I was once in a vicious Easter Hat contest, and I think I came in second...but at the time, first place was my only thought, my greatest wish and everything I'd worked for. I think it's safe to say that I'm competitive!
Years ago, I competed in a ladies' fishing contest in a large pond out in the beautiful countryside of Connecticut. Our then husbands were our lackeys and they took the fish off the hooks for us because it was just too gross. I won every year for 3 or 4 years, and the last year, my only real competition sent me nasty faxes and notes in the mail. She tried everything she could think of to intimidate me...tsk, tsk, tsk. It never worked because I know where fish live. My granddaddy taught me.
In every yoga class I've ever been in , there was always someone who came close to being in my yoga league and we fought hard to declare a silent winner by the end of the session. We never made actual eye contact nor did we acknowledge the competition, but we knew exactly what we were doing...even during all the Namastes and Peace be with yous. There are MILLIONS of closet yoga competitors and if you're one of them and you're reading this...you must be laughing!
I would try to win a sleeping competition if one existed. I have no idea where this came from....whose ancestral DNA I inherited. I think it was my great grand daddy who was a Mississippi River Boat Gambler. It's how he made his money, and he was damn good at it.
The only thing at which my mother was competitive was poker. She did NOT like to lose. Neither do I. I love to gamble. My life has been a gamble, and I'm beating the house so far. If there are two ants racing each other up a tree, I'll root for one to win. Do you think I need help? I'd feel competitive with the therapist to see which one of us could solve my problem first, so I'm not sure I'm a good candidate. Maybe medication?
KK
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I think it's in our genes. I think 'our daddy who art in heaven', Frank Jackson must have been really ambitious and competitive. He was a Navy pilot in WWII and that takes a lot of nerve. Courage; that accompanies a competitive spirit I think. That and an ability to not care if anybody thinks you are an asshole.
KK is right, gambling is directly related to competition. They are both something that you can win if you participate. It's like surfing the waves in Hawaii (I won 2nd place there in the surfing contest). You have to pick and choose your waves carefully but if you catch the right one it will take you for a ride you'll remember on your death bed. If you leave too soon and have to watch someone else catch that wave from shore, you never leave when you're supposed to again. That's what finally gets the gambler. That's why the house always wins and the doors never close. They've got you at, 'cocktail?.'
I was a national champion swimmer in high school. Very few people could beat me if we were in the same pool together. I just couldn't stand it if somebody was ahead of me. I had to win. My life is like that. If somebody does anything I do, then I have to do it better or faster or longer or funnier. This rule applies to cooking, acting and dancing 'The-Cotton-Eyed-Joe.' KK and I don't really compete, except for who's going to drive, who gets to wear the red pumps and who has to watch 'Wheel of Fortune' with The Ancient One that night.
I always lose at Monopoly, Scrabble and Rock/Paper/Scissors. This irks me no end and causes me to have to scoop out the kitty litter pretty much every day. I sometimes think KK is tomfooling me. Do scissors really cut rock? Hmmmmmm.
PLease excuse me while I go put the trash out. I thought I had her that time but...apparently rock smashes paper,
SalGal
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Rode Hard and Put Up Wet
Well, for pity’s sake, I’m 56 years old, so there’s wrinklage. And, the wrinkles morph and move around my face. They are now attacking my neck! I’d run for my life, but I know they’d catch up with me, like Indians shooting arrows as I circle the wagons. The wagons are filled with my other midlife gal pals, and we’re under siege, shooting blanks back in defense.
When we grew up in the fifties and sixties, the doctors were still smoking cigarettes so they weren’t about to tell us to stay out of the sun. They just called those brown spots brown spots and moved on with their examinations. So, we’d leave their offices and go baste ourselves with baby oil and turn over when we were perfectly roasted, crackling and broiled on one side
I’m sufficiently paranoid now about our bad behavior back then to have regular appointments with my dermatologist. He’s got white hair and a soft voice and knows EVERYthing there is about skin. I’ve heard the word, “pre-cancerous” a time or two regarding some skin irregularity or other, and he’s frozen off lot’s of bad patches. All I can do now is to sweep up after my young self’s bad behavior.
