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Tuesday, September 20, 2016

When You've been Gone Long Enough To Forget Your Password, It's probably Time to Come Back.

First, I want to say that I am well aware that I am writing this to no one.  However, talking to myself has been a life long activity of mine and so I am not only quite talented at this artistic endeavor , but I'm pretty comfortable with it as well.  So, there is no need whatsoever to feel the smallest amount of sympathy for me. I can handle that by myself, thank you very much.

You must be wondering why I decided to write again, or perhaps you haven't given it a thought.  Either way, I will be more than glad to share the reason.  You see, the idea came tome like most brilliant revelations - when I least expected it.  I was in the grocery store, which cannot be called a supermarket for obvious reasons (if not obvious you need only go into the archives of this blog.)

 While in this supermarket I was grumbling (the content containing mostly profanity.)  My less than happy mood, which, by the way seemed to begin the minute I got through the automatic door of this establishment, became more and more unhappy as I realized that, once again, the food had been rearranged and that my five minute stop at the store was now going to take approximately 45.7 minutes, depending on the amount of elderly folks who were  in the store, especially the ones who have mastered the art of growing very large at will, usually in front of the very shelf I need to get closer to.

I must admit, at first, things were looking hopeful.  Only about 50% of the food in the store had been relocated to places that no one in their right mind would suspect.  (personally, I've often wondered why we can't just shelve these things in alphabetical order, but what do I know? I've only spent about 4938,848, 20,292, 9,4002 hours in these establishments in my lifetime. )

ANYWAY,    with a surprisingly large amount of my must-haves in my cart, I decided to sneak back to the produce aisle where earlier they did not have what I needed but I figured by now a "committee" had been created  to revamp this part of the store and maybe there would now be a tomato or two to be had.  Instead, of course, redecorating was taking place. A large team of SPECIALISTS were anxiously studying the display above the produce (because as we all know, people who have three small children in a cart and have to pick another one up at soccer practice before making dinner, cleaning the kitchen and helping with homework are really concerned about the interior design of the nearest grocery store. )

However, this design involved pumpkins and apparently there is a special, VERY special way to arrange these seasonal  vegetables?  fruits?  Oh, Christ, I don't know what category they fall under, because I have never tasted one.  I just buy one every Fall out of habit, and eventually put them outside to rot.ANYWAY, as I was saying, There was a whole Pumpkin Design Team at work, the actual workers (aka kids) and the Pumpkin Design Specialist (aka clerk with seniority) monitoring the whole thing.  And in the end I was actually glad that I had happened to be in the wrong right place at the right wrong time because I had no idea that there was a certain amount of space that should always be in-between each pumpkin and that apparently if there is less or more of this space, something really really really awful might happen.

So in the end I learned a valuable lesson.   At this moment I don't remember what that lesson is, but if it comes back to me at some point I will let you know.


Princess S


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.