Wednesday, April 1, 2015

The Love of Chaos and Mini-pads on Meat

Well shit. I haven't exactly been a Pollyanna for the past month, but I haven't seemed to come up with enough complaints to fill this space out. I am telling you that I can come up with some complaints. I can. I promise.

You want to know what the bad news is? Do you?

Are you a gossip in hiding? Do you thrive on other people's miseries? Are you happiest amidst chaos, when it's not perfect, when those perfect, smiling moms with the honor roll students finally get some comeuppance?

Good. Me too. And I'm sitting on a gold mine. I am. It's better than the guy who hit a boy at camp. Whoops! Did I say that? Did I?

Well now, I can't exactly tell you the detailed story in case anyone finds out and points a finger at me, but there's a mom who dumped us a few years back. I mean, she went from calling me twice a week for playdates for our toddlers to making every excuse in the book for why our boys couldn't play.

Ah crap. I just can not tell you her business. It's not happy business and it's so bad I can't even feel good about being justified in being rejected by her. Besides, I'm not absolutely certain about the details and if it isn't true and I just don't like her husband, then it would be seriously bad to spread rumors about him. I mean it might just be evil.

So, I'll just stick to my own business. How does that sound?

I'm not using my kayak as much as I though I would. Today, I could have gone to the lake, but it was a tad bit too cold for me and I slept instead. No, I don't watch soap operas and drink beer in the afternoon, but I'm not an exercise freak who paddles her kayak in forty-eight degree weather either.

Am I a wuss or what?

Yup. I've figured out that I have a limit on the amount of rain that can be raining and the depth of the temperature before I start making excuses. Yesterday, I had said I was going kayaking come hell or high water. I guess fifteen degrees off from frost will do too.

Maybe I should get some stuff done here anyway. The funny thing is that the couple of times I made excuses that I had too much to do, I didn't get all that much done anyway. Today is no different. I'm still not showered. I've yet to eat lunch and I don't think dinner will be done by dinner time after all.

You know, when you get a crock pot for your birthday, it only works if you put stuff into it before noon. I set it to high, but I doubt it will be done in time for dinner tonight. Besides, that fucking chicken was frozen solid when I tossed it in there. I ran it under hot water long enough to thaw the little mini-pad the butchers put on it. But it still had the pouch of innards frozen inside. I figure I'll pry that thing out in an hour or two. Even though I got raw chicken juice all over the inside of my sink and on some dirty dishes in there, I pried the mini-pad off.

Butcher dudes, you need to use maxipads on these fucking chickens! Blood is overflowing and the fucking chicken juice is spilling all over my new white pants.

I would swear that butchers like having blood everywhere. Did you ever notice that they always wear white fucking aprons? There are some jobs that are just so obvious. It's not politically correct to be a serial killer, so why not manage those urges by working as a butcher? You can't be a serial rapist, so it might be a good idea to get a job in gynecology. Am I being too cynical here? Sadism? Mammography is a good replacement. You know my opinion of mammograms. I'm not a big fan of pap smears, but it helped a lot when I was in my mid-twenties and I finally switched to women. You figure, at least, that they could be in it for the babies.

Oh, I'm not saying that every guy who becomes a gynecologist is a serial rapist. Some of them are incredibly gentle and manage to be sweet. But I'm telling you that I went to at least one of them before I switched to women doctors for that. If he appeared in the news as a felon, I would not have been surprised.

How did we start down this road?

I was telling you the myriad ways I can mess up dinner.

And here's something that I've wondered about. Does anyone work to make sure that those minipads on our meat is safe to be in contact with our food? What about when you put the hot bacon on paper towels to soak up the extra fat? Are they clean and free of carcinogens?  And what about those little white packets in jerky and pepperoni that are supposed to soak up any excess moisture. Is that shit safe in our food? What's in those things? I'm pretty sure it's not rice, like what you use to try to dry out your phone when you drop it in the toilet. Is there anyone out there asking these questions?

So, here's your not-quite-daily dose of pessimism. My ex-friend who suddenly ten years ago believed that she was too good for me or just got mad at something stupid I said might be in for a load of shit with a husband who may or may not be in too deep. I'm a wuss who's a little lazy and afraid of the cold wet weather. I can fuck up a chicken nine ways to Sunday with my new crock pot. People who have urges to do evil things can still earn a good living. And I may be poisoning my family with mini-pads on my meat, the little desiccant packets in pepperoni and jerky, and by putting hot bacon onto paper towels to soak off the excess fat.

There you go. Chaos.

Thank you for listening, jules

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