The tan I have now is solely on my left arm. That’s what I call the ‘driver’s’ tan because, well, I have to drive, and the sun has to shine in my car window on that side, so that’s the arm that I extend in a wave or handshake because it just looks better. My legs, on the other hand, look as if I’m wearing white nurse stockings or that I have two flashlights at full power glowing from my hips! But you know what, I have so many spider veins down there now that I wear slacks to any event…kind of like Katherine Hepburn. NO one is going to see these legs except Sal or my next boyfriend, and especially then, I’ll use proper low lighting.
But, here’s the thing…the yung’ ns are still basting and roasting or sitting in the tanning caskets for way too long. That’s part of the definition of being a yung’ n, isn’t it though? Beauty Knows no pain…or future?!
While I’m confessing sins here, actually I have a CRUSH on my dermatologist. I like his white hair, soft voice and perfect skin. I bet he has perfect skin underneath that white coat…oops…excuse me, I digress. So, now Sal and I wear hats, walk in the shade and moisturize with SPF-113. By Gawd, we may not be pretty things, but we may live to be 120. Yikes!
KK
****************************************************
MIrror mirror on the wall…
Oh, I so remember spending the days at the pool in Midland,Texas in the 50’s. The days were hot but the water was ice cold and the hamburger hut didn’t care about trans fats. Hell, they didn’t even know what ‘cholesterol’ meant.
And basting ourselves with baby oil wasn’t nearly enough. We put iodine in the baby oil so that our tans would turn a nice golden brown before the sun went down. Our skin was as smooth as dolphin hide, soft as a horse’s muzzle and supple as a baby’s buns. Now? Our skin looks like two-week-old zucchinis that got left in the sun and bleached. When we extend our arms to give directions the lower part of our upper arms hang down like elephant ears and our necks look like they are melting. Gee, I wonder why.
I just don’t understand this because I still forget how old I am. I still get a jolt when I see a handsome thirty five-year-old man walking down the street. I do my yoga and feel like I’m thirty and then I see myself in the mirror and realize that I look like Lyle Lovitt in tights. When I wake up in the mornings I’m great until I find out I slept with the pillow over my face and now I have a wrinkle down my cheek that lasts till my 4PM appointment with a twenty-five-year old facialist who tells me that I’ve lost some elasticity in my skin ‘but don’t’ worry that’s normal for someone your age’. I leave, depressed even though I’ve warned the little bitch that the mole on her neck will be cancerous some day and her lips make her look like a frog.
I walk out the door and see my reflection in the mirror. I have on no make-up and my hair is greased back from the oils that poor kid used around my hair line. I look like one of those flesh eaters in a zombie movie. Inevitably it is at a time like this when a really nice looking fifty eight-year-old Viet Nam vet walks by and tries not to make eye contact. That’s okay because in that moment I want to crawl into the caulking in the brick wall anyway.
Wrinkles and pouches and patches are just a reminder that our bodies are getting older with time because I swear our minds don’t. My mind doesn’t have wrinkles. It still thinks it’s thirty five and can’t figure out why the hands that do it’s bidding now look like they are pleated at the wrists.
I do my best and slather my skin with daily lotion, put Retinol on my face and neck and soak in baths of Carnation instant milk. Remember Joan Crawford in ‘What Ever Happened To Baby Jane?’ Or Betty Davis for that matter. I’m always afraid I’m on the road to that until I forget while I’m gardening or cooking or out with KK all sparkling for the evening. I look at her and I see her soul. Once someone asked her what it felt like to see that her sister had aged and wrinkled with time. Her response? “Oh, did she? I hadn’t noticed.”
SalGal
When we grew up in the fifties and sixties, the doctors were still smoking cigarettes so they weren’t about to tell us to stay out of the sun. They just called those brown spots brown spots and moved on with their examinations. So, we’d leave their offices and go baste ourselves with baby oil and turn over when we were perfectly roasted, crackling and broiled on one side
I’m sufficiently paranoid now about our bad behavior back then to have regular appointments with my dermatologist. He’s got white hair and a soft voice and knows EVERYthing there is about skin. I’ve heard the word, “pre-cancerous” a time or two regarding some skin irregularity or other, and he’s frozen off lot’s of bad patches. All I can do now is to sweep up after my young self’s bad behavior.
The tan I have now is solely on my left arm. That’s what I call the ‘driver’s’ tan because, well, I have to drive, and the sun has to shine in my car window on that side, so that’s the arm that I extend in a wave or handshake because it just looks better. My legs, on the other hand, look as if I’m wearing white nurse stockings or that I have two flashlights at full power glowing from my hips! But you know what, I have so many spider veins down there now that I wear slacks to any event…kind of like Katherine Hepburn. NO one is going to see these legs except Sal or my next boyfriend, and especially then, I’ll use proper low lighting.
