I have grown complacent. Fat and sassy, hobbling around with thin blood, on knees that creak and argue because the Tibia-Fibula family wants to go one way, and Old Man Femur wants to go another. Yes. Except for the aching bones and muscles, which I know are a side effect even though the pharmaceutical family does not list it right up there with sudden death, I have resigned myself to life until May as a thin-blooded person.
Sure, I still curse at drivers coming at me over the center line, and take one hand off the wheel to shake my fist at them for almost killing me in a collision that would result in my blood spouting like Old Faithful...but I have kind of forgotten that I'm taking a blood-thinner.
Until last night.
I have been very careful, you see, not to bump or slice or internally injure myself. For three months I have survived life's jostling without incident.
Until last night.
Hick built my desk space in my dark basement lair. It's a corner affair. Hick put in two sets of cabinets with drawers, and laid some butcher-block laminated countertop across them. So I can have a high desk with a stool (salvaged by Hick from a bar). Then he put in two sections of V-shaped countertop in the corner, lower, so I can sit in my rolly chair at my New Delly in that V, with comfortable counter space upon which to rest each arm. No carpal tunnel syndrome for Val! Hick put in another high section on top of a cabinet at my right hand, holding my laser printer. It's the next best thing to an apartment with no furniture, only levels covered by a bunch of pillows, favored by hipster doofuses.
Last night, as I reached to the left for my glasses in their case on the upper counter, I raked my left forearm against the corner of the countertop. I heard a scraping noise, kind of like an icepick across old leather.
Did you know that thin blood flows out quite quickly? Sorry, Best Ol' Ex-Teaching Buddy Mabel, for that description. It wasn't exactly a river. That's because there were just two little spots, about as far apart as snake fangs, that went deeper into the scratch. Blood bubbled up and dripped over the side of my arm. I dabbed at it with some Puffs With Aloe. After a couple of times, the spouting turned to little bubbles that got a coating and stopped flowing. I left them to harden.
This morning, after my shower, I saw that my blood was again flowing like syrup from a mighty Maple. I slapped a BandAid on it and went off to my first day of school. Not that I was trying to attract attention to my infirmity. For that, I would have put a fancy Angry Birds BandAid on it at work. Nope. Just the flesh-colored one, which matches nobody's flesh, unless that body was born in a Crayola Crayon box with the last name of Flesh, whose parents changed the family name to Peach.
I'm going to take it off later tonight. The BandAid, that is! Don't get your hopes up. I hope my platelets and fibrin can take time out from their year-long vacation to phone in a little work.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A Culinary Adventure
I just got back from the doctor, and boy are my arms tired! WAIT! That's not right. That's what happens when I just fly in from Tulsa. But I DID just get back from the doctor, with a glowing report after my recent outpatient surgery, and an appointment for February, I don't know why, now that I'm healed after never even being sick in that department. Oh, well. Those sick days aren't going to use themselves, huh, Mabel?
Do you know how much I hated leaving school early today to get to that appointment? Yeah. About this much, though I might be overestimating my sorrow.
On the way back, nigh on 2:30 p.m. according to T-Hoe's sundial (okay, T-Hoe has as many gadgets as a Swiss Army Knife, but a sundial isn't one of them--I'm fibbing), we stopped for lupper. That's because we missed lunch, and I was not about to volunteer to make supper a couple hours after eating.
Hick started out looking for Outback Steakhouse. As with so many of Hick's grand schemes, he could not find the Outback. So he did the next best thing...took me to a little Chinese restaurant next to the Goodwill store. I think he said Goodwill. It could have been a flea market or antique store for all I know. And if the little Chinese restaurant had been a snake, it would have bit him, as far as Hick knew. He kept talking about it, and driving around a strip mall (that's little shops in a long building, not an adult entertainment area), saying he had eaten there and the food was really good, but he just couldn't seem to remember where it was.
"Oh, do you mean Liu Shun Wok?"
"Yeah. I guess so. Do you see it?"
"Right there."
"Yeah. That's it. It's not a buffet. Just a little place. But the food was good. I think."
