This summer there will be an infestation. Of Cicadas. Apparently there is a “unique brood” of cicadas awakening from a 17-year sleep (the thought of sleeping for 17 years seems enticing, doesn’t it?). When these 6 legged creatures stir, they are going to be annoying and gross. I can just hear them crunching under my sneakers.
What do we do about them? Well, according to our local on-line news source, we can eat them. They are a delicacy in other parts of the world. Of course they are. So are monkey’s brains. Would I try that? Yes, probably. (I apologize to all vegetarians and animal lovers but I love my meat.)
You all know that I am a foodie because I have mentioned it once or twice. I like to try new foods any chance I get. DH likes to be nice and safe. Me, the stranger the menu, the better. I enjoy frogs legs, snails, deer, duck. I like it all. Or most all. So why not these? They say they are crunchy and have a a nutty flavor. I like nuts.
Because it piqued my curiosity, I did a little research. Did you know that 3.5 ounces of cicadas only contain about 120 calories? There are a lot of cicadas in 3.5 ounces considering one of these buggers weighs 7/100th of an ounce. In addition to being low in calories, they are high in protein and have no carbs. The perfect snack. I wonder if they are like potato chips? You can’t just have one.
So then I did a search for cicada recipes. There’s shish-kabob cicada, cicadas sautéed in butter and garlic with angel hair pasta, cicada tacos, cicada pizza. What you can do with these guys is endless.
So, who’s coming over for dinner? And how would you like yours cooked? Medium? Or rare?
When I was preparing to get married, my wish was to wear my mother-in-laws wedding dress. My own mom’s wedding dress was out of the question because my parents got married shotgun style. Catholic + pre-marital sex in 1966 = pink suit. My MIL’s dress was gorgeous. I mean it. It was made of the most exquisite Chantilly Lace, with beautiful long lace sleeves. The skirt was hooped like Cinderella’s ball gown. It was every young bride’s dream.
When I shared this wish with her, the woman couldn’t run fast enough up the stairs to the attic to retrieve it. I think the gesture made her happy. After all, she is the mother of 4 boys and none of them like to wear women’s clothing. To my knowledge anyway.
It was stored for well over 30 years in a large black garbage bag. Rolled up in a ball. I don’t blame her. What else was she supposed to do? And remember, she had 4 boys. I ran into the bathroom to try it on. I could barely get the arms up. And zipper it? I’d need a crow bar. I was 122 pounds and pretty damn fit at the time. All I could wonder was what did this woman eat? Cabbage? For every meal?
Besides that, it wasn’t in great shape. The lace was torn as if it lost a fight with a paper shredder and had started yellowing like old teeth. My heart lurched. I was incredibly disappointed. But there were options.
At a bridal expo I had recently attended, I met a man who preserved old wedding gowns. I can’t remember exactly what we paid, but it was a bit pricey. The dress came back with the same tears and it may not have been as yellow as old teeth, but it sure wasn’t white either. Not even close. And I did not want to be an ecru wearing bride.
Her dress was a Fink Brother original. Lucky for us, they had a store in the big city. We schlepped down there one day to meet with Mr. Fink himself. He remembered that gown and told us the lace came from France and resembled a large round tablecloth with just a hole in the center for the waist. No seams. I could have the lace replaced but it would cost thousands. Thousands I did not have. And since I didn’t have any rich uncles laying around, I had to give up my dream gown.
This is what I wore instead:
Not exactly Cinderella’s ball gown, but it did the job. And it was white. MIL’s dress is neatly folded in a box in an upstairs closet. I should have made a Christening gown out of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut it up. Who knows? Maybe the kid will pay thousands to get new lace. Anybody have any rich uncles they’d like to share?
I posted today on my Facebook page that I lost 8 pounds. One of my followers wanted me to share how I am doing it. Basically for me, it’s a life change. Not a diet. Besides having high cholesterol and suffering from reflux, I am at the stage in my life where if I don’t start taking care of myself, the kid will have a problem on her hands. I don’t want to be her problem. I would like to control what I can. And I would like to enjoy my Golden Years when the time comes. With my hubby. Who is healthy.
Let me start by saying that I am a foodie. A major foodie. There isn’t a food I won’t try and there isn’t much I don’t like. I’ll even eat it if it falls on the floor, has a little mold or is a bit past the expiration date. Remember, I hate throwing food away. And I’m gross.
I don’t believe in fad diets. I’ve tried them all from cabbage soup to Atkins. And then only to have every pound plus some jump back on me within a few short weeks. Although it took me months to lose it. I believe it’s a conspiracy.
