Before you read this, I must say that my taste buds have changed since I wrote this in 2006. I no longer crave this, but I still think the blog is hilarious.
Because this blog in public, I have been debating for days as to whether I would post this. My embarrassment for the following confession has almost made me back out. But I must. I must post this for all the people who, like me, are deceivers. This is for all those who bear the shame that I endure every few months. This is for: the pickled sausage cravers. I confessed my love of pickled sausage to a group at work and to my husband (we have been together 13 years and married 8.5). I love pickled sausage more than any other food. I have always had an obsession with tangy, twangy, hot, spicy food. There are times that I absolutely crave them. I have a favorite brand, which have about 3 types that I enjoy. I know the convenience stores that carry them. I know which stores carry which type. After the last tangy morsel, the juice left in the bottom is like my dessert. Just thinkin of it makes my mouth water. I love them. However, much to my dismay- my love of pickled sausage is not socially acceptable. The pleasant smell I so enjoy, is pungent the noses of most people. My husband can barely stand to be in the car with me when I eat, what he calls, the stink weiny. I really began to suspect that only a few people in the world were like me when I started getting questions at the convenience store counters from the cashiers. At least 10 times, I have had them ask me (with noses wrinkled, like they had a turd on their upper lips), 'are those good?'. The first time I saw the expression on their face and the disgusted tone in their voice, I knew. I knew that it could never be known to these people that I was the consumer of this weiny from hell. So, my deceit began at one of the Diamond Shamrocks (now Valero) I frequented. When asked the 'are those good?' question, I began telling them that they were not for me. Many times I told them, in a quick and disgusted manner, that they were not for me, but for my grandpa (God rest his soul). Many times, I would simply look at them with a look of surprise, as if to say 'you think I would eat the crap?'. I have to tell the lies most every time. People were so turned off by them, that I could not allow them to think that I would put them in my body. Thankfully, I have discovered that Wal Mart sells them in a gallon jar for about five dollars. I feel liberated that I can go to the checkout with a basket full of groceries and the jar just blends in. I like the fact that they probably think I am buying the big jar for the convenience store or dive bar that I may own. Why else would anyone in their right mind buy a gallon jar of vomit in casings? Because I need to replenish my stock every few weeks, I have to go to a different Wal Mart the each time. I cannot have those Wal Mart checkers judging me. I will say, that my consumption over the past year has decreased. My shame overwhelms me at times, so I simply do not indulge. I just wanted to get this out in the open so that other closet-stink-weiny-eaters do not have to think that they are alone. You are not alone. We are all in this world, packed together like pickled meat in a casing.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
From 01/07/07: I was so cool
When I was in high school, I was friends with everyone. The popular kids were ok with me and the bad kids liked me alright. My friends were the ones that were not overly concerned with fashion or trends. We just wanted to have a good laugh. We got into our share of things, but most of us just never got caught. Half of my friends were really into drugs and partying, some pretended to be, and then there was me. I did my share of drinking, but I did not indulge in the drugs. I had no desire to do so. I was one of "smart" girls in school. I made good grades and school was pretty easy for me. So, needless to say, I am not sure why some of those other guys were friends with me. Anyways, I had a couple of rather worldly friends -the ones that came to Austin a lot, had the wild spiky/colored hair, listened to club music. These guys were the exception in my school in a town of 2000. I am sure everyone in Austin was like these guys, but in Mason, they were quite a site. So, I looked up to these guys at the time. They were different. They did not care what anyone else thought. Well, as many of you know, I have naturally curly hair. In high school, it was exceptionally curly and tangly. My worldly friends gave me the nickname "Nappy." By the end of high school, everyone called me that. I felt included by having a nickname. I felt special. I loved that nickname so much, I had it put on my class ring. It was not until years later that I learned that "Nappy" is not always used in a nice way. In Mason, there was really no one that could have really told me what it meant. I know that it can simply mean tightly curled hair (which is what mine was), but it was later that I learned it could also mean tightly curled, unwashed, and uncombed. So, when my children look at my class ring, I will have to explain how sheltered one can be in a small town. I am just glad I did not like the word "dildo," because I did not know what that word meant at the time, either.
From 01/25/08: Fruity Good Deed of the Day
Those of you that work with me have probably already heard this story, so this is for the rest of you guys.
