Monday, March 26, 2018

Look Who's NOT Coming to Dinner


Recently, I whipped up dinner for my folks.

What the hell was I thinking?

Now, I enjoy cooking. Not all the time, mind you I have a friggin job, but I’m no slouch in the kitchen. My cookbook- which no one has read- can attest to that. 

So I purchased all the items for a simple Sunday meal. There would be no frills or elegance. That’s not how my family rolls. Our tiaras were at the dry cleaners but we made certain we used the pretty paper plates. Got me?

My menu was a HO made salsa verde over chicken burritos with a side of Spanish rice, made by THIS HO. I researched many salsa verde recipes online searching for the best one I could make from the fresh tomatillos I bought. Now, I will admit, the rice was of the RONI variety but it was tasty none the less.  My folks were tasked with making local garden grown sweet corn using my mom’s favorite kitchen gadget, the microwave.  *sigh*

I SLAVED for over two hours making the sauce and prepping the chicken breasts which I despise making. Yeah, I hate the whole process of doing anything with chicken. Fuck chicken. But I was doing something special for my folks so I went through the trouble of making the chicken 'goddamn delicious' by cleaning it of all opaque ligaments and bloody bits, cooking the remains with spices until it was fork tender and finally shredding the poor bird to bits.  What more could one ask for?


Not the Salsa Verde I made that day but I'm certain they wouldn't eat my Shrimp n' Grits either. I needed a pix of food so...here.


I brought the food over and popped the tortillas in Mom’s handy-dandy microwave to warm them up. 

My dad, who isn’t a fan of Mexican food, quizzes me. What’s this green stuff?  How do I eat it? Why are you trying to poison me? You didn’t let the cats help you cook, did you? 

Lemme explain; my dad’s biggest fear is my cats and dogs assisting me in the kitchen.  Which they do not! I keep telling him they are 'sans thumbs' so they can’t do much to help me….except lick the spoons and bowls clean. I don’t have a fancy machine that scrubs the dishes so I make-due with what I have. Which are cat and dog tongues.

As my dad’s bombarding me with questions, the sounds of gagging and giggling are ringing off the appliances from my mom.

She’s holding herself up in the doorway attempting to stop herself from laughing and gagging, but she yells, “It’s the smell of the cumin.”

Now, in my family, we all think the smell of cumin is reminiscent of body odor. Particularly, from the ‘jock strap region’. It doesn’t stop us from using it-but it always makes for entertainingly distasteful conversation.

That triggers my bitching, “What the hell mom? You haven’t even platted your food yet, let alone tasted it and you’re over there gagging like you’re Linda Lovelace’s stand-in.”
I can already tell this meal is going to be a winner.

As if I’m scolding the children I found out were mine on Maury, I tell my folks to grab their plates and sit at the damn table so we can eat like adults. Yeah, that didn’t quite work out as planned.

See, the older my folks have gotten, the more they have taken to eating like five year olds. Small, quick, heat em up meals that by rights should come with a juice box and a friggin toy are what they subsist on. So I try to bring something over once in a while to expand their palates and give them a healthier meal.

We sit down to eat and my mom, who years ago had a botched gastric-by-pass procedure, and to this day can only eat very small meals, is picking at her food telling me that, 'it’s good,' which is code for, I’m eating it because I’m your mother and I love you,  not because I like it.

My DAD on the other hand is moving the food around on his plate. Taking little bird bites.  I’m watching him and I notice he has his napkin in his hand. I think it’s weird but my dad IS weird so I don’t think much of it. As the meal plods on and we make small talk my mom suddenly blurts out, “You’re father is hiding his food in his napkin!”

“Am not!” my Dad shouts.

Mom shoots back, “You are too!”

See? Five year olds.

Pounding my fist in mock rage I yell at him, “Dad! For fucks sake, what the hell?”


My "What the Hell" face.


I say, “what the hell” A LOT when it comes to my folks. ‘For fucks sake’ was off the cuff.
The man is so BUSTED.
Mom is in hysterics, continuing to call my Dad out. His face blooms the ripe red color of a baboon’s ass. And mind you, he’s laughing his own ass off.
"I can't believe you squealed on me," he snickers pointing at my Mom with a not-so-menacing fork.
The rest of the meal, which didn't last long, consisted of us cracking up and making fun of my dad.
So, I repeat….FIVE YEAR OLDS. 

No dessert for you Dad!

No…dessert

for you.


Unless the cats make it. Yep, I'll have them 'hand mixing' whatever batter with their tiny litter encrusted paws. Ooooh yeah.  Delicious.


Do NOT eat with these miscreants unless you want a good laugh.

