If it sucks, you can eat a sandwich

(First - a question: Am I supposed to capitalize every word of my blog post titles?  Not capitalizing makes it look weird.  Capitalizing makes it look too formal.  This is why I hated English classes!)

(Second - a confession.  I have two or three started-but-not-finished saved drafts of posts.  I'm going to try to rectify that situation)

My parental unit came to visit last weekend.  We hit a local Mardi Gras party, and went to a music show.  And played a lot of cards.  And ate a lot.  The title of this post came from the weekend.  First, I cooked something in the crock pot for dinner Friday night.  I wasn't sure when everyone was going to get here, mom and dad were driving in, Hitter was coming from a business trip, crock pot food can kind of hang out and wait until everyone's ready.  Perfect. 

I titled this picture "Surly Crock Pot"



Problem.  I felt compelled to make a recipe I'd never tried before.  So... I told everyone "if it sucks, you can eat a sandwich!" which then kind of became catch phrase of the weekend.  Saturday night, dad wanted wings from a restaurant where I had no idea how the wings were... so I told him to go ahead and order them, and if they suck he can go home and eat a sandwich.  Sunday we had no idea what we were getting into with the music show, it was something none of us had heard of before.  So... you guessed it!  "Well I guess if the show sucks we can always leave... and come home and eat sandwiches" 

And that explains the title of the post.

New topic: I've been having more fun with cameras.  I've officially become a photography nut.  Not a photographer, not even someone whose hobby is photography.  I'm just nuts.  On a high note, I finally learned how to use the dSLR on manual setting.  On a low note, I've become a little disillusioned with that camera and want a shiny new big fancy one.  Except I don't have a spare $1500 laying around.  And I want a macro lens, but I don't have a spare $500 laying around either.  *sigh* 

Which brings me to my next point.  Money doesn't buy happiness.  Yeah yeah I know, you hear that all the time.  And if you don't have money, you think this is a whole load of crap.  Hear me out.  Actually, don't.  I think everyone should quit reading.  Because I'm about to have the world's biggest pity party.

I really know how to have a good time, huh?  Okay let me start by saying I know I have it pretty good.  And I hate it when I go into a pity party because I know that there are gobs of people that would love to switch places with me.  And I WOULDN'T want to switch places with most of them.  So life is peachy, right?

Wrong.

There's still something missing.  And it's a biggie.  And it's not something I can buy.  Nor is it something Hitter can buy for me.  Sometimes I tell Hitter that my life was easier when I was poor.  Crazy, right?  But it's true. 

I miss independence.  I miss freedom.  I miss privacy.  I miss respect. 

I keep having recurring dreams where I'm back in college.  I dream about the town, I dream about classes and homework and professors, and I dream about the dorms.  (Irony, huh?  Privacy... dorms... yeah right!)  Everyone keeps reminding me "you can't go back, it wouldn't be the same" and 1. yeah I know that 2. I'm not going to go back, am I? 3. even if I did go back I wouldn't want it to be just the same... but mostly I can't go back.  However, it's not that I want to go relive my college days, it's that I miss what college represented.  Friends.  Independence.  Fun.  Making my own decisions.  Making do with what I had.  Doing crazy things because they were fun.  Making new friends everywhere I went.  Teetering on that line between fun and stupid.    Did I mention friends?  And fun?  Yeah.  Not just fun and friends though, I worked.  I went to class and had a job.  I had a job I loved, and I gave up the traditional spring break so I could go get another job.  I spent my summers on internships.  But they were what I wanted to do.  My decisions.  My independence.  MY LIFE. 

I have NONE of that now.  I am stuck in this Hillbilly Hell/Snooty City with no friends.  I can't do anything with my life cuz I'm stuck here where there is nothing for me.  I can't do anything without clearing it with my warden husband first.  And he's a fun-hater.  So I buy myself things to try to get happy... but it doesn't work. 

It sucks, and I eat a sandwich.  I hate pity parties.  They make me feel ashamed of myself.  And all they serve are sandwiches.  Bleh.  Mostly I'm ashamed though, sandwiches are okay.  I kinda hate myself a little bit.  And I don't know what to do about it all. 

Of Dreams and Realities

Mother Nature is pretending it's spring!

The fact that I was excited by that statement is a real testament to how icy and bitter-cold the past couple weeks have been.  I'm a winter person.  Always have been.  My favorite vacations from my childhood were snow skiing trips.  I tend to hibernate in the summer.  But it's been witch's-titty cold lately and instead of snow we've had ice and I'm sick of it!  It got up to 60 yesterday, my garage is finally ice-free, and I've never been happier to see mud. 

No, wait, not that one.  I hate mud.  That is the biggest reason I hate spring.  I grew up on a farm, we raised cattle, mud is bad.  There are few things on earth that are more unpleasant than stepping right out of your rubber boot and sticking your sock-clad foot into sloppy wet cow-crap-and-mud.  It doesn't happen on purpose, but the mud suctions to the boot and the boot slides off your foot.  You can't help it.  It's awful.  And calves don't like to be born into mud.  You know those nice sterile hospitals where human babies are born?  Yeah, imagine instead having the baby come out of it's nice comfortable womb and being dropped into a swamp of slimy stinky sludge.  And then their navels get infected. 

I hate mud.  That was also possibly the most disgusting digression I've ever made.  I sure hope the sleep number bed guy is still reading my blog. 

Here's the thing though: spring makes me think I'm someone I'm not.  Spring makes me fantasize about gardening.  I dream about tomatoes and peppers and peas and beans and cucumbers and a million herbs and strawberries and carrots (I don't even like carrots much) and radishes (I hate radishes but Hitter loves them and I love to do things for Hitter... when it's spring and I'm dreaming) and blueberries and rhubarb (oh I love rhubarb, I've tried like 5 times to grow it here and I've failed just as many times) and flowers of every shape, size and color. 

And I dream... and I dream... and I see me in a floppy straw hat and flowerdy gloves out in my garden, lovingly tending to it, watering, fertilizing, weeding.  And I see me in the kitchen in my yellow apron (I already have the apron, I don't have the hat and gloves) putting up all my glorious produce.  I see jars of green beans and salsa and jams and jellies and pickles and pie fillings, I see dried fruits and vegetables, I see frozen bags of easy recipe fixins (hee hee I just said fixins) and I see myself with a giant smile on my face, loving it all.  And when it's winter I wish I had those jars and bags of foods.

But when reality hits, I'm lazy and I don't care. 

There are lots of things I could blame.  For starters, it's hard to garden in this little corner of Hillbilly Hell.  Our soil is nasty damned clay, solid packed crap that a little baby plant has no chance of pushing root fibers through, and even if it does make roots they either rot because the clay holds so much moisture or they shrivel up because the clay won't absorb moisture.  Trust me, this would make sense if you lived with clay.  Actually, no.  I live with it and it makes no sense.  But you would understand that what I said is true, somehow, oddly enough.  Also, summers are so miserable here with the heat and excessive humidity that when it comes time to go out and lovingly tend to the garden, I just want to hibernate in the basement.  I'd never see the summer sun if Hitter hadn't let me get a pool. 

Also, bending over a garden makes my back hurt so bad.  It takes me forever to get anything done because I'll do something for approximately 27 seconds and then I have to stand up and stretch for 4 minutes.  My garden space is a little claustrophobic too because we have so many deer around here that we had to put up an 8' high fence around it and we didn't want to fence in too much real estate so it's just a little box. 

So my spring dreams of gardening bliss end up being a weedy mess of untended wild plants so out of control that I can't even get in to reach the tomatoes that have miraculously turned red. 

Of course I also have dreams of having a clean house, and being a dancer, and doing all sorts of crafts.  Mostly I'm really good at playing computer games.  I think I should shut this damned thing off.  Except I've done that before too and I just find other stupid things to occupy my time and the productive things still get ignored.  I wish I could get a job being lazy, I'd be the best damned employee ever.

A Photographer's Guide to Photography

Pileated Woodpecker:

(he's the one on top)



Some of you may recognize that tree and birdfeeder from the raccoon incident.  Slight change of season.  Anyway, pileated woodpeckers are becoming a bit of an obsession of mine.  We have a mated pair that lives in our area and come to Hitter's suet feeder pretty regularly.  I think they're living in the dead tree that will be featured on the 2011-Year-In-Pictures once everything is green again.  I mean seriously, all trees look dead in the winter. 

I had out both cameras, both lenses for the interchangeable-lens camera, the tripod, and my insanity.  I am on a mission to get a lot of really good pictures of these birds. 

Here's the fun I put myself through a few days ago trying to get a good picture of him.  (No, I'm not being random calling him a "him", it really is the male this time.  I can tell them apart.  And I know what their call sounds like.  I need help.  Hitter turned me into a birdwatcher *twitch*)  The background information you need to know is I'm pretty much a lazy-butt and I love to be on my couch.

Problem #1: I can't just take a picture from the couch because our windows have screens on the bottom half so I'd end up with stupid pictures.

Problem #2: I can't take pictures through the top of the living room window (screen-less) because the outside light shines through the glass inset in our front door and reflects off the windows.  Then I end up with these weird ghosty things. 

Failed solution to problem #2:

I put a blanket over the door.  Still didn't work so much.  Moving on!

