The Holy Land

August 15th

My coworker called me this afternoon from Butte, Montana.  Apparently there is not much of anything in Butte, Montana.

"Dude, there is nothing in Butte."

"My brother wrecked his car in Butte."

"There is only one reason people go to Butte.  You'll never guess what it is."

"Marijuana?"

"What?  No."

"Okay I give up."

"A giant, festering cesspool."

"Come again?"

"It's called the Berkley Pit.  Google it."

I Googled it.

"It's a huge acidic lake that nothing can survive in.  Everything that falls in dies instantly."

"This is the coolest thing I've ever heard of!"

"Crazy huh!"

I then learned all about the Berkley Pit and started telling everyone about it.  (Apparently I'd made myself the new expert.)  Did you know 342 snow geese landed in it once and all 342 of them died immediately?  The lake custodian said it wasn't the lake that killed them, but I've seen these kinds of killer lakes before.

It's undis-BUTTE-able!

...

I couldn't resist.

On Religion

Brother 2:  So what's the address of your YouTube P90X videos?

Brother 1:  Doubleya doubleya doubleya dot ive beaten myself to shit and feel like FUCK dot com.

Brother 2:  I've been there before.  It's a Catholic website, no?

On Mars

Me:  I don't have a very favorable Mars position in my chart.

Brother:  Yeah, you'd be a lot better off if your Mars was in the position mine is.

Me:  Where is your Mars?

Brother:  In my cock.

On Aging

Brother 2:  Oh, and your nephew is 2 weeks old, TODAY.

Brother 1:  He won't be two weeks old until 14:10.  Nigger.

Brother 2:  Ya, I totally said 'birthday' not 'birthtime.'  Cracker.

Me:  Idea: I record the funny things mom says, she records the funny things you say, you record the funny things I say and then we all write blogs about it.

Red:  Gene. YUS.

My Mother Has Since Disowned Me

Mom:  All I can say is this: First, she moves to Treehuggerville . . . Then lands a job with a biofuel company . . . And now THIS.  Every Republican mother's nightmare . . . a juicer.  A JUICER?  That's bad enough, but WHEAT GRASS?  There's the frosting on THAT heartbreak cake.  Say it isn't so, Pea!  What next?  An effin' Smart Car?????

Me:  If it's any consolation, both the juicer and the wheat grass are Will's . . . I'm just the operator.

Mom:  Yes, but YOU allowed it in your domicile.  GUILTY!  And, you kiss the lips that DRINK wheat grass juice.  Me?  I'd rather eat puke cookies.

The Grand MoMare Adventure

         A (painfully)  

Short Story

<ahem>

She arrived.

We ate heartily

nom

and drank (very dramatic) cups of coffee.

We lazed about and chit-chatted

 boop

and sat on sidewalks drinking tea

and swilling beer.

 We got to peruse many a-menu

 because that's what happens

when you eat a lot and are daunted

by giant flatware.

 RAWWRRR

We had fantastic hair

and gesticulated wildly

and made funny faces in public places

  until we nearly peed from laughter.

And even though we felt exhausted at times

oy

that didn't stop us from admiring the flowers

 I think those are weeds

eating radishes the size of baseballs

womp

and flaunting our fantastic bosoms.

yowza

The End.

Pre Mom-Flying-Out-to-Visit Texts

Mom: Am packing!!!!!!  I have no clothes and what I have I hate!!!!!!  Aaaarrrgggghhhh! The bane of womanhood!

Mom (trying to send me a picture of an old tin canister with hand-painted rooster):  Do you love like hate or have no response to this?

...

Mom:  Did you get a pic?  Jim and I are tards . . .

Me:  Nope, no pic.

Mom:  How bout this time?

Me:  Nope.

Mom:  Good god damn how the fargity fuck fuck do you send a freakin effin picture with one of the fuckin fargin android fuckin phones anyway?  I've done it before . . .

...

. . . . .

.   .   .   .   .   .

<Successfully sends me a picture of her students in class. Hooray!>

Mom:  Take a pic of U and send it to my class.  Be butiful

Me:

Mom:  I was freakin serious.  My perfect students want to see your face.

Me:  What?!  Don't I look butiful??

Mom:  Everyone here is puking.

Well, Pepper Me Sideways...

I've done it.  I've splurged.

I've been operating on a pretty strict budget for about five years or so (I am suddenly appalled by the number of years it's been since college...) and even though I've got a reliable income, I still sometimes revert back to my just-moved-away-from-home programming, when spending seven dollars on a salad bar would have really set me back, and is only made easier to swallow by the handfuls of muffins I've stuffed in my purse.

Fast forward to seven-ish months ago and I'm in Fred Meyer shopping for Course Grind Black Pepper.  Without doubt, I spend no fewer than eight minutes on average standing in the spice aisle -- the labels are absurdly tiny, one garlic powder costs $1.99 and another one two rows up costs $4.99 (Why? Why?!), sometimes the cinnamon comes in a tin and sometimes a round bottle.  It might just be me, but it always feels frantic and disorganized in the spices, and I usually end up mad.