I work as a supervisor in the operating room. Part of my job is to try to keep the surgeons happy and wanting to return to our facility. I pretty much just put out fires all day. So, last week one of our esteemed surgeons got very angry with us over instrument issues. She was so mad that she did not even want to talk to me about it. Usually she is very good about vocalizing her concerns and how we could have done better. The reason she was mad was legit, so there was not much more that I could say except "sorry." She vowed to cancel all of her cases in the coming week. Well, she only cancelled a few and returned to us on Thursday. I went to the room to check on her and how things were going in her room. When I entered, she was in a great mood. She stated that she had a patient in the hospital who (for some reason or another) had been there a long time and had been in the same clothes. I guess her family could not make it home or did not have a car or something. The surgeon said she was a upset because she was going to bring this patient a tshirt since she had no other clothes. As I left the room, I realized that I had a great opportunity to do some PR with this doctor and maybe score some points for the hospital. I was trying to figure out who in our department might have some of the many hospital tshirts that they give out so that I could give it to the doctor for her patient. I remembered that the ER always has used clothes on hand to give to the patients that need them. I guess like people whose clothes have to cut off of them or homeless people that need some new duds. So, I called the ER charge nurse and she agreed to let me have a tshirt. As we sifted through their stash, i finally found one that was clean, did not have holes, and said "Woody's Longboards" on the front. Cool, a surfboard shirt would work. I knew the patient would be grateful and the doctor would be happy that we listened to her! I imagined the doctor commenting on how thoughtful our department was and how she could tell that we really put the patients first. I envisioned her embracing me and thanking me for going out of my way for her. (Heee, Heee, Heee, the PR machine at work). As I approached the operating room, I decided to check the back of the shirt in case there were any gun shot holes or anything gross stuck to it. To my surprise, the first thing I noticed were a HUGE pair of oversized breasts. They were on the body of woman on her knees in the sand on a beach. She had her head thrown back and mouth seductively parted. She was sitting on her calves and had her back arched so that her bottom and breasts stuck out even further. To top it off, in big bold letters above the porn star was the phrase "Nice Papayas." I was so mad because I was trying to do something nice and score a few brownie points. Instead, I brought her a shirt some trashy guy would wear! So, what did I do? I marched right into that room and told the doctor about how I was really trying to do something nice and help her out. I explained how I was trying to help out a needy patient. When I showed the doctor the tshirt, I was not sure what kind of a reaction I would get (you never know). She started laughing and said that the patient would love it- and she did. So, if you are in my hospital and see a lady (who knows how old she is. I would love to imagine that she was about 90) in a completely inappropriate shirt, you can thank me. I am all about promoting sexuality in our patients.
I work as a supervisor in the operating room. Part of my job is to try to keep the surgeons happy and wanting to return to our facility. I pretty much just put out fires all day. So, last week one of our esteemed surgeons got very angry with us over instrument issues. She was so mad that she did not even want to talk to me about it. Usually she is very good about vocalizing her concerns and how we could have done better. The reason she was mad was legit, so there was not much more that I could say except "sorry." She vowed to cancel all of her cases in the coming week. Well, she only cancelled a few and returned to us on Thursday. I went to the room to check on her and how things were going in her room. When I entered, she was in a great mood. She stated that she had a patient in the hospital who (for some reason or another) had been there a long time and had been in the same clothes. I guess her family could not make it home or did not have a car or something. The surgeon said she was a upset because she was going to bring this patient a tshirt since she had no other clothes. As I left the room, I realized that I had a great opportunity to do some PR with this doctor and maybe score some points for the hospital. I was trying to figure out who in our department might have some of the many hospital tshirts that they give out so that I could give it to the doctor for her patient. I remembered that the ER always has used clothes on hand to give to the patients that need them. I guess like people whose clothes have to cut off of them or homeless people that need some new duds. So, I called the ER charge nurse and she agreed to let me have a tshirt. As we sifted through their stash, i finally found one that was clean, did not have holes, and said "Woody's Longboards" on the front. Cool, a surfboard shirt would work. I knew the patient would be grateful and the doctor would be happy that we listened to her! I imagined the doctor commenting on how thoughtful our department was and how she could tell that we really put the patients first. I envisioned her embracing me and thanking me for going out of my way for her. (Heee, Heee, Heee, the PR machine at work). As I approached the operating room, I decided to check the back of the shirt in case there were any gun shot holes or anything gross stuck to it. To my surprise, the first thing I noticed were a HUGE pair of oversized breasts. They were on the body of woman on her knees in the sand on a beach. She had her head thrown back and mouth seductively parted. She was sitting on her calves and had her back arched so that her bottom and breasts stuck out even further. To top it off, in big bold letters above the porn star was the phrase "Nice Papayas." I was so mad because I was trying to do something nice and score a few brownie points. Instead, I brought her a shirt some trashy guy would wear! So, what did I do? I marched right into that room and told the doctor about how I was really trying to do something nice and help her out. I explained how I was trying to help out a needy patient. When I showed the doctor the tshirt, I was not sure what kind of a reaction I would get (you never know). She started laughing and said that the patient would love it- and she did. So, if you are in my hospital and see a lady (who knows how old she is. I would love to imagine that she was about 90) in a completely inappropriate shirt, you can thank me. I am all about promoting sexuality in our patients.
