Emma González is my new hero.
So, It’s 2017 and the entire United States of America is pissed off about one thing or another. It’s difficult to feel enlightened when one’s entire country feels as if the lights went out and have no chance of coming back for awhile. We’re all protesting about something.
So this year, those of us who absolutely have no interest what-so-ever in freaking football, yet feel obligated to at least act vaguely entertained so as to be invited to some awful Super Bowl party, which is always awful if you hate football, so why bother, but we feel we should because Everyone does, are protesting by having our own damn parties.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Super Bow 2017. Women of style and gay men across America will reach out to one another and throw the most fabulous theme parties ever imagined. Super. Bow. As in Hair Bow. Let the ribbon flow.
There will be amazing food that doesn’t drip all over the damn couch and floor. There will be wine instead of beer. There will be cocktails instead of shots of whiskey. There will be disco music. There will be scented candles. There will be no polyester jerseys of any kind at all. The television will not be on at any time, at least until we’re all good and drunk, and then it will be to watch old reruns of the Mary Tyler Moore Show.
We will be fabulous and we will be frivolous and we will decorate with hair bows and we will wear hair bows and we will create magnificent hair bows for our daughters and our sons, in pussy pink and environmental green and queer lavender.
Because we don’t have to feel bad about ourselves just because we don’t like football. We don’t have to defend the facts that it’s a dangerous sport more likely to make our sons stupid due to brain injury than it is to make them manly. We don’t have to pretend not to see that the vast majority of players are obviously misusing steroids. We don’t have to keep our thoughts to ourselves that the shoulder pads and skin-tight leggings remind us of the fashions of Dynasty and Dallas and looked fairly ridiculous on women in the 1980s and certainly look ridiculous on men now. We don’t have to eat hot wings and bean dip.
We will rejoice in not conforming to the opinions of the masses, and we will loudly bemoan the face that the masses are sometimes idiots because they’re too lazy to think for themselves anymore, but mostly, we will glorify in the fact that, dammit, I don’t LIKE football and I’m having my own party to celebrate something I enjoy, which is essential and important, because if we stop finding things to celebrate then we just start marching in lockstep.
The world has moved on. America has gone from a long, slow, downward spiral into a full blown free-fall from which it will never recover. You can say it can only get better, but from this particular point in history, it will get far worse before it gets better. The uneducated white folk have just voted in to power the very party that has oppressed them for centuries, by denying them education, health care, unions, and any chance for a better life. All the progress made by feminists and minorities in the last decades has just been flushed own the toilet, ignored, rejected. America is no longer the greatest nation on the planet, we’re only the greatest laughingstock. We’ve lost all respectability. We’re now officially a Reality TV Show, and the world watches with amusement and horror at our bad behavior and apparently unsurmountable stupidity.
I’m terrified to even leave my home. Here in Yahoo Kentucky, the Trump fans are out in full force, driving around in their huge ultra-polluting trucks, armed to the max, just looking for any excuse to exercise their 2nd amendment rights and blow someone away. Fear is the new world order. And the entire planet is appalled at our insanity and stupidity and absolute lack of functioning brain cells.
This is the election won by years of drug abuse. This is the election won by years of “right to work” states. This is the election won by years of an underfunded educational system. This is the election won by no access to quality health care. This is the election won by too many military grade weapons available to pretty much anyone who wants to buy one. This is the election won by raising generations to watch “Survivor” as quality television instead of “Jeopardy”.
It was a long time coming, but if you keep people downtrodden long enough, you can convince them of anything, even their own destruction. And so it begins – the end.
To avoid the ultimate humiliation of eating alone in the cafeteria, Tony started taking his lunchbox into the end stall in the men’s room on a different floor of the building every day. He found he could safely and quietly drop his pants, sit down, and quietly enjoy his lunch alone. He usually brought a book or a magazine to read, and even if someone came in to actually relieve themselves, they always used the stall nearest the urinals, because guys like to make sure other guys hear and smell it when they shit in a public place.
This exercise in overcoming aversion to the idea of eating in a bathroom that was actually kept fairly sanitary, especially compared with filth and unknown stickiness associated with the average lunch room table, began in high school, but it worked so well that Tony took it with him when he went to work for state government, and he continued the practice every single day until he retired after 37 years.
Eating lunch at his own kitchen table, in his own home, on a weekday, was such a novelty to Tony that he had to work up to it, starting standing at the kitchen counter, then sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, then moving toward and eventually to the table and chair itself over the course of three months. The day he first was able to sit down, alone, and enjoy his meal at his table, in his chair, was one of the happiest days of his life. He still, however, ate with his pants around his knees, for the rest of his life, unless, of course, he had company present, which was seldom.
So, I went on a massive shopping spree today and bought my niece 400 Barbie-pink cotton towels for her wedding present, only I bought 400 of the left hand towels that say “Mr.” instead of 200 each of both the left and right, the right saying “Mrs.” so that when she hangs said towels side by side on the towel bar in her bathroom, instead of reading “Mr.” and “Mrs.”, it will read “Mr.” and nothing, because WHO THE HELL PUTS PINK FREAKING TOWELS THAT SAY MR AND MRS ON NOT ONE BUT THREE SEPARATE GIFT REGISTRYS? I raised her better than that, I swear, but she’s met some guy with pretty eyes and a big booty and good taste suddenly goes right the hell out the door….
So, we tell people our hobby is renovating houses, but that’s just code for “we occasionally have to sink a great deal of time and cash into this money-pit we purchased during the recession, so that it doesn’t fall down around us”. We’ve replaced all the windows. We’ve replaced and totally luxed out the guest bathroom. The kitchen was gutted and rebuilt from the studs out as our first project. We’re currently overpaying some old stoner to replace the original 30-year old cedar siding that’s rotting off with Hardi-board that looks sort of like wood siding except that it’s cement composite and won’t burn or rot or do much of anything but hang there until someone else buys the house and decides to take it all down and cover this beautiful modern house with vinyl instead, because that’s what people do in Kentucky.
There are two sizeable decks, both of which were in danger of dry-rotting completely off the house, which we stripped and repaired and rebuilt and reboarded and basically made useable again this summer. We’re pretty proud of them, though there is still substantial finishing work to be done (staining and wire railings). They were both pretty pitiful, due to age, and now I would comfortably hold a Boy Dance Party on either or both, except I suspect the neighbors would call the police, since they deal quite well with one gay couple in the neighborhood, and for awhile we had two and that was even all right, since we’re rapidly raising property values throughout the subdivision, but so far we’ve all been older and stayed more or less fully clothed at all times and not invited a house full of go-go boys over for after-hours.
Now, if the goddamn stoner and his crew will actually show up this week and get some actual siding done, we might find ourselves nearly ready for resale, unless The Donald wins, and then the whole country falls into a depression that makes the 1930s look like a pizza party….
Unbeknownst to her, my mother was at some point recently bit by a tick, even though she isn’t really much of an outdoorsy girl anymore, and thereby caught some weird tick disease that isn’t Lyme Disease but is similar and has many of the same symptoms and apparently the same treatment plan. So she’s in the hospital, getting mainlined with drugs to fight the infection and whatever the hell else the little bugger gave her. In lieu of flowers, I sent a flea and tick collar.
My aunt was highly offended and has unfriended me, even through I don’t have a Facebook account. My cousin sent me a text that said FUNNIEST COUSIN EVER!!!! but he’s sort of a dumbass like that. My brother thinks it was a fairly dull and boring and predictable thing to do, cause that’s how our family rolls.
This is simple: Take your favorite loose-leaf black tea, (if you’re still using tea bags, get the hell off my blog, you don’t deserve this knowledge). Add between one and three tablespoons to your teapot, depending on the size of your teapot, (if you have a personal size teapot, one tablespoon is plenty – if you have one of those huge teapots, really, does anyone even use those anymore?) Pour boiling water over the tea leaves until the pot is full. Let brew. A long time. A long freaking time. Like about an hour, until the boiling water is still warm but not really too hot anymore.
When the tea is more or less finished brewing, take your favorite glass tea pitcher and fill it about half way up with ice cubes. Not a plastic pitcher, and not crushed ice. Follow the instructions or go the hell home. Take your favorite really good balsamic vinegar and pour it about two turns around the pitcher and directly over the ice. Don’t use the cheap stuff. I have a dark chocolate balsamic that is absolutely dynamite, but follow your own bliss. Slowly pour the hyper-brewed tea over the ice. Slowly, because you don’t want the warmish liquid to freak out upon contact with the cold ice and break your pitcher.
Stir and drink. Seriously, the balsamic gives the tea a nice full mouth-feel that is amazingly refreshing. The ice cubes will melt and water down the tea enough that you’re not awake all night after drinking it.
Main – One bag of your favorite small potato (red, yellow, blue, it makes no nevermind).
Salad – Celery, Garlic Dill Pickle Spears, Capers, Yellow Onion (plenty), shredded green cabbage, thinly sliced Brussel sprouts, finely chopped broccoli, finely chopped or shredded carrot, chopped portabella mushrooms. Absolutely No Peas Ever. If you want to use peas, use some other recipe.
Sauce – Hellman’s or Duke’s Mayonnaise, horseradish mustard, lots of freshly ground black pepper, freshly chopped parsley, a little garlic powder. Some toasted sesame seeds are nice.
Extra – Pitted and sliced Kalamata olives and crumbled feta cheese, if you have no regard whatsoever for your sodium levels and your heart health.
If you don’t know how much onion you like in proportion to how much potato you like in proportion to how much pickles you like in proportion to how much you like or dislike Brussel sprouts, then you don’t deserve to eat this. Go find a recipe from one of those awful cooking blogs where they give you precise proportions that nobody ever follows and then humiliate you by commenting on how they changed your recipe to make it bearable.
One very sharp chefs knife, one large stainless steel mixing bowl, one large ceramic bowl, one large wooden mixing spoon. Also, something to boil water in that will also hold all the potatoes.
Cut up the potatoes into bite-size pieces. Nobody hates a chef more than when he gets lazy and chunks out the potatoes too large to fit into the normal mouth. Boil for 10 minutes, or until cooked but still firm and not mushy (pull one out with a spoon and check it every once in awhile, it’s not hard to do).
While the potatoes are boiling, cut up everything else into bite-size pieces. Nobody hates a chef more than when he gets lazy and chunks out everything or anything too large to fit into the normal mouth. Throw it all into the mixing bowl.
Throw the mayonnaise and all those ingredients into the mixing bowl on top of the other ingredients. Mix well with the wooden spoon. Don’t even try a table spoon, it isn’t big enough and will not work at all. Nobody hates a chef more than when she gets lazy and uses too small a spoon and loses one of her press-on nails in the salad.
Drain the potatoes. Pour them into the vegetable and dressing mixture. Stir well but gently. Fold it together, pulling your big-ass spoon up from the bottom. Nobody hates a chef more than when she gets lazy and mashes up all the damn potatoes.
Once well coated, add the olives and feta, if you’re going all out. Fold that in also; don’t screw it up now by getting in a hurry.
Move the Potato Salad Slaw from the mixing bowl into your largest ceramic bowl so it will look nice and not taste like stainless steel. Put that into the fridge for an hour at least and preferably overnight to “blend the flavors”. Serve it cold. If you made it well, people will love it. If you made it badly, it’s your own damn fault and I do not want to hear anything about it.
So the Grandson is hanging out this weekend, and he sees me putting lotion on my legs, and he wants to know why am I putting lotion on my legs instead of just my hands?
“It’s good for the skin” says I. “Look, right here on the label, it says it ‘Moisturizes, Nourishes, and Protects’. Who could ask for anything more?”
Says the Grandson: “Dragon scales would be good.”