You might think that with "Shun Wok" in the name, it might be best to continue looking for the outback. But the food in that little restaurant was quite delicious. We had the lunch special for $4.65. That's right. $4.65! Can't beat that with a stick! Can't beat that with Val-in-a-Recliner! For our $4.65, I had the stir-fried cashew chicken with steamed rice, two crab rangoon, and hot-and-sour soup. Hick had the Hunan chicken with fried rice, two crab rangoon, and hot-and-sour soup. Perhaps I've mentioned that I'm a big fan of hot-and-sour soup. This was fantastic! I daresay it was better than my favorite here in Backroads. Hick, not normally a fan of soup that is liquid, also enjoyed it. I had him pegged for an egg-drop man, but he slurped up every drop of his hot-and-sour liquid.
There was just one problem. I'm used to drinking my soup, not eating it with a round soup spoon. Of course I couldn't do that in public, out of a glass bowl, rather than in my dark basement lair, out of a plastic quart container. Still, the soup was tasty. As was my cashew chicken. Did I say there was only one problem? Make that two. On my second bite of steamed rice with cashews, chicken, celery, and carrot...I broke a tooth. Maybe. There was a terrible, horrendous grinding clicking sound from my right jaw area. So loud that even Hick heard it, and he was told just this week that he has profound hearing loss and could benefit from a hearing aid. But I felt no pain. Not about Hick's hearing loss. About that white thing that I picked out of my mouth that Hick held out his hand for, inspected with his one eye, and declared that it COULD be a piece of tooth, or a piece of rice that wasn't steamed, or a piece of bone from the dicing of the chicken. Mmm...doesn't that make you want to run out to Liu Shun Wok? It should. Because that food was a tasty bargain, and I did not begrudge the proprietors the possible breakage of my enamel. Yes, I continued eating.
Let the record show that Hick and I were the only people in the restaurant. Hick said it seemed like a Mom and Pop place, but I thought it was more of a Mom and Son place. What it really reminded me of was Babu's Pakistani restaurant, the one very, very bad man Jerry Seinfeld encouraged him to open, which never had any customers besides Jerry and Kramer and perhaps Elaine taking an IQ test for George.
I'm not trying to be a snob. But I don't think the health department had ever crossed the threshold of Liu Shun Wok. I looked at my plate, and then at Hick's plate. Mine was plain white (well, many years ago I imagine it had been white, which had kind of faded to gray) and Hick's had a faint pattern of a flower etched upon it.
"I think our plates came from Goodwill."
"It wouldn't surprise me. You can buy dishes all day long at the auction, for two, three dollars for a set. I never buy dishes unless there's one that I really like."
I'm sure Goodwill washes the dishes before they sell them, right? Anyhoo...the meal was very flavorful, and the service good enough. When we went in and sat down, I had told Hick, "This looks like a small businessman trying to make a go of it. Short of finding bugs in the food, you should leave a decent tip." Even though I found a surprise in my food or mouth, I was still game for the tip. Hick left four dollars.
My mom would have been outraged. She thinks two dollars is the proper amount of tip for a full service meal, no matter what the cost.
Do you know how much I hated leaving school early today to get to that appointment? Yeah. About this much, though I might be overestimating my sorrow.
On the way back, nigh on 2:30 p.m. according to T-Hoe's sundial (okay, T-Hoe has as many gadgets as a Swiss Army Knife, but a sundial isn't one of them--I'm fibbing), we stopped for lupper. That's because we missed lunch, and I was not about to volunteer to make supper a couple hours after eating.
Hick started out looking for Outback Steakhouse. As with so many of Hick's grand schemes, he could not find the Outback. So he did the next best thing...took me to a little Chinese restaurant next to the Goodwill store. I think he said Goodwill. It could have been a flea market or antique store for all I know. And if the little Chinese restaurant had been a snake, it would have bit him, as far as Hick knew. He kept talking about it, and driving around a strip mall (that's little shops in a long building, not an adult entertainment area), saying he had eaten there and the food was really good, but he just couldn't seem to remember where it was.
"Oh, do you mean Liu Shun Wok?"
"Yeah. I guess so. Do you see it?"
"Right there."
"Yeah. That's it. It's not a buffet. Just a little place. But the food was good. I think."
You might think that with "Shun Wok" in the name, it might be best to continue looking for the outback. But the food in that little restaurant was quite delicious. We had the lunch special for $4.65. That's right. $4.65! Can't beat that with a stick! Can't beat that with Val-in-a-Recliner! For our $4.65, I had the stir-fried cashew chicken with steamed rice, two crab rangoon, and hot-and-sour soup. Hick had the Hunan chicken with fried rice, two crab rangoon, and hot-and-sour soup. Perhaps I've mentioned that I'm a big fan of hot-and-sour soup. This was fantastic! I daresay it was better than my favorite here in Backroads. Hick, not normally a fan of soup that is liquid, also enjoyed it. I had him pegged for an egg-drop man, but he slurped up every drop of his hot-and-sour liquid.