From 02/15/08: 2 More Hair Blogs
Hair Blog 3 Category: Life
This is another hair related blog about my husband. This is the second in a series of who knows how many blogs about his hair problems. For those of you new to my blogs, I will be put the first one about his back hair at the end of this. Ray has always had trouble growing facial hair. When we were younger, he could not really grow much at all. It was very patchy. He could never have survived in the 70's and 80's. He would have been ridiculed right out of the Tom Selleck (however you spell that) fan club. As he has gotten older, he has become more able to grow some hair, but it always seemed a little sparce and patchy to me. I was never the biggest fan of the facial hair, but it was his life long dream to have some. Heidi asked me one day if I liked the facial hair and I told her not really. Then I explained the reason I could tolerate it. See, every month or two, Ray gets a wild hair and decides he is going to grow a mustache or a goatee. Sometimes the goatee is just on the chin and sometimes it is one of those that connects to a mustache. For the first week or two, Ray is in heaven. He spends a great deal of time grooming it, petting it, and admiring it. It is like his own little baby. At about day 13 of the growth, Ray comes downstairs after his shower and he has shaved it all off. When I ask him why he shaved it, the answer (for the past 10 years) is the same. "I was trimming it up with a razor, shaving around it, and I messed it up." EVERY TIME. And, if I paid more attention to the hair, I would notice that for a few days before the complete shave, the mustache and/or goatee would start getting progressively smaller. Each day, as he would try to groom it, he would mess it up a little more and have to make it smaller until, finally day 13 arrives. So, I told Heidi that the reason I could tolerate the not so great facial hair is because Ray would only maintain it for a little while and by the time I really got sick of it, he would butcher it. Then, I would have a few weeks of cleanly shaven husband until he decided to start over again. The other day I was out with Heidi and one guy was teasing his very hairy friend who was in his 30's. The non hairy friend was commenting that all the 18 year old girls probably liked his with his great mustache/goatee because the only thing that their male peers could grow was a "sleazestache." When I heard that, I instantly knew that that was what Ray had. My man is the sleazestache king. As I discussed this with him, he vehemently denied this. He insisted that his mustache was full and that only one part was sparce. He said that he used to not have the mustache and goatee connection because the hair did not grow right below the corners of his mouth. Now, he says he only has that problem (slightly) on the left side. I asked him about any other issues with his facial hair that he would like to divulge. He said that when he does grow the complete mustache that connects to the goatee (by what I call the hair bridge), that the left side will lay down very nicely, but that the right side sticks out like porcupine quills. He did get a little defensive when I tried to tell him that he could not really grow the facial hair. Ray told me recently that he remembered exactly when he had the best goatee ever. He said it was before Ozzfest a few years back. He went on to describe the fullness and length of the goatee. I laughed for 10 minutes over the fact that he could remember that with such detail. That wonder-goatee etched a memory in his brain that brought sheer joy to his face. I can just imagine that that memory will be in the top 3 of things he remembers in life, behind the births of his 2 children. I might even venture to say that it might even creep into spot number 2 depending upon which child is driving him nuts in a day. The only thing I remember about the uber goatee is that he could not keep his hands off of it. It was almost like he had his own little pet stuck to his chin. Well, Ray and I looked for a picture of the greatest goatee ever and I found it in my July 2005 folder on the computer. When I double clicked on picture and it popped up, I instantly started laughing out loud. I had to stifle my laugh since both kids were asleep. As soon as I saw the pic, I started to cry because I was laughing so hard. I even had snot bubbles coming out of my nose, I was laughing so hard. That goatee looked like a hairy horseshoe on his chin or maybe even the lips of a hairy, gross smiley face. Ray insisted that it was how goatees looked, but I told him that i had never seen one that looked like that. And, when I googled that, there was not one goatee that looked like that one did. I roared when I realized that when Ray thought about the best goatee ever, he thought of this picture. If you check out my pictures, look under "family" album and you will see it. I think he will be in denial about this forever. So, I will just deal with the 15 weeks of crappy sleazestache and the horseshoe of hair on his chin.
Back Hair Blog from May 2007
As you get older, I think that hair becomes more of an issue. Some of you may have read my previous blog related to chin hairs Once again, a hair issue has sparked my creativity. When Ray and I started dating in 1993, I was 18 and he was 19. At that time, Ray had hair on his legs, head, arms, and a small patch on his chest. No big deal. I would say in about 2000, 3 years into marriage, I began to notice that he was getting a little thin on the top of his head. He grew more chest hair, and he started to have a some hair on his back. The back hair was nothing that he could not manage himself with a razor once a month or so. He would mainly focus on it in the summer when we might go tubing or swimming with friends. As the years passed, the hair on his head decreased dramatically, he grew a lot of chest hair, and the back hair, oh the back hair. The upper torso nuisance has grown into a calamity. The once a month manscaping turned into a weekly thing. It is no longer something that he can take care of on his own. It has become a couple issue. The hair has gotten to the point that he can no longer just shave the top and be ok. Now, I have to be intimately involved in the care and grooming of my husband. I have noticed that over the past year, he has started to complain more about the hair and the fact that people at his job comment on the monkey crawling out of the top of his shirt. He frequently mentions that I need to help him manage the hair. He has begun to brush the shoulder hair into a nice 1970's Eric Estrada type do. The hair has also started to creep down the back sides of his upper arms. Now, that is especially disturbing to me. I remember in one of the towns in which I lived, maybe Stephenville, seeing a super white trash guy in his 50's who would always wear a sleeveless tshirt to the bar. He was greasy looking and looked like he smelled. He had so much fur on his shoulders and the back of his arms that we said he was wearing a sweater. That is what I imagine when I see that back-of-upper-arm hair on my sweet husband (who is not white trash.ok, maybe a little). I cannot believe that he now sports a hairy sweater vest. We have been married for 10 years now. Last week, I knew the magic was over when Ray was standing in the big garden tub of our home with me using clippers (yes, like you would use on a dog) to shave his back hair (and arm and shoulders and flanks and upper crack region). He was wearing shorts, but I had him bend over slightly, "like you would do at work, " I told him, so that I could also clip the hair that would show above his scrub pants. You know the honeymoon is over when you reflect upon your manscaping couple time.
