I Paid For That

There's a new post at I Paid For That?

If you'd like the non-rhyming account of my morning, that's the place to read it. I'm in a poem-y kind of mood this week so I've written a short poem about my Target experience.



I took myself to Target
While on my morning break.
I needed medication
To soothe a sinus ache.

The druggist hours were posted
For all the world to see.
Yet the door was locked down
On the Target pharmacy.

The employees weren't helpful
They didn't seem to care.
When I do more shopping
It surely won't be there.

Redneck Haikus

I live in Alabama. While not a native, I have been here for many years. So, even though I'm not a redneck, I can speak the language. I've taken my understanding of the culture and combined it with my love of haikus for your enjoyment and/or ridicule.







Rolling fields of green.
The beauty is unending.
Oh, no! It's KUDZU!


Southern Driving Rules:
(Standard laws do not apply)
My truck is bigger!


Culture, style and class?
Did you get lost or somethin'?
You ain't from 'round here.


Redneck wedding day
Barefoot and pregnant - they wed.
He did get 'er done.


Thought she had freckles.
Daddy spits out the window.
Poor thing... Bless her heart!

I'm a Bad Daughter

Years ago, when I was single and dating, I decided to check out the online dating thing. This was long before Match.com and similar sites were even in existence. I think I used some kind of personals ad at Yahoo or AOL.

I was cautious. I emailed with the potential date for a while before giving my phone number. Even then, I only gave my cell number so the potential date (or serial killer) couldn’t do a reverse look-up and find out where I lived. When I first went out with the person, it was a lunch date. Lunch dates are perfect. You’re in broad daylight; you drive yourself to a public place; you meet. If the chemistry is not there or they give you the creeps, you have the excuse of getting back to work.

It was fun. I met some interesting people. I didn’t think it was all that daring. One day, I was driving to meet a fellow I’d met online. My mother called. She asked what I was doing.

“Oh, I’m going to meet a guy for lunch.”

“That sounds nice! Where did you meet him?” my mother asked. She asked because she’s my mother and mothers want to know these kinds of things.

“Online,” I replied.

“(gasping noises) What?!? Where?! How do you know he’s not a murderer? That’s not safe!” she calmly replied. Okay, it wasn’t calm. I was just seeing if you were paying attention. She replied like that because she’s my mother and mothers respond to things this way.

I explained the safety precautions I’d taken. I did my best to reassure her that I was going to be just fine. It didn’t work. Mom insisted that I call her the very minute I got back out to my car after lunch. If I recall correctly, she wrote down his name or something, too.

I am a bad daughter.

I did call my mother as soon as I got back in my car after lunch. Did I mention that I am a very bad daughter? You see, I called her but I muffled my voice and pretended I was terrified when she picked up the phone.

“Mom? I’m in the trunk of a car and I think we’re headed east.”

She did forgive me. She forgave me because she’s my mother and mothers do that kind of thing.

Hey! I Resent That!

I read an article recently in a magazine that will remain nameless because it makes me feel old to have it in my house. No, it’s not AARP or Modern Maturity or Arthritis Today but it’s a magazine aimed at women of a certain age. I’m tangenting; forgive me. I’m not yet old but my body and mind are starting to exhibit some of the ravages of time.

Why did I come in here? Oh, yeah, the article.

Connie Schultz wrote a piece in the Magazine-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named that has nothing to do, really, with my topic. However, there was this one little part of one little paragraph that jumped out at me. She wrote that a friend once defined resentment as you drinking the poison and expecting the other person to feel the pain. (note: my aging brain isn’t sure if that’s a direct quote or close to what she said or what I got out of it so I’ll check the magazine when I can and edit, if necessary). Miriam-Webster Online defines resentment as “a feeling of indignant displeasure or persistent ill will at something regarded as a wrong, insult, or injury.” I like Connie’s friend’s definition better.

Why do we feel resentment? Someone else’s action or inaction has made our own personal existence less pleasant. Combine that with a lack of resolution about the unpleasantness and you get resentment.

