Tag: Science

It’s a Fine Line Between Good and Rotten

Geezus!  What’s that smell?!

I was going for my second cup of coffee, opened the fridge door for the cream……Sniff, Sniff.  Something died in there!

I didn’t smell anything the first time I put cream in my coffee.  Can something go from perfectly fine to Holy Shit Rotten in a half-hour?  The Viking has a Super Sniffer that can smell a Bastard Fart from a kilometer away, so it’s virtually impossible that he missed the odor of a veggie contemplating its own death.  And, I would have heard about it if he had because he usually makes a loud and public proclamation……

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“Something fucking stinks in the fridge!”

…….and I run for the hills because there will be an in-depth lecture on the wastefulness of food in our house and how no self-respecting Danish person would ever find a rotten anything in their fridge.  Because they all plan their meals a week ahead, purchase all the ingredients in one trip to the store, and do all the meal prep in advance so no food is wasted and no one has to lay on the kitchen floor crying because they don’t know what to make for dinner.  And, in case you are wondering about leftovers, every Sunday, every Dane eats Biksemad (bik-si-mel), which is short for a gawd-awful concoction of every item in the fridge you couldn’t bear to eat during the week, topped off with a fried egg.

I had other plans for the next hour but obviously something had to be done about the fridge if I wanted to avoid another episode of “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane?”.  I started rummaging around, looking for fresh veggies that aren’t so fresh anymore.  That’s usually the smelly culprit and finding it could make this task short if not sweet.

Unfortunately, there was no obvious suspect, which meant an aggressive, frontal assault on every container and condiment.  Sigh.  Don’t tell The Viking, but there was a bottle of Bar-B-Que Sauce with a ‘best before’ date of March 2019.  On the bright side, I didn’t find a single container of Science and that should count for something.

The problem then isn’t with the fridge.  The smell is coming from somewhere else…….

Please Gawd, don’t let it be a dead mouse/bird – a gift from a cat – behind an appliance!  

Before I called HazMat, I decided to put all the sinfully wasteful fridge items in the garbage.  I won’t be avoiding the “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane” lecture if he sees all the waste on display just begging for comment.  Better to hide that shit as quickly as possible.

I grabbed the garbage from under the sink and…….

Sweet Baby Geezus!!!

Well, shit.  It wasn’t the fridge after all.

The smell coming from the garbage was so smelly and heavy that it took the 3 seconds between the garbage and the fridge for the smell to catch up with me.

In the half-hour between coffee refills, the smell went from nothing to Holy Shit Rotten and that’s just not fair. How can I avoid the “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane” lecture if I only have a scant half-hour window?  What if I’m busy during that half-hour?

I’m sure Science can explain the exponential multiplication of odor molecules within a finite time limit but it doesn’t help me be more Danish.

I cleaned out the fridge for nothing.

Shit.

 

 

 

My Finger Is Fucked. And Also my Brain.

I believe I’ve passed my ‘Best Before Date’.  I’m not one to worry much about getting older; in fact, I actually like the person I’ve become.  It didn’t come easily though, there were very high hills and very deep valleys that needed to be traversed, but it shaped who I am and that’s fine by me and, apparently, The Viking because he still sleeps beside me every night.  The down-side of getting older, of course, is a body that can’t – or won’t in this case – keep up with my big ideas and crazy dreams.  Or even get out of bed in the morning without a bunch of whining.

I noticed, the other day, that my left pointer finger is evolving, adding an extra lump to the first knuckle below my fingernail.  After rubbing it and poking it and staring at it there was only one conclusion to be made:  my finger is fucked.  Thankfully, the fuckage doesn’t include pain which is great news considering what’s going on elsewhere in Lori Land.

I woke up one morning last week to the shrieks of my left shoulder.  I said, “What the hell?!”  It said nothing but stabbed me in the neck just for spite.

“Oh, come on!  You have to do this now?  I was going to paint the entire house tomorrow!”

……

“……okay….I wasn’t going to paint the whole house, but it still isn’t the most convenient time to have your meltdown.  I need both shoulders at the moment.  If I had known how picky you were going to get I would have exercised more!”

…….

“…….okay…..I probably wouldn’t have exercised more, but that is no excuse for getting cranky.  It’s not like you’re really old yet!”

We eventually had to agree to disagree.  Shoulder was complaining about carrying the weight of the world and I was insisting it was being a big old baby.  It gave up two days later but gives me a twinge every once in a while, just to remind me that it’s still there and not especially happy.