This is another hair related blog about my husband. This is the second in a series of who knows how many blogs about his hair problems. For those of you new to my blogs, I will be put the first one about his back hair at the end of this. Ray has always had trouble growing facial hair. When we were younger, he could not really grow much at all. It was very patchy. He could never have survived in the 70's and 80's. He would have been ridiculed right out of the Tom Selleck (however you spell that) fan club. As he has gotten older, he has become more able to grow some hair, but it always seemed a little sparce and patchy to me. I was never the biggest fan of the facial hair, but it was his life long dream to have some. Heidi asked me one day if I liked the facial hair and I told her not really. Then I explained the reason I could tolerate it. See, every month or two, Ray gets a wild hair and decides he is going to grow a mustache or a goatee. Sometimes the goatee is just on the chin and sometimes it is one of those that connects to a mustache. For the first week or two, Ray is in heaven. He spends a great deal of time grooming it, petting it, and admiring it. It is like his own little baby. At about day 13 of the growth, Ray comes downstairs after his shower and he has shaved it all off. When I ask him why he shaved it, the answer (for the past 10 years) is the same. "I was trimming it up with a razor, shaving around it, and I messed it up." EVERY TIME. And, if I paid more attention to the hair, I would notice that for a few days before the complete shave, the mustache and/or goatee would start getting progressively smaller. Each day, as he would try to groom it, he would mess it up a little more and have to make it smaller until, finally day 13 arrives. So, I told Heidi that the reason I could tolerate the not so great facial hair is because Ray would only maintain it for a little while and by the time I really got sick of it, he would butcher it. Then, I would have a few weeks of cleanly shaven husband until he decided to start over again. The other day I was out with Heidi and one guy was teasing his very hairy friend who was in his 30's. The non hairy friend was commenting that all the 18 year old girls probably liked his with his great mustache/goatee because the only thing that their male peers could grow was a "sleazestache." When I heard that, I instantly knew that that was what Ray had. My man is the sleazestache king. As I discussed this with him, he vehemently denied this. He insisted that his mustache was full and that only one part was sparce. He said that he used to not have the mustache and goatee connection because the hair did not grow right below the corners of his mouth. Now, he says he only has that problem (slightly) on the left side. I asked him about any other issues with his facial hair that he would like to divulge. He said that when he does grow the complete mustache that connects to the goatee (by what I call the hair bridge), that the left side will lay down very nicely, but that the right side sticks out like porcupine quills. He did get a little defensive when I tried to tell him that he could not really grow the facial hair. Ray told me recently that he remembered exactly when he had the best goatee ever. He said it was before Ozzfest a few years back. He went on to describe the fullness and length of the goatee. I laughed for 10 minutes over the fact that he could remember that with such detail. That wonder-goatee etched a memory in his brain that brought sheer joy to his face. I can just imagine that that memory will be in the top 3 of things he remembers in life, behind the births of his 2 children. I might even venture to say that it might even creep into spot number 2 depending upon which child is driving him nuts in a day. The only thing I remember about the uber goatee is that he could not keep his hands off of it. It was almost like he had his own little pet stuck to his chin. Well, Ray and I looked for a picture of the greatest goatee ever and I found it in my July 2005 folder on the computer. When I double clicked on picture and it popped up, I instantly started laughing out loud. I had to stifle my laugh since both kids were asleep. As soon as I saw the pic, I started to cry because I was laughing so hard. I even had snot bubbles coming out of my nose, I was laughing so hard. That goatee looked like a hairy horseshoe on his chin or maybe even the lips of a hairy, gross smiley face. Ray insisted that it was how goatees looked, but I told him that i had never seen one that looked like that. And, when I googled that, there was not one goatee that looked like that one did. I roared when I realized that when Ray thought about the best goatee ever, he thought of this picture. If you check out my pictures, look under "family" album and you will see it. I think he will be in denial about this forever. So, I will just deal with the 15 weeks of crappy sleazestache and the horseshoe of hair on his chin.
Back Hair Blog from May 2007
As you get older, I think that hair becomes more of an issue. Some of you may have read my previous blog related to chin hairs Once again, a hair issue has sparked my creativity. When Ray and I started dating in 1993, I was 18 and he was 19. At that time, Ray had hair on his legs, head, arms, and a small patch on his chest. No big deal. I would say in about 2000, 3 years into marriage, I began to notice that he was getting a little thin on the top of his head. He grew more chest hair, and he started to have a some hair on his back. The back hair was nothing that he could not manage himself with a razor once a month or so. He would mainly focus on it in the summer when we might go tubing or swimming with friends. As the years passed, the hair on his head decreased dramatically, he grew a lot of chest hair, and the back hair, oh the back hair. The upper torso nuisance has grown into a calamity. The once a month manscaping turned into a weekly thing. It is no longer something that he can take care of on his own. It has become a couple issue. The hair has gotten to the point that he can no longer just shave the top and be ok. Now, I have to be intimately involved in the care and grooming of my husband. I have noticed that over the past year, he has started to complain more about the hair and the fact that people at his job comment on the monkey crawling out of the top of his shirt. He frequently mentions that I need to help him manage the hair. He has begun to brush the shoulder hair into a nice 1970's Eric Estrada type do. The hair has also started to creep down the back sides of his upper arms. Now, that is especially disturbing to me. I remember in one of the towns in which I lived, maybe Stephenville, seeing a super white trash guy in his 50's who would always wear a sleeveless tshirt to the bar. He was greasy looking and looked like he smelled. He had so much fur on his shoulders and the back of his arms that we said he was wearing a sweater. That is what I imagine when I see that back-of-upper-arm hair on my sweet husband (who is not white trash.ok, maybe a little). I cannot believe that he now sports a hairy sweater vest. We have been married for 10 years now. Last week, I knew the magic was over when Ray was standing in the big garden tub of our home with me using clippers (yes, like you would use on a dog) to shave his back hair (and arm and shoulders and flanks and upper crack region). He was wearing shorts, but I had him bend over slightly, "like you would do at work, " I told him, so that I could also clip the hair that would show above his scrub pants. You know the honeymoon is over when you reflect upon your manscaping couple time.
