Goodbye Prozac, Hello Ganja!

Kathy's link caught my eye today on facebook...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/11/06/amendment-64-passes-in-co_n_2079899.html

Colorado, here I come!  Not because I condone the use of pot, but I do see the side effects as a multi-million dollar chance of a lifetime.  The Munchie-Mobile is going to make me rich. It’s going to be like the ice cream truck, driving around suburbia, ringing not a bell, but rather, playing reggae music. I’m going to target upper-middle class neighborhoods where frazzled mothers will have replaced their $40.00 dollar a month Prozac prescription with Panama Red.  A neighborhood where the husbands and children of those house wives will be ever-thankful to the government for replacing the nagging semi-psychotic woman with a laid back, mellow-yellow wife and mother.  Round about nine in the evening, after they have had their glass of Merlot and joint, I’ll be rounding the corner.  My specialty will be brownies with pretzel nuggets baked into them.  Frosted, natch.  And homemade French fries with vinegar like they used to make at Long Point Park.  Will their husbands mind if they pack on a few extra (hundred) pounds.  Doubtful.  A happy wife = a happy home.

Thank you, Kathy for the link...

Look before you leap, umm I mean spray

I'm Home! America, land of the free, home of the sprays. My sister has a LOT of products. Mostly sprays, but the creams and lotions run a close second. The trouble is, I'm blind. Well, not legally, just in dim lighting. So far, I have waterproofed my hair with suede and leather protector and Febrezed my arm pits. Neither one mattered because it's hot and humid here. My hair hasn't frizzed, and I smell like fresh ocean breeze. I've been using a facial cream that wasn't too bad, until I saw my sister smoothing it into her hair.
And last, but not least, I deodorized the bathroom with Raid wasp and hornet spray. I suppose the black color of the can should have told me it wasn't apple cinnamon Glade.

That's it for now. I'll be blogging more about my stupidity soon!

SCBWI Scrawl Crawl 2012 - Stuttgart, Germany

Our first point on the scrawl crawl map is Starbucks – Hauptbahnhof. The first point over in France is the Eifel Tower. I’m not complaining, mind you. Folks come from all over the world come to see the famous train station of Stuttgart, Germany. Really, they do. We’re going to take the elevator up to the platform where we’ll have a bird’s eye view of the city. I’ve been here 22 years, and have never been up there. (Actually, I didn’t even know you could go up there.)

SO, as I sit here and scrawl in front of Starbucks, people watching, I begin to think about Stuttgart 21. I never really thought it necessary to rip down the train station and put it all underground, but I don’t feel strongly enough about it to wear a button, carry a sign, or slap a bumper sticker on my car. Certainly I feel bad for the park, and the trees. But not bad enough to camp there, or sit in a tree for a week.

I am the (German) Lorax, (Lorax-le in Schwabenland…) I speak for the trees. Where will all the drunk – saüfer-loots, in their saüfer-loot-suits go? Or the Swommee-swans? Most of all, Mr. German Once-ler, (Herr einmal-ler ) what will happen to all the train station pigeons? These aren’t country pigeons, these are bad-ass Hauptbahnhof pigeons. Peck your eye out for a crumb of your Starbuck’s cinnamon swirl bun – pigeons. They’ll flap that thousand calorie cup of vanilla latte right out of your hand just for fun. They nest in the swill of Rowdies. I’ve even seen a few with shaved heads, wearing little tiny black arm boots. Where will they go??? I think I might have to take a stand. If for no other reason but to keep the pigeons underground, lest we have an Alfred Hitchcock movie on our hands.