But, here’s the thing…the yung’ ns are still basting and roasting or sitting in the tanning caskets for way too long. That’s part of the definition of being a yung’ n, isn’t it though? Beauty Knows no pain…or future?!
While I’m confessing sins here, actually I have a CRUSH on my dermatologist. I like his white hair, soft voice and perfect skin. I bet he has perfect skin underneath that white coat…oops…excuse me, I digress. So, now Sal and I wear hats, walk in the shade and moisturize with SPF-113. By Gawd, we may not be pretty things, but we may live to be 120. Yikes!
KK
****************************************************
MIrror mirror on the wall…
Oh, I so remember spending the days at the pool in Midland,Texas in the 50’s. The days were hot but the water was ice cold and the hamburger hut didn’t care about trans fats. Hell, they didn’t even know what ‘cholesterol’ meant.
And basting ourselves with baby oil wasn’t nearly enough. We put iodine in the baby oil so that our tans would turn a nice golden brown before the sun went down. Our skin was as smooth as dolphin hide, soft as a horse’s muzzle and supple as a baby’s buns. Now? Our skin looks like two-week-old zucchinis that got left in the sun and bleached. When we extend our arms to give directions the lower part of our upper arms hang down like elephant ears and our necks look like they are melting. Gee, I wonder why.
I just don’t understand this because I still forget how old I am. I still get a jolt when I see a handsome thirty five-year-old man walking down the street. I do my yoga and feel like I’m thirty and then I see myself in the mirror and realize that I look like Lyle Lovitt in tights. When I wake up in the mornings I’m great until I find out I slept with the pillow over my face and now I have a wrinkle down my cheek that lasts till my 4PM appointment with a twenty-five-year old facialist who tells me that I’ve lost some elasticity in my skin ‘but don’t’ worry that’s normal for someone your age’. I leave, depressed even though I’ve warned the little bitch that the mole on her neck will be cancerous some day and her lips make her look like a frog.
I walk out the door and see my reflection in the mirror. I have on no make-up and my hair is greased back from the oils that poor kid used around my hair line. I look like one of those flesh eaters in a zombie movie. Inevitably it is at a time like this when a really nice looking fifty eight-year-old Viet Nam vet walks by and tries not to make eye contact. That’s okay because in that moment I want to crawl into the caulking in the brick wall anyway.
Wrinkles and pouches and patches are just a reminder that our bodies are getting older with time because I swear our minds don’t. My mind doesn’t have wrinkles. It still thinks it’s thirty five and can’t figure out why the hands that do it’s bidding now look like they are pleated at the wrists.
I do my best and slather my skin with daily lotion, put Retinol on my face and neck and soak in baths of Carnation instant milk. Remember Joan Crawford in ‘What Ever Happened To Baby Jane?’ Or Betty Davis for that matter. I’m always afraid I’m on the road to that until I forget while I’m gardening or cooking or out with KK all sparkling for the evening. I look at her and I see her soul. Once someone asked her what it felt like to see that her sister had aged and wrinkled with time. Her response? “Oh, did she? I hadn’t noticed.”
SalGal
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
That Book Store Smell
You don't have to be a reader to notice the smell of a book store the minute you cross the threshold. I can't quite put my finger on it...something clean yet musty, paper'ish AND published, expensive yet necessary. If you close your eyes, the smell conjures up favorite paragraphs and even whole chapters from the best books you've read. I just love a good book store.
Of course, my book store has the gigantic magazine rack right at the front door so I'm immediately sidetracked. Their subject categories far surpass any drug store or grocery store impulse mags, and it isn't often I can stand and read a magazine about horses or yard art or men's style. So, I spend a few minutes there before asking for help to find the books I want.
Come on! Show me someone who can go right to the appropriate section, author and title in under five minutes and I'll show you someone who needs to get out more. There are LOTS of people in book stores who need to get out more, and why would you go to a book store and sit and read if you weren't looking for another 'someone who doesn't get out much.?' They look it...pale, pasty, thin and with outdated glasses.