I figure pepper is no big deal, on par with salt and russet potatoes and lip balm, and I scan the labels for the right one.  If you haven't already heard, I am, without question, my mother's daughter (in more ways than one) and in its most recent incarnation, I am spiritually, religiously, and vehemently opposed to regular pepper, which I still lobby should be called That Powdery Crap.  Who likes a big sloppy clump of pepper in their eggs?  Nobody.

Scanning...scanning...scanning...*BING* there it is, only this particular Course Grind comes packaged in a GIGANTIC container and costs >gasp< ten dollars.  TEN. DOLLARS.  I choke a little.  I was expecting one, maybe two dollars, max.

I've never looked up the word "extortion" before, but I'd bet money this is what it means.

It's the only option for Course Grind Black Pepper in the entire store.  Infinite options for everything else in the marketable universe (Really?  Only six choices of organic, raw Kombucha?) but pepper appears to be a novelty.  Eff that.  I'm not spending ten dollars on pepper.  It's up there with deodorant -- I mean, it's important, but how important?

I pass on the Course Grind and eventually find a suitable alternative and go on my way.

Fast forward again to four days ago and I'm swimming in a mound of leftover cabbage that I don't know what to do with.  I'd made a Chinese food stir-fry thing with cabbage and I'd have used it all if my pan was big enough.  I ended up not being very interested in the stir-fry, so I packed it for Bear's lunch and he ate it for breakfast instead.

"Will, what do I do with all this extra cabbage?!"

"Make coleslaw."

Oh.  Good call.

(A few days later after I made the coleslaw, I suggested he eat some for breakfast and he said "That's not breakfast food.")

It only comes to my attention at this moment that I have never made coleslaw before.  I text Mom.

Ma! I need your coleslaw recipe -- stat.

She called a few hours later and left the recipe in a voice mail.  I jotted it down on a piece of yellow non-legal sized legal paper.

Ma's Slaw

Cabbage, diced

Celery, 3 or 4 stalks, finely chopped

Carrot, shredded directly into bowl

Salt, a little

Pepper, LOTS

Onion powder, a little

Mayo, until it looks right

Good deal.  I've got almost all of that, and you know what would be awesome in this?  Some Course Grind Black Pepper.  That's what Mom uses, and I want it to be just like hers, so I must retrieve some.

I'm standing in Fred Meyer slowly seething at the chaos of the spice aisle when Ah-HA! there's the pepper, then Holy Shit it's ten bucks?! then OMG I can't NOT have Course Grind Black Pepper in my coleslaw or it won't taste just like Mom's, but Mother of Pearl this is expensive, and if it doesn't taste just like Mom's I won't eat it and I'll have to make Will eat it, even though he'll eat anything I ask him to (he's the best-looking garbage disposal I've ever had) and I'll end up having to buy more cabbage to make it again to see if it'll taste just like Mom's and this is already turning into a disaster and Dude why are you freaking out right now? I don't know, I think the spice aisle gives me panic attacks.  Can everybody just stop crowding me for a minute?!  I have to think.

Zennnn.

Hey, Pea?  Remember you're not in college anymore?  Remember that you don't drink free Student Center coffee that tastes like a bathroom and have to wear the same underwear two days in a row to cut back on laundry expenses?

Ohh.  Yeahh . . .

I splurge.  I buy the ten dollar pepper, make the coleslaw just like Mom said, and *hot damn* it tasted just like hers.  This fact was further solidified when Brother came over, said he was gonna have a bite of my 'slaw, got down to the last two bites and looked up at me, mildly horrified.

"Dude. I ate all your coleslaw."

"YEAH you did."

I feel okay about spending that much money on something I thought would be dirt cheap, because  a) it's delicious, and  b) it is key to many things.  And, since that huge bottle will probably last me about three years, it's like paying $0.25 a month for pepper with no interest.  I guess I can swing that.

Colonoscopies & Txt Spk

May 10, 2011

My step-dad (whom we have lovingly dubbed “Fahzja” and who just started his very own blog, viewable at www.jimyoungtheguiltyone.blogspot.com) went in for what I hear is a long overdue colonoscopy.  I am no stranger to the event – not from my own experience, but because I work with mostly older folks.  I know all about the no-eating rules, the laxatives, the prep, the discomfort . . . However, I did not know about Pops’ said Nether Adventures until receiving a text message from my mom this morning:

Fahzja has a camera up his butt . . . i m sipping a latte . . . Ahhh.  Life is good.

Now, I must note that my mom has just recently discovered text messaging.  (A little bit of peer pressure goes a long way.)  I was confused, one day getting a text from “Mom Cell.”  What?  Mom doesn’t text.

hey pea ! Lookit wut yer po ol yo can do . im skurd ha

Much to my bewilderment, I replied “What! I’m so corn-fused!”

i know iz wackt !

Since then, I’ve received messages every few days or so, like

I just lrnd 2 use an I pad! 4 wrk. Very skery cuz I took 2 it like duk 2 water.

She takes “text speak” to a whole new level.  Those fast nimble-fingered ‘tweens ain’t got nothin’ on my Ma.  And it is a little skery, because my mom has historically found it difficult learning to use new gadgets.  So this is, like, really really cool and really really fun.

