STUPID BLOG

Did you ever have one of those weeks when you just feel stupid?  Dear lord, I hope so, because I sure don’t want to think I am the only stupid person on the rock. 

Under normal circumstances, I like to think I am reasonably intelligent (I also like to think I am pretty and classy, but those are delusions for another day).  I am a good speller (6^th grade spelling champ 3 years in a row!), I can add lots of numbers,  I could figure sales tax in my head til those evil people in Augusta changed the tax rate to 5 ½%.    But recently, I just meandered into a tunnel of dumbness.

It all started Sunday before last.  The weather bunnies were promising it would be one of those stay-inside days, there was a crucially important football game on and I  had recently unearthed a turkey from the bottom of the freezer.  Had all the makings of a Thanksgiving in January.  Before our beloved Patriots had scored, the fabulously appointed bungalow smelled like the holidays, and when I hoisted that golden bird out of the oven, it was pure photogenic poultry perfection.  Then I sampled a little of the golden crispy skin (my favorite part).  It was notably nastily nauseating nastiness.  While I waited for the hulking evil beast to cool enough so I could wrestle it into the trashcan, I fished the label out of the trash – “Best if used or frozen by 11/27/2009.  Well then.   I sort of redeemed myself by concocting a pasta/shrimp/tomato thing with lots of garlic.  It was quite tasty, but there was not nearly enough garlic to get the funk of 4 year old turkey off my palate.  And although I felt really stupid for wasting time and resources (and the stuffing...oh the humanity) on this most foul fowl, I did learn that 4 years is too long to keep something in the freezer, so it wasn’t a total loss.

Still wanting poultry; and not wanting to admit defeat at the wings of a frozen dead bird,  the next morning I took some chicken thighs from the freezer.  I knew these were safe because I had vacuum-sealed them just a couple weeks before.  Little helpful hint:  when vacuum sealing juicy stuff like chicken, it’s a nifty idea to place a folded paper towel on the top of the food- keeps the juices from infiltrating the seal area, and makes cleaning the sealer easier. 

Anyhoo, while my guy mixed himself a cocktail after work that evening, I breaded the chicken thighs and and blathered on about my day,  listened to him talk about his day, and waited for him to take a breath or a sip so I could keep talking about my day.   After the thighs  were all nicely covered in a lovely herby crumb coating, and a healthy (by my standards—the American Heart association may have a different guideline) drizzle of butter, I slid the pan in the oven, and waited for him to take another breath so I could keep talking about me. 

When the chicken was done, I plated it along with mashed potatoes (they had not been used the previous  night) and roasted carrots.  I couldn’t wait to dig in.  Michael was dining contentedly.  I peeled off a healthy (once again my by standards) hunk of herby, buttery chicken skin and sunk my teeth in.  Or tried to.  I could not bite through it.  I tried to tear it apart with my fingers – no go.  I started to panic.  Michael, there is something wrong with this chicken.  Don’t eat any more.  He was savoring his second piece and assured me the chicken was fine.  I waved the tarp of chicken skin in his face.  No, it’s tough, it’s like leather, it’s….got little teddy bears on it. 

Apparently whilst flapping my yap and prepping the chicken, I neglected to remove the paper towel (please refer to helpful hint above) which had enveloped around one thigh and I just breaded right over it.  Yes, I felt stupid, but I did learn that I should focus a little more on the task at hand and a little less on making every conversation all about me.  I also learned that a wet, buttery Bounty towel is strong enough to spend 40 minutes in a 325 degree oven and not be ripped apart.  Let’s go with that lesson, because I really like talking about me. 

Michael took over the dinner duties for the rest of the week, which was probably for the best.  I spent that time being stumped by crossword clues like ‘ 6 letter word for Hebrew Month, and 9 letters and a Sanskrit character for a term meaning ancient Babylonian term for waxy buildup on cloven hooves.  My stupid streak continued.  I thought some music might set things rights. 

After being frustrated by the myriad of remotes necessary to play a freaking Clapton CD through the Xbox, (and  pushing a combination of buttons that may possibly have temporarily screwed up dinner service on the International Space Station) I figured I might as well go for broke and actually read the new lease for my continued stay at the fabulously appointed bungalow.  I am pretty sure I understand the intent of the document – if I promise to pay my landlords money, and not smoke inside, and not burn the place down or trash it, they will let me and my ’eclectic’ collection of crapulence occupy their building and enjoy it’s view of the Open Air debris garden for another year.  Simple enough, but they used  so many words to express this simple concept.  So very many words, and so much punctuation.  Heretofores, whereasses, underroos, and whatnots.  I have rented from the same family for years, and have never read the lease before, just blindly signed it (the same approach I highly recommend when presented with a ‘release form’ before engaging in some boneheaded shenanigan like whitewater rafting down a raging river or walking down a church aisle), so I scrawled my name on the bottom (I believe I signed on the correct line) and returned it to my landlord’s representative, fully aware that I was fully unaware of what I had just agreed to, but it may possibly have involved something about underwear.