The people who work in book stores don't get out much either and they smell of 'book,' don't they? They're always very helpful in that hushed, book store kind of way. One mus'nt speak over a loud whisper in a book store...people, that is, except me. I guess I just want others there to know that I'm a READER when I speak in a normal-to-a-little-louder-than-normal voice, "Can you help me? I'm looking for "The Success Principles for Losers." They usually whisper in response, "Oh, yes, we have only a few copies left...right this way." Hmmmm...a few copies left which means that there have been a lot of losers looking for a book to dig out from under whatever is holding them back. Although I am far from a loser, I duck my head anyway as the pasty lady leads me to that section...I'm sniffing in as much 'book' smell as I can and stroking every book cover on the impulse tables along the way.
Although I love online places like Amazon, you can't beat a good book store. If I could ever pry myself from the self-help section, I might discover worlds beyond, but I'm one of the ones trying to dig out and they have shelves and shelves to help me. And their book markers are FREE!
KK
PS-If you ever read another book, read "The Glass Castle" by Jeanette Walls! That the woman is still standing at all is AMAZING after a childhood like THAT.
*************************************************
Oooo...I love book stores too. I always head straight back for the Astrology section. I always get my Gemini /Sidney Omar book of predictions for the year. I have to get it in June for the next year because if I wait till November they are all gone. That's because Geminis love that stuff. The Gemini books are all gone by then but the Taurus, Capricorn and Libra books are still there and none have sold. Those star signs think the whole thing is ridiculous and we Geminis, Pisces and Aquarians think they are a bunch of unawakened, earthbound garden gnomes.
I buy the astrology calendars that tell where the moon is every day and have flowy, lavender and Prussian blue pictures of fairies and symbols of planets. I know where the moon is every day and what it does to me. I watch out for moon in Aquarius. On those days it's good to just go to the book store and look at cocktail books that feature pictures of gourmet foods, ocean views and naked men. (The Twenty Hottest Firemen is my favorite).
You can get the Cranium Game at the book store and that is the funnest game in the universe. Just go buy one and then get some booze and three of your best friends and play it. You will laugh so hard you will roll on the floor and your friends will call you the next day to plan for the next time to play it. This is amazing since you and they made complete fools of yourselves trying to hum 'I Did it my Way', imitating bungey jumping off a cliff, or making putty look like DNA.
They have fun 'impulse items' at the book store. Who can pass by a pen with a one-inch teddy bear on the end of it? Everybody needs a bookmark in the shape of Texas and you know you need that tiny, hardcover book called, 'Why Cats Paint.'
Go to a bookstore if you are bored. And while you are there pick me up a book on 'How Not to Embarrass Yourself', a calendar with pictures of whales, and a hard copy of 'Bookstores of Schnectady.' I hear they have some good ones.
SalGal
Of course, my book store has the gigantic magazine rack right at the front door so I'm immediately sidetracked. Their subject categories far surpass any drug store or grocery store impulse mags, and it isn't often I can stand and read a magazine about horses or yard art or men's style. So, I spend a few minutes there before asking for help to find the books I want.
Come on! Show me someone who can go right to the appropriate section, author and title in under five minutes and I'll show you someone who needs to get out more. There are LOTS of people in book stores who need to get out more, and why would you go to a book store and sit and read if you weren't looking for another 'someone who doesn't get out much.?' They look it...pale, pasty, thin and with outdated glasses.
The people who work in book stores don't get out much either and they smell of 'book,' don't they? They're always very helpful in that hushed, book store kind of way. One mus'nt speak over a loud whisper in a book store...people, that is, except me. I guess I just want others there to know that I'm a READER when I speak in a normal-to-a-little-louder-than-normal voice, "Can you help me? I'm looking for "The Success Principles for Losers." They usually whisper in response, "Oh, yes, we have only a few copies left...right this way." Hmmmm...a few copies left which means that there have been a lot of losers looking for a book to dig out from under whatever is holding them back. Although I am far from a loser, I duck my head anyway as the pasty lady leads me to that section...I'm sniffing in as much 'book' smell as I can and stroking every book cover on the impulse tables along the way.
Although I love online places like Amazon, you can't beat a good book store. If I could ever pry myself from the self-help section, I might discover worlds beyond, but I'm one of the ones trying to dig out and they have shelves and shelves to help me. And their book markers are FREE!
KK
PS-If you ever read another book, read "The Glass Castle" by Jeanette Walls! That the woman is still standing at all is AMAZING after a childhood like THAT.