It can be something relatively minor: The person in front of you at Starbucks is quizzing the barista about the growing conditions of the soybeans for the faux-milk in the grande half caff double soy double shot no foam hazelnut latte and asking if the coffee is fair-trade, shade-grown, and organic. Okay, seriously? Someone who cared about all of that wouldn’t be getting their coffee at Starbucks but I’m trying to make a point here. You resent the Soy Latte Lingerer because, damn it, you want your cinnamon chip scone and you want it NOW. That kind of resentment goes away rather quickly.

Then, there are the moderate resentments. These are somewhat serious and have the potential for doing damage but don’t permeate your entire life. I’m talking about things like: the boss who, in trying to do what’s best for the whole division, does not do the right thing and your career gets sidelined for a while; the “friend” who does something so completely unfriendlike that you wonder if they ever were a friend; the co-worker who frequently dorks up something so badly that you end up working late to fix their mistakes; the ex-husband who lied about you to the kids; and the [insert political party] leaders and members who do/don’t support [insert political agenda item].

Of course, all of these resentments don’t measure nearly as high on the Resent-O-Meter as those resentments about people who are part of our daily lives. Resentment focused at family members and significant others eats away at you. It makes your home – that place where you’re supposed to be able to go to get away from everything else – another place that adds to your stress-level. Many times, there’s not anything at all that you can do about the situation (serenity prayer, serenity prayer, serenity prayer…). Other times, a resentment causing situation continues because you don’t know how to fix it. And still other times, you allow it because the alternative is worse.

To me, here’s what’s key about the drinking poison analogy. If you don’t tell the person they’ve angered you or just let go of the resentment and anger, it poisons you. It poisons your mood and the spillover from that poisoned mood affects everything else in your life. It saps the enjoyment from things you normally enjoy because the offender’s offense is relived constantly in your mind. Worse, the resentee doesn’t even realize they’ve done something resent-worthy so they’re just be-bopping along while you sit and stew. They end up blindsided when you finally snap and read them the riot act.

Understanding that, it would make sense that I would learn to just let go of resentments or attack them head-on. I try. I’m even successful some of the time. I need to try harder.

Ow! Ow! Ow! A Top 5 List!

The Top Five Things to do when you have two torn disks in your lower back and done something you can't pronounce to your upper back/neck and it's causing shooting pains, burning, and numbness in your arms and hands.

5. Whine (this should be done in conjunction with all the other items on the list).
4. Stand up. Sitting is bad. Sitting hurts.
3. Go to bed, curled up on your side and hope it stops hurting.
2. Get pissed off at the surgeon with the God complex.
1. Take darvocet.


I've done all that and some other stuff including chiropractor, ice, rest, TENS, acupuncture, steroids, anti-inflammatories, eating whatever the hell I want because...well, because... okay, there's not a really good reason for that so I'm back on track today. I also went for my first physical therapy session. I feel like the traveling gnome when he uses the American appliance in the European outlet. You know, the one where he's thrown across the room and as he's flat on his back, whimpers, "Am I going to die?"

I hope and plan to blog more regularly as I heal.

...Try, Try Again

I suck.

I failed to maintain my quit. I have a new quit date, a new prescription for Zyban (that I've been taking for about 3 weeks), and a new attitude.

I could list all the reasons why my quit didn't stick but then I'd have to deal with that whole philosophical argument in my head about whether they're reasons or excuses. I'm not in the mood for Do-It-Yourself Psychoanalysis so I won't make a list.

Here's the plan:
Take Zyban - check
Keep taking Zyban - check
Pick a quit date, July 4th - check
Figure out how to keep from gaining weight while/after quitting - check back and see if this plan works

I really do want to quit smoking. I really would love it if smoking wasn't unhealthy, stinky, expensive, and completely abhorrent to MrWurdi. I have smoking issues. I'm dealing with them.

Part of my plan involves not gaining weight when I quit. I realize that's nearly impossible but I've recommitted to my Weight Watcher plan and I've started exercising. Yes, me. Even though I've always hate-hate-hated exercise. I've decided to do the Couch to 5K running plan. I completed the 2nd workout of week one this morning and I've learned something about myself.