There was just one problem. I'm used to drinking my soup, not eating it with a round soup spoon. Of course I couldn't do that in public, out of a glass bowl, rather than in my dark basement lair, out of a plastic quart container. Still, the soup was tasty. As was my cashew chicken. Did I say there was only one problem? Make that two. On my second bite of steamed rice with cashews, chicken, celery, and carrot...I broke a tooth. Maybe. There was a terrible, horrendous grinding clicking sound from my right jaw area. So loud that even Hick heard it, and he was told just this week that he has profound hearing loss and could benefit from a hearing aid. But I felt no pain. Not about Hick's hearing loss. About that white thing that I picked out of my mouth that Hick held out his hand for, inspected with his one eye, and declared that it COULD be a piece of tooth, or a piece of rice that wasn't steamed, or a piece of bone from the dicing of the chicken. Mmm...doesn't that make you want to run out to Liu Shun Wok? It should. Because that food was a tasty bargain, and I did not begrudge the proprietors the possible breakage of my enamel. Yes, I continued eating.
Let the record show that Hick and I were the only people in the restaurant. Hick said it seemed like a Mom and Pop place, but I thought it was more of a Mom and Son place. What it really reminded me of was Babu's Pakistani restaurant, the one very, very bad man Jerry Seinfeld encouraged him to open, which never had any customers besides Jerry and Kramer and perhaps Elaine taking an IQ test for George.
I'm not trying to be a snob. But I don't think the health department had ever crossed the threshold of Liu Shun Wok. I looked at my plate, and then at Hick's plate. Mine was plain white (well, many years ago I imagine it had been white, which had kind of faded to gray) and Hick's had a faint pattern of a flower etched upon it.
"I think our plates came from Goodwill."
"It wouldn't surprise me. You can buy dishes all day long at the auction, for two, three dollars for a set. I never buy dishes unless there's one that I really like."
I'm sure Goodwill washes the dishes before they sell them, right? Anyhoo...the meal was very flavorful, and the service good enough. When we went in and sat down, I had told Hick, "This looks like a small businessman trying to make a go of it. Short of finding bugs in the food, you should leave a decent tip." Even though I found a surprise in my food or mouth, I was still game for the tip. Hick left four dollars.
My mom would have been outraged. She thinks two dollars is the proper amount of tip for a full service meal, no matter what the cost.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Eight Pens a Day
Sing that. Like The Beatles.
Ooh I need my pens, folks,
Guess you know it's true.
Please don't take my pens, folks,
Or I'll get back at you.
I looked down at
my schoolteacher desk this afternoon, and saw eight pens laid out. EIGHT. Let
the record show that I can only write with one at a time. Maybe two if I want
to show off my ambidextrousness (not to be confused with maltodextrose, like that little kid warned Eddie Murphy about in Daddy Day Care). There was no need for eight pens. Yet there
was.
I had taken a
black inker out of the desk drawer to write an address on an envelope. It
wasn’t my favorite PaperMate Write Brothers black pen. Just one I usually lay
out for substitutes. So when it came time to fill out The Pony’s paperwork for
the first of the school year, I went to my secret hidey hole in another drawer for my
favorite.
Then I needed a
red pen to sign off on my requisitioned items that had arrived.
The big-bellied
Liquid Paper correction pen came out to cover up a slight mistake on a
not-very-important form.
Next I needed the
blue Sharpie highlighter to enhance my name on the duty list that has to be
tucked into my sub folder by the end of next week.
And of course when
I filled out my pocket calendar, courtesy of MSTA membership enticements from
the first day of teacher workshops, I needed green ink for the days off, red
ink for duty days, and pencil for personal appointments which will require a
substitute.
Yep. You wouldn’t
think a teacher (heh, heh, I just wrote “techer”) would need so many writing
implements for one day without even any students present. But we do. Because we
are PROFESSIONALS!
Maybe I can find a
leather tool belt and fit my pens in slots like bullets on a bandolier. You
know that that is, don’t you? That thing a bandit wears across his chest,
loaded with spare bullets. I’d like to pretend I knew that. But I had to
consult The Pony. He didn’t quite know either. So I said, “You know. I want to
call it a gondolier. But I know that’s the guy who pushes a boat through the
canal with a stick.”