From 10/08/08: My favorite sale
Those of you that know me well know how excited I get about this children's consignment sale we have twice a year here called Mommy and Me. Last spring I wrote a blog about my excitement over this sale and my strategies to get the best deals. This year was a much less hyped situation for me. Last year, I was a regular volunteer which meant I could shop at 3p, a whole hour after those damn super volunteers got to shop. Well, let me just say that in the weeks after last spring's sale, the HEAD HONCHO over the whole sale emailed me PERSONALLY (oh yeah) to ask if I wanted to be a super volunteer. That is right. I impressed them so much during my four hours as a regular volunteer, that they wanted me back. I was quite worried that they would not let me back in the first place because I turned some people away when I volunteered because they did not have hangers on their items. I was worried that because I was super bitch and caused the sale to lose that business- that they would not let me come back as a volunteer. Well, I know that my attention to detail (yeah right), my great customer service (ehh, maybe), my sweet disposition (total BS), my love of others (hmmm), my need to commune with other mommies (yeah, not so much) was surely the reason they wanted me. So this year as a super volunteer I had to volunteer a total 12 hours to get back 75% of what I sold and to get to shop at 2pm. That was why I was so much less hyped this year. I knew that there were a limited of super volunteers so there would be a lot less people I would have to mow over in my pursuit of the perfect deal. I roped Ray into taking 4 hours of my shifts. He agreed. He never knew when I started this 3 years ago that it would turn into such an obsession. He asked me if I was going to get rid of the things that did not sell this time around. I said "Hell NO! I will keep it and sell it at the next one." He wondered about the things that would be rejected by the inspectors. Hell No! If it is a stain and I can get it out, I will sell it next time! What is wrong with him? This is a lifestyle choice of frugality. If he is not with me, then he is against me. He does not understand the incredible deals that I yearn for. He does not appreciate that I can get a complete Gymboree pants and shirt outfit for $4 dollars! Where else on Earth can you find that? This is a little piece of Heaven for me, right in Palmer Auditorium. Yes, it means that I have totes and totes full of clothes in my garage. It means that I have to inspect every detail of these clothes for stains, tears, and wear before I can sell them (those inspectors are brutal!). It means that I will spend at least a week (or more) of my time preparing my items for sale. It means that I actually have to iron the clothes to make them presentable for the sale. It means that I have to spend HOURS cleaning every piece of baby equipment to sell (I spent 1.5 hours cleaning every nook and cranny of my stroller travel system). Yes, it means I have to volunteer with these other hard core mommies. Yes, it means I have to sort, organize, and arrange things (and my close friends know how unorganized I am). This lifestyle is not for the faint of heart, but they payoff is great. While I do not know how much I made, yet, (will give an update on that later) here is the breakdown of what I got. I spent a total of $240. $18 of that was taxes. For my daughter, I got 37 items. Most of which were complete outfits (pants and shirts), one Halloween costume ($6), and one purse ($2) and I spent a total of $110 on her. For my son, I got a total of 15 items and spent $68 on him. My daughter needed much more. I also bought him about 8 books, a puzzle, a lacing game, a Thomas something or other, and probably some other things for about $40. As you can see, I got a lot for my money. Hopefully I will make back at least half of that on what I sell. This obsession of mine will continue. For at least the next 4 years, I think my garage will be packed full of crap that I will eventually sell. Sorry Ray.
From 05/18/07: Another Hair Related Blog
May 18, 2007 - Friday
Another Hair Related Blog Category: Life
As you get older, I think that hair becomes more of an issue. Some of you may have read my previous blog related to chin hairs Once again, a hair issue has sparked my creativity. When Ray and I started dating in 1993, I was 18 and he was 19. At that time, Ray had hair on his legs, head, arms, and a small patch on his chest. No big deal. I would say in about 2000, 3 years into marriage, I began to notice that he was getting a little thin on the top of his head. He grew more chest hair, and he started to have a some hair on his back. The back hair was nothing that he could not manage himself with a razor once a month or so. He would mainly focus on it in the summer when we might go tubing or swimming with friends. As the years passed, the hair on his head decreased dramatically, he grew a lot of chest hair, and the back hair, oh the back hair. The upper torso nuisance has grown into a calamity. The once a month manscaping turned into a weekly thing. It is no longer something that he can take care of on his own. It has become a couple issue. The hair has gotten to the point that he can no longer just shave the top and be ok. Now, I have to be intimately involved in the care and grooming of my husband. I have noticed that over the past year, he has started to complain more about the hair and the fact that people at his job comment on the monkey crawling out of the top of his shirt. He frequently mentions that I need to help him manage the hair. He has begun to brush the shoulder hair into a nice 1970's Eric Estrada type do. The hair has also started to creep down the back sides of his upper arms. Now, that is especially disturbing to me. I remember in one of the towns in which I lived, maybe Stephenville, seeing a super white trash guy in his 50's who would always wear a sleeveless tshirt to the bar. He was greasy looking and looked like he smelled. He had so much fur on his shoulders and the back of his arms that we said he was wearing a sweater. That is what I imagine when I see that back-of-upper-arm hair on my sweet husband (who is not white trash.ok, maybe a little). I cannot believe that he now sports a hairy sweater vest. We have been married for 10 years now. Last week, I knew the magic was over when Ray was standing in the big garden tub of our home with me using clippers (yes, like you would use on a dog) to shave his back hair (and arm and shoulders and flanks and upper crack region). He was wearing shorts, but I had him bend over slightly, "like you would do at work, " I told him, so that I could also clip the hair that would show above his scrub pants. You know the honeymoon is over when you reflect upon your manscaping couple time.
