Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Of the many things that cross my mind meat is sometimes one of them. This time...the taste and texture of meat are center stage. In this case, I've been pondering ways meat can be tough, bitter, or just foul when fresh. We'll pretend that I am a carnivore. Of course, I should tell you how this thought began. Back in February my back muscles got so tight that knots formed upon knots. When my now husband rubbed my shoulders he somewhat freaked out saying my muscles felt like braids. Perhaps they did. As the pain intensified I finally gave in and got a script for a muscle relaxant. My muscles mellowed, I could lift my arms again, and my back didn't feel like cement had taken its place. Yet, my mind spiraled to the absurd. Of course, last week when I caved/splurged on a massage from knots and shooting pains, the thought came back... When cows are slaughtered, and they are tense with knots, does that change the taste of the meat and make it tough?

Sometimes the insomnia hits at the most infuriating moments.  Like now.  I nodded for a few moments this evening, not nearly long enough, and now . . . now I am tinkering away at my keyboard, too idle and blocked to write aptly. I long to drift off to sleep, but--aside from the insomnia--there is a dog hogging my part of the bed. Of course she is adorable, but she is a stinkin' bed hog none-the-less.  A smaller stack of work, than I have seen in months, but still a formidable stack glares at me.  Instead, my mind is too idle to function. Hence, I write moronic meanderings at 12:30 in the morning.  I flip through a French reader, I struggle with an Italian chapter, and I tinker with more Turkish.   Je parle un peu languages, mais franciase est ma favori pour son rythme et de romance implicite de l'espirt et du coeur.   My spelling sucks in all of them.  Yet . . . yet, I can not focus.  Apparently, there is a theme developing to my aimless ...

Today, being Friday, I made my weekly trek to my NYC Mecca for local, organic, and groceries du jour.  Per usual, I went to Union Square to bedazzle my fridge with fresh greens and vegetation of many colors.  Or, as the husband says, make the fridge look like a "weed garden exploded in there." As I wandered the stalls in the blazing heat, long before a half second monsoon hit, I eyed my favorite vendors, bought a bottle of Eve's Cidery wine, and meandered my way through another day of organic scents and delights.*  Though, on the far side of the square I spotted a basket of seemingly misshapen carrots.    Today, upon seeing these, my mind traveled to a memory a few years old of a grad school professor and I discussing the taste of produce on the American market.  Color, shape, and quantity surpass desires for rich, robust flavor.  In many ways it is a tragedy.  The taste of unaltered food--as in those grown or...

It's funny how things work out. Once upon a time there was a jaded single chick, living in the middle--struggling with bills--and dating NYC.  Then . . . then came a Halloween party with her as the Queen of Hearts.  A crew of people joined as Alice in Wonderland, and along came a March Hare.  He fell for her, as he says.  She wasn't sure how she felt about him . . . as she was seeing--or trying to--other people.  Though, she thought he stalked her Facebook page a bit too much.  That was October.  She went back to the layers of NYC.  He stayed in Manassas . . . home of the Confederacy. He sent her texts and messages passed.  Then, for New Year's, they went to the Outer Banks with a group of friends for the weekend.  In short, a timeless, classic, and storybook beach romance occurred, with walks along the shore and his chipper black lab in tow.  She went home, he did too.  Well, on her way back to NYC she stopped ...

I had these tights . . . not just any tights, but spectacular tights.  They were sweater tights, without the bulk.  They were grey plaid, with blue and yellow.  They were cool, hip, happening tights.  They were 25 bucks from Mod Cloth. They ripped, on the second wearing.  How did they rip? I snagged them on the foil wrapper from a yoghurt container.  In my house.  Shit.  Of course the larger question is why in the hell did I spend 25 bucks on a pair of tights? Okay, they are cool . . .But, my poor, cheap self really was lost in a Lupus haze of hell literally sitting on the floor, in the corner, with a hand on each wall praying for the room to stop spinning.  When the room did stop spinning, after a round or two of upchucking, I crawled into bed.  As the dizzy subsided I laid there fearing to get up, so I watched movies online and window shopped.  Yea . . . I blame the dizzy.  I also blame the sheer and utter exhau...

Word on the street is that there is an unusually high smog alert over New York City. Yea, I apologize.  It is my fault. I’ve got the plaquenil farts again.  When the carbon monoxide detector goes off in the neighboring buildings I will not apologize.  I will deny any doing or knowledge.  As of late, compliments of finally getting my health insurance reinstated (though, the dental and vision are still being hijacked by bureaucracy), my days have been filling up with doctor’s appointments and the gremlin bottles have been multiplying on my dresser.  I haven’t even spilled any water, as of late.  Though, give that five minutes as I’ve got a bottle of seltzer calling my name.  Those bitches always bathe my carpet, bed, and me before settling down.  You would think there would be a better way to open them . . .I wonder if getting a boyfriend to open them would make things less wet? Oh wait, would need a boyfriend first.  Though, I have dude...

Thanksgiving comes but once a year  . . . yea, that’s an in-your-face-you-gotta-be-stupid saying.  None-the-less, even this jaded chick of the moment celebrated the American holiday this weekend.  Did I do it with copious amounts of alcohol? Did I see friends? Did I have another epic Lifetime Movie drama develop? Did I sacrifice sleep and body safety for bone-crushing sales of plastic crap, holiday glitter fashions, and electronics? Well . . . Last year I had the infamous “I still love you” followed by my throwing up .  Yea . . . the two bottles of wine helped, but . . . None-the-less, this year I was hell bent on having my drama free holiday of wine, French movies, and day old Chinese without the insanity of some dumbass crossing my path.  Did I get it? One word . . . no two words: Hell yes! Now, I sit with trepidation hoping that jackal has finally moved the fuck past me.  Time will tell.  Now, to this one. Old friends, from the land of Ke...