U r gelus. Don’t deny it

That I am.

From: Ma
To: Daughter
Subject: No subject. WHAAAAAT????!!!

Even on a good day, my George Jetson (thank you, dear and well-meaning, husband for yet another bit of technology WAAAAYY too advanced for this pathetic pea-brain) Stove of the Future Model 4000 is one. Hot. Mo'. Fo'. And hard to handle (read: can't walk away for a second = yes, I've burned/burnt? a few things). Factor in a fever, dizziness, the aggravation of calling off work for the second day, a certain little dog (who shall remain anonymous) nipping at my heels, trying to get 100% of my attention 100% of the time and, AND the (very entertaining) In Style makeover link (sent to me by a certain Pea), and what we have is a bona fide recipe for disaster, causing whatever it was I WAS cooking to be completely forgotten. . . Well, suffice it to say, I'm lucky I only burned up one pan of ground meat and not the entire kitchen. . . scarier than the possibility of dying in the near-miss fireball is that I look really, REALLY good in Kate Hudson's hair.

Smile, Eggin, You're on the Net!

Oh, and Mom is up to more mischief.

I know, I know . . . What else is new?

Bathing Suits in January

From: Ma

To: Daughter

Opening line for a yet-unwritten book:

“Puffed up to her full Banty hen height of four feet, nine inches, she stomped around like a petulant child on the verge of a tantrum.”

Well? Well?

...

Word of the day: City Shorts. 

Jones Wear (higher end brand). 

Size 8. 

Perfect fit, length and all. 

Yes, yes. I AM the bomb...

Ok. Letchya go. I’m off to play with my ultra adorable hair and makeup (not QUITE so adorable = I feel like I’m getting stale... again... always... Besides that, my lips are disappearing at an exponential rate. Come to think of it, their disappearance is in direct correlation to the rate at which my ear lobes are beginning to sag... argh.)

Oh, yeah. One last ort of Yo’Ma wisdom: Finding a new hair stylist ranks right up there with buying a bra, trying on bathing suits in January when we’re at our fattest AND palest, giving birth, growing old “gracefully,” putting up with male idiosyncrasies, trusting your contraceptive NOT to fail, and finding a new favorite go-to lipstick/eyeliner/mascara when effing Revlon decides that, after thirty effing years on the market as a #1 seller it’s time to “retire” Rum Raisin, as one of THE most gruelingest and worstest things we, as women, must do.  <take a breather, Glenda. . . find your Zen>

OK. Rant. Over.

Please, let’s have a little “phone date,” OK?  I need a Peabody fix... I love that.  Peabody... “Have you hugged your Peabody today?”

Yo’Ma

PS – Yes. I know. I should write my own blog... and write children’s books... Quit nagging me, already.

What Began As a Brussels Sprouts Recipe

From: Ma
To: Daughter

I offer the following article I found day before yesterday in The Vindicator (and I quote):

"AP Ottawa Drive, OH- In spite of requesting,

but never receiving, a recipe for roasted
Brussels sprouts, recent Youngstown newcomer,

Mrs. Gee Bee Young, successfully prepared them

this evening. A friend touted it as a "a culinary

victory. . . a Julia Child moment" for Mrs. Young.

Her triumph over this recipe is made even more 

poignant because of the hardship and despair she

suffered attempting to obtain the coveted recipe.

She emotionally confided to this correspondent 

that her daughter, Miss Pea Body, of Portland,

Oregon, had recently experienced roasted sprouts

at a party and had "raved about them. . . she made

them sound almost orgasmic." As a huge fan of sprouts,

Mrs. Young continued by saying she was "inspired and

totally excited . . . and really looking forward to

trying them" and had asked her daughter via e-mail

a few weeks ago to remind her how to do it. Mrs. Young

reported she was initially hopeful her request would

not be denied because, as she tearfully revealed,

"Pea and I have always been so very close. . . we even

drink our morning coffee out of matching rooster mugs

and then, like silly little teenagers, make dirty jokes

about the white cock and the black cock." Sources close

to Mrs. Young report she had "waited patiently for days

by her computer" for a response and had grown

increasingly desperate and "nearly despondent" when she

did not hear from her daughter. Another source revealed

he had witnessed Mrs. Young "crying into her

Post Toasties. . . it broke my heart. Nobody should

have to

see such a thing." The same source added, "I'm not

surprised Pea didn't get back to her poor mother, who,

by the way, loves her more than anything, on this.

The little ingrate is a notorious beer-swilling

hummus-eating whore. A real slut. Oh, sure. She's

gorgeous and all, but that's no excuse for treating

her mother this way. If she winds up as trailer trash,

it won't surprise me or hurt my feelings. She deserves it."

Urban Decay?

From: Mom
To: Daughter
Subject: Idea!

I just ordered some of that invisible eyeshadow primer stuff from Sephora <yeah, I'm techno-savvy> and got to thinking that us old ladies <read: wrinkled, lined, splotchy, craggy, and saggy> need a new line of make up products to make us look younger and more vibrant. It can be the Over 30 version of Urban Decay. . . I shall call it Rural Renewal.


Yo'Ma