According to this old cookbook, homosexuality isn’t caused by genes or by one’s environment.
It’s caused by cheese, which is as awesome as it is surprising. We can finally put this argument to rest now, and I think we can all agree that’s a… wait for it… gouda thing.
My Opa passed away when I was about 15 or so. My family lived really far away, and we didn’t see each other often. In fact, I only have a very few memories of him.
Those memories…whew. See, when most people remember a departed grandparent, the memories bring up an emotion. Whether its of PB&J sandwiches with the crusts lovingly cut off or drunken holiday arguments, it all brings up some kind of feeling,
In my case, the feeling is that of complete and utter confusion.
My Opa was an incredibly intelligent man, and was quite skilled in his chosen field of medicine. That isn’t the confusing part, nor is it a strong memory. It is quite simply fact, and to a little kid, all jobs from mailman to neurosurgeon are pretty impressive and grown up.
I get the feeling that he had–probably quite rightly, as that level of education and ability is something to be proud of– a teensy bit of arrogance, or maybe ego, or maybe just enthusiasm about his knowledge. That isn’t confusing either. When people study hard and master something difficult, it is totally understandable. I was going through my own struggles and triumphs with cursive writing at the time, so I totally understood.
The confusing part is that my strongest memories are of him drawing on napkins on our yearly dinners out. Paper, linen, didn’t matter. If it was suitable for wiping one’s fingers, it was also clearly suitable for some learnin’! He’d get all excited about something, and whoops, out came the ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, and we were all set to get a lesson, complete with diagrams.
Had I, with recent cursive victories on the dastardly letters “m” and “z”, been allowed to draw on napkins to show everyone, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat. My mom was not having any of that though, and while she couldn’t give my Opa a spanking, she could easy give me one, so I sat there, both attentive and envious.
I remember two of these impromptu lectures.
One was vague, and for some reason, it was about showing my sister and I how to properly draw a bird. It’s a shame that this memory is so vague. Drawing birds comes up surprisingly often in my life, because of course it does.
This is a bird. You can tell by the label saying “bird”.
The second lecture is something I will keep with me forever. It was a diagram and instructions on how to perform an emergency tracheotomy with a penknife and Bic pen casing. I don’t know why I would do this, like, ever. I remember it being about if someone has something caught in their throat and the normal methods of using your finger to sweep the mouth or doing the Heimlich Maneuver (Heimlich Remover, to a seven year old) just won’t work. He drew it, then said “like so.”, because apparently, this napkin diagram was pretty much self explanatory.
Like so. If you don’t get it, you’re obviously not trying hard enough.
I think he was showing my dad this, but I took it very seriously. You just never know, right? I felt like I was pretty much ready for anything.
Relax. I’m almost 12% sure that I know what I’m doing with these.
Our meals came then, and no one ever spoke of it again, but that’s pretty much the one and only thing I remember about him. Kids, the lesson here is twofold:
1)when you have grandchildren, make sure you give them interesting life skills to remember you by.
And 2) if you and I ever go out for dinner, make sure you chew very well. You really, really don’t want to choke around me.
This is going to bore 90 % of you. My apologies. Still, if something needs saying, it needs saying.
If you know me in real life, perhaps you know that Johnny Rotten designs tees in his off time. In fact, lots of people I know design, and I love their work. Buzatron, Grrlmarvel, Fishbiscuit Designs, Cubik Designs, Inkone? They’re all excellent, and you really ought to stalk them on Facebook because they have the ninevoltcandy seal of approval stamped on their creative little noggins.
Unfortunately, I can’t do much more than yell congratulations, mazel tov and mabrook at them when they get a print on a daily tee site. As much pride as I would take in wearing something that an awesome friend of mine made, I can’t, because I refuse to wear clothes that make me look really terrible.
It’s not the graphic they’ve made, not at all. The problem is with sizing and flattering cut. To put it as bluntly as possible, I am tall, I am broad shouldered, and I am stacked. As well you know, I am definitely all of these things, but Im not freakishly built. A person wouldnt look at me and automatically think that I am an adult entertainer specializing in big boob fetishes, nor would they see my height and assume that I was once a star player in the NBA. I’m actually fairly average. Like, I could never make it in a sideshow based on my physical characteristics, and would have to rely on skill alone. This makes me kind of sad, because I feel like a dream that I didn’t even know I had was just ripped away from me, but such is life for us average folk.
