Month: July 2018

Dear Me,

It’s okay.  Go ahead – have a moment.  Hell, take three, because you deserve it.  I can’t think of anyone more deserving than you.  Of course I’m biased, but I’m sure everyone would agree with me.

So, you had a little meltdown last week, got drunk and bawled for 6 hours – it happens to everyone at some point.  No need to beat yourself up.  In fact, you should pat yourself on the back for keeping the whole affair relatively quiet – you didn’t do it in Wal-Mart did you?  You didn’t wear a T-Shirt with your full name and address on it, right?  See?  That’s something to think about.

And no one took videos, did they?  Yes, I know you had headphones on and your back to the room, so it would be almost impossible to be certain, but there was only The Viking and Junior around and The Viking wouldn’t take advantage, now would he?  Junior…..well, he does have a cell phone glued to his hand, but I can’t see him adding insults by posting your drama on Face Book.  Remember?  He loves you.

Yes, he does!  It just felt like you were alone in the world.  You have a ton of people who love you and care for you and are now looking at you like you’re a fucking lunatic.  How did I know what you were thinking?  Because you aren’t the only one who has dropped the burden momentarily and then had to face the people who have seen you at your absolute worst.  It’s an embarrassment but it won’t kill you.  In fact, those witnesses are now frantically scouring their brain trying to find a way to help you.  So, just let them fucking help you!  They feel like shit because they didn’t think they needed to pay attention as closely as they should have.

Small problems accumulate until they become overwhelming mountains that block out the sun.  You aren’t imagining anything that isn’t real.  It totally is real!  Stress changes the way your brain performs; neurons and electrons, hormones and proteins behave differently, your body functions at a slower rate – these things are out of your control.  All you can do is recognize the signs.

Did you just tell me to fuck off?!  I’m trying to help you and you tell me to fuck off?!  It’s not all bullshit.  Seriously?!  You think life would be less stressful in prison?  A convent?!  Do they even exist anymore?  And if they do exist don’t the nuns have to work all day and pray every 3 hours?  You have difficulties getting up for 9:00 in the morning.  Yes, you do.  Don’t shit a shitter.

Fine.  Prison it is.  You would get 3 meals a day and I suppose you might be able to spend the rest of your time with adult coloring books.  You won’t have to pay bills or make meals or run errands either.  There might even be a library and I would assume you could take online university courses.  Or not.  How the fuck would I know what you would be allowed to do?  Do I look like a hardened criminal to you?!  I think it’s safe to assume that you can’t pick your meals from a menu and they probably don’t have fizzy water on tap.  I don’t know if you can bring a TV from home or if cable is available in your cell.  And, it’s highly unlikely they would have a Nail Technician or a Beauty Consultant on staff.  No.  I’m not calling Martha Stewart.  Besides, she’s American and would have very little knowledge about the Canadian Penal System.

Speaking of which – how do you know that you won’t get assigned to kitchen duty anyway, with a big broad who makes shivs out of turnips?  What if they make you go out in the yard in the rain?  What if they make you eat tuna salad on enriched white bread?  What if there are no private showers?

You might even have a cellmate.  Well, I suppose you might be able to arrange Solitary Confinement – if it’s an actual thing here – but then you probably won’t be allowed to take your coloring book and pencils in case you decide to poke an eye out.  You might be lucky to get a beat-up copy of The Odyssey by Homer to keep you amused.

Yes…. you would get caught up on sleep but once you’ve accomplished that…..well, what then?  I suppose you could work out.  Maybe there would be a yard somewhere, full of weight machines that you can just start bench-pressing 350 pounds and sweat like…. like…. a dude bench-pressing 350 pounds.

Are you really certain that Prison life is for you?  True, you would have very few responsibilities and money wouldn’t be an issue because Conservatives love their prisons, but there is a lot of downsides, the least of which is the big broad that makes shivs out of turnips.  There is the problem of getting invited to prison as well; you can’t just show up and check yourself in.  That would be the Looney Bin.  I understand that the entry requirements are much less stringent, so there is that…..