So here’s what I am doing. I cut a lot of fat from my diet. I try to eat at least my daily allowance of fruits and vegetables. I am eating a healthy snack that I enjoy in between my meals so I’m not starving when lunch and dinner comes along. I LOVE me my carbs but they had to be reduced. Reduced, not cut. I am not into depriving myself of All Things I Love. That doesn’t work for me. Like I said, I am a foodie. Depriving a foodie is like depriving a fish of water. Not a good outcome.
I don’t put a crapload of food on my plate like I used to. I had a really bad habit of eating way beyond the point of being full. You know that feeling where you just can’t move? It’s completely unnecessary. I haven’t done that in over 2 months and I couldn’t be better. And I never need to reach for my bottle of Tums anymore. Ever.
I abhor exercise, so I chose something I know I can do and stick with. I walk 3 miles 4-5 times a week. Fast walking. With some hills. I plug my earphones into my iPhone and go to town. Before I know it, it’s 45 minutes later and I feel great. It’s completely invigorating. If it’s crappy outside, I try to get on my elliptical for 30 minutes. I hate it. It’s boring and there is no fresh air. But at least I’m moving. No more excuses. I have grown tired of excuses.
I will be happy if I could lose another 8-10 pounds. But I know my limits. I will never have that 120 pound body ever again and I am at peace with it. I will not lose weight that I know isn’t realistic for me. I don’t need to look like a super model. The point here is to get healthy. Besides DH likes me with curves. And who am I to deprive him?
We took a very last minute, spur of the moment, spring break vacation last week. We went down south to visit my parents and spent a few days in Myrtle Beach, SC. Just the kid and I. Poor DH was stuck working. Poor, poor working stiff.
Here are some things I learned/discovered on our little get-away that I thought were important enough to share with all of you:
If it only fits 7 but they squeeze in 9, it’s not technically a “Limo.” Being a big-man sandwich is not my idea of a good time.
Just because a meal of 2 salads and 2 drinks at the airport costs $58, doesn’t mean it’s good. It just means I’m a sucker. Period.
It’s so much fun to play with the iPads in the airport terminal. Especially knowing that every germ from boogers, spit and who-knows-what-else from the 5,000 people per day who touch them is right at your fingertips.
LaGuardia bathrooms supply us with 1 ply toilet paper. But don’t worry. If you are going to Raleigh-Durham, you will get 2 ply. My butt thanks you, North Carolina. So does my hand.
No one else in the country seems to have spring break the same week as us. Which translates to having Zaxby’s all to ourselves. Totally and completely awesomeness.
Eating nail polish chips will not kill you.
My dad’s favorite attire consists of bathing shorts and crocks. Even if he is not going swimming. Dad, please keep that crap at home when you visit at Christmastime. Thank you very much.
Clarifying lotion does not remove eye makeup. But it will cause burning and tearing so don’t try this at home.
If you want to look at the ocean from a vantage point that puts you about 50 yards out over it, it will cost you a buck. And you can fish for your lunch. All for a buck. I’d say that beats my $58 salad. Wouldn’t you?
You can leave the state park anytime during the day to get yourself a bucket of fried chicken. I know this because they said so.
A low flying fighter jet is not a tsunami.
If everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, wears a bikini, why can’t I?
I don’t want to look at anyone’s thonged booty. I don’t care how young or cute it is.
2 year old sunscreen doesn’t work very well. Especially in the places where you don’t put it.
Contrary to what my mother believes, her english-dutch skin will not tan the first time it is exposed to the seasonal sun without protection. I know you were going for the Kardashian look, mom. Sorry it didn’t quite work out for you.
If you need a candy fix, wait until you can get to Walmart. Like the airport salad, just because a half pound of candy costs $7 doesn’t mean it’s good.
Myrtle Beach is indeed family friendly. There is a “Girls, Girls, Girls” establishment right next to putt-putt golf.
The next time an airline tells you that the flight is overbooked and ask that you give up your seat, don’t believe them. They are just using you.
You probably shouldn’t buy a gift that has a pointy end and then try to bring it on a plane. Security could quite possibly think you will use it to gauge someone’s eyes out.
I believe I may need therapy to get over my $58 salad.
Aside from my salad, our trip was very nice. But if you see me in a bikini this summer with a bucket of fried chicken, blame the southerners. They said I could.
A cup for your vagina. A cup. To collect your menstrual flow. And it’s one size fits all. Even though I’m sure uteruses (or is it uteri?) come in all shapes and sizes. And it claims you can wear it for up to 12 hours during any activity. ANY activity. Yup. Even that.