Another Hair Related Blog Category: Life
As you get older, I think that hair becomes more of an issue. Some of you may have read my previous blog related to chin hairs Once again, a hair issue has sparked my creativity. When Ray and I started dating in 1993, I was 18 and he was 19. At that time, Ray had hair on his legs, head, arms, and a small patch on his chest. No big deal. I would say in about 2000, 3 years into marriage, I began to notice that he was getting a little thin on the top of his head. He grew more chest hair, and he started to have a some hair on his back. The back hair was nothing that he could not manage himself with a razor once a month or so. He would mainly focus on it in the summer when we might go tubing or swimming with friends. As the years passed, the hair on his head decreased dramatically, he grew a lot of chest hair, and the back hair, oh the back hair. The upper torso nuisance has grown into a calamity. The once a month manscaping turned into a weekly thing. It is no longer something that he can take care of on his own. It has become a couple issue. The hair has gotten to the point that he can no longer just shave the top and be ok. Now, I have to be intimately involved in the care and grooming of my husband. I have noticed that over the past year, he has started to complain more about the hair and the fact that people at his job comment on the monkey crawling out of the top of his shirt. He frequently mentions that I need to help him manage the hair. He has begun to brush the shoulder hair into a nice 1970's Eric Estrada type do. The hair has also started to creep down the back sides of his upper arms. Now, that is especially disturbing to me. I remember in one of the towns in which I lived, maybe Stephenville, seeing a super white trash guy in his 50's who would always wear a sleeveless tshirt to the bar. He was greasy looking and looked like he smelled. He had so much fur on his shoulders and the back of his arms that we said he was wearing a sweater. That is what I imagine when I see that back-of-upper-arm hair on my sweet husband (who is not white trash.ok, maybe a little). I cannot believe that he now sports a hairy sweater vest. We have been married for 10 years now. Last week, I knew the magic was over when Ray was standing in the big garden tub of our home with me using clippers (yes, like you would use on a dog) to shave his back hair (and arm and shoulders and flanks and upper crack region). He was wearing shorts, but I had him bend over slightly, "like you would do at work, " I told him, so that I could also clip the hair that would show above his scrub pants. You know the honeymoon is over when you reflect upon your manscaping couple time.
from 04/07/07: Crawfish and Urine
April 7, 2007 - Saturday
Crawfish and Urine Current mood: hyper Category: Life
This is quite possibly the funniest story I have read in years. This story, true story, was written by one of my very best friends here in Austin. Don't be discouraged by the length, it is worth the read. You will see why l like her so much.
I was in the local grocery store the other day, shopping for all the things a middle-age semi-vegetarian white woman might shop for. I was leaving the seafood dept. after having bought some fresh non-farmed fish when I saw a display stand in the middle of the deptartment. It was filled with ice and what looked to be about 700 very cold and nearly frozen to death crawfish (seems crawfish boilin' season has arrived). They looked up at me (from what would surely be an icy death bed at some point) with their little black beady eyes and raised their tiny red pinchers towards me. It was as if they were saying "pick me, help me, save me, love me". I was their God. I immediately knew what I had to do. I got a plastic bag and tongs and proceeded to fill it up with crawfish. It was very heart-wrenching to decide which ones would have a chance at freedom and which ones would be left to face either a slow cold or very hot boiling death. I empathized with Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice" and knew how tough a choice she had to make. But it had to be done. Saving some was better than none.
I chose the larger more active ones. I figured they would have a fighting chance once I released them into my neighborhood pond. Some trendy woman stopped and watched what I was doing. She said to me "I see you are picking out the larger and most alive ones. Are they the best for eating?" Shamefully I said "yes". Hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She then continued on to ask me how to cook the crawfish. I loathed myself as I found myself explaining how one concocts a "crawfish boil". There is a part of me new enough to this "not eating my fellow creatures that have been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics and fed a non-natural diet thing" to where I could not bring myself to tell her I was buying these poor little bastards to set them free. I guess I didn't want to appear as some kooky tree hugger or militant vegan. So I lied. Finally she moved on.