And then the thumb on my left hand……

Gasp!  WAIT A MINUTE!

It’s the finger on my left hand, the left shoulder and the left thumb!  I was working with the theory that random body parts were acting out, but this appears to be a pattern.  A left pattern!  Maybe it’s my entire left side that’s fucked.

Just a minute…..I need to check on something…..another possible theory….

…..

…..

…..

…..

This is what Brain Made Simple has to say.

The left side of the brain is responsible for controlling the right side of the body. It also performs tasks that have to do with logic, such as in science and mathematics. On the other hand, the right hemisphere coordinates the left side of the body and performs tasks that have do with creativity and the arts.*

I am right handed and I’m famous for my logic so maybe my left brain is hosting a sloppy protest about the amount of feelings going on, but only a few body parts want to participate.  Or, it could be my hippy, feel-y right brain is bullying my nerdy left brain for being such a party-pooper.  OR…..maybe it’s the whole brain having tiny hissy fits hosted in random body parts.

Maybe I need some vitamins or something.  I looked up ‘Food that’s good for your Brain’ and found out that I should be eating more of this:

  • Fatty Fish – Yuck! I prefer fish that doesn’t taste like fish.
  • Coffee – Yum!
  • Blueberries – Meh.
  • Turmeric – what the fuck is that?!
  • Broccoli – Meh.
  • Pumpkin Seeds – okay.
  • Dark Chocolate – ummmm….I prefer Milk Chocolate but I suppose I could go with the dark in a pinch.
  • Nuts – Is this a good recommendation for someone who is already a little bit nuts?
  • Oranges – can I drink the juice to avoid all the hassle of the peel? It gets under my fingernails.
  • Eggs – YUM!
  • Green Tea – only if it doesn’t taste like Green Tea because that shit is nasty.**

Sigh.  I suppose I need to take steps.  It seems that my brain has a mind of its own and being reasonable isn’t its forté.

So, brace yourself Brain!  I’m about to dump all sorts of good shit on you.  Lots of eggs and coffee, the occasional orange juice, a couple nibbles of dark chocolate and a pumpkin seed with a blueberry chaser.  You may have won concessions with food, but there is no way in hell that you’ll take away my Lemon Gin & Tonic.

Seriously.  Don’t fuck with the Lemon Gin & Tonic.

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PS:  While I was searching for brain pictures I came across something  Disturbing   and before Brain intervened, Finger clicked the link.  I mention this because I should have a written testament that I was not looking for ways to get a new brain, legally or illegally.  If people start losing their brains in my general vicinity it is a total coincidence.

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*This is a fact, so you might have learned something.  Please accept my apologies.  This blog is supposed to be a total waste of time. 

**Additional Apologies for the additional learning (if you didn’t already know about this, of course).

The Day of the Monkey Wrench

When I make mashed potatoes I don’t make just a little bit.  I make a massive pot of them because who doesn’t love left over mashed potatoes – Croquettes, potato pancakes, shepherd’s pie?

About a month ago, I made a lovely beef roast with mashed potatoes and other good things.  The following evening we had the leftover beef with re-heated mashed potatoes and leftover gravy, etc.  I was on track to use all the potatoes in a total of 4 days, except someone threw a Monkey Wrench into my plans (I don’t even remember exactly what that monkey wrench was anymore though) and suddenly those mashed potatoes became a problem.  And part of the problem was the fact that we have two refrigerators – one for daily stuff and the other for drinks mostly but also leftovers in larger containers.

On the Day of the Monkey Wrench, I probably thought they would keep for an extra day.  But the day after that I totally forgot about them.

Two days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I went to the spare fridge for a drink and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I should use them up tomorrow for sure.”

Three days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I came home from the grocery store and opened the spare fridge to put in some drinks and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I’m not sure if they are good anymore because of the cream and butter.  Well, I don’t have time right now to toss them out but I will get to it in an hour or so.

Four Days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I never opened the spare fridge.

Five days after:  I opened the fridge, “Fuck!  Someone needs to throw them out before they get nasty.

Six days after:  The Viking opens the spare fridge,

“What’s in this big pot?”

Me:  “Mashed potatoes, dammit!  I’ll be there in a minute to throw it out and wash the pot.”

Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I go for a drink.  Ugh!!  Those potatoes are probably working on becoming a science experiment and I’m just not up to dealing with that today.  I’ll handle it tomorrow.