“BANDOLIER! It’s a
bandolier!”
Uh huh. Two
Thevictorian heads are better than one. Just like eight pens are better than
one.
Monday, August 11, 2014
This is Why We Can't Have Cool Things
Whew! My first day back at work was a scorcher. It's not as if I was stringing electrical cables across the Mojave Desert. I was in a climate-controlled building. But the temps outside were frightful. So humid this morning, 90 percent when we left home, and temperatures in the seventies before 7:00 a.m.
As is my way, I bump up the thermostat when we're going to be away from the house all day. Our old thermostat used to have a program for that, but I don't think this new one does. You know. The new one the heating & cooling guy put on the wall when he "fixed" the air conditioner last summer, saying our thermostat was not working, and taking it with him in his truck. I'm sure some customer from Craig's List is enjoying it as I type. Anyway, this new thermostat requires a person to manually switch it from "heating" to "cooling" depending on the season. Crikey! It's like the stone age. Says the woman who still has no dishwasher.
This morning, after my shower, and before my recliner nap, I bumped up that thermostat from the overnight setting of 73 to the daytime setting of 74. You wouldn't believe how refreshing one more degree of cool is overnight. When The Pony and I started out the door for work, I put the thermostat on 78. No need to cool the house while we're away, only to have it dissipate and need cooling again every 20 minutes or so.
When we returned this afternoon, The Pony went in first. As I came through the kitchen door, I hollered, "Hey! Pony! Bump the air conditioner down to 74."
"Um. It's 75 in here. I can't bump it down to 74, because it's already set on 71. You forgot to lower it this morning."
"I did not! I set it at 78. There's no way it can be on 71. You're misreading it."
"YOU'RE the one who thought those turkeys in the neighbor's driveway were dogs! And just now, at the bank, thought that rolled-up green hose around the corner by the ATM was a car! YOU must not have seen it right this morning when you set it. Allegedly."
"I know what I put it on. I would never set it on 71 for the day. That's cooler than we have it at night!"
"All I know is what I see. Right now, it's on 71."
"Well, put it up to 74. No way would the temperature in here be 75 if the thing had been set on 71 all day! I think you moved it down too far when you came in."
"No..ooo..ooo. I went to change it, but it was on 71."
"There's no way! It even feels hot in here. Put it on 74, and it will eventually go down a degree and shut off."
"Okaaayyyy!" The Pony trotted downstairs to console himself with the two new computer games he bought while using Grandma's high-speed internet today. I cranked back in the La-Z-Boy to rest my achin' back that had been sitting all day.
"If you're talking about the thermostat, I just put it on 71 about 20 minutes ago."
WTF?
The voice came from the master bedroom, and sounded remarkable like Hick, who wasn't due home from work for another half hour. Mystery solved. The Pony and I were both right. But Hick was in the wrong. Very wrong. You don't tug on Superman's cape. You don't spit into the wind. You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger...and you don't mess around with Val's thermostat.
Let the record show that Hick had a doctor's appointment today, and came home early from work, and rolled himself up in my grandma's homemade quilt like a hot dog in a tortilla. His head was covered by the quilt, of course, as is his way of sleeping. He knows the temperature I set for the house. I am the bill-payer. He is the frivolous money-waster. I'm sure he thought he could squeeze in a quick nap and reset the thermostat before I noticed.
I suppose one is not comfortable with one's head wrapped up in a quilt at 74 degrees.
As is my way, I bump up the thermostat when we're going to be away from the house all day. Our old thermostat used to have a program for that, but I don't think this new one does. You know. The new one the heating & cooling guy put on the wall when he "fixed" the air conditioner last summer, saying our thermostat was not working, and taking it with him in his truck. I'm sure some customer from Craig's List is enjoying it as I type. Anyway, this new thermostat requires a person to manually switch it from "heating" to "cooling" depending on the season. Crikey! It's like the stone age. Says the woman who still has no dishwasher.
This morning, after my shower, and before my recliner nap, I bumped up that thermostat from the overnight setting of 73 to the daytime setting of 74. You wouldn't believe how refreshing one more degree of cool is overnight. When The Pony and I started out the door for work, I put the thermostat on 78. No need to cool the house while we're away, only to have it dissipate and need cooling again every 20 minutes or so.