After filling the bag I took it to the seafood counter to be weighed and tagged for checkout. The associate was going to put ice in the bag and gave me a funny look when I vehemently refused it. I checked out and as soon as I got out of the store, tore some holes in the plastic bag so they could get some oxygen. I put the bag of "soon to be free" crawfish in the front seat of my car because it was sunny and would warm them up. I went back to the store to look at some rose bushes that were on display. When I got back to the car some of the more daring and active crawfish had made a break for it through the air holes in the plastic bag. Some were under the seat, some had even managed to wedge themselves into a pocket on the door where I keep CDs.
Not having any tongs, I steeled myself to the task at hand. I knew a crawfish pinch wasn't that bad, but nonetheless I was going to avoid it if I could. I plucked them from the CD pocket and from under the seat. They fought me valiantly. I guess the warmth of the car had really invigorated them.
I drove to the small pond in my Texas hill country subdivision to release them. It is about a 12 mile drive from the store. Somewhere along the way I felt I needed to pee. Not a big urge. Just that somewhere the brain is starting to think about it. I figured I would just wait until I got home, it wouldn't take long to release my little survivors. I got to the pond and took the plastic bag full of now very much alive crawfish and proceeded to strategically place them in the pond. I didn't want to dump them all in one place for fear none would survive if a predator found them quickly. So I walked up and down the bank kerplunking them here and there. Some really took off, scooting backwards into the depths of the pond. Others just kinda hung out where I had put them. They were free again. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, they were free at last. They were beautiful, the sun glistened down through the clear water illuminating their bright red shells against the calichi bottom of the pond.
That is, except for one. As I walked up and down the shore of the pond admiring my handiwork and thinking, "my what a good person I am", I spied one little fellow on his back. Maybe he was the one idiot in the bunch. Because as we all know, there IS always one in a the crowd, isn't there? I watched to see if the idiot crawfish was going to be able to flip himself over. It was apparent he couldn't or wouldn't. I don't know which, because he wasn't saying. So I decided to step in and help him.
We (the crawfish and I) had come this far, I wasn't about to let my immediate release survival rate drop to anything less than 100%.
I had been to yoga earlier that day and was wearing some rather nice yellow Lance Armstrong special edition Nike flip-flops given to me by a friend. I really love these flip-flops and have taken great pains not to get them dirty. I usually just wear them to yoga or to work. Not out in the yard. I also had on some nice capri-length yoga pants as well, with loose legs.
The upside-down crawfish was about two feet from the bank. I couldn't reach him leaning over the water. I couldn't find a stick to turn him over with. I had to step into the pond with a least one foot in order to reach him/her. The pond bottom looked pretty solid to me, not muddy; packed caliche like we find in the creeks and lakes in the hill country. After all, the crawfish had not sank into the pond bottom when I threw them in. How wrong I was.
As soon as my foot hit the pond bottom, my foot, along with my special edition Lance Armstrong Nike flip-flop was sucked down into the mud about mid-way to my calf. At about the same time my foot hit the cold water and was being sucked down into the mud, I noticed I was beginning to pee. It was a small trickle. My urinary sphincter was trying to do it's God-given job. It just wasn't succeeding very well. I am a middle-aged white woman after all.
I pressed on despite my two handicaps and flipped the crawfish over. It didn't move. It seemed content and bemused to stay and watch me try to extricate my foot and beloved flip-flop from the mud while peeing on myself. I pulled my foot free, but to my horror, the flip-flop wasn't on my foot. It had been sucked down into the muddy quagmire of the deceptive pond bottom. I couldn't see the hole where my foot had been because I had stirred up the mud getting my foot stuck and unstuck. Pee is still dribbling down my leg at this point. I gave up fighting the losing pee battle (double entendre). I sat on a rock, stuck both arms into the cold water to dig my Lance Armstrong special edition flip-flops out of the quicksand-like mire and let the urine flow. Like Kenny Rogers says, "You have to know when to hold 'em.....etc...."
As I sat on the rock, pissing myself and blindly digging in the mud for the flip-flops I thought to myself, "was it worth it?" Was freeing those 20 or so little lives worth this private humiliation, not to mention the soiling of the flip-flop (and yoga pants)? And the answer is of course, "yes".
I finally succeeded in getting the dirty filthy flip-flop out, finished peeing, picked up the empty smelly crawfish bag and walked back to my vehicle. Thank God I had some towels in my vehicle and that it was only a quarter-mile or so to my house. I got in the truck and the oddest mixture of smells surrounded me. One that most of us will (hopefully) never experience in a lifetime: the smell of crawfish and urine.
Crawfish and Urine Current mood: hyper Category: Life
This is quite possibly the funniest story I have read in years. This story, true story, was written by one of my very best friends here in Austin. Don't be discouraged by the length, it is worth the read. You will see why l like her so much.
I was in the local grocery store the other day, shopping for all the things a middle-age semi-vegetarian white woman might shop for. I was leaving the seafood dept. after having bought some fresh non-farmed fish when I saw a display stand in the middle of the deptartment. It was filled with ice and what looked to be about 700 very cold and nearly frozen to death crawfish (seems crawfish boilin' season has arrived). They looked up at me (from what would surely be an icy death bed at some point) with their little black beady eyes and raised their tiny red pinchers towards me. It was as if they were saying "pick me, help me, save me, love me". I was their God. I immediately knew what I had to do. I got a plastic bag and tongs and proceeded to fill it up with crawfish. It was very heart-wrenching to decide which ones would have a chance at freedom and which ones would be left to face either a slow cold or very hot boiling death. I empathized with Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice" and knew how tough a choice she had to make. But it had to be done. Saving some was better than none.
