The other day I saw a very large black snake slither into the lemongrass plant that I thought the rats were living in. This could mean one of two things. Either there were never any rats and all the movement I’ve seen in the plant has been a snake all along or a snake has discovered the rats and is chowing down on them. If the latter is true the snake has won because I keep seeing it around the yard. I’m not sure which is better, rats or snakes. Why can’t something pleasant live in my yard like bunnies or unicorns?
So I finally broke down and joined Instagram. The social pressure (that I totally created in my head) was just too much and I couldn’t take it anymore. So I signed up … twice, because I decided to change my username.
There are a lot of self-portraits or what the young people call selfies on Instagram. That made me think that maybe I should try taking a few selfies too.
Why is it that everyone else in the world seems to look great in a picture taken on their cell phone? I don’t know how they do it. When I take a selfie I look like an eighty-four-year-old woman with a facial deformity. Do I really have that many chins?
I’ve tried different angles and they just don’t seem to work. If I were technically advanced enough to transfer pictures from my cell phone to my computer I’d share some examples of bad photos here. Too bad I’m not willing to take the time to figure that out … not even for comedy.
A cell phone camera held at arm’s length just seems to magnify every wrinkle, line, freckle, and blackhead on my face. It’s insane. Maybe I’ve reached the cutoff age for taking selfies. Maybe the mirrors in my house lie and this is what I really look like. Maybe I should never turn a camera on myself again.
Instagram is hard. I should stick to pictures of sunsets and my dog. Dogs always look good in pictures.
If you’re on Instagram follow me. I may or may not continue posting pictures. Don’t you just love my commitment.
“I think I saw a rat in our yard last night,” my husband said.
“Really? I think I saw one in the yard the night before,” I said panicked. “What should we do?”
“Nothing. They were probably just passing through,” he said.
Just passing through? What does he think our yard is a highway for rats. Rats don’t just pass through. They infest and give you Bubonic Plague. Just ask any 14th century European, and they’ll tell you. Rats are bad news. They must be eliminated. They are probably living under our house chewing through the air-conditioning wiring and waiting to get all Secret of Nimh on us. Just thinking about it makes me feel like this:
I went around the house last night holding my ear to the walls listening for scurrying. I didn’t hear anything, but that could’ve been because they were sleeping.
If they were mice I would feel less anxious. Anyone whose watched Tom and Jerry can tell you that mice aren’t that bad. They’re actually cute, clever, and good dancers.
Rats on the other hand are like this:
I’m going to have to get a cat. I should’ve adopted Spooky when I had the chance.
It’s important to try new things. At least that’s what I’ve heard, but with my anxiety levels trying something new is always a challenge. That’s why I wasn’t looking forward to going to a local auction with my husband last Tuesday.
I guess I should update you in case you don’t know the details of my fascinating life. We’ve started selling things eBay. As with starting anything new it’s been a bit of a challenge. We have to figure out what to sell and were to source our goods.
Auctions seem like a good place to get some good stuff to flip on eBay, but they are a bit intimidating. I’ve never been to an auction before, and I was afraid they would be like the auctions I’ve seen on TV. On TV there are two types of auctions and those are the ones with the fast talking auctioneers who you can’t understand or the ones with the extremely wealthy people buying million dollar pieces of art. Why aren’t the fast talking auctioneers ever at those auctions?
When I was little my mother told me not to believe everything I see on TV, so I figured that all the fast talking that happens on TV auctions must be for entertainment purposes only. That mustn’t happen in real life. I mean how would anyone ever bid on anything if they couldn’t understand the auctioneer. Boy was I wrong.
The auction started and I was immediately lost. What was going on? The auctioneer was speaking Swahili, or it least that’s what it sounded like to me. He seemed to be pointing out people who were bidding but as I looked around the room I didn’t see anyone doing anything that looked like a bid. How am I supposed to buy something when I don’t know what’s being said and I don’t know what to do to bid?
We stayed at the auction for an hour. By the end of the hour we figured it all out, but I spent the entire time sitting as still as possible. I was afraid that any movement I made could be mistaken for a bid. I’d scratch an itch on my head and suddenly I’ve bought a WWII gun for $350. That didn’t happen luckily, but it easily could have.
I’ve been teaching myself how to draw cartoons on Inkscape. Here’s my artistic interpretation of the auction.
You would think using a tape gun would be easy. Well it’s not. It’s especially not easy when your dog is barking at you because he doesn’t like the tape gun. Maybe he thinks it’s a real gun. Maybe he just senses my stress and would like to add to it.
I bought a tape gun because everyone seems to think that using one will make it so much easier to pack the millions of boxes I have to ship out everyday. I was excited when I got it because I’m all about simplifying my life.