For you Numberspeople, Im 5’9, 165 lbs, and have a normal BMI. My bust measures 40 inches, my ribcage 33, and my waist 31.
See, thats me, drinking beer at a hockey game like a boss, or at least like a typical Canadian. My figure is….yes, it’s there. Nothing to write home about, unless you habitually write home about subjects that are duller than plastic butter knives.
So yeah, anyway, the size and design options from nearly every daily site do not work for me. I need a ladies cut to flatter my bust, as mens/unisex shirts are cut differently, and hang off of my broader points in a way that makes me look 30 lbs heavier.
This is me, again. My actual weight and shape between the first picture and this one is the same. So where’d those extra inches and pounds come from? Not cool, shirt.
That unisex shirt obviously won’t work for me, because ewww. Shall I try a ladies shirt then?
Oh dear. Thats definitely slimmer fitting, but is unflattering in whole new, trashy, saggy boobed, pot bellied ways. Again, ewww.
The ladies cut is just too tight across my bust with most foundation garments (bras), even in an xl. Sometimes I wear them anyway, but I will assure you that having fabric puckering and gaping lines across my breasts from the shirt makes me quite uncomfortable. Not only is it physically uncomfortable but the amount of guys blatantly staring at my chest is rather unpleasant.
As a bit of a side note here, there seems to be a school of thought that if women have big breasts, they enjoy showing them off at all opportunities. That school of thought supposes that big breasted women enjoy being valued for two chunks of fatty and glandular tissue, and that their purpose is to decorate the world of complete strangers. That school of thought is bullshit. When I go grocery shopping in a daily site shirt, I am trying to get food, not titillate (ha!) some guy in the toothpaste aisle. More often than not though, thats exactly what happens when I wear a shirt with fabric straining across my bust. If you’re a guy who does this, please please please knock it the hell off. Being eyemolested is not flattering, it’s revolting.
Anyway.
Im sure Im not alone in this. As I said, Im on the bigger side, but Im pretty normal looking. If Im average, there are smaller ladies, and also bigger ones. If I can barely fit into the largest size tee, how many ladies would have no hope of fitting at all? They won’t buy because theres nothing for them *to* buy. Their dollars spend just as well as a smaller persons dollars, so why arent there as many opportunities to spend them?
Alongside that size issue, there is also the issue of flattering necklines. A v neck makes me look my height and well proportioned, particularly if its a bit of a deeper v. It makes me look good, it makes me feel good, and that in turn makes the shirt look good. Having a great looking product that is loved and worn often is quite a decent advertisement, dont you think? Unfortunately, the crewnecks have the opposite effect. They make me look shorter, wider, saggy and because of the straining fabric, trashy. It makes the shirt look poorly constructed and ill fitting, which is (when I wear it, which isnt often) actually going to work against the company. If a friend asks me where I got a shirt that looks crappy on me, and I tell them, its not likely that they will want to shop there. How many women in the history of ever run out to buy clothes that make them look dumpy, lumpy and matronly? The answer is zero, excepting schoolmarms and nuns.
Look at the grey shirt above, then compare to this:
My bust looks higher, and its just so much more flattering, right? These are the shirt styles I want. These are the shirt styles that I can’t get. The v doesn’t even need to be that deep. Any v is better than a crewneck.
So, yeah, theres that. And fatter people have similar issues. There are so many roly poly folk out there who actually really like gaming and pop culture. A lot of them would buy if there was something in their size, but there isnt, so they dont. Seriously, no guy that wears a 4x will say “gee, they dont have that, so ill just get an xl and hope for the best.” Again, the dollars of a fat person spend just the same as the dollars of a thinner person, but many daily sites seem to be ignoring those dollars.
Why is this happening? Daily tee sites are not exclusive boutiques and their target demographic is not the Rachel Zoes of the world. Or maybe that is the target demographic….but that would be a very foolish business choice, especially considering that more Americans are overweight or obese than ever before.
Before anyone whines about the vastly increased costs of clothing us bigger folk, I am fully and completely aware that a 4x costs more than a sm. You know, people who wear the 4x are aware of that too…and they are aware that plus sizing is usually managed by adding an additional $2 or so dollars, which is still a very good deal considering the total will be $12 instead of the normal $10.
TL;DR on that one. If a shirt site wants a bigger piece of the pie, they’d do well to include people who like bigger pieces of pie. Mmmmmmm, pie.
So yeah. Im not sure where Im going with this, but Im annoyed. Johnny Rotten has a print tonight that I love, and but I would look like crap, so, instead of spending 10 or 12, I spend 0 and am sad. There has to be a better way, doesnt there?
This is a note to myself, so that next time I want to make apple pie, I wont hulksmash through the kitchen trying to remember what I did and how I did it. Maybe you’re not a hulksmash baker, but I am. Not remembering how much sugar I need makes me angry, and you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Ahem. Back on task.
Nine Volt Apple Pie*
Makes 2 9″ pies.
– 4 pie crusts, ready made, unless you feel like dallying about with making pastry. Making pastry makes me angry and sweary, so I don’t. Judge if you must.
– 10 or so granny smith apples, cored, peeled, and sliced.
– 1/2 cup butter.
– 3 tablespoons allpurpose flour.
– 1 teaspoon (or more, or less, or whatever you feel like) ground cinnamon. Note: paprika and cayenne both kind of look like cinnamon, but really should not be substituted for it 99% of the time. Who knew?
– 1 teaspoon vanilla extract.
– 1 cup demerara sugar
– 1/4 cup water
1. Preheat over to 425F.
2. Put the bottom crusts into the pie tins. Trim off excess.
3. Pile sliced apples into the pie crusts evenly.
4. Slice the other two pie crusts into one inch strips and make a lattice crust. Over, under, over, under….just like that basketweaving class you took in college instead of calculus!
5. Admire your work or vow to learn weaving, as the case may be.
6. Melt the butter in a sauce pan. Add the flour. Once all the flour has been incorporated, add the sugar and water and bring to a boil. Stir-stir-stir! Burnt sugar smells terrible. You do not want this. It will make you angry and sweary.
7. Pour the sugarbutterflourwater mix over the pies evenly and slowly, so it doesn’t splosh everywhere, because sploshing is messy and gross. Don’t believe? Google it. Filters off, of course, for full NSFW understanding. You don’t want that nonsense in your kitchen.
8. Put in preheated oven for 15 mins. Lower the heat to 350 and allow to bake for another 40 minutes or so.
9. Let cool, and either slice it up if you’re fancy, or just grab a fork.
*– Please note: while this is called nine volt apple pie, it is not actually recommended to put batteries in it. Cranberries would be okay, as would walnuts or raisins. But no batteries. Thank you.
So hey, y’all! I hope you’re well and happy. I’m busy trying my very best to figure out this new bit of shiny internet wizardry and baking and hollering at the kids for making turkey noises at the dog, but I have all kinds of stories that I can’t wait to tell you. Please note the above photo has nothing to do with my life–that i know of– but it’s way more interesting than a photo of me pretending that I actually have this tablet figured out. Feel free to discuss and/or write fanfic in the comments!
I’m pretty vocal about being tired of this election nonsense, which makes me pretty awesome and also pretty unpopular. I really feel that with the lies and treachery and confrontations, I have been held hostage in front of a 24 hour Dynasty marathon for the last two years, only without the fancy hats, the exclamations of “you BITCH!” and slapfests.
All of these would have made it better. Seriously, think about it. There is nothing in the world that cannot be made more interesting by approaching it a Joan Collins kind of way.
A friend tried to cheer me up by telling me it’s almost over, and it’s true. This phase of it is. Unfortunately, we’re set to move into the next phase at 7 o’clock tomorrow evening. Are you all ready for more analysis than you ever thought possible? I am not, but I know it’s coming, as is the “I knew it all along! I told you… remember? When I said this thing might happen? I AM AN EXPERT.” thing. Brace yourselves.
Just so I’m not poking you in the ribs tomorrow night with my “I told you so”s, here are my predictions:
1) Someone will win.