*************************************************
Oooo...I love book stores too. I always head straight back for the Astrology section. I always get my Gemini /Sidney Omar book of predictions for the year. I have to get it in June for the next year because if I wait till November they are all gone. That's because Geminis love that stuff. The Gemini books are all gone by then but the Taurus, Capricorn and Libra books are still there and none have sold. Those star signs think the whole thing is ridiculous and we Geminis, Pisces and Aquarians think they are a bunch of unawakened, earthbound garden gnomes.
I buy the astrology calendars that tell where the moon is every day and have flowy, lavender and Prussian blue pictures of fairies and symbols of planets. I know where the moon is every day and what it does to me. I watch out for moon in Aquarius. On those days it's good to just go to the book store and look at cocktail books that feature pictures of gourmet foods, ocean views and naked men. (The Twenty Hottest Firemen is my favorite).
You can get the Cranium Game at the book store and that is the funnest game in the universe. Just go buy one and then get some booze and three of your best friends and play it. You will laugh so hard you will roll on the floor and your friends will call you the next day to plan for the next time to play it. This is amazing since you and they made complete fools of yourselves trying to hum 'I Did it my Way', imitating bungey jumping off a cliff, or making putty look like DNA.
They have fun 'impulse items' at the book store. Who can pass by a pen with a one-inch teddy bear on the end of it? Everybody needs a bookmark in the shape of Texas and you know you need that tiny, hardcover book called, 'Why Cats Paint.'
Go to a bookstore if you are bored. And while you are there pick me up a book on 'How Not to Embarrass Yourself', a calendar with pictures of whales, and a hard copy of 'Bookstores of Schnectady.' I hear they have some good ones.
SalGal
Friday, April 25, 2008
ROAD CLOSED...DETOUR
We've had a gigantic neon-orange sign with this warning at both ends of our neighborhood block for MONTHS! I'm not kidding. First they dug up all the sewer lines under out street and put new ones in...then, they were just about to pave the street when they thought, well, why don't we just put in new water lines as well.
I think maybe there is a REALLY powerful person who lives on our block who asked the city to do all of this, because they aren't doing it in the next block...just our block. Either that or maybe there is some 'whistle blower' who reeked havoc with the city and this is his punishment (and ours for living in close proximity). We're pretty PISSED OFF about the whole thing...except for the construction workers whom we know so well now that we call each other by first names.
When I lived in New York, if you said ANYthing untoward to the construction workers (who are always omnipresent in any block in Manhattan), they would just look at you and grin while saying, Fuhgeddabutit! That's why I'm so happy being back in my home state of Texas and in the A-Town where people have manners. They've actually stopped what they were doing and helped us with our groceries because we had to park our cars at the end of the block and walk them to our door.
Manuel actually told me that if I call the city and complain about how long it's taking, they'll be able to speed up the process. That's a first. Of course, because I'm a Texan (we don't even honk in traffic unless we're in imminent danger because it's against the law!)...I told him I would make the call, but didn't because I felt badly about complaining.
My car is so caked with dust that it appears as if I've just driven 12 miles of bad dirt road in a dust storm out at the ranch and come to town for supplies! There is no WAY I'm washing it until this is over, but when I'm driving up to the Four Seasons valet parking guys, they throw glances at each other as if I don't belong. I have to go through an exhaustive explanation lest they think I'm not worthy!
They say that they'll be finished by the middle of May. I've gotten so used to that beeping sound when they put the bulldozer in reverse that I make up tunes to the beeps' beat. I can't repeat the lyrics I make up for each song, because they are unprintable!
Wish us luck!
KK
*****************************************
Those guys out there on first impression look like a pack of yellow and orange Disney characters. On closer inspection you realize that they look like the crew of, 'There Will Be Blood' after a late night at the Yucca Bar in Marfa, Texas.
I guess it is logical that these hard working guys would not put dressing for work as high on their priority list. If your work consists of moving, shoveling, and crunching huge blocks of cement all day you probably don't care that your five-o'clock shadow is white from dust, there are no ashtrays except for the six foot deep hole in the street and you smell like Humphrey Bogart in 'Treasure of the Sierra Madre.'
We love these guys just like we love the doormen at The Four Seasons and we care about what they think of us. Well, I do. I sometimes feel spoiled when I watch how hard they work. I'm so lucky. I smell good, read a lot, and come inside when it gets too hot. My car doesn't beep when I'm in reverse and I get to wear purple when I'm working if I want to.
