Quaint Vignettes From My Charming Rural Idyll

I remember my ex-husband the way he looked when last I saw him 23 or so years ago: a sweet little catamite angel, pretty as an elf. Naturally platinum blond, with sculpted lips, bone structure forever, chocolate brown eyes, slim, athletic and stylish (and trying to choke me out and kick my legs out from underneath me while I held our infant daughter in my arms. Ahem.)

Time, as they say, wounds all heels. I finally saw a picture of him taken about a year or so ago.

The guy looks exactly like a really mean hard boiled egg.

I could not POSSIBLY be more delighted!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
_______________________________________________________

The swine and their so-called flu which has the brain of a duck you know have been defeated and I once again reign supreme, striding unseen and foul through the waste places of the earth. I thought it was gonna kill me. I can see why this shit is taking lives-even with good nutrition and timely medical care I was left feeling like I'd had a giant horrible leech sucking my will to live. The only other time I was left feeling this completely beat up and exhausted was after I'd given birth. It scared me badly.

From what I read swine flu heads straight for the lungs and creates all kinds of havoc there. I am here to testify to that fact, chillun. I went straight from it to bronchitis and pneumonia without stopping at GO. I could not walk across the room. I felt like-no exaggeration-I was being shot in multiple places all over my torso and upper legs with an industrial pin nailer every time I coughed (yeah I know I already said this in my last post but it bears repeating. It HURT.). All I can say is thank God I finished my Christmas shopping early because one trip to the seething dish of agar and pestilence called the ladies room at WalMart would have flat killed me. Just touching the latch on the stall door. BOOM. Dead. On the floor.

My advice to you is: don't get swine flu. And if someone offers you some swine flu, like say at a party or on the elevator or something, just say no.

____________________________________________________

This past summer the Yummy Biker decided to take a mental health holiday from work. The Playboy of the Western World was kind enough to leave us more than enough wherewithal (which is French for 'massive cash') to take a few months off and enjoy life. We did a little recreational spending, travelled around, took a few road trips on the Victory, and hung out with degenerates. It was awesome!

Whats not so awesome, at least as far as my ego is concerned, is that suddenly the Biker has blossomed into a world class chef.

Here's the deal: I am the queen of cuisine around here. ME.

When I first met this man he was doing lame bachelor white trash things like eating dehydrated mashed potatoes and putting brown sugar into marinara. Meanwhile its been me who cranked out the serious chow and garnered all the applause and had to pretend to be all humble and shit. Sure, I'd let him mess around and make a few side dishes and stuff or do simple shit like roasts. I even let him keep his gimpy kitchen tools in my kitchen; it made him happy. And its not like he didn't have native talent; once I'd introduced him to the concept of respect for ingredients (and hidden the brown sugar) he demonstrated an amazing gift for flavor combinations and textures, better by far than mine. Still, could he make bread? Deep fry? Knock out a hollandaise, or put together a pate brisee or make a comfit or do any of that fancy technique stuff? No way.

Not then.

Here I thought he was laying on the couch all mokin da doink and reading American Iron. I was wrong. What he was actually doing was laying on the couch mokin da doink and watching Food Network and taking notes.

No kidding. I've found notes.

I'd be outside working in the garden, feeding stray cats into the chipper and meanwhile his ass was in the kitchen making fucking tapanade. I come in and he's all like "Oh here," and hands me some dish of amazing miraculous amazingness. "I made dinner."

I put on ten pounds in three months.