When we returned this afternoon, The Pony went in first. As I came through the kitchen door, I hollered, "Hey! Pony! Bump the air conditioner down to 74."
"Um. It's 75 in here. I can't bump it down to 74, because it's already set on 71. You forgot to lower it this morning."
"I did not! I set it at 78. There's no way it can be on 71. You're misreading it."
"YOU'RE the one who thought those turkeys in the neighbor's driveway were dogs! And just now, at the bank, thought that rolled-up green hose around the corner by the ATM was a car! YOU must not have seen it right this morning when you set it. Allegedly."
"I know what I put it on. I would never set it on 71 for the day. That's cooler than we have it at night!"
"All I know is what I see. Right now, it's on 71."
"Well, put it up to 74. No way would the temperature in here be 75 if the thing had been set on 71 all day! I think you moved it down too far when you came in."
"No..ooo..ooo. I went to change it, but it was on 71."
"There's no way! It even feels hot in here. Put it on 74, and it will eventually go down a degree and shut off."
"Okaaayyyy!" The Pony trotted downstairs to console himself with the two new computer games he bought while using Grandma's high-speed internet today. I cranked back in the La-Z-Boy to rest my achin' back that had been sitting all day.
"If you're talking about the thermostat, I just put it on 71 about 20 minutes ago."
WTF?
The voice came from the master bedroom, and sounded remarkable like Hick, who wasn't due home from work for another half hour. Mystery solved. The Pony and I were both right. But Hick was in the wrong. Very wrong. You don't tug on Superman's cape. You don't spit into the wind. You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger...and you don't mess around with Val's thermostat.
Let the record show that Hick had a doctor's appointment today, and came home early from work, and rolled himself up in my grandma's homemade quilt like a hot dog in a tortilla. His head was covered by the quilt, of course, as is his way of sleeping. He knows the temperature I set for the house. I am the bill-payer. He is the frivolous money-waster. I'm sure he thought he could squeeze in a quick nap and reset the thermostat before I noticed.
I suppose one is not comfortable with one's head wrapped up in a quilt at 74 degrees.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
I Know Why the Paper Plate Rips
Do you know the paper plate man, the paper plate man, the paper plate man?
Do you know the paper plate man, who unintentionally drives Val crazy?
What's that? You DO know the paper plate man? And you say his name is Hick? Winner winner chicken dinner! Don't get your hopes up. I meant a figurative chicken dinner. Around here, a literal chicken dinner might mean a wandering bachelor rooster that was cooked instantly when Genius threw a pan of hot grease off the back porch deck. Not that he's done such a thing, of course. He asked first, and was refused permission.
For the past several weeks, I have been finding sections of torn paper plate around the old homestead. In areas frequented by Hick. They are pieces of the plate edge, about the size of an orange slice, unless you're talking about those tiny oranges they give the kids on their school lunch tray, which are the size of premature baby clementines. Sometimes the torn crescent of paper plate rests upon a paper plate with a crescent torn out of it. Which is kind of like finding a book about coffee tables laying on your coffee table.
I know why the paper plate rips. Hick uses the fragment for picking his teeth. Uh huh. Not very ladylike, I agree. He's kind of a Neanderthal. Not that Neanderthals had paper plates. I'm sure they had proper dishes for their womenfolk to wash up after a hard day of being dragged around by their hair.
It's not like I expect Hick to sit at the right hand of Emily Post, sipping tea from a dainty cup, pinky extended. Or to know the proper sequence for chowing down with an 11-piece formal dinner silverware setting. I barely expect him to limit himself to letting only silent farts escape in crowded elevators. Seriously. There is no need to dig at one's bicuspids with a scrap of Great Value Heavy Duty Grease Resistant plate. Not when there is a nearly-full container of toothpicks in the kitchen cabinet. I know Hick knows they're there. Didn't he break the top off the last pack stored there, because he couldn't figure out that it slides open so you can shake out a toothpick? Great mechanical minds are not immune from stumping, it seems.
Yes, this behavior is on par with that time Hick tilted his head back and shook the remaining crumbs from an individual bag of Lay's Potato Chips into his gaping maw, while sitting at a table along the main walkway from Harrah's hotel elevators to the casino. People watched him like he was an ape at the zoo. Thank goodness he didn't fling poop on them. Or that time he took me to McDermott's (now called Pat's Bar and Grill) for fried chicken, and proceeded to suck the tip of each finger and thumb loudly after each bite. Thank goodness most people in there were too sippy happy to notice.