Here's to the working men and gals on the chain gang,
SalGal
I think maybe there is a REALLY powerful person who lives on our block who asked the city to do all of this, because they aren't doing it in the next block...just our block. Either that or maybe there is some 'whistle blower' who reeked havoc with the city and this is his punishment (and ours for living in close proximity). We're pretty PISSED OFF about the whole thing...except for the construction workers whom we know so well now that we call each other by first names.
When I lived in New York, if you said ANYthing untoward to the construction workers (who are always omnipresent in any block in Manhattan), they would just look at you and grin while saying, Fuhgeddabutit! That's why I'm so happy being back in my home state of Texas and in the A-Town where people have manners. They've actually stopped what they were doing and helped us with our groceries because we had to park our cars at the end of the block and walk them to our door.
Manuel actually told me that if I call the city and complain about how long it's taking, they'll be able to speed up the process. That's a first. Of course, because I'm a Texan (we don't even honk in traffic unless we're in imminent danger because it's against the law!)...I told him I would make the call, but didn't because I felt badly about complaining.
My car is so caked with dust that it appears as if I've just driven 12 miles of bad dirt road in a dust storm out at the ranch and come to town for supplies! There is no WAY I'm washing it until this is over, but when I'm driving up to the Four Seasons valet parking guys, they throw glances at each other as if I don't belong. I have to go through an exhaustive explanation lest they think I'm not worthy!
They say that they'll be finished by the middle of May. I've gotten so used to that beeping sound when they put the bulldozer in reverse that I make up tunes to the beeps' beat. I can't repeat the lyrics I make up for each song, because they are unprintable!
Wish us luck!
KK
*****************************************
Those guys out there on first impression look like a pack of yellow and orange Disney characters. On closer inspection you realize that they look like the crew of, 'There Will Be Blood' after a late night at the Yucca Bar in Marfa, Texas.
I guess it is logical that these hard working guys would not put dressing for work as high on their priority list. If your work consists of moving, shoveling, and crunching huge blocks of cement all day you probably don't care that your five-o'clock shadow is white from dust, there are no ashtrays except for the six foot deep hole in the street and you smell like Humphrey Bogart in 'Treasure of the Sierra Madre.'
We love these guys just like we love the doormen at The Four Seasons and we care about what they think of us. Well, I do. I sometimes feel spoiled when I watch how hard they work. I'm so lucky. I smell good, read a lot, and come inside when it gets too hot. My car doesn't beep when I'm in reverse and I get to wear purple when I'm working if I want to.
Here's to the working men and gals on the chain gang,
SalGal
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Food for Thought...
Have you ever eaten a veggie burger? There is something suspect about them from the get go. I tried to trick Sal into eating one at a hippie-dippie restaurant last night. After her second bite, she exclaimed, "This hamburger tastes sweet!" I said, "oh, pish posh...mine tastes fine." I was trying to enjoy it, but it did taste like it had honey in it...maybe it was carrots or something...ick! When I finally told her that it was a veggie burger, she spit out what she had in her mouth and looked at me as if she could cut my guts out for a nickel. She said, "When I eat a hamburger, which is a RARE event, I want MEAT and grease dripping down onto the plate with each bite. I want BACON on top and a bun that does NOT have NINE GRAINS in it. Don't EVER do that to me again, KK!"
We don't like goat cheese. I don't even like the word, GOAT CHEESE. It sounds like it's made of boogers or something. And, I've been tricked before when approached with a canape tray at a party...thinking it looked scrumptious, only to find that after I got it into my mouth, there was that bitter, boogery flavor (and don't tell me that you've never tasted a booger before either). That mouthful always winds up discreetly moving from my mouth into a cocktail napkin, then buried in the soil of the nearest potted palm.
I could write a whole chapter about cilantro, and I know that there are two wildly divergent camps on this one. You either HATE cilantro or LOVE cilantro. I belong to the tribe of cilantro haters. It tastes like soap! And, now-a-days, it's in just about EVERYthing. I have learned to be able to identify those flat green pieces with the frayed edges and my upper lip immediately curls with an un-lady-like, "eeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuwwwww!" Don't try to defend cilantro to me.
I love hot dogs. There, I said it. I like to sautee them in butter so they're kinda crispy around the edges, then make a hot dog sandwich on bread with mustard and mayo. But, when I go to the movies, I like to mix that limp, steamy dog with mustard, those soft white buns and piles of pickle relish. Those who know me are aware that I have to have the family-sized box of popcorn, and I take a tiny bite of hot dog then stuff a fistful of popcorn in my mouth and I'm in 'hog' heaven! I don't CARE what's in a hot dog...I just know that those hot dog makers mix pig parts together just perrrrrfectly.