We’re up on the platform now. Our Scrawl Crawl leader, Kirsten, has a mission for us. We have each chosen a focal point on the street below. We are absorbing our focal point with each of the five senses. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and… wait, I think it’s just four. She has us close our eyes, and is mesmerizing us with her voice. Hear the city…, taste the city…, smell… Okay, you get the idea.
     Rattle, rattle little u-bahn. You have to make it back to the station by dark. Rattle, rattle, BEEP, HONK.  Rattle, rattle little s-bahn. Past Berlitz, and Bosch. Through Baden-Württemberg, no time to stop for a Dinkelacker. Rattle, rattle all the way through the sticky breeze, and stale Carmel Macchiato to the Hauptbahnhof. Rattle to the sound of Die Neuer 107.7 Bester Rock und Pop.

FIRE!!! There are fire trucks down there. What if the fire is at the train station. What if the only safe place is the roof? Within minutes, hundreds of commuters will cram up here, invading my Scrawl-Crawl-space. We’ll wait for helicopters to come and save us.
   “SAVE YOUR JOURNALS!” – Shouts Tiffany.
   “We only have room for two more,” the man says into his megaphone from the chopper above us. 
   “Take my dogs, PLEASE! SAVE MY DOGS!!” Kirsten sobs. “I can parachute down! I have one      in my excessively large handbag!”
As all of this plays through my mind, I glance over to see Kirsten watering down her dogs. I know she is doing it because it’s hot up here, and her dogs are old. But maybe, just maybe, she too saw the fire trucks below.

HOLY CRAP! How could I have NOT seen the gigantic Mercedes star turning above my head. Seriously, I worry about myself. I am so glad I didn’t actually say Holy Crap! Look at that! Out loud.

I didn’t crawl very far, nor did I scrawl very much, but I did have an awesome time. I met new people, and saw old friends. We ate lunch at an outdoor café next to the castle and those amazing fountains that Kirsten said she always wanted to sketch, and finally did. And although we weren’t atop the Eifel Tower, Stuttgart has endless things to write about and draw.

What's worse than an old person driving...

Years ago, my Mother’s husband, God rest his soul, would go to the YMCA for a work out, maybe a swim, a sauna, or a friendly game of racket ball. He always stopped off at his favorite watering hole on the way home, lest he dehydrate from such a strenuous workout. ‘Round about 6:00 o’clock, Joe would come home, drunk. My sister and I loved to do our comedy spiel…
“Hey, Margaret, what’s worse than an old person driving?”
“I don’t know, Liz, what?”
“A drunk old person driving.”
One day, while Joe was playing racket ball, he was hit in the eye. It was serious enough to need a pirate patch, and he eventually lost the sight in that eye. Margaret and I, being the sick little puppies that we are, added to our comedy routine. The punch line is – an old, blind, drunk driver.
Today, I was invited to lunch with my friends, Franz and Trixie. Franz is 83. Or is he 84? Well, anyway, I remember about a year ago I drove with Franz, and SWORE I would never drive with him again. Ever. He floors the gas, and PUMPS the power breaks. Brakes haven’t needed to be pumped on any model of car after 1952. Full gas, brake, brake, brake. Full gas, brake, brake, brake. Alas, today Franz drove. I made Trixie sit in back so I could make it there without puking. But she was very firm with Franz. “Now, Lovie,” she said, “Lizzy gets car sick, so take it easy.” And he did. He drove nice and slow, and didn’t gun it or pump the brakes. Our lunch was delish. They both ordered trout, and except for the fact that the decapitated fish heads were staring at me from the bone plate, it was great. Franz ordered a small beer, Trix and I had soda. After lunch, the waiter offered us a schnapps “on the house.” Well, by all means! After a beer and a schnapps, Franz started to go back to 1940-something. As I listened, I was thinking what nice eyes he has. They’re a baby blue. They’re milky baby blue. They’re – holy shit, they are old-man-cataract-blue. It was then I remembered our joke. In all fairness, Franz was not drunk. Not even tipsy. Old German men have a tolerance of about – Oh I don’t know – six beers, four shots of 60% pure grain, and a few glasses of red wine. So, Franz was fine to drive. HOWEVER… He was thumb driving. I CANNOT stress to you how much I hate thumb drivers. My husband thumb drives, and looks out every window of the car except the one IN FRONT of him. Ten o’clock, and two o’clock. That’s where your hands should be on the steering wheel. Not your left thumb at seven o’clock. I knew if I said something he would, without hesitation, ask me if I wanted to drive. And not in his nice voice. And while asking me, he would look at me, (and not the road). So I kept staring at his thumb, which wasn’t even on the wheel half the time. It must have been too tiring, because he kept resting his hand on his lap. In my head I kept screaming like a crazy person… “We’re all going to die! Do you hear me, Thumby, we’re ALL GOING TO DIE!!”
We didn’t die, because here I am writing about it. What’s worse than an old, drunk, blind, thumb driver? Nothing, that’s what.

