Archive for February, 2010

a snack before end of the world

Gee, I wonder if my split pea soup will be done before the world ends. I hope so, because it’s a pretty good one, made with the requisite carrots, onion, garlic and four giant  cubos de Knorr Caldo Con Sabor de Pollo. Mexican bouillon cubes can make anything taste great because they contain genuine FAT. Knorr is so proud of that fact they even list it twice as an ingredient: chicken fat AND hydrogenated beef fat. For hydrogen-riffic flavor!

Of course that didn’t make up for the big ol ham hock I was dying to toss in, but didn’t have. A couple of shakes of Bac-Os will do in a pinch.

And plenty of pinches are coming our way.

Quakes, tsunamis, blizzards, floods, droughts, record highs, record lows- they came, they’re coming again, and most of us are going to die, even women who use Strivectin.

Luckily for you, I’m going to share a secret that may one day SAVE YOUR LIFE-considering you want it saved while everyone else melts, freezes or expires in some way involving shrieking and a tectonic or man made catastrophe.

OK-here it is: Split pea soup doesn’t have to simmer for hours! Twenty to thirty minutes, tops, toss it in a blender, it’s ready to go as fuel to outrun the sun’s unfiltered death rays or for a picnic in an underground bunker.

Yep, the very same people who will soon vanish during Deathfest 2010 lied to you. “Honesty is the best policy.” “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” “Generic ketchup is just as good as Heinz.” “Soup has to simmer for hours.” Sometimes just knowing that you’ll be the only one to survive is enough to make you look really, really, cool.


February 28, 2010 at 5:03 pm Leave a comment

Desert Bloom

I’ve decided to stop letting fear run my life-burst open the cocoon, let the larva out and the butterfly fly-wait-if I let the larva out it’ll die unless I put it in a box and feed it lettuce like I did years ago when I opened the Mexican jumping bean and the green worm thing came out. Even that guy died after a week despite my best efforts at mothering . I think I got him to pupa and was terminal. Or chrysalis. Wait-that’s for butterflys. Damn it, I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of the Class Insecta. Forget it. We’ll start again.

So as part of this “live like you’re dying” thing I adopted a few weeks ago I’m trying things I never have before. Like mid-grade gasoline and cheap bologna. Although you can’t do a lot of stuff if you’re really dying and  feel like crap and can’t get out of bed, but I’ll ignore that digression for the moment.

Which leads me to my recent trip with friends on their Ranger. The Ranger is this cool four-wheel drive thing that’s like a miniature Jeep Wrangler, only without windshields. You strap yourself in as if you’re going on one of those roller coasters that costs a fortune to insure, and  toss the entire package into the desert. For hours. I was lucky enough to be in the front seat or I would have thrown up, but it would have been the kind of vomiting that’s worth it.

The best part was when I thought we were going to tip over, slamming the entire weight of the Ranger and four other people into my guts. It was then I had my epiphany. Near death=fun! Actually dying=drag!  This is the way reckless people live and I wanted to be a part of it. If only my DNA wasn’t programmed to steer myself away from danger. That’s the Jewish thing. Everyone wants to kill us so get the hell out.

Well from now on, I’m livin’ my life like a Gentile!

Oh yeah, and the border shared by Arizona and Mexico (now trendily called “The Borderlands” which sounds like somewhere you’d go to check out books and sip latte) sucks. It’s full of garbage and drug runners and people runners and you’d have to be nuts to go into the middle of nowhere without a large group of people and/or a gun. We found this designer duffel just off the trail. Cell phones, walkie-talkies, extra batteries, chargers, and a toothbrush. Nice to know that dental hygiene is a priority for smugglers.

Yep, the places I used to peacefully hike by myself  many years ago are the front lines of a clusterf**k. But you haven’t lived until you’ve seen an empty Mexican Gatorade Bottle up close.

I wonder what flavor this is.

Join me as I take my next death-defying trip. Next up:Trader Joes the day the Fearless Flyer comes out.

February 21, 2010 at 10:51 am Leave a comment

My body, someone else’s self

Who the hell is this old broken old fart that’s taken over my body? The one that slips on those hand crutch things before I type or smooths Tiger Balm patches on the base of her spine after she runs or can’t drink coffee after
3 p.m because it keeps her up at night? The one who has to put on her glasses before she checks the fiber content of bread or grams of fat in deli meat?

I mutter to myself white I’m doing things, I need to “go” before I go out for the day,  and I have to eat with my supplements so they don’t upset my increasingly sensitive stomach.

I thought this crap wasn’t supposed to happen until I was in my 80s and actually looked old: white hair, round glasses, bun, and knitting old.