Anyway, it should be called a make-all-the-tape-crooked-and-bumpy gun because that’s what seems to happen every time I use it. At first I thought I’d just loaded the tape wrong, so I checked. I hadn’t. The tape is loaded as per instructions. I complained to my husband this faulty device because that’s what husbands are for.
Me: This thing doesn’t work right. (Throwing the tape gun on the bed like a tantruming toddler.)
My husband: (Picks it up and tapes a box closed perfectly) Works fine for me. You must not be using it right.
He’s such a smarty pants. He thinks he knows everything about tape and guns. I’m back to using a plane roll of tape to close my boxes. It works best for me.
I was thinking about buying in an actual gun, but if my experience with tape guns is any indication of how that would go I guess I should just buy the bullets and skip the gun part. An intruder would run away if someone started throwing bullets at them, wouldn’t they?
Note: I would never buy an actual gun … unless it was a laser gun … and it was pink … and it was on sale for 99 cents.
Another Note: I’m taping up so many boxes these days because I’ve been selling random items on eBay to make end meet.
One more thing: I don’t think it’s physically possible for my ends to meet. Maybe I should do more yoga.
Do you remember when Martha Stewart spent time in prison? I’m not sure if she was convicted of insider trader or making me feel guilty about the state of my house. Personally, I think the latter offense deserves a much longer sentence than she actually got.
When she was released from prison a reporter asked her what she missed most while she was in the joint and Stewart responded, “Lemons.” When the reporter asked if that was it she said, “Just lemons. Oh and my friends and family of course.”
Some people thought that her response was cold hearted. How could you only miss a lemons in jail?
Those people don’t understand the true joy of a lemon. Not only can you use it to make lemonade, but a squeeze of lemon can enliven a sauce or make a glass of water that much more refreshing. Oh the humble lemon, it may make your mouth pucker, but it makes your heart dance with joy.
You may be wondering why I’m going on about lemons. I recently discovered dried lemons. If you thought a fresh lemon was something to write home about baby you ain’t seen nothing yet. Dried lemons will make your stew taste so good your head will spin. Trust me on this.
I made Persian stew the other day with dried lemons that was so good that I was starting to think that I didn’t really make it at all. Maybe some little elves scampered into the kitchen when I wasn’t looking and added a little bit of this and a little bit of that to make the stew a little bit of heaven.
Then I made a chickpea and veggie tagine with dried lemons that was so good my head nearly exploded. Trust me that’s really good.
This is all great news because as of late I’ve been in a bit of a cooking slump. I might just start putting dried lemons in everything.
Here’s a Daily Show clip from when Martha Stewart got out of jail to brighten your day.
My husband plays a church gig on Sundays and because he doesn’t know any of the songs they sing, the pastor sends him songs to listen to each week. It’s funny because if anyone followed him on Spotify they’d think that he listens to religious music all the time.
Anyway the lyrics of one of the songs he was listening to last week were almost impossible to decipher. Singers really should try to enunciate so we know what they’re talking about. After listening to the chorus a million times I think I finally figured out the words.
My whole vagina
You hold my knees see
You rain in the train
You are my shadow
And I worship you because of who you are
I kept singing along and my husband kept insisting I wasn’t getting the lyrics right, but he’s admitted many times that he doesn’t pay attention to song lyrics. I think he has no idea what he’s talking about. My lyrics make perfect sense and I’m quite sure I’m right.
Chompyface is in the doghouse today and he doesn’t even seem to realize it because he just keeps looking at me and wagging his tail. His tail wagging tricks and soft half floppy ears won’t get me this time though.
Last night he was up to no good. When we first got him he couldn’t be trusted around food at all. Anything out in the open seemed like fair game to him, but we’d since trained him out of the habit of trying to eat our food or at least I thought we’d trained him out of it.
Last night’s dinner was suppose to be a delicious combination of salmon cakes with chipole mayonnaise, black beans and rice, and lemony roasted broccoli. I’d broken up the salmon in a bowl on the kitchen counter then left the room to look up a mayonnaise recipe on my computer. I’m sure you can guess what happened next. That’s right, somebody whose name I won’t mention, but he is white and brindle and walks on four legs, decided to jump up on the counter and help himself to the salmon.
I didn’t catch him, my husband did. “What happened?” I asked.
“He was licking the salmon,” he said.
“Are you sure because I thought he didn’t do stuff like that anymore?” I said.
“What should I do? Should I make it anyway? I’m sure cooking it will kill the germs.”
My husband scowled at me. “I’m not eating that after his tongues been all over it.”
“But it was going to be so good.” I picked up the bowl. “Should I give it to him. It’s perfectly good salmon.”
“You can’t reward him for jumping on the counter. Throw it away.”
… and so I threw away the salmon. That was such a waste that it made my heart ache. It made my taste buds ache too because I was looking forward to those salmon cakes.