Fear not, faithful fan.  There is a light at the end of my dark, dense stupidity tunnel.  Michael and I took a weekend trip to our favorite little getaway spot – Greenville.  Because certainly if you are fed up with the cold and snow and greyness here on the rock, head north.  That may seem stupid, but enough of my friends do it, so that makes it OK. 

We went to a local convenience store to purchase what I hoped would be the scratch-off ticket that would net me enough money to buy my little dream cottage with the spectacular kitchen I’ve had my eye up on there (still in the stupid tunnel).  Anyhoo, while at the store I spotted this.

Just knowing that there is some consumer with an egg issue who said 'Y'all need to tell us when you put eggs in here.  I coulda cramped right up', thereby necessitating adding a label to Grandma's Pickled Eggs warning consumers that the clear mason jar in which you can see the eggs CONTAINS EGGS makes me feel a whole lot smarter about myself. 

I breathed a sigh of smart relief, and then, in my best Beavis or Butthead voice  said aloud 'Heh heh.  Dick's Baking'.

Hey, I feel smarter, I am not Einstein.

 

 

Things I learned this week

I learned I should not go to the DMV to renew my driver’s license and expect to walk away with a hilarious, blog-worthy story about the interminable wait, the bungling,  the rudeness and the frustration.  My time there (under an hour) was irritatingly uneventful (even finding a fashion faux pas was a fizzle), but I came away with a couple other lessons. And pad those with some other thoughts and looky here - I learned I can write something about nothing.

I learned that even though my DMV clerk’s name was “In Training” sometimes it can be a not-quite good thing to get the one guy who actually paid attention whilst in training, and has patience and a sense of humor. I didn't want efficiency, dang it, I wanted stories.

I learned that I cannot wear my birthday tiara in a drivers license photo.  Apparently it is considered a head covering I would not normally be wearing when asked to produce my  license.  I think I almost had In Training  convinced to let me wear it when I assured him that if the good people of law enforcement had cause to pull me over, it would more than likely be after a tiara-sporting event. 



This woulda looked sweet on my license

 I  learned I could not include my 2-dimensional cardboard boyfriend in the photo, even if it is NASCAR legend Kevin Harvick.   When I pushed the envelope and asked if I could have Kevin with the tiara in the photo, I learned there are some things you do not joke about with a NASCAR fan.

At photo time,  when In Training said  “Up against the wall” and I replied ‘Oh, when a man says that to me, it usually doesn’t turn out well’  I learned that  In Training, the clerk behind him, and her customer, all have a keen appreciation for lowbrow humor.

I learned the drive from Ellsworth to Greenville is much quicker if I  don’t drink a gigantic cup of convenience store coffee before leaving Ellsworth.

I  learned that when I'm on the dance floor near a 31 year old size 2 cheerleading coach I should NOT try to match her moves.  Might kinda almost work at the time, and might sort of look moderately impressive, depending on the octane level and expectations of the onlookers, but 3 days later, there will still be unexplained bruises and nagging aches. All of them mine.

I learned that an inordinate number of men in the Moosehead Lake region are named Bob.  And they love having their picture taken with a non-photogenic slightly overserved redhead wearing a tiara.  A sub-lesson here is that I should not post photos without express written permission.  Ya just never know who might be in the Witness Protection Program, or hiding out from something or have a scrappy woman at home who could beat the beejeezus out of me.

I learned that if I leave my car in the parking lot and take the safe ride with the designated driver, I have prime parking for the big events in town the next day.

Back at the bungalow, I learned that when I want to take advantage of the early spring weather to air out the winter funk, I'd get a lot more fresh air if I move the storm windows up before sliding the screens down.

I learned that coloring my own hair is an easy process, (and yes, approved by my hairdresser once she saw my last paycheck stub) but the color on my head will fade dramatically in about 4 weeks.  The color that accidently plopped onto the bathroom rug will, like Twinkies and cockroaches, survive a nuclear holocaust.

The big lesson I learned this week is that sometimes making a decision is tough, acting on it is tougher.  But it doesn’t take long to learn that it was the right thing to do.