Mmmmm, I'm so hungry. I'm going to go in the kitchen now and make myself scrambled eggs with my sauteed hot dog.
Buon appetito!
KK
*************************************************************
KK takes Lipitor. It lowers your cholesterol.
I completely agree that goat cheese should only be eaten by bad children and veggie burgers are for elephants, young girls with rings in their noses and throwing at the grackles in the birdbath. That veggie sucked but might have tasted better with some red chili, cilantro and a shot of Cuervo.
The popcorn/hot dog scenario is right up my alley. I also love fried calamari, pork rinds and devilled eggs. I make great devilled eggs with olives, curry and onions. I hate brussel sprouts, tripe and who in the world was the first one to eat pigs' feet? That must have been one hungry mother fucker.
Very often I look at something and think, 'I wonder who in the world was the first one to figure out that you could eat this?' sometimes I'm glad but sometimes I can't believe people fall for it. Would you really eat a duck embryo that is about to hatch...feathers and all and call it a delicacy? And yet they do that in Indonosia or some place like that. I saw it on the food channel. Who first ate caviar, an artichoke or calf brains? These were desperate people who were either stuck out on the ocean with only a dead mother sturgeon, some guy on an island with only what looked like a thistle patch or some rancher who's calf died next to him as he was pinned under a rock and couldn't get out and was starving to death.
Anyway, KK couldn't fool me with that stupid veggie burger because my paper napkin wasn't getting torn and greasy enough. That's how you can tell how good a hamburger is. If the napkin is shredded into lace, there's grease sliding down your chin and your mouth is so full you look like Louis Armstrong blowing his horn you know you're in a great hamburger joint.
Kiwis are hairy and bon appetite,
SalGal
We don't like goat cheese. I don't even like the word, GOAT CHEESE. It sounds like it's made of boogers or something. And, I've been tricked before when approached with a canape tray at a party...thinking it looked scrumptious, only to find that after I got it into my mouth, there was that bitter, boogery flavor (and don't tell me that you've never tasted a booger before either). That mouthful always winds up discreetly moving from my mouth into a cocktail napkin, then buried in the soil of the nearest potted palm.
I could write a whole chapter about cilantro, and I know that there are two wildly divergent camps on this one. You either HATE cilantro or LOVE cilantro. I belong to the tribe of cilantro haters. It tastes like soap! And, now-a-days, it's in just about EVERYthing. I have learned to be able to identify those flat green pieces with the frayed edges and my upper lip immediately curls with an un-lady-like, "eeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuwwwww!" Don't try to defend cilantro to me.
I love hot dogs. There, I said it. I like to sautee them in butter so they're kinda crispy around the edges, then make a hot dog sandwich on bread with mustard and mayo. But, when I go to the movies, I like to mix that limp, steamy dog with mustard, those soft white buns and piles of pickle relish. Those who know me are aware that I have to have the family-sized box of popcorn, and I take a tiny bite of hot dog then stuff a fistful of popcorn in my mouth and I'm in 'hog' heaven! I don't CARE what's in a hot dog...I just know that those hot dog makers mix pig parts together just perrrrrfectly.
Mmmmm, I'm so hungry. I'm going to go in the kitchen now and make myself scrambled eggs with my sauteed hot dog.
Buon appetito!
KK
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KK takes Lipitor. It lowers your cholesterol.
I completely agree that goat cheese should only be eaten by bad children and veggie burgers are for elephants, young girls with rings in their noses and throwing at the grackles in the birdbath. That veggie sucked but might have tasted better with some red chili, cilantro and a shot of Cuervo.
The popcorn/hot dog scenario is right up my alley. I also love fried calamari, pork rinds and devilled eggs. I make great devilled eggs with olives, curry and onions. I hate brussel sprouts, tripe and who in the world was the first one to eat pigs' feet? That must have been one hungry mother fucker.
Very often I look at something and think, 'I wonder who in the world was the first one to figure out that you could eat this?' sometimes I'm glad but sometimes I can't believe people fall for it. Would you really eat a duck embryo that is about to hatch...feathers and all and call it a delicacy? And yet they do that in Indonosia or some place like that. I saw it on the food channel. Who first ate caviar, an artichoke or calf brains? These were desperate people who were either stuck out on the ocean with only a dead mother sturgeon, some guy on an island with only what looked like a thistle patch or some rancher who's calf died next to him as he was pinned under a rock and couldn't get out and was starving to death.