I still hate exercise.

I dread it. I don't like it when I'm doing it. I feel so good when I'm done but I don't just feel good that it's over. I feel proud of myself and what I'm doing for my health. I also feel good that I'm providing amusement for anyone who happens to witness me as I huff and puff my way through the workout.

I'm a giver like that.

I was waiting for it to feel good. I have been looking forward to that "runner's high" you hear about from some runners. Unfortunately, I'm afraid my running experience will be more like that of a dear friend of mine who said, "The only way I'd get runner's high is if I were, well, high."

Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjo Music!*

UPDATED!!
MrWurdi and I spent Memorial Day weekend in the mountains of northern Georgia with some friends. We stayed at a fantastic cabin named Wild Blue Yonder and I want to go back and live there. Despite a forest fire that made the view a little hazy, the scenery was gorgeous! A bike ride to Helen, GA provided some wonderful opportunities for oohing and ahhing at the sites as well as a bit of photography. I'll be updating this post later with some photos from the trip and a few more details about them.

At I Paid For That, I'll be posting about our service experiences on our mini-vacation. Who would have thought you'd find gourmet foods and nice wines in the heart of redneck country? Not me. I was pleasantly surprised.

More later!

*The title of this post comes from a t-shirt I saw that made me laugh so hard I nearly wet myself.

The Meals
As I mentioned in I Paid For That, I did all the cooking for our weekend in the mountains. For the folks who'd be arriving after 5 hours on their bikes, I put out a variety of store bought snacks from the amazingly well-stocked local grocery store and gourmet meat shop but did make one snack myself. It was a complete experiment but it ended up being pretty damned tasty. I took mini pitas, split them in half and put a mixture of blue cheese, chopped dates, and prosciutto on them, then tossed them in a 350 degree oven for about 15 minutes. The Windmill Old Vine Zinfandelwas great with this. Just to recognize the wine, here's a picture of a windmill we saw on our bike ride to Helen, GA.




It turned out that one of the folks didn't care for blue cheese so I ended up doing a quick revision to the dinner plan. Since I had two pork loins, I stuffed one with blue cheese and chopped dates; the other, I seasoned with rosemary and garlic. I also made garlic and rosemary red potatoes, broccoli, asparagus and baked artichoke hearts with parmesan cheese. Crusty bread with herbed olive oil and a baby greens salad with blue cheese (for those who wanted it), toasted pine nuts, and a red wine viniagrette were served with the meal. The wine was Yalumba Shiraz Viognier. Nice. For dessert, I'd made two cobblers: blackberry and cherry/apple. These cobblers are remarkably easy to make and not high in points for those doing Weight Watchers. I'll post the recipes later.

I wanted breakfast to be easy so I decided to do two "make the night before" kinds of breakfast bakes. The savory one was a combination of turkey sausage, egg, and cheese. The sweet one was a baked french toast. The fruit had already been cut up so it was super easy to just get up the next morning, turn on the oven, make coffee and chill on the deck and enjoy the view.



Lunch was in Helen, GA at the Old Bavaria and I blogged about that at I Paid For That.

We went back to the gourmet meat shop for steaks to grill for dinner. I seasoned them and the guys did the grilling. Everyone loved the salad and potatoes from the night before so we had more of those and more crusty bread to finish out the meal. Dessert was this absolutely drool-worthy cheesy-pastry kind of dealio that one of the other gals made. It was my one request for someone else cooking something that weekend.

The Views
I'm a huge fan of the beach. I love the sand and the water and the carefree beach spirit. I've discovered that the mountains have a different spirit and it's one that encourages me to explore my own. I'm sure there'll be more on that later. One thing I noticed is that I wanted to capture the beauty of everything around me. I took a few pictures and want to share them.

The mountains were so flippin' beautiful. Unfortunately, there was a forest fire that afternoon and by afternoon, the view was kind of hazy.










Here's a little pond we saw as we blazed down the rural highway.







These flowers were blooming on the side of the mountain. I have no idea what they are. If you know, leave me a comment and tell me. Please?













At the base of the mountain where our cabin was, there was this lovely little pond with a mini waterfall and some gorgeous flowers.
















CACTUS FLOWERS




I have hostas in my front yard. Until this trip, I never realized how pretty the flowers were.

Screaming Beans

There are some sick and twisted people out there in Internetland.

It would probably take a team of psychiatrists many years to figure out why the Screaming Beans amuse me as much as they do. Are you a sicko, too?

Check out Screaming Beans.

The Red Wine Haiku Review

I like haikus.

I like wine.

Imagine my delight when I found a blog that caters to both interests. Lane Steinberg reviews red wines in the form of a haiku. Obviously, reviews of only 17 syllables can’t be that detailed; in fact, some are rather cryptic. However, most of the haikus are perfectly succinct in their adoration, loathing or amusement.

Two of my favorites from The Red Wine Haiku Review are below.

Royal Zin Cuvee Royall Zinfandel 'NV' (California)
This wine is a slut
Only one thing on her mind
And she's good at it

Bella Sera Pinot Noir 2005 (Italy)
Cheaper than bagged dirt
It's actually delicious
Faith in life restored

Random Thought #7: Edible Worms

I just realized of the four posts I've made so far during the month of May, two of them reference edible worms. That's 50% posting about gag-worthy stuff. This post makes the third. That's 60%!

That's disgusting.

I promise not to post about edible worms for at least the remainder of the month.

Steve! Don't Eat It!

I love to read. I'll read just about anything. In my travels over the Internet, I've been entertained, informed, aroused, angered, saddened and disgusted. Occasionally, there is overlap in these emotions. I recently read some interesting blog posts at The Sneeze where the author, Steve, has archived his experiences with ordinary life and with ordinary food.

Steve has a delightfully foul mouth and a talent for turning regular words into comedic content. I've just started checking out his blog when I have a few moments to spare but I like it. I like it a lot.

Aside from the regular food items, Steve has also experimented with odd, supposedly edible, items from the grocery store shelves. He's tasted potted meat, pickled pork rinds, Beggin' Strips, breast milk, natto, cuitlacoche (I gagged a little bit just reading his description), and silkworm pupa. As a child, and not knowing any better, I tried silkworm pupa. I didn't vomit. I didn't understand what I was eating. You can read all about Steve's adventures in gastronomical derring-do with disgusting foods at Steve, don't eat it!

Haiked Up

Pretty, yellow skirt
Does not match my beet-red face.
Breeze? Unexpected.

Nobody loves me, everybody hates me...

When we were kids, we were told to share.

As young adults, it was the extremely brave and/or foolhardy who ate the worm from the tequila bottle.

So, what happens when we're middle-aged? How do we embrace our pasts, remain young at heart, and show the world that we remember our manners and we're not intimidated by booze-soaked creepy-crawlies?


We share the worm.

Hell, let those wimpy-ass college kids swallow the bugger whole. It take real guts, real middle-aged guts, to break it in half to share with a friend. My dear friends, CaveBtch (let me know if that's right) and (remains un-named until I have permission or an alias), shared this special moment together while close friends and curious onlookers observed.

I apologize for the quality of the picture. It was taken facing the sun with a camera phone while straddling a picnic bench. Beer and/or tequila may have been involved. I had to act fast or the moment would have been lost forever.

I Paid For That?

I don't know what I was thinking. I haven't had time for this blog, let alone another. Still, I felt the need for a specialized blog. Since one of my frequent blogging subjects is service or a lack of it, I've started a blog titled, "I Paid For That?"

I'll still write here and plan to do that much more often but for now, check out the new one!

Margaret

Margaret was a wonderful woman and I miss her. I was fortunate to be able to spend quite a bit of time with her in the last months of her life. She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a teacher and a friend. I miss her.

The flower in the picture is the Margaret Merrill rose. Some dear friends of mine sent us one of these so we could plant it and have a beautiful, living reminder of her.

Margaret adored her husband, Jimmy. She mentioned many times during her final months how she missed him. He'd died years ago - a victim of Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS. It, somehow, seemed fitting that she passed on their anniversary.