Dude, where's my car?

Last week I left the grocery store, and wheeled the shopping cart down the sidewalk to my car. I felt like a bag lady, but I had bought too much to carry. I pushed all the way down to the end of the sidewalk and realized I must have passed my car. Getting more embarrassing by the minute. I turned the cart around, and began pushing back the way I came. By the way, it was snowing, and really hard to maneuver. Now I am back at the entrance to the store - full cart and all. My first thought, is anyone watching me? Where the fuck is my car? I pretended to be fumbling for my car keys. Once again, I pushed the cart down the sidewalk. Slowly, slowly... There are only 12 cars parked in front of the store. I stopped, and once again pretended to be looking for my car keys. Because losing the keys is feasible. Losing your car is not. Then I remembered I had taken Alexander’s little purple car that day, and not my silver mini-van that I was searching for.

Shitty Curry

I Sautéed up 4 chicken breasts for lunch. Wasn’t sure what it would be. I pillaged the fridge. (My motto: When in doubt, make refrigerator surprise.)The chopped spring onion from Sunday’s homemade pizza party looked useable. (“looked useable” = not green and fuzzy) The chopped mushrooms, not so useable. The three carrots – possibly from 2011 – were fine. (Oh all right, I peeled them “real good” as my mom used to say.) So… smelling pretty good. There was one problem. Julia would have a fit if she saw the onion in it. I removed the chicken, and pureed the carrots, onions and broth with my immersion mixer. It looked fantastic. I thought about adding a dash of half and half (That’s a lie, it’s heavy whipping cream) and serving carrot soup. Julia likes that. I tasted it, and… can you say Gerber. Yup. Carrot baby food. No matter. My friend Trixie swears you can fix anything with curry. (Even the not so useable stuff from the back of the fridge.) I Poured the Gerber into the pan and added curry powder, cumin, hot and sweet paprika, and garlic powder. Taste test, Curried baby food. I remembered the can of coconut milk in the cupboard. (oops, I forgot to add cheap. Cheap coconut milk.) I opened the can, and it was solid. There was a little bit of liquid at the bottom, but for the most part it was like sour cream, or maybe like Crisco. Oh well, in it went. Taste test number three – suntan lotion. Not even curried suntan lotion, nope. Just Coppertone SPF 0. I am not one to give up. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I really can cook. (Just not today.) More curry – About seventeen and a half tablespoons. Taste test. Some salt and another Taste test. Decided fresh ground pepper would be good – certainly it couldn’t hurt. (Oh those famous last words…) The pepper corn after being ground smelled like horse poop. (Now WHY would I make that up.) Organic, my friends, is not always tasty. Earthy, yes. Tasty, no.
So… Now I have Coppertone flavored Gerber strained carrots with a hint of horse shit.
I left everything on the stove – All in separate pans. Rice, chicken and curry sauce. A “help yourself” lunch. Julia ate it up and liked it. Alex added soy sauce – but Alex has a wicked cold and can’t taste anything. Me, well I’m full from all the tasting. Guten Appetit.

I totally forgot... After adding the coconut milk, I pulled the cinnamon out of the spice cupboard instead of the curry and dumped in a good four tablespoons. Spooned out what I could into a dish. So, Julia, that answers your question of the "nasty brown shit" in the bowl.