Anyway, KK couldn't fool me with that stupid veggie burger because my paper napkin wasn't getting torn and greasy enough. That's how you can tell how good a hamburger is. If the napkin is shredded into lace, there's grease sliding down your chin and your mouth is so full you look like Louis Armstrong blowing his horn you know you're in a great hamburger joint.
Kiwis are hairy and bon appetite,
SalGal
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Parties R Us!
We were asked to be part of an 'interactive' art party for a local arts group called, Women and Their Work by our friend, Christine who has a wonderful and wacky fly-fishing blog. She was on the party committee and coined the theme for the party, only with a twist...interact-out! If that doesn't sum us up, I don't know what does, so hell yeah, we said.
We were there to do interviews of the party goers and were given no limits as to what we could ask (they shoulda been kinda nervous about that). We met lots of funny, amazing people and discovered that after having a few drinks (both we and them)...people stood in line to be interviewed by us.
Our first unsuspecting prey, I mean, subject, allowed as how he had been the head of our local ACLU for twenty years and that he was married to a prosecutor. I couldn't help but wonder how THAT marriage worked, so I asked, "Well, now how does that manifest itself in the bedroom? Do you and she switch roles...you prosecuting her and then she prosecuting you between the sheets?" With a twinkle in his eye, he suggested that they always wound up with "a hung jury!" I then suggested that being the head of the ACLU back in the 80's meant that he probably smoked pot back then, to which he replied, "Hell, yeah, AND, I was out there protecting all of you people who were smoking pot too!"
Then, there was the man who told us about his tattoo which we wanted to see, but because he couldn't raise his shirt sleeve up high enough to see it, he took OFF his shirt in order to show us. It WAS a fabulous tattoo!
We interviewed women passing canapes, the bartenders and the elevator operators in the building. We also interviewed the head gals who put on the party, but only after they'd gotten liquored up and let their hairs down.
Evidently, we were quite the hit at the party and it's all on film! Here is a photo of me behind the camera. Okay, it was late in the evening and I'd had maybe one too many glasses of wine. What a party! And, the perfect way for us to insinuate The Midlife Gals' shenanigans into the teddibly, frightfully 'composed' social scene in the A-Town!
KK
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I love it when the teddibly, frightfully 'composed' social people of any town get drunk and start remembrances of when they last wore their 'fuck-me-pumps'. And that's exactly what happened. I'm sometimes even intimidated by these people until KK and I have a few too many ourselves and get them to loosen up and spill the bowl of cherries...or is it the beans...the glass of basil, lime and double shot of Cuervo mojito all over the ex-head of the American Civil Liberties Union.
I have to say I was disappointed in the pod they gave us. The woman who talked us into doing this gig in the first place and I won't mention any names (Christine) told us that there were some really cool 'niches'. To me, a 'niche' means an indentation in the wall and I picture some flowers, frescos on the walls of palm fronds and a cheap, sequined daglo 'Our Lady of Guadalupe' statue. That's cool and I could picture us in it.
We got to the party space and they showed us a white box with white padding and a chain link 'curtain'. It was like a bed that you had to climb into. Did any of you see that old movie where Tony Curtis played the 'Boston Strangler' and at the very end he was in a straight jacket in the all-white, padded room? Well, that's exactly what it was only about the size of a small walk-in closet. The chain link curtain was the kind of chain that looked like it belonged on a bicycle. It gave the effect of a beaded curtain and I thought it fit right in with the whole insane asylum theme.
It was very bright in the all-white, padded pod so we didn't need lights which was good. Once we got settled in and set up the camera I was feeling better about things but still I couldn't let go of my disappointment until the second mojito, two mint figs on skewers and a fabulous woman who when she got out of the pod her beautiful, silky dress got stuck in her ass.
Actually, Christine's creative ideas for the whole party were right on and the pod was perfect for us. As it turns out, we were stunning in the niche as we were the only things in it and we sparkled. Who knew? We interviewed everybody who mattered there and made sure they would each embarrass themselves by the end of the night. Right now KK is sending the big-wigs 'Thank you cards' and extorting them each for a check for one hundred thousand dollars or we will put their video on YouTube.
See you at the next social event? We'll be waiting...
SalGal
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