I wasn’t quite sure how one would remove a softcup from their vagina because there isn’t a string. Then I looked it up. You have to insert your finger up into your hoo-hoo until you hit your pubic bone, then grab it with your finger and pull down. But be careful. You don’t want to spill the contents of your cup. I can tell you with certainty that this would be a major fail for me. Since I can’t get through the day without spilling something. Just ask DH.
How do you dispose of your collection? You pour it into the toilet. Because it’s a cup. A cup for the vagina. Just like any other cup. Red solo cup, sippy cup, vagina cup.
Did I mention it’s reusable? “They” say you can wear one cup for an entire menstrual cycle. So a box should last over a year. We are saving the earth one vagina cup at a time.
I read that these have been around for 10 years. How did I not know that? I guess I missed the boat on that one. Or, er, the cup.
I have bushy eyebrows. Bushy to the point where a weed wacker is in order. They are thick and dark. Even though I am naturally blonde.
My mother was kind enough to hand these furry beasts down to me. Here is her senior class picture:
I know. They don’t look bad. That’s because she shaved them completely off and this is the regrowth. If you look closely, you can see the bald, uneven spots. She was also blind in one eye that day. She says that was the start of a lifetime of migraines. Or she slipped with the razor.
Here I am at my bushiest:
Not too bad from this vantage point. But on closer inspection you would have noticed that they are growing up, down and all around. My mother pointed that out to me about 14 years ago. She should talk.
So, I started tweezing. I plucked the freaking hell out of those bush balls. I didn’t pluck them all the way off, but I may as well have. They were baldy, sparse and they didn’t match.
My plucking turned to waxing which turned to threading. No, threading does not entail people threading fake eyebrows on, which is what I thought it was when I first heard the word. It involves 2 pieces of floss-like string. This string is twisted and used to pluck out a line of hair. The pain ranks right up there with scrubbing your face with an acid wash. I choose to thread because believe it or not, it’s less abrasive than waxing. I don’t walk around looking like I have diaper rash on my face for 5 days with threading, like I did when I waxed.
Anyway, I went too far those years ago. I see women in Hollywood with beautifully shaped eyebrows and know I will never have them. Because I plucked my hair follicles to the point of murder. I am green with eyebrow envy.
You know where my brow follicles seem to have appeared? Anywhere between my neck and nose. If I catch myself in the sunlight looking in the mirror, I am praying for some tweezers. Isn’t it funny how as we age the hair on our head thins, but the hair on our face, chin and neck thickens? Yes. And I’m laughing all the way to the electrolysis.
Apparently, I am a garbage collector. I know I’m not alone. I know this because I’ve seen others. Right now I will speak for myself. My bag is filled with so much nonsensical crap, it’s almost embarrassing. When I reach my hand in there, I never know what’s going to come out.
After shopping the other day (Marshall’s), I needed hand sanitizer. I reached into my bag to locate it. After a couple of minutes, I came up empty. When I got home, I did an inventory of the items in my bag:
a lollipop stick with no lollipop attached to it.
23 pieces of gum laying in the bottom of my bag. Some wrapped. Some not. Some chewed.
2 sanitary napkins even though I haven’t had my period in 3 years.
Shop Rite receipts and those coupons they give you at checkout. Many of them.
2 grocery lists.
$5.27 worth of change.
Enough mints to choke a small horse. Because gum just isn’t enough.
Receipt from a doctor’s visit.
Wallet with everything but actual money in it and an empty change purse.
Dirty loose tissues.
4 lip glosses.
Umbrella (I’ve never used it but my mother always tells me I need to be prepared).
Aspirin and Tums.
A ziplock bag filled with Big Y silver coins.
Hand sanitizer (it was under the umbrella).
Why do I need all this? I don’t. Not really. Well, maybe. You never know when you will need a pen. I have this great fear of being kidnapped and not being able to leave a note for my would-be rescuer(s). Chapstick is a definite must-have since I am a literal chapstick junky. Really. I’ll just go into an epileptic fit if I don’t moisten at least every hour. The rest, I don’t know. I guess I can leave the Tums at home. If my nail breaks, that can wait too. My reading glasses? I guess I can leave them…no, those are a necessity. I’m Mr. Magoo when trying to read print smaller than 3″. And I’m not hanging them around my neck so don’t suggest it.
Ok. So, here is what I really need: Wallet. Phone. Maybe my glasses. Men do it. Why can’t we? Don’t you think it’s time to simplify? Well, no. Because then we won’t have a cute accessory or any place to put our hands. Or any place to put our shit. I mean, we can’t very well walk around carrying all this stuff in our arms. And we kind of need it all. Don’t we?