I find myself saying ” when I was a kid” or “back in the day” and mentioning my age often to let everyone, most of all myself, know that I’ve survived a bunch of things and survived. I’m old enough to remember when people used “back in the old days” for back in the day.” I adopted the latter term years ago because the former sounds like it should go with “horseless carriage.”

I look like me, talk like me, swear like me, act hyper like me, embrace sarcasm like me, laugh my ass off at South Park like me (although I’m aware that I’m probably over the top of their demo) and maintain the same low thrill threshold and ADD I’ve had since I was born.

This has to be karma. All my years as a waitress ( I stand my ground when it comes to this beloved term-‘server’ lacks warmth and sounds slave-y) I laughed at old people who wanted to know why the light was so dim because they couldn’t read the menu, or borrowed glasses from their friends. Now I do that crap!

During first radio gig at 22, I played Porcelana ads and cracked up at the term “age spots.” Now I know what they are.

I teach a college class and I warn the agile punks that this, too, will happen to them. Of course they don’t believe me. I wouldn’t either at their age.

February 12, 2010 at 10:47 am Leave a comment

Don’t kill the piano player, aim for the singer

I’ve probably sung karaoke three times in my life. I prefer to get my humiliation on a more regular basis, as often happens just by being myself. But I do understand the attraction-for a few minutes, a nobody can become somebody in front of verbally abusive and/or vomiting people in a badly lit bar.

And, amateur sociologist that I am, you can tell a lot about people by the songs they choose.

  1. Aging rock chicks like to sing “Crazy on Me” or any other Heart song in which Ann Wilson sounds Robert Plant-ish.
  2. Broads who still own crystals sing Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” or any song that involves Stevie Nicks twirling around in a black cloak.
  3. Number-crunching guys who have yet to be promoted to a cubicle love Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” or any song that sounds ballsy no matter the group or lyrics.
  4. Suburban boys on the edge of puberty love anything that makes them sound urban-songs with rhythmic lyrics that drop vowels and contain colorful euphemisms for sex or the organs involved (see Ludacris, Weezy, Timbaland,Fabolous, et al.)
  5. Girls are up for grabs. They’re hot for any ephemeral Top 40 hit sung by a woman-be it Ke$ha, Beyonce, Fergie, Lady Gaga, or Rhianna feat. whoever-the -hell: any chick act du hour with no last name will do.

Who am I kidding? I’ve sung along to every one of these songs in the car. But I just needed some kind of an intro to this article about  Filipinos killing people during karaoke renditions of Sinatra’s “My Way”

Have a nice day. And remember, public renditions of Ol’ Blue Eyes signature tune may be hazardous to your health.

February 8, 2010 at 9:07 am Leave a comment

A Threesome: Patrick Swayze, Jung and Me.

Patrick Swayze and I were sitting in nearby booths at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sort of like a Golden Corral but a bit more upscale (i.e. sauces were reduced rather than thickened with flour or cornstarch, vegetables weren’t overcooked.) I’m not saying I like one better than the other- give me a chicken-fried steak made with fat n’ flour white gravy any day-I’m just being descriptive.

We were attracted to each other, but Patrick was with another woman who just so happened to the be married-with-child daughter of a good friend. She was all over him. but he kept looking at me. Meanwhile the servers kept bringing out more food-so much that they ran out of room and were putting roasts on chairs and casseroles on the floor. I was attempting to balance my eye-lock with Patrick (can I call him Pat at this point? No? OK. Not a big deal.) with trying to grab some of whatever new food item was being put out.

I started pigging out on macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes with big chunks of ham, braised short ribs-all the stuff I wish I had  waiting in the oven for me every evening but only have the time and patience to cook once a month. But even stuffing myself, didn’t diminish my ardor for Patrick, nor his for me. As dreams often do, jump cut to P. and me, wrapped in each others’ body, fulled clothed and surrounded by all that food.

What the hell did this dream mean? I liked Dirty Dancing, I admired the fact that he was still married to the same woman from his pre-fame days, I was sad when he died, but he didn’t register that high on my Richter scale of personalities.

If everyone in my dream is a manifestation of something in my personality, which Jung believes fits into of a limited number of archetypes, what part of me is a guy who danced well and never got to the top tier of fame?

Or as my husband Dave would say, are dreams just mind excretions, no more meaningful than taking a dump?

If he’s right, then dreams are even more important to me. Nothing is more vital than taking a healthy shit every day. You young punks can laugh, but Karma says you’ll be there in a few decades.

February 7, 2010 at 11:41 am Leave a comment

Roberta Gale

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

%d bloggers like this: