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Monday, July 4, 2016

I have shears. Run.

So, I live in a place where things grow.  Lots of things.  Lots of big things, like bushes and shrubs (what the hell is the difference anyway?) and trees.  Big trees.  Big frigging maple trees.  Yes, Canada has maple trees, and maple trees love Canada. 

My neighbor loves trees too, but what she doesn't like to do is any kind of yard work so it's  the freeken Amazon jungle over there.  The branches are starting to hang over my yard, and I don't want them to because next thing you know, a plant or a tree is now growing in my yard.  A plant or tree I do not want.. For instance, the last thing I need is another maple tree.  So I have been trying to find a way to trim the plants that start to invade my yard, even though I know full well these aren't really my trees. But tell me, can trees decide to run away from home and do I have to let them?  If they are not happy where they are, maybe they just decide to  keep slowly moving away, little by little until one day they have left home and moved in with the neighbors.  And although that's kind of a sad story that makes some people want to take them in, I'm not that kind of people because I am lazy and yard work is very very hard and also really boring.  And as I've said before and I will say again, I am not that nice.

The other day Dave bought me a pair of clippers. (and yes I'm sure that was a hint.)  At least I think they are called clippers, but they kind of look more like the weapon that deranged maniac murderers in horror movies run though the woods with while chasing young teenage kids who were partying in the woods and didn't see him coming until it was too late because they were all drunk and high on something while having unprotected sex.  So Yeah, I have those clippers. I don't think they are called clippers when they are this big and almost professional looking. ( I mean professional tree workers, not professional deranged murders.)  Anyyyywayyyyyy, I have shears.  Yes,  YES!!!!  that's exactly what thy are called by people who know about yard and garden things, and also these shears are kind of hard to ignore because they are big and  they so obviously mean business.  There's no real way to hide them while trying not to be caught taking down the neighbors forest.   But really, whose tree is it when it hangs over your fence and part of it is now in your yard.  How much of it needs to be in your yard before you can claim it as yours and chop the fucker up?  And what part counts more, the roots/trunk or the branches?

These are the questions that have no answers, at least none that I care to spend time finding right now, since several passers-by my property are beginning to stake out camping spots and roast marshmallows as we speak.

That's all for now.  I have a mountain to climb and some weird native people who want to share their weed.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

You Say Spaghetti I Say Butternut

Well, finally, something completely different.  A vegetable debate.

 Let me begin by saying that I wish this story wasn't true.   

Ok, really?  Truth is,  I'm glad it's true.  That makes the story better.  You really cannot make this shit up, folks.

I always knew that squash was way more controversial than most people suspect.  But I never knew that squash, a rather humble and ordinary vegetable could suffer from an identity crisis. I mean, squash is squash and you either love this vegetable or hate it. Right?  There are quite a few kinds of squash, however, which makes it a bit more interesting than, let's say spinach.  Each kind of squash is different. VERY different.  It looks different, and it tastes different.  It is so different, that you might hate hate hate one kind of squash and love love love another kind.  And I like that about squash. It's full of surprises. And as those who read my blog know, I like a good surprise now and then.

Anyway.  Yes, I like squash.  I don't recall ever meeting a squash I didn't like, but I do like certain types of squash more than others.  My favorite is butternut squash.  I have an awesome recipe I will post at the bottom of this post.  Wait. No.   No, no no no no no.   The Phantom Zucchini  is not that kind of blog.   

Ohhhhhh OK.  If you insist upon embarrassing yourselves by shamelessly begging, I guess I'll have to give you the recipe.   Real quick.  You simply Mix cut up Squash, brown sugar, pumpkin pie spice, olive oil, butter, a tiny bit of maple syrup together in a baking pan.  Bake in a 350 oven until the squash is cooked.  Ta-Da.

SO, anyway, yesterday I bought two small butternut squash.  (1st image above.)  When I got to the checkout, I tried to help by telling the cashier that it was a squash so that she could look up the code.  (People don't know their vegetables these days.) Like a smarty pants, I told her it was a butternut squash, because, you know,  it is.  Then she told me that it was a spaghetti squash. (see 2nd image above)  I (nicely) disagreed. No shit . I was actually nice.   She tried to explain, saying something about the butternut  squash now being delivered as  spaghetti squash.  Or something.  I didn't really understand what she was saying as this was obviously some sort of supermarket jargon, because it made no sense at all.  So I said, "But this is a butternut squash."  She shook her head.  "No it isn't "she said.   I asked her if she was saying that this actually is a spaghetti squash, disguised as a butternut squash, asked if I was going to go home, cut into the butternut squash and discover its spaghetti squash innards.  She nodded yes.  Like one of those "I'm sorry but I am right and you are quite horribly wrong" Yes's.