This story is not about me exactly. But since I told you a little about my brothers earlier this week, I thought you might enjoy this story. Literally I could write a novel just based on the stunts they pulled.
I’m going to guess that the year was about 1977’ish. My youngest brother Mark was assigned to bring in 2 cans of Hawaiian Punch for a class party. You remember the type where you had to puncture two holes with a can opener into each end of the top so the juice would flow easily? The big 46 ounce cans? Those.
On the day of the party, Mark forgetfully left them at home. After school that day, he panicked and asked our brother Ed for help. There were plenty of ways to remedy the situation. Flush down the toilet, pour in the sink, dump into the backyard. My wiseass middle bro told my baby bro that he would have to drink both cans to hide the evidence. After all, mom spent her hard earned money and time so he could have a nice class party. He was totally being selfish. So Mark did as he was told. He drank both cans.
At the time, the boys shared a room and slept in bunkbeds. Mark in the top one. In the middle of the night, Mark woke up with stomach pains. He put his head over the edge to wake up Ed. Ed in turn, put his head out to look up at Mark. Ed got hit with 92 ounces of red regurgitated punch.
Karma is most certainly a bitch. You just never know when she’s going to come to get you. In this case the big brother got to take a bath in her. Lesson learned? Of course not. Like a said. A novel.
I took a shower for the first time today in 2 days. Why? Because two days ago, I kept saying I was going to exercise. Why shower before that if I’m only going to sweat the clean right off. Fortunately, I went for my walk. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen until late in the day. I went to bed stinky because I got lazy. I even had the same underwear on from the day before. I’m sorry.
The next day: Repeat. Don’t rinse. So when I woke up today and realized that I either shower or get evicted, I chose to shower. I had to run errands and be presentable anyway.
On my errand-running list of things to do was a stop in Marshall’s. I really needed some spring tops. I went into the dressing room with a few items to try on. There was a really cute shirt that was my style and that I was pretty sure I would buy. As I lifted it over my head, I was hit with the stench of B.O. “Hmmm, that’s weird,” I thought to myself, “I just freaking showered. Unless I missed a spot, I can’t understand how that could be.” I sniffed my pits. It wasn’t me. I actually smelled good. It was the shirt. How do I know? Because I felt compelled to stick my nose into the fabric and inhale deeply. Needless to say, I didn’t buy the shirt. But I did feel the need to disinfect my face.
That got me to thinking about all the stuff we try on when we go shopping. And all the stuff other people try on when they go shopping. The armpits of shirts. The crotch of pants. Smelly, sweaty feet trying on shoes. And bathing suits? Do those little adhesive strips really provide enough protection from bacteria that may be harboring about? Herpes is not exactly on my bucket list.
Will this new thought prevent me from trying on clothes? Of course not. I mean, I can’t continue to wear crap from 2006. I have been trying on and buying clothes my whole life and I haven’t died yet or even contracted scabies. I will just be a little more on guard. Maybe a nice coat of armor. Anyone know of a good blacksmith?
I am a sentimental person by nature. I save shit the way I save food. The only difference is I actually throw the food away once it begins its transformation into a green fur bag. I have the first item of clothing DH ever bought me from 1986. The clogs I bought with my babysitting money when I was 14. The tag from a pair of Jordache jeans that were a gift from an ex-boyfriend. If someone so much as touches the stuff from my memory box, they lose a hand.
Out of all that crap, there were only two items that I intended to keep for my future child to actually use, not just look at. One was my Baby Brother Tender Love doll equipped with a little plastic penis that peed water. His name was Toby. The other was the Christening gown I wore as a baby.
I grew up with 2 younger brothers. They were your typical matchbox playing, army-men loving, blow ’em up kind of boys. One day they took it upon themselves to take a hacksaw to poor Toby. Yes, it’s true. I can see the vision in my mind still. I’m not sure if I actually caught them in the act or if I found Toby laying naked on the floor of the garage in pieces. Either way, it was very disturbing. As for my Christening gown? It was used as a grease rag on the same garage floor. I guess they never heard of a towel.
As for my memory box…all I can say is the kid is one lucky sucker to be an only child. She won’t have to fight with anyone over my Sweet 16 corsage or Leif Garrett poster. She’s never actually said so, but I know she can’t wait to get her hands on my senior prom dress, complete with hoop skirt and elbow length satin gloves. Just in case sweetie, it’s hanging in the foyer closet along with my champagne stained wedding dress. You’re welcome.