Eight days:  The Viking notices the same pot in the same position.

“Have you completely forgotten these potatoes?”

Me:  “Shit!  Yes!  I’ll be right there.”

Nine days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I find the pot and moan because it’s got to be gross by now.  Maybe if I wait little longer The Viking will take care of it.

Ten days:  I purposely refuse to see the pot when I grab a drink.

Eleven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Twelve days:  Ditto.

Thirteen days:  Ditto.

Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Nineteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking:  “Fucksakes!  Is that still the mashed potatoes?!”

Me (slightly hopeful that he’ll throw them out and wash the pot):  “Yes!  I keep forgetting about them!”

Twenty days:  I hear something whispering my name from the spare fridge.  It doesn’t sound like something nice, more like a hiss of malevolent evil.  I ignore it.

Twenty-One days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking stops by the spare fridge and says,

“Do you hear something?”

Me:  “Ummm…..no.  You must be hearing things.”

Twenty-Four days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: The Viking comes in the house and says….”*A friend from Denmark is going to be in Calgary this weekend.  I’ve invited him and his co-workers for dinner.”

Me (surprised and already getting anxious):  “What?!  You invited them here?!”

Him:  “Yes.  I haven’t seen Soren for years!”

Me:  “Fuck.”

Twenty-Six days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I have no idea what to make for dinner for the Danes.

The Viking:  “Clam Chowder.  They would really like it.”

Me:  “Really?  How can my land-locked clam chowder compare to Danish Right-out-of-the-Ocean Clam Chowder?”

Him:  “Trust me.  They’ll like it.”

Twenty-Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I need that mashed potato pot for the Clam Chowder.  Sigh.  It’s going to be so gross.  Nothing smells worse than rotten potatoes…..except maybe a dead body but I’m only guessing because I’ve never smelled a dead body.  Wait.  There was that dead mouse and it did smell pretty bad but I think the potatoes are going to smell worse because there are more potatoes than one dead mouse.

Apparently, The Viking didn’t feel the need to take care of the mess so I had to.  I pulled the neck of my shirt up over my nose, squinted my eyes and hauled the pot from the fridge.  It was worse than I thought – they had turned all brown and green and made my eyes water.

I suck at keeping the refrigerators organized and free of science experiments.

As for the Clam Chowder.  I spent several hours frying bacon, cleaning, peeling and chopping veggies, making broth and taste testing it.  I was like Gordon Ramsey but with far worse language, knowing one tiny mistake could ruin the entire thing.  When I thought it was pretty good, I called for The Viking to do a taste test.  He sipped it, sipped it again and pronounced it good with just a touch more salt and pepper.  But……

Him:  Where is the corn?

Me:  Corn?  You don’t put corn in Clam Chowder.  But now that you mention it, it would probably taste good.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any corn at the moment.

Him:  Where is the red and white stuff?

Me:  Red and white stuff?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Him:  Crab!  Where’s the crab?

Me:  You don’t put Crab in Clam Chowder.  You put Clams in Clam Chowder.

Him:  You made some soup once for me and Adam and it had corn and crab and shrimp.  I thought that’s what you were making.

Me:  That’s not Clam Chowder, that’s Seafood Chowder!  I didn’t think you even cared much for that.  You said, when I specifically asked, “It’s okay.”  Which is the same thing as saying “It’s passable but just barely.”

Him:  I liked it!

Me:  That’s not what you said!  You said, “It’s O.K.A.Y.”  Which isn’t the same thing as “I like it”!

Him:  For fucks-sakes!

Me:  Did I just spend all day making Clam Chowder for Danish experts and you wanted Seafood Chowder?  Geezus!  Do I need to start all over?!”

Him:  NO!  You don’t have to do a fucking thing!  This is fine.

Me:  Gawd save me!  It’s FINE?!  That’s it?!  FINE?!

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And that’s why I needed to start drinking 4 hours before the Danes were due to arrive.  Being drunk is the only way to put a pot of ‘fine’ in front of experts.

*What the fuck!?  Why is this quotation mark going the wrong way?!  I’ve tried to fix it 8 times already!

Thunder Thighs and Sabre-Tooth Gophers

Everything we’ve been taught about evolution is wrong.  No, seriously.  I’m not saying that creationism is real, I’m just saying that evolution is wrong.  Hear me out.