The only consolation for my discovery of Hick's recent spate of misbehavior is that when we dine in public, he can't break off a piece of his plate to use for picking his teeth.
Do you know the paper plate man, who unintentionally drives Val crazy?
What's that? You DO know the paper plate man? And you say his name is Hick? Winner winner chicken dinner! Don't get your hopes up. I meant a figurative chicken dinner. Around here, a literal chicken dinner might mean a wandering bachelor rooster that was cooked instantly when Genius threw a pan of hot grease off the back porch deck. Not that he's done such a thing, of course. He asked first, and was refused permission.
For the past several weeks, I have been finding sections of torn paper plate around the old homestead. In areas frequented by Hick. They are pieces of the plate edge, about the size of an orange slice, unless you're talking about those tiny oranges they give the kids on their school lunch tray, which are the size of premature baby clementines. Sometimes the torn crescent of paper plate rests upon a paper plate with a crescent torn out of it. Which is kind of like finding a book about coffee tables laying on your coffee table.
I know why the paper plate rips. Hick uses the fragment for picking his teeth. Uh huh. Not very ladylike, I agree. He's kind of a Neanderthal. Not that Neanderthals had paper plates. I'm sure they had proper dishes for their womenfolk to wash up after a hard day of being dragged around by their hair.
It's not like I expect Hick to sit at the right hand of Emily Post, sipping tea from a dainty cup, pinky extended. Or to know the proper sequence for chowing down with an 11-piece formal dinner silverware setting. I barely expect him to limit himself to letting only silent farts escape in crowded elevators. Seriously. There is no need to dig at one's bicuspids with a scrap of Great Value Heavy Duty Grease Resistant plate. Not when there is a nearly-full container of toothpicks in the kitchen cabinet. I know Hick knows they're there. Didn't he break the top off the last pack stored there, because he couldn't figure out that it slides open so you can shake out a toothpick? Great mechanical minds are not immune from stumping, it seems.
Yes, this behavior is on par with that time Hick tilted his head back and shook the remaining crumbs from an individual bag of Lay's Potato Chips into his gaping maw, while sitting at a table along the main walkway from Harrah's hotel elevators to the casino. People watched him like he was an ape at the zoo. Thank goodness he didn't fling poop on them. Or that time he took me to McDermott's (now called Pat's Bar and Grill) for fried chicken, and proceeded to suck the tip of each finger and thumb loudly after each bite. Thank goodness most people in there were too sippy happy to notice.
The only consolation for my discovery of Hick's recent spate of misbehavior is that when we dine in public, he can't break off a piece of his plate to use for picking his teeth.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Not Suitable Reading for Pregnant Women, Folks with Heart Conditions, or Scaredy Cats
Sometimes, there are things more horrifying than discovering in the outpatient-surgery waiting room that the cracker crumbs on your husband's shirt are actually flakes of dry skin from his goatee.
Like when you are making yourself a delicious plate of super nachos for your lupper, the chips all layered with shredded extra-sharp cheddar, fajita chicken, Save A Lot Senora Verde Mild Salsa, sour cream, and black olives...and you hear a tiny "plop" from somewhere to the left of your visual field.
Oh, you might just think it's that 9x13 glass baking pan that you left on the stove from last night's Shake 'N' Bake pork steaks, heating up because it's on the burner, and you have the oven going to warm up your fajita chicken. Yes. That could be it. The congealed pan-drippings, perhaps, have released a bubble like a more-high-calorie, less-colorful, lava lamp. That would certainly make a sound like "plop."
And that little movement you sensed at the bottom of the microwave, just above that pork-steak dish, could have been a blob of grease plopping up high to hit the vent fan. Indeed. Anything is possible when you don't want to face the horror. Until the horror grabs your face with both hands, and MAKES YOU LOOK!
Uh huh. While glancing curiously in the direction of the perceived movement, the true gravity of the situation wrests the hands of horror from your cheeks, and splashes them with the ice-cold water of reality. AN EIGHT-SPINDLY-LEGGED HARVESTMAN AMBLES OUT OF THE PAN-DRIPPINGS, OVER THE BOTTLE OF SALINE NASAL SPRAY SITTING STOVE-SIDE, ACROSS THE LID OF THE PLASTIC BOTTLE OF XARELTO, AND TRIES TO LONG-LEG-IT BEHIND THE WOODEN PAPER PLATE HOLDER LABELED "EVERYDAY CHINA."
"Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail!" That's not an actual out-loud exclamation of shock. It's like that Saturday Night Live sketch long ago with Ray Romano as an ESPN host, hollering stuff like, "Sweet Pappy Johnson with an erection!" Only in print, and a bit more socially acceptable. Val Thevictorian's answer to Gretchen Wieners's 'fetch'. Let the record show that Val has been trying to make it happen since before the cataclysmic downfall of Ms. Deen.
Hopefully, you have a damp paper towel beside your plate of soon-to-be super nachos that you have just used to wipe up a dab of errant salsa, and you slam that select-a-size down on Mr. Harvestman and skoosh him until his life is a forgotten memory.
I swear. You would think I live in a dilapidated oak barn, the roof reduced to lattice suitable for growing grapes to later sell at a roadside stand, where insects run rampant and humans are the invaders.
I will worry tonight that a creeper will crawl into my mouth as I sleep.
Like when you are making yourself a delicious plate of super nachos for your lupper, the chips all layered with shredded extra-sharp cheddar, fajita chicken, Save A Lot Senora Verde Mild Salsa, sour cream, and black olives...and you hear a tiny "plop" from somewhere to the left of your visual field.
Oh, you might just think it's that 9x13 glass baking pan that you left on the stove from last night's Shake 'N' Bake pork steaks, heating up because it's on the burner, and you have the oven going to warm up your fajita chicken. Yes. That could be it. The congealed pan-drippings, perhaps, have released a bubble like a more-high-calorie, less-colorful, lava lamp. That would certainly make a sound like "plop."
And that little movement you sensed at the bottom of the microwave, just above that pork-steak dish, could have been a blob of grease plopping up high to hit the vent fan. Indeed. Anything is possible when you don't want to face the horror. Until the horror grabs your face with both hands, and MAKES YOU LOOK!
Uh huh. While glancing curiously in the direction of the perceived movement, the true gravity of the situation wrests the hands of horror from your cheeks, and splashes them with the ice-cold water of reality. AN EIGHT-SPINDLY-LEGGED HARVESTMAN AMBLES OUT OF THE PAN-DRIPPINGS, OVER THE BOTTLE OF SALINE NASAL SPRAY SITTING STOVE-SIDE, ACROSS THE LID OF THE PLASTIC BOTTLE OF XARELTO, AND TRIES TO LONG-LEG-IT BEHIND THE WOODEN PAPER PLATE HOLDER LABELED "EVERYDAY CHINA."
"Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail!" That's not an actual out-loud exclamation of shock. It's like that Saturday Night Live sketch long ago with Ray Romano as an ESPN host, hollering stuff like, "Sweet Pappy Johnson with an erection!" Only in print, and a bit more socially acceptable. Val Thevictorian's answer to Gretchen Wieners's 'fetch'. Let the record show that Val has been trying to make it happen since before the cataclysmic downfall of Ms. Deen.
Hopefully, you have a damp paper towel beside your plate of soon-to-be super nachos that you have just used to wipe up a dab of errant salsa, and you slam that select-a-size down on Mr. Harvestman and skoosh him until his life is a forgotten memory.
I swear. You would think I live in a dilapidated oak barn, the roof reduced to lattice suitable for growing grapes to later sell at a roadside stand, where insects run rampant and humans are the invaders.
I will worry tonight that a creeper will crawl into my mouth as I sleep.
Friday, August 8, 2014
Who Do You Have to Know to Get Decent Prok Around This Place?
Oh, dear. Tonight we had Chinese carry out.
I have tried and tried to find a dish from this restaurant that I can stomach, some kind of chicken, perhaps, that is not merely fried skin, which must be masticated like a Charleston Chew. The fare used to be really good. I have not given up hope. But now I have gone through General Tso's, Hunan Chicken, Hot Braised Chicken, and Cashew Chicken. Even the Doublemint Twins themselves, after years of practice with their Wrigley fringe benefits, could not have had jaws strong enough to enjoy such meals. I daresay, that the "No one ever pays ME in gum" guy would be jumping for joy with such a plate set before him.