2) Millions of people will be thrilled.
3) Someone else will lose.
4)Millions of people (probably different millions than the first batch I mentioned) will be terribly upset. Some will even go so far as to threaten to move to different countries to protest this.
5) No one will be moving anywhere, because it’s a lot easier to say than do.
6) The words ‘fraud’ and ‘recount’ will be said so many times that they will stop sounding like words and start sounding like verbal typos and/or fungal infections that one catches from the tile floor at the local public pool.
7) There will be snark. Oh Lord, there will be snark. It won’t even be good, funny snark, unless MST3K is hosting election coverage and no one bothered to tell me.
8)I will realize that there are lots of things no one bothered to tell me. Not just about the elections, but probably about school forms that need signing and dog food that needs to be purchased too.
9) At some point, I will see a voter on tv who has so much bluster about his team winning that I will wonder if he has confused this with a football game. I will say something about this, and Johnny Rotten will remind me that it’s a weird comment for me to make because I don’t actually know anything about football. He will then try to explain the rules to me, again. They wont sink in, again.
10) Manchild will vote for the very first time. He will be very excited and will chatter our ears off about it, which is awesome because hooray democracy! And hooray becoming an adult!
So. What are YOUR predictions? Lay ’em on me.
Munchkin asked why I chose her given name for her.
I told her it was because “Butthead” was already taken. Uh-huh. Uh-huh-huh-huh.
I’d never name her Butthead. She’s much more like Beavis’ alter-ego, Cornholio. (via Fanpop)
Honesty: it’s what brings mothers and tween daughters closer together.
I just realized there will be people scandalized by this, and they shouldn’t be. It’s not like I was going to name her ‘Butthead ‘for real. ‘Beavis’ would have been way classier. Also, My Aunt Becky would probably approve of this, because she’s a totally rad bloggerina, one of the CoolKids, and– keep in mind I am yelling this like an emokid–“she understands me, not like YOU!”
You should go visit her over at Mommy Wants Vodka .
If reading things aren’t your style (and who can blame you? You’ve already read, like, 100 words here!) and you want to look at pretties instead, you really ought to go check out this shirt by cubik, because, well, you should. Winnie the Pooh plus Tardis equals more win than you are ready for. Brace yourself. Winter is coming (and you’ll probably want to cover your torso, no? I hear nipple frostbite is a bitch.)
Disclaimer: I’m not paid for recommending these links to you in anything other than warm fuzzy feelings. I just think they’re both awesome.
I checked my stats this morning, and I learned that I am already helping people!
Someone searched for ‘cold wax stuck’, as you can see. They found my illuminating and more-terrifying-than-a-bird-in-a-clown-suit post about the perils of cold wax. I’m guessing that because of me, they were either able to unstick scissors or a guinea pig–or a guinea pig wielding scissors– from their hoo-hah, which pretty much puts me right on course for some kind of humanitarian award in the field of hoo-hah saving.
As an aside here, and this is kind of important, ‘hoo-hah’s are not the same as ‘hooah’s. When Johnny Rotten was in the army, they said ‘hooAH’ a lot. It’s kind of just a grunt of ‘yes I heard you and yes we’re totally going to do whatever it is you’re asking Go Team Army!” kind of noise. Of course, ‘hoo-HAH’ is slang for vagina. I can’t tell you how many times I nearly busted up laughing at Very Important Events because to my ear, it sounded like whole herds of soldiers were enthusiastically yelling the equivalent to “coochiesnorcher!” during inspirational times of whatever meeting they were attending. Yes, I am well aware of how immature I am. Yes, I totally think it should happen anyway. I’m an soon-to be awardwinning expert in this field, remember?
Madame X is one of those people who took me under her wing when Johnny Rotten deployed. I firmly believe that everyone should have a friend like that, especially if one lives far from wherever ‘home’ is and one has found herself completely alone in her brave new world.
The Portrait of Madame X.
Seriously, y’all. She is a hell of a person and one of the nicest folks I’ve met. She also tended to put me in situations that were, to put it in the kindest possible way, “learning experiences”. Whether that is included in being a hell of a person or is the exception to that statement is up to you to decide.