They don’t make you have public showers and you might not have a cellmate in case someone decides to poke someone else’s eye out with a pencil.  Your art will have to be done with pastels and crayons while Nurse Ratchet fills a syringe with psychedelic drugs and critiques your work though.

So, after all of this, you are right back where you started from – a lunatic not yet in an asylum.  Just go to bed for a couple of days and ‘adult’ next week.

Also, thank The Gawds that you have The Viking and you aren’t sitting alone in your dark closet.  Okay….you might still be sitting alone in your closet, but at least The Viking will check on you occasionally.

Precision Ketchup Application Device

You might not know this, but Ketchup has become public enemy #1 around here.  Well, not the Ketchup exactly, but the squeezable Ketchup jug.  I don’t know the person who designed the squeezable jug with the bum-hole in the lid, but he/she should know that The Viking isn’t a fan.

Obviously, French’s or Heinz’s jugs weren’t designed for Vikings.  There’s no finesse, no attention to detail, no compliance to Danish standards.  How is The Viking supposed to put the exact amount of Ketchup on his Hot Dog with a brute jug that is designed to put the maximum amount of Ketchup in the shortest amount of time?  It takes significant force to open the bum-hole and then Ketchup explodes from the jug like it was launched from a fire hose.  That’s no way to apply a delicate amount of Ketchup.

A Danish Hot Dog is a masterpiece of flavors, from the wiener to the sweet pickles to the deep-fried onions.  A massive glop of Ketchup completely ruins the delicate balance and makes The Viking shout and occasionally throw the entire Hot Dog in the garbage while verbally abusing the designer of said Applicator at the top of his lungs.

The Danish Hot Dog requires a warm, crusty bun, an authentic European wiener, a consistent, thin line of Ketchup down the center of the wiener, followed by a thicker but still consistent line of Remoulade.  Finely chopped onions top the condiments, then Agurkasalat (Danish sweet pickles and only Danish sweet pickles) and the fried onions crown the masterpiece.  Any slight anomaly is an epic disaster.  The onions must be chopped incredibly fine, the Remoulade at the peak of freshness, the bun crusty – not soggy (dear Gawd, no sogginess!).  It’s a complex and finely tuned balance.  Putting a man on the moon is easier than making a perfect Danish Hot Dog.

Necessity is the mother of invention though, so The Viking pondered the situation for several years until one day a light bulb appeared over his head while we were having lunch.  He was violently shaking the Remoulade container to get every last bit of the delicious condiment out of the small, perfectly round hole in the lid.

“Waaait a minute!  That hole is the perfect size for Ketchup Application on my Hot Dog!!  What if we washed out the Precision Remoulade Applicating Device and made it into a Precision Ketchup Applicating Device!?  Not only is the hole size perfect but only the slightest pressure provides a glorious line of delightful Ketchup.”

And…..he doesn’t have to verbally abuse the bum-hole anymore.  It’s a win-win.

On the other hand, I admired the person who invented the plastic jug with the bum-hole lid.  I washed it out and saved it for future use.  That future arrived yesterday when I made a lovely salad and Cider Vinaigrette.  I immediately thought of the decommissioned Ketchup jug as the perfect vessel for my Vinaigrette.

I dished salad onto my plate, gently added grated, 2-year-old Canadian cheddar and picked up the Precision Cider Vinaigrette Application Device.  I squeezed the jug softly, careful to not over-vinaigrette.  Nothing came out.  I squeezed it just a touch harder.  Nothing.  I added more pressure.  That damned bum-hole was tight!  I was getting nervous so squeezed just the slightest bit more.  Suddenly, the bum-hole opened, a beautiful arc of Vinaigrette launched over my plate, over the table and laid down a precise line across the kitchen floor.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

Oops!  The Viking, sitting in the family room with his plate, heard me and wanted to know what was wrong.

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Just eat your dinner.” 

Because there is no fucking way that I’m going to let him know what a damned catastrophe that stupid Ketchup jug is!  He’ll laugh for most of the coming week!

The moral of this story:  Jugs with bum-hole lids are never to be trusted.