A few Chinese meals ago, I chose Hunan Pork. Problem solved! It came with a couple of hoglegs of sliced meat, tender, tasty, but a little bit too spicy in the sauce department. Yes, I understand that "Hunan" is synonymous with hot spicy sauce. But it's all I've found that's acceptable lately. So I asked Hick to order it without the black peppers. You know. Those black pepper bean thingies that look like the charred inside parts of green beans. That worked out well. Until tonight.
I asked Hick if he had remembered to order my Hunan Pork without the black peppers. "Yes. But they were fussing at each other back in the kitchen, so I don't know what you've got." Hm. Sounds like some advance warning that he forgot. Setting the stage to let the cooks take the fall.
My first inkling that something might be amiss was the handwritten label on my stapled-lid styrofoam container. One word. "Prok." Ahem. Around here, we call it "pork," and reserve that backwards O-R thing for keeping connoisseurs of inappropriate-for-family-viewing videos from accidentally landing on one's blog. Somebody in that kitchen might have some 'splainin' to do if there's a big honkin' overage on the internet plan.
I pried open my container with a serving spoon, and saw that my white rice and prok were covered with pepper beans like black spots on a dalmation. Huh. I spent the better part of ten minutes hunched over the kitchen counter like a bell-ringer from Notre Dame, picking those hot spots out of my meal. It was not an easy task. My back started to seize up like a Tin Man left out in the rain. I needed one of those wide Walmart belt-harness thingies to prevent injury.
To make matters worse, not all the black pepper beans were in plain sight. I caught five of them hiding in a broccoli floret like clown fish in a sea anemone. In the way of my black pepper bean harvest were other assorted vegetables. Like those sweated strands of onion that were linked together at the middle like a centromere connecting sister chromatids during mitosis. And the mushrooms, for lack of a feather in their cap, concealed black pepper beans up under there. Working a double shift cleaning toxins out of puffer fish at a five-star restaurant would surely have been less taxing.
However...I must admit that, once de-peppered, my Hunan Prok was quite tasty.
I have tried and tried to find a dish from this restaurant that I can stomach, some kind of chicken, perhaps, that is not merely fried skin, which must be masticated like a Charleston Chew. The fare used to be really good. I have not given up hope. But now I have gone through General Tso's, Hunan Chicken, Hot Braised Chicken, and Cashew Chicken. Even the Doublemint Twins themselves, after years of practice with their Wrigley fringe benefits, could not have had jaws strong enough to enjoy such meals. I daresay, that the "No one ever pays ME in gum" guy would be jumping for joy with such a plate set before him.
A few Chinese meals ago, I chose Hunan Pork. Problem solved! It came with a couple of hoglegs of sliced meat, tender, tasty, but a little bit too spicy in the sauce department. Yes, I understand that "Hunan" is synonymous with hot spicy sauce. But it's all I've found that's acceptable lately. So I asked Hick to order it without the black peppers. You know. Those black pepper bean thingies that look like the charred inside parts of green beans. That worked out well. Until tonight.
I asked Hick if he had remembered to order my Hunan Pork without the black peppers. "Yes. But they were fussing at each other back in the kitchen, so I don't know what you've got." Hm. Sounds like some advance warning that he forgot. Setting the stage to let the cooks take the fall.
My first inkling that something might be amiss was the handwritten label on my stapled-lid styrofoam container. One word. "Prok." Ahem. Around here, we call it "pork," and reserve that backwards O-R thing for keeping connoisseurs of inappropriate-for-family-viewing videos from accidentally landing on one's blog. Somebody in that kitchen might have some 'splainin' to do if there's a big honkin' overage on the internet plan.
I pried open my container with a serving spoon, and saw that my white rice and prok were covered with pepper beans like black spots on a dalmation. Huh. I spent the better part of ten minutes hunched over the kitchen counter like a bell-ringer from Notre Dame, picking those hot spots out of my meal. It was not an easy task. My back started to seize up like a Tin Man left out in the rain. I needed one of those wide Walmart belt-harness thingies to prevent injury.
To make matters worse, not all the black pepper beans were in plain sight. I caught five of them hiding in a broccoli floret like clown fish in a sea anemone. In the way of my black pepper bean harvest were other assorted vegetables. Like those sweated strands of onion that were linked together at the middle like a centromere connecting sister chromatids during mitosis. And the mushrooms, for lack of a feather in their cap, concealed black pepper beans up under there. Working a double shift cleaning toxins out of puffer fish at a five-star restaurant would surely have been less taxing.
However...I must admit that, once de-peppered, my Hunan Prok was quite tasty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)