new standard.

A goal to achieve.

The bar is set incredibly high, so women everywhere, we need to focus.

This might be myth.  I may have been told a yarn that has been passed down from generation to generation, only to be the talk of legends but never to be actualized.  My hope, my dream, is that it is obtainable.  

Deafness by orgasm.

Yes, you read that correctly.  Not permanent deafness.  The deafness in this situation is the gold medal.  It is the notarized document, the proof that the mark has been met, possibly exceeded.  It's the pinnacle.

 ...and now for the story as told to me.

A query was made to a friend, who went to school for audiology.  When she was talking about her degree, a co-worker pulled her aside, and told her of the myth.  Apparently it happened to her.  Here is my version of this goddess' tale of pleasure...

'Hey, can I ask you something that has been bugging me for decades?' She whispers in a conspiratorial way, and motions my friend into a dark hallway.  'Sure, what's up?'

'When I was thirteen....I, um, I was masturbating...   You know when you hit that age, and discover that there are sensations that, well, you know.  So, I was holed up in my room, pretending to do homework.  I locked my door, stuffed some clothes into the crack under the door, and tucked myself under my duvet.  My parents were downstairs so I had to be quiet. The duvet was thick and warm, and I started sweating a little.  I'm not sure if it was because of the warmth, being nervous about being caught, or excited for what I was about to do....  but anyway, I got down to it.  And Brooke, (the names have been changed blah blah...) I orgasmed so hard that I went deaf.  I went downstairs later, and my dad started talking to me but all I saw were his lips moving.  I couldn't hear a thing!  For thirty minutes!  I thought I broke myself!  Could that have happened from my orgasm?'

This is when Brooke, with a slight grin on her lips and head in the clouds, told her friend that she had achieved the holy grail of orgasms.

Now for a bit of anatomy.

Apparently, there are little muscles that attach to our eardrums.  When they spasm, they pull on the eardrum.  This is a protective mechanism to shield the inner ear from loud noise bursts.  It happens when you shoot a gun, you loose hearing for a moment because the muscle spasm has made our eardrum less like a drum.

This girl rocked it so hard that the spasm continued for half an hour.

So, now I leave it to you.  I have regaled you this tale of gratification.  Now it is up to you to let the myth become not only legend, but reality.  

Friday, August 2, 2013

Mauled By Satan

You know what's scary?  Going out onto your deck at two in the morning to see why the quail are bouncing around their pen like teenagers hopped up on speed at a trampoline gym.  

The going out part is the easy bit.  Now you have to remember it is two in the morning.  No moon, and armed with a pretty, yellow flashlight whose beam reaches almost to my toes.  But I'm tough, so without waking my husband, I slink outside in bare feet and skivvies to see what was the clatter.  And speaking of clatter, I will always spell Satan correctly because it is an anagram of Santa.

Then, as I shine the beam of the flashlight down the stairs, which illuminated them slightly more than if I were to have thrown down a week old glow stick, the bowels of hell let loose the most evil being you could imagine.  With spitting foam and blood dripping from its inch long fangs, I was stalked by this devil spawn predator.  Thanks to this blogger, I'm able to show you the approximate image of the beast.  Just picture pointy horns and drippy blood.

Kind of weird that this devil was on a blog that is very religious... but I bet it
would've scared the virginity out of Mary
Then, after I stopped crying and changed my shorts, I watched as the baby raccoon looked at me from the stairs, turned around and waddled across the lawn and up a tree.  We made peace with each other from across the divide.  

Now I want a baby raccoon.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Icarus, Schmicarus.

My mom's car killed itself yestermorning.  I had a feeling that it was depressed, but I had no idea it had the mashugana to pull this off.  I bet it felt itself a pissed off Buddhist monk that had to take a stand against all that is automotive.  My respect, little bug.