I chose the larger more active ones. I figured they would have a fighting chance once I released them into my neighborhood pond. Some trendy woman stopped and watched what I was doing. She said to me "I see you are picking out the larger and most alive ones. Are they the best for eating?" Shamefully I said "yes". Hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She then continued on to ask me how to cook the crawfish. I loathed myself as I found myself explaining how one concocts a "crawfish boil". There is a part of me new enough to this "not eating my fellow creatures that have been shot full of growth hormones and antibiotics and fed a non-natural diet thing" to where I could not bring myself to tell her I was buying these poor little bastards to set them free. I guess I didn't want to appear as some kooky tree hugger or militant vegan. So I lied. Finally she moved on.
After filling the bag I took it to the seafood counter to be weighed and tagged for checkout. The associate was going to put ice in the bag and gave me a funny look when I vehemently refused it. I checked out and as soon as I got out of the store, tore some holes in the plastic bag so they could get some oxygen. I put the bag of "soon to be free" crawfish in the front seat of my car because it was sunny and would warm them up. I went back to the store to look at some rose bushes that were on display. When I got back to the car some of the more daring and active crawfish had made a break for it through the air holes in the plastic bag. Some were under the seat, some had even managed to wedge themselves into a pocket on the door where I keep CDs.
Not having any tongs, I steeled myself to the task at hand. I knew a crawfish pinch wasn't that bad, but nonetheless I was going to avoid it if I could. I plucked them from the CD pocket and from under the seat. They fought me valiantly. I guess the warmth of the car had really invigorated them.
I drove to the small pond in my Texas hill country subdivision to release them. It is about a 12 mile drive from the store. Somewhere along the way I felt I needed to pee. Not a big urge. Just that somewhere the brain is starting to think about it. I figured I would just wait until I got home, it wouldn't take long to release my little survivors. I got to the pond and took the plastic bag full of now very much alive crawfish and proceeded to strategically place them in the pond. I didn't want to dump them all in one place for fear none would survive if a predator found them quickly. So I walked up and down the bank kerplunking them here and there. Some really took off, scooting backwards into the depths of the pond. Others just kinda hung out where I had put them. They were free again. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, they were free at last. They were beautiful, the sun glistened down through the clear water illuminating their bright red shells against the calichi bottom of the pond.
That is, except for one. As I walked up and down the shore of the pond admiring my handiwork and thinking, "my what a good person I am", I spied one little fellow on his back. Maybe he was the one idiot in the bunch. Because as we all know, there IS always one in a the crowd, isn't there? I watched to see if the idiot crawfish was going to be able to flip himself over. It was apparent he couldn't or wouldn't. I don't know which, because he wasn't saying. So I decided to step in and help him.
We (the crawfish and I) had come this far, I wasn't about to let my immediate release survival rate drop to anything less than 100%.
I had been to yoga earlier that day and was wearing some rather nice yellow Lance Armstrong special edition Nike flip-flops given to me by a friend. I really love these flip-flops and have taken great pains not to get them dirty. I usually just wear them to yoga or to work. Not out in the yard. I also had on some nice capri-length yoga pants as well, with loose legs.
The upside-down crawfish was about two feet from the bank. I couldn't reach him leaning over the water. I couldn't find a stick to turn him over with. I had to step into the pond with a least one foot in order to reach him/her. The pond bottom looked pretty solid to me, not muddy; packed caliche like we find in the creeks and lakes in the hill country. After all, the crawfish had not sank into the pond bottom when I threw them in. How wrong I was.
As soon as my foot hit the pond bottom, my foot, along with my special edition Lance Armstrong Nike flip-flop was sucked down into the mud about mid-way to my calf. At about the same time my foot hit the cold water and was being sucked down into the mud, I noticed I was beginning to pee. It was a small trickle. My urinary sphincter was trying to do it's God-given job. It just wasn't succeeding very well. I am a middle-aged white woman after all.
I pressed on despite my two handicaps and flipped the crawfish over. It didn't move. It seemed content and bemused to stay and watch me try to extricate my foot and beloved flip-flop from the mud while peeing on myself. I pulled my foot free, but to my horror, the flip-flop wasn't on my foot. It had been sucked down into the muddy quagmire of the deceptive pond bottom. I couldn't see the hole where my foot had been because I had stirred up the mud getting my foot stuck and unstuck. Pee is still dribbling down my leg at this point. I gave up fighting the losing pee battle (double entendre). I sat on a rock, stuck both arms into the cold water to dig my Lance Armstrong special edition flip-flops out of the quicksand-like mire and let the urine flow. Like Kenny Rogers says, "You have to know when to hold 'em.....etc...."
As I sat on the rock, pissing myself and blindly digging in the mud for the flip-flops I thought to myself, "was it worth it?" Was freeing those 20 or so little lives worth this private humiliation, not to mention the soiling of the flip-flop (and yoga pants)? And the answer is of course, "yes".
I finally succeeded in getting the dirty filthy flip-flop out, finished peeing, picked up the empty smelly crawfish bag and walked back to my vehicle. Thank God I had some towels in my vehicle and that it was only a quarter-mile or so to my house. I got in the truck and the oddest mixture of smells surrounded me. One that most of us will (hopefully) never experience in a lifetime: the smell of crawfish and urine.
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