Everyone Could Use Some Constructive Criticism!

Imagine driving down the highway.  There’s very little traffic.  That stupid little fucking sedan… or maybe a minivan… decides OMG I MUST CHANGE LANES THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS IT… and cuts in front of you.  No one around in any other lane.  They change lanes… to the left, let’s say… where they should be going faster… yet they are traveling at 5 to 20 mph slower than you.

Hate this fucker?  How about the one that taps the breaks to change lanes in the first place, on an empty highway?  OMG I MUST BREAK I’M SO AFRAID OF WHAT MIGHT BE IN THAT EMPTY LANE BESIDE ME!!!  I don’t know what goes through their heads.  But if that’s you, fuck you, you shouldn’t be driving.

In my dreams, I have a number of inventions.  Cars might have LED signs on them which would broadcast passive aggressive notes like, “are you just learning how to change lanes?” or “I noticed you forgot your plastic bike helmet today.”  The signs would get pretty brutal pretty fast, please see my prior post about the dying art of insults… you may as well just start up with them blaring “FUCK YOU!” with a little animated middle finger dancing it’s way around the screen.

The next invention is far more gratifying – it’s a giant nerf gun.  When someone is being a dickhead on the road, you simply aim and fire.  This isn’t brutal violence, it merely fires a giant suction cupped dart which attaches easily to a car and bursts forth with a sign that says “I’M A FUCKING MORON WHO VEERS RIGHT TO MAKE A LEFTHAND TURN.”  Just, you know, like merit badges they’ve earned throughout the day.  You would be able to send messages and have them display... it'd be so informative!

I fully admit, there would be times when I get home and I’d have to do that awesome move from 300 where I swipe all the arrows out of my car-shield, but there would be other days where popping the fuck out of some stupid motherfucking car with those god damn stupid family stickers in the window would be so goddamn gratifying.  Also, they’re just syllables, and potty words just feel *right*.   And yes, it WAS a hard day down at the docks, thanks for asking. 

To Breed, or not to Breed

I think there are arguably some really easy litmus tests out there to examine whether you’re decent parent material or not.  I think it takes something special to be a parent, a type of patience I was not keen on developing.  It is all in your point of view, and how you look at the situations that would inevitably arise in the course of raising a new, blank slate that can really tell you the obvious.

Facing the truth, your baby, no matter how they score on whatever tests they use to measure performance and smarts in the first few weeks, is incredibly stupid compared to any adult.  I’m sorry, but it’s true.  Here we have a world of technology, advancements, inventions… and out there on the horizon, distantly, I might add, are the days when your child will finally learn to tie a shoe, shit by itself, or set up the coffeemaker to go off the next morning.  I mean, those things are EONS away…. No matter how quick your kid is to grab your finger with its sticky little brand new hand, you STILL have to teach that lazy little diaper filler to brush its teeth. 

To be a parent, you have to look at all those momentous occasions with both anticipation and joy.  You have to long for the day you can teach him to tie a tie, or her about her period (okay, maybe that’s not a fun lesson), and then have the requisite sadness that little Timmy is getting so big.  You remember fondly that first time you caught him with that telling, furrowed brow, and plunked him down on the potty shaped like a wishing well, or whatever they do to make kids excited about pooing in a civilized fashion.  You have to be convinced that introducing your kid to things a million have done before them, and a million will do after, is somehow still an exciting mile marker that you’ll document and post in a status message.  Somehow I just don’t think it would go over well if I posted a pic titled “Timmy FINALLY fucking holding his head up on his own.” 

For example – you might be perfect parent material if you get giddy at the idea of introducing your child to what you loved as a kid.  Showing them your treasured star wars toys, sitting with them during the original movies, watching them fall in love with it just as you did.  You’re shitty parent material, like me, if all you can think about is what a fucking time sink it’s going to be having to catch them up on everything.  Jesus Christ, you’re so far behind, you don’t even realize that The Venture Brothers is a twist on Johnny Quest, or Toy Story was awesome because all the old toys that went to goodwill made cameos in the film.  That layer would be completely lost on a new kid.  You have to not be bothered original films will fail to hold their interest, that they’d rather watch the drone war cartoons 10x a day, and Jar Jar Binks amuses them.  And still, it fills you with joyous pride that you’re sharing this new world with them…

There’s another fairly easy litmus test out there, along with that patience, that you have to have.  In addition to taking delight in the seriously underachieving world of baby accomplishments, you have to soldier on forging a bond with a person that drools and blows spit bubbles when you want to talk current events.  Forget having a bad day, because little gassy belly bloat over there isn’t going to suddenly ask you if you’re doing okay or if you’d rather just order take out.  No, that selfish little puke machine hasn’t the slightest inclination to worry about how YOU’RE doing, despite the fact that at least for a  while, you’re really that kid’s only lifeline to the outside world.  That takes some serious tolerance for a parent to not only wait a year before requiring a kid “say please first,” but to not carry growing resentment for every time that kid dropped whatever you made for them for dinner onto the floor after trying to wear it as a hat.  Remember?  Because they still haven’t figured out forks and spoons yet.  Seriously.  Apes can use tools.  And your little cretin will start out by stabbing himself in the eye with one.