She was so adamant about this that for one teeny tiny minute I believed her a little bit.   I mean, squash is full of surprises, right?? I pictured hacking open the butternut squash as horror movie soundtrack music played and the spaghetti-like guts suddenly spilling out all over the counter while I screamed.  So No, of course I wasn't going to take that chance.   I almost put the squash back and then I had a what-the-fucking -fuck moment and looked at the cashier seeing her for the obviously deranged person that she is. Not that it was her fault, of course, I mean it must be hard to stay sane when surrounded by dead animals and rotting produce not to mention coupons and customers,yhose very old picky whiny customers on a budget armed with weekly sale flyers ready to wave it in the face of an unsuspecting and underpaid cashier.  It  is probably more than enough to make  you believe in things like squash impersonating ummm, well, squash.  

In the end I stood up for myself and my long history with squash, ran my credit card through the machine, and took my BUTTERNUT SQUASH home. I will admit my hand shook a little as I  held the knife and looked down at the squash laying helpless on the cutting board .   I made the first cut and saw no spaghetti-like guts but solid, firm orange colored squash flesh.  It was, indeed, a butternut squash. I was so damned pleased with myself, I just wanted to kiss me. 

That's it for today.  Stay tuned for more hilarious adventures brought to you by produce.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

You Know, Exercise Looks So Uncomfortable

So, it's Winter. It's a Winter morning, a cold, cold Winter morning.  I looked out the window, trying to find the beauty of the season, something I'm not overly successful at during this time of year.  I mean, people who do find the beauty in Winter are often under the influence of something that they take/drink/shoot up during this time of year so that they don't lose their shit.  Whatever they take must really change the way Winter looks and feels to them , and I'm going to have to find me some of that stuff someday.  Until then I will just bitch about it and sometimes cry. (if I have a cold.)

Anyway, this morning, I was looking out the window, considering suicide,  and I saw a man running.  No, not running away from something or someone, not running to save a person's life, not running home from his night job to see his wife and kids because he misses them so much and only works a shitty night job because he wants to provide them with Kraft Dinner and Hamburger Helper.  No.  He's running because he wants to.  Because he's special, you see.

He has even purchased a very special and very expensive name brand running suit and running shoes just so that he can run in the most efficient way.  I'm not sure what means, but I heard that mentioned in the commercial for running shoes once when I was waiting for Dr. Phil to come on.   But I do know suspect that this is a very special running outfit designed to let you know that he was (a) not running away from someone, (b) not running to save someone's life, (c) not running because he can't wait to see someone again, (d) not running to get home and watch the morning news, (e) not running because he has to use the bathroom, (f) not running because his car broke down and he has to find a phone because his cell phone wouldn't fit in any of the convenient compartments inside his very expensive running suit, but he is running because he believes that he is special.  I mean, just look at him.  He obviously watched way too many Mr. Rogers reruns as a child and he truly truly believes that Mr Rogers was talking directly to him.  (and I bet he has  has a pair of boat sneakers in his closet that he wears when no one is around.)

Maybe he believes that if he does everything right, he will live forever, that because he is so special (I mean really, he is probably one of the few people who are out running this morning, so in some ways he is "special.") Yeah, he will be probably be one of those old old guys that the local news interviews to find out the secret of his longevity and he'll credit something like eating a cantaloupe and drinking a thimble full of  whiskey every day.   Yeah.  Now THAT's special. But right now I bet he thinks he looks pretty sexy and somehow that will result in many sexual encounters with beautiful women, or in a pinch, a supermarket Cougar.  Yes, this guy is running on a brutally cold morning in December because...... Oh for god's sake I don't fucking know why.  I only know that it is something I would never consider in a million fucking years.  And yes, I realize that that comes as a complete surprise to you, considering my super fit body.

I must confess,  I don't really like exercise of any kind. *passing the smelling salts.* I only run if I have to.  For instance, I have, on several occasions, run from nuns. Now, that is what God gave us legs for - survival. Not so that we can dress them up in expensive workout attire, not so we can show everyone how fit we are, so fit that we are barely breathing hard.  No.  We have legs so we can run to save our ass.  Period.  And if you had seen the way this guy was running you would know, his ass  wasn't in any danger whatsoever, and he had never spent a day with a nun during That Time Of The Month.

Truth be told, (ha)  I have only exercised on purpose a handful of times in the '80's when Jane Fonda and Olivia Newton John told me to, and only if I had a sweat band, a pair of legwarmers and a pair of knarly high tops handy.  Besides, who says we need to purposely exercise.  I mean, you burn calories just by thinking about it. At least that's what I think to be possibly true and confirmed by scientists someday in the future, but not any day real soon of course.

Ok, that's it for today.  It's time for me to get out there and do something or other as soon as I find the right shoes.

Or maybe I'll just watch someone else exercise.