Problem #3: The birds can see through the living room window so if I try to get up to go to a different window, they fly away.  Pileated woodpeckers are very skittish. 

Successful remedy to problem #3: Me falling off the couch EVER-SO-GRACEFULLY (yeah right) so the birds can't see me, then I crawl across the floor until I am out of their line of sight.

Problem #4: The only other windows with a view of the bird feeder are the French doors.  These doors have after-market enclosed blinds on them.  I love them, love love love, except in the winter they fog up something terrible. 

Solution to Problem #4, Part 1: I took off the enclosed-blind thing (thank goodness they're removable) 

Then I set up the tripod pointing out the window, had the zoom lens on the camera and the other one nearby, looked out the window and.....

Problem #5:

NO BIRDS!

They'd all flown away.  It was just as well, the window wasn't de-fogged yet anyway. 

Solution to Problem #4, Part 2: Did I mention the window still wasn't de-fogged? 

I got Hitter's hair dryer (yes he has a hair dryer, no I do not.  that's probably also a post for another day) and blow-dried the window. 

And FINALLY, I got pictures.  Oh glory did I get pictures!  Two hours later, I had a full memory card.  Oh happy day.  (have I mentioned I love digital?  seriously, I took almost 400 pictures over two days.  who the hell would do that if it was film?)  Sat down to my trusty rusty laptop to upload the pictures and pick out the good ones...... and...........

I have NO IDEA how in the hell I accidentally caused that!  I almost broke my computer smashing the cancel button as hard as I could.  I lost about half of them.  And then I almost threw my computer and the camera across the room.  I refrained, but it was a strong urge. 

Hitter gets home from work that night and is all "so what did you do today?" which is a loaded question because I'm a childless housewife.  But what could I say?  I mean I was busy all day!  It just ended up being for nothing.  How do you say "well I spent all day trying to create the ideal bird photography studio in my house because I was obsessed with getting pictures TODAY of some birds that live here and I'll see them again someday, and then I managed to accidentally delete most of the pictures.  So, yeah, umm, I didn't do anything today.  How do you feel about leftovers for supper?  Cuz I'm worn out!"

Meet the Fockers

I wish my family was the Fockers, we're way more messed up.

Real quick intro to the characters who will appear frequently:

1. My li'l bro, Buffalo Bill.  He's a cowboy at heart, and a wild man all over.
2. My dad, Designated Drinker.  One more internet acronym gone awry.  DD=Dear Dad, Designated Driver, or in this case... drinker.
3. My mom, Bran Flake.  It's a long story, and special thanks to Best Friend (seriously, you want a name too?) for getting me 3/4 of the way to this nickname.
4. Grandma and Grandpa are Prima Donna and The Corporal.  These are explained in the post immediately following this one.
5. Buffalo Bill's wife is the Prom Queen.  She's eternally stuck in high school.  

I promise

I promise this blog will be a random string of seemingly unrelated events.
I promise I will be very sporadic in posting. 
I promise you will not understand much, if any, of what I post.

I think I can keep those promises!

I also promise this is very therapeutic for me.  I don't know why I put that in "promise" form.  Probably because I have this disorder where I start a trend and then I can't let it go until long after it has ceased to be funny. 

And I promise that while a fellow blogger did inspire me to start this fun, I am not intending to plagiarize... or steal followers... or advertising dollars... or to win the internet.  It's all yours.  And I'm not even getting any advertising dollars.  Let me know if I piss you off, hopefully we can find a way to both be happy. 

Anyway, for starters, let's have some intros.  This is me:

I have a dog.  I call him Muppy (it's a mash-up of Mutt and Puppy.  No that isn't his real name, but he gets called that more often than anything else)  I also have a husband.  For the sake of this blog, I'm going to call him the Designated Hitter.  The internet acronym of DH (dear husband) always makes me think of designated hitter, and I don't know what else to call him.  No, he doesn't hit me, and quite frankly I'm not a fan of the DH rule, but just go with it.  I did promise this wouldn't make any sense.  Anyway, I didn't draw a picture of either of them yet.  You'll see them someday.  Muppy is black and has a feather-duster for a tail.  Designated Hitter is tall, and doesn't have a tail. 

I have a family.  They're all nuts.  They'll probably be the prime focus of this blog.  Like I said: therapeutic.  Designated Hitter has a family too, and they're also nuts but in a much different (and somewhat less traumatic) way.  Muppy was a Humane Society rescue, his first family was probably the most traumatic but we're his family now.  And we try not to torture the poor beast.

I am typically a morning person, and it is well past my bedtime now.  I've been stuck in an insomniac cycle lately though.  I am going to try to go to bed now.