Her son, MrWurdi, has had the responsibility of dealing with her estate. I'll save my ranting about the probate process for another day. In the midst of his grief, MrWurdi has needed to deal with all the "musts" and "have to" details. His strength during this difficult time has amazed me. He wrote the following:

My mother has passed on,
But I am a man, I must be strong.

But my days are filled with moments,
Moments of surprised sadness.

My mind does well,
But only the surface.

Beneath that lies the fragile emotion,
The weakness, the pain.

A word, a sound, a smell,
Even the consoling of a loved one.

Rips away the façade of strength,
The film of manhood.


I am a child, cold and alone,
My mother has passed on.

~Hiatus~

MrWurdi's mother passed away last Thursday night after a long illness followed by two weeks in the hospital. She was a wonderful lady. More later.

Get Your Motor Runnin'....

Two years ago, I bought my dream car. The kids were grown and it was time for Mom to buy herself a toy for a change.

I'd wanted a mako shark style Corvette (C3) since I was a kid. When I first saw one, I'd been riding in the back cargo area of my dad's Country Squire station wagon. You know, the kind with faux-wood paneling on the side and the obnoxious paint color everywhere else? Ours was piss yellow. It was also back in the days when kids rode in the backs of the wagons with no seat-belt, no car seat, no airbags. All of our moms had automatic, emergency rail arms? The kind that, as soon as the foot hit the brake, the arm flew out to catch you before you flew through the windshield? Remember those?

So, there I was, riding in the back of the piss-yellow-with-faux-wood station wagon. My brother was there, too. We were probably in the midst of that old "he's on my side - she's looking at me" squabble when I saw a car unlike any other behind us. I quickly lost interest in annoying the little brother and focused on The Car. It was so cool! The image burned itself into my brain. Then, the driver turned on the headlights and when they flipped up out of the hood, that was it for me. That was my dream car. That was the car I would have some day.

It took twenty-seven years but I got one. A few months later, I rebuilt the engine in it. This car is Prozac on Wheels with more than 500 hp. It doesn't matter what kind of day I'm having when I'm changing gears, listening to her growl and heading on down the highway.

She doesn't like the cold much and I don't trust the idiots on the roads around here so I rarely drive her in the winter or on rainy days. That combined with a too hectic schedule the past few months ended with a dead battery (it was old) and I couldn't drive her.

MrWurdi is my hero. He called and asked me if I wanted to go to lunch. He'd been to the parts place, replaced my battery with a new one, and came to swap cars with me. MY HERO.

Vroom, vroom, and get outta my way. I've got my motor runnin' and I'm headin' down the highway.

Random Thought #6: Dear AARP

Please stop sending me invitations to join! I'm not that old YET.

~sobbing~

Random Thought #5: Chrysler? Crapsler!

Chrysler's suck. Really. See the picture? Chrysler, down the swirly.

Regular maintenance/tune-up actions can not be performed by the owner. You must take your vehicle into the dealer. For example, the fuel filter is supposed to be changed every 30,000 miles. What does it take to replace the fuel filter in the convertible? YOU HAVE TO DROP THE FUCKING FUEL TANK. Seriously. You have to drain it, drop it and then replace the filter. God forbid you'd have to replace the fuel pump. Guess where the geniuses at Chrysler put that? Inside the tank.

I just got off the phone with the Disservice Department. I'd called to find out how much it would cost to get my spark plugs and wires changed. See, it's impossible to do this minor little maintenance task yourself. Half the spark plugs are located in an inaccessible place (for the home mechanic) in the engine compartment. Guess how much it costs... gone on, guess.

Guessing?

Guess high, now.


$401.00

I'm guessing that one dollar there is Chrysler's way of saying, "HA! We have you bent over the fender and we're not using lube! Take that! And a little more!"

Random Thought #4: Writers Write, Right?

I haven't had time or energy to write anything of substance recently but I'm determined to keep blogging along. So, my goal this week is to write something each day - even if it's just a random thought.

Today's thought:

A little bit of cayenne pepper goes a very long way.