This is the tale of one of those learning experiences.
Madame X and I were on our way to a party out in the country. She was actually invited, and I was her plus-one, not that anyone had actually allowed for plus-ones. I had been raised to be a polite person– though I often fail at that, as anyone know knows me in real life can attest– and I was a bit concerned about showing up without an invitation. Whatever, she assured me that it was fine.
When I say this was out in the country, I mean it was way, way waaaaaaaaaaaay out there. We drove towards nowhere, and about 20 minutes past when I thought we would have reached the end of the earth, we finally arrived.
No, we were not ‘there yet”. I may have repeatedly been told to stop asking.
Madame X introduced me around. Everyone was very nice, especially when they heard that my husband was overseas. If there’s one thing I have learned about Oklahomans, they take supporting their troops very, very seriously. I felt awesome. The kids were playing, I was chatting to strangers, and someone– probably Madame X, come to think of it– had put an ice cold beer in my hand. I was definitely the ‘new person’, an outsider, and the subject of much curiosity, but everything was going smashingly well.
If you like me and want no misfortune for me, perhaps you’d better stop reading here. You can close out this story, secure in the knowledge that I did not make an ass of myself and everything was good, if a little boring. If, however, you like me but like schadenfreude just a little bit more, keep reading.
.
.
.
Still here? Sadist. Okay, on we go.
So everything was going smashingly well, as I was saying. Madame X had realized that I was doing A-OK without her having to run interference, and she was off talking to her friends. I heard my name called from over by the food prep area, and went over to see what was going on.
I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m not sure if I imagined it or not, but it seemed a hush came over the partygoers. I looked around, but could see nothing that would cause this. The very large man in overalls that had called me over was grinning at me, and suddenly, I had a very, very bad feeling that I was about to have yet another ‘learning experience’.
He asked if I knew what calf fries were. I most certainly did: deep fried bovine testicles. Bull-balls, if you will. They are sliced thinly, then dredged-or-something, then battered-or-breaded-or-something, then fried. They don’t just fry the whole thing, because that would be ridiculous, you know? Madame X had told me about them on the way there, and had made a point of telling me that I absolutely was under no obligation to try them if I didn’t want to.
It looked like that “no obligation” thing was about to change. The large grinning man asked if I wanted one, and without waiting for a reply, pulled a piece of bovine testicle out of his overalls pocket and handed it to me.
I looked over at Madame X, who had the most horrified look I’ve ever seen on her face. I don’t think she’s a praying type, but I think she was praying really hard right then. Had she been closer, I’m sure she would told the guy to knock it off, but she was far enough away that all she could do was watch. I had to deal with this all by my lonesome, with a very curious audience just waiting to see what this city girl would do. It was like I had showed up at an Old West themed dinner theater production, and I was the surprise star.
I realized, as I looked at the castration byproduct that was still warm from large-man body heat and a bit linty from his pocket, that the fried-‘nad was cooling. As unappetizing as I felt it was while hot, cold would be much, much worse.
For illustrative purposes only. This is probably not the previous owner of the deep fried huevos de toro.
There is only one possible solution to a situation like this. It wasn’t a snack, it was a test. It was a game of chicken, with something that tasted like chicken but totally was not chicken. I had no choices. I had to eat the calf testicle or be shunned as a stick-in-the-ass city person who is too good for calf testicles. Worse, Madame X would be shunned too just for knowing me, and both of us would be subject to “Bless her heart, but…” behind our backs. I popped it in my mouth, chewed twice, swallowed and thanked OverallMan.
I made the right choice. The audience seemed satisfied and went back to their drinks and small talk, though a few of the ladies looked a little disappointed that there were no histronics.
Madame X was impressed, and honestly, I think thats when we went from friendly acquaintances to actual friends. Maybe that should be the test of any friendship: would your potential friend eat a linty chunk of bullball from a strangers pocket, just to make sure you aren’t shunned by your peers for knowing her? I’m proud of myself, because yes, I am that kind of friend.
I would probably do it for you too, because in all honesty, calf fries are actually kind of tasty. Next time, I might even try them without the lint.
ninevoltcandy 