The accepted theory is that humans evolved over millions of years into what we are today.  Some scientists say we walked upright somewhere between 6 million and 2 million years ago.  Whatever.  I don’t dispute this.  However, they all seem to agree that hominids started using tools about 2.5 millions years ago and, in my opinion, that’s where the evolution theory falls apart.  Tools changed everything.

Let’s take one Australopithecus – Bruce.  Bruce was walking upright and, from the new and lofty perspective of his eyes, found a stick that looked like it could be used for something.  He wasn’t entirely sure what it could be used for but he didn’t want to leave it behind and run the risk of never finding it again.  So, he packed it around for a few days, poking things, trying to eat with it (Asians mastered this far sooner than anyone else), riding it like a horse, etc.  Then, one day, he sees a fine-looking female Australopithecus and thinks he’d like to get to know her better.  She’s fucking fast though and he can’t catch her.

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He wishes there was some way to slow her down.  He sits down under a tree (this was still a safe thing to do because Newton hadn’t been born yet) to think.  He’s playing with the stick, twirling it around, and it gets away from him.  He lunges after the stick but knocks it further away and that’s when the gorgeous female Australopithecus(Cheryl) came running past, probably chasing a sabre-tooth gopher.  The stick tripped her and she slid face-first into the dirt only a meter away.  Bruce, knowing a good opportunity when he sees one, sat on her back so she couldn’t get away and began telling her all about himself.  Voila!  The first tool!

It didn’t take him a million or two years to figure out how to trip women so he could sit on them, now did it?  You have to catch her before you can get babies.  Let’s just carry this story for a bit longer.

Bruce is now walking upright and using a stick.  He may have found several other ways to use the stick, especially the pointy end, because he’s packing it around with him everywhere he goes.  Then one day, he’s fucking around and tossing the stick in the air and catching it.  Cheryl ran past, probably chasing a sabre-tooth rabbit………

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and Bruce got distracted and the pointy end of his stick got stuck in the top of his head.

“Ouch!  Fuck!!”

Bruce just became the very first klutz.  After 1257 times of getting the stick stuck in his head, he learned to flinch to the side.  It stuck in his foot 713 times before he mastered the art of the ‘Foot Flinch’.  You get my meaning here, right?  I’m pretty sure it didn’t take Bruce a million years to develop evasion reflexes and that brings me to…..well….me.

I was sitting at the computer, eating a piece of delicious 3-year old cheese last night and because the cheese is 3 years old it crumbles easily and a piece of the deliciousness broke off and headed for the floor except my thighs slammed together with loud clap (thunder-like) and caught the cheese mid-fall!  I couldn’t do that when I was a kid.  I was always picking my food up and brushing the bits of dirt off before I could eat it.  Over the years, my thighs have evolved into powerful tools that keep dropped food/breakables/paperclips/pills from hitting the floor/dirt/pavement.  The skill also came in handy when Jerry thought he could cop a feel at a social function.  It didn’t take my thighs a million years to develop their speed – it happened in less than 50 years.

And it’s not just my thighs.  My feet have developed the ability to flinch away from falling knives/bricks/glass.  My feet and thighs are literally supersonic.  My hands are a different matter; it’s like they don’t even belong to me because they are always getting cut and poked and crushed.  They try to evade but for some reason they are just evolutionary-ily challenged.  As are my boobs.  To be fair though I’m fairly certain that boobs weren’t intended to have built-in evasion abilities because how would babies chase down a boob so it could have breakfast.

So, there you have it.  Necessity is the mother of invention (I think someone said this before but I can’t be bothered to look it up).  If it took a million years to develop adaptations to new circumstances we would have died out as a species before the end of an ice age.  It’s the Slam and Flinch that saved us from extinction.  Sorry Scientists, you’ll have to go back to the old drawing board.

Father-isms

My Father is a Ruralite. He’s spent his entire life in rural areas and he’s picked up some colorful ‘isms’ over the years that pepper his conversations.  These ‘isms’ are charming and humorous but how did they ever become part of rural vernacular?  Didn’t anyone question the guy who said it for the first time?  A group of dudes standing around and one of them says “Wow!  That works Slicker than Goose Shit in a Tin Horn” and no one looks at the guy and says “How would you know how slick shit becomes in a tin horn, Frank?”  And you know it was a guy who said it first because a woman would have said something along the lines of “Wow!  That was easier than sticking your finger in bacon fat!” and every woman around her would nod in agreement because they all know exactly how easy it is to stick your finger in bacon fat.

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