So, if you get all starry eyed just thinking about being there the first time your kid finally figures out how to do what the rest of us have been doing for years, it might be right for you.  Some people say they’re afraid to bring a new person into this world because of the deteriorating state of this planet.  I say I’m against bringing in one more ignorant moron to this world that until you teach them otherwise, will eat dirt and try to taste the dog.

Recipes are for the weak

If it weren't for the fact that most restaurant food kinda sucks, I'd never cook.

I hate cooking.  I don’t think I’m particularly bad at it, but honestly, I’m not a fan.  I dunno.  Maybe it’s growing on me.  In retaliation, if I’m cooking, I’m doing it my way.  I get excited to try new things, I like leafing through cooking magazines for mouth watering pictures, but in all honesty, cooking kinda blows.  I usually make it through half of the recipe before I’m picking from it what I find appealing and dumping the rest.  I just find no joy in following along, unless it’s something new and unfamiliar, and I want to figure it out first before I reject their suggestions out of hand. 

There’s just no fun in following a stupid recipe.  Yeah, sure, I take to heart time and temperature… my goal is not to make anyone ill.  But once your recipe tells me to use saffron, we’re off the reservation.  I’m not using an $19 piece of flower lint to flavor a meal.  I don’t care if it does taste like unicorn tears.   Especially if I’m making something like stew… fuck if I can even remotely hang in there halfway through the ingredients anyway, it’s fucking stew! Isn’t it, by definition, what’s left in your fridge/pantry?   

My favorite recipes are tragically a mark of my heritage.  Those mother fuckers just aren’t written down.  My sister claims Grandma taught her how to make strudel.  I’m sure she has it on a post-it buried somewhere … and dammit if it wasn’t fucking amazing.  Note to self, ask about recipe… I don’t know, maybe it’s just me that gets into the chemistry lab of the kitchen and decides I’m fucking boss and I’m going to do it however I want.  That’s how she made her strudel, and it was heaven.  Imagine the best part of a pie – the goo soaked into homemade crust.  Like she made an actually tasty apple pie with cinnamon, but then scraped out the mushy yucky fruit, rolled up the soft crust, put a little sugar on it and baked it, letting those granules of sugar burn and make a caramelized crust of amazing around this perfectly moist spiral of vaguely apple soft cinnamon goodness inside.  

I have this suspicion that my mom actually uses recipes, but… I also highly suspect she wanders off into her own idea halfway through most of them.  She can make mini muffins out of thin air using zucchini, cranberries, or lemons.  She has the same Betty Crocker cookbook from 50 some odd years ago, but then again, baking is a little more scientific so it’s possible she’s a lot more capable of following directions than I am.  I know I’ve seen her just throw random shit together, and it comes out great.  "Oh, i just put some applesauce in instead of sugar."  It’s my dad you have to worry about.  He’ll take last night’s spaghetti and heat it in a frying pan, making it like it was fried rice, crisping up some of the noodles and dropping whatever else he found in the fridge.  Spaghetti and left over mashed potatoes, coming up… in one scoop.

Recipes are like fashion magazines… MAYBE there’s something attractive in there, or some idea you never thought to add…But hell if you’re gonna find me actually believing you can mix a large print with stripes or that celery tastes good in anything.  Even vegetarian magazines used actual meat in the pictures to make the food look palatable, just like that model isn’t wearing some off the rack item without some behind-the-scenes tailoring or photoshop to make it look good. 

The obvious draw back to my inability to let some little piece of paper tell me what to do is that I have no one else to blame if it sucks, and if it was awesome, I will absolutely never be able to make it again.  And just to make SURE of that, even if I could remember what I put in, there are the times I randomly remove bits of it.  If it didn’t fit in the pot I will randomly remove stuff and toss it to make room.   Or I add something else halfway through, crossing my fingers. 

Tonight we’re having stew… instead of the 4 carrots, 3 potatos, and celery and an onion it called for, there are 5 carrots, a crate of cherry tomatoes, a bag of mini onions and half a large onion, some farro I tossed in, a can of stewed tomatos… one sweet potato, one regular potato, some small purple tiny potatos… and then randomly removed bits of potato when it no longer fit in the crock pot.  I forgot the garlic and added it a little while ago, along with spilling in a few more farro grains because if you ask me, sometimes stew misses something in the crevices to soak up the flavor.  I failed to look at the clock, but I have a feeling it won’t be done until 7pm or so, but that’s merely a guess.  I just can’t be bothered to worry about it. 

Also, Dear Husband, since I know you never read this, this is the ideal place to tell you...you got another summons for jury duty.  :-/