Friday, March 16, 2018

The Ten Minutes I was Pregnant.

Okay, so as the title reads, I was 'pregnant' for 10 minutes...but unlike most women who are happy to show off their bun in the oven, I wasn't so proud of it. Let me explain....
Not pregnant.  Just fat.


I had a pinched nerve in my back that was made worse with my scoliosis. So for about two to three weeks I was in pain and walked a bit funny and had a hell of a time getting in and out of cars. This happens to me every so often so don't get all squishy on me. I'm a big girl and I deal with it. BUT....I was out and about and I had to stop on the way home to pick up something from the grocery store; I don't even remember what it was, it could have been something for supper, some milk or a box of goddamn delicious Ho Ho's, whatever, it's irrelevant. I really debated stopping because I just wanted to get into the comforts of my home to nurse my back. But I pulled into the grocery store parking lot and looked for the closet place to park and of course...there wasn't one...except for the two parking spots designated with signs that read "For Expectant Mommy's" emblazoned with storks carrying babies.


I drove past the spots a few times and at each pass, they were empty. Every other spot was full or waiting to be snatched by fevered Saturday shoppers. I just wanted to grab my crap and leave. I wasn't doing any major shopping because my back wouldn't let me. There were a few handicapped spots open but I wouldn't DARE pull in one of those. People are judgy. Hell, if you're caught walking to and from a car with a handicapped placard you damn well better have a  limp, crutches, be walking a seeing eye chicken and have no appendages; or you are given the evil-eye from every person in the lot. And if you don't have a placard and you park in a handicapped spot...brother you are just the biggest piece of shit in all of the grocery store world. It's true! I've talked smack about people who park in handicapped parking spaces and I don't really give a shit about anything!


Sooo...I thought long and hard about my bad decision and decided...ten minutes or less. I won't take up that much time and besides, I've driven by this spot four times already and no chick who looked as if she swallowed a basketball has so much as looked at these spaces.


I pulled into the 'with spawn' space and gingerly slid out of the car as not to anger the lumbar spaz gods. I know I was walking a bit strange because of my issue but as people shuffled across the parking lot and cars crawled by, I realized I couldn't walk out into the store looking.....not pregnant. So I decided, that since I was already going to hell, I might as well play the part. I pulled back my shoulders and distended my belly so it resembled that of an Ethiopian who recently had a sammich and clamped my fat ass cheeks together to give me some support. I think I looked about mmmm....3, maybe 4 months pregnant.


I waddled into the store and prayed to whatever God would listen that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. Come on, what I was doing wasn't hurting anyone. I simply wanted to get my shit and split, easy peasey.


Yeah, not so much. I got as far as the produce section and a chick I hadn't seen in years was standing dead in front me staring me in the face. I turned my head but the bitch called me out.
 "Hi, how are you?"  Her beady little eyes focused on my protruding gut; what she thought housed a tiny human really was actually gestating the masticated remnants of two chili dogs and some fries. I gave her a fake smile and simply answered, "Fine." I purposely didn't say, "and YOU," because honestly, didn't care. I just wanted to get my shit and get out of the store. But, I since I was already in deep, I decided to continue my charade. I grabbed a bag of onions and said, "The kid likes em. It likes dog food too. Ooh that reminds me..." I said, as I quickly shuffled away from her. Luckily she didn't follow. That'll teach someone who I haven't seen for a while to talk to me when I'm faking being with hot dog child.


As I made my way to the frozen food section, I got a bad spasm in my back that stopped me in my tracks and put me up against the freezers.  An older, grandmotherly woman stopped and asked me if I was okay and then asked when I was due. I had no clue what to say to her. Since I've never been pregnant, I don't know how far along my fat gut looked. I tell her that I'm okay. And I babble something about, 'In my family, we carry our babies way past term. I'm on 13 months and counting. It should be another month so.' I smile at her and continue down the aisle with a bit of vigor. She's older so I know she won't be able to catch up with me for further interrogation.


At this point, I figure this isn't even worth it anymore. So I ditch my bag of onions, deflate my gut and make my way out of the store and guess who is standing at the exit? Yep, the same chick from produce. Goddammit!  She stared at my lack of belly and gave me this "what the fuck" look.  I was busted, so I simply shrugged my shoulders and said, "Ehh...I guess it was just gas. I feel bad for the poor bastards in aisle 5."


TWINS!! They look just like their father!

I didn't wait for a response. I just kept walking until I made my way out of the store to the parking spot I shouldn't have snagged--and sped the hell out of there.


Let me tell ya...being pregnant is a lot harder than it looks. 


Oh yeah and KARMA...it never fails me.
















Horror Tree interview from THE Nikki Nelson Hicks

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