Life Is An Ashtray, But Sometimes Tomatoes Happen.

I managed to snare about 25 whole minutes to myself on a day that had become so chemically induced dreary that I found myself comparing my life matter of factly to the rain soaked and blackened cigarette butts in the outdoor ashtray, and I used it to go grocery shopping.  It really seemed like nothing could make me feel normal, from the moment I woke up, and continuing on even into the words I'm typing, and that's fairly normal in itself for me.  I refuse to call it mental illness because I'm not drooling on myself or throwing cats at the neighborhood children, but its certainly something, a Whatever it is, capital W, that I've had lurking throughout my life.  Its not depression.  And contrary to the catch-all phrase I've used most of the time in order to convince doctors to give me the drugs that worked, its really not anxiety either.  I haven't had a true anxiety attack in years, and many years before that, and so on.  I don't particularly enjoy the company of other human beings but I wouldn't call it social anxiety so much as disliking the pressure of having to remain interesting longer than my fleeting potentially interesting thoughts.  And the energy it takes to put those thoughts into words and then say them out loud to other people?  Not typically worth it.  My particular Whatever it is likes to specialize in rage and self depreciating paranoia, to a degree that makes for some entertaining thoughts once I'm done UN-convincing myself that bizarre imagined events are not, in fact, actually happening.  I don't know if there's a good med for that, but I do know that if there is, I don't want it. In fact, I've been un-medicated for almost two months now and even though it brought the percentage of days per month where I was a fully functioning member of society down about 50%, I'd say that's pretty marginal compared to the reward I feel when I manage to logic myself out of a bout of pending bat-shit-crazy-insanity, all on my own.

Before leaving for my blessed 25 minutes of kid free store time, I was out on the deck smoking a cigarette inside of what is probably one of the sunniest days I've seen all summer, with a sky way bluer than I've seen in my entire life, bluer than photoshop, and I was wondering if it was not some kind of ominous omen of horrible things to come.  And I stopped on the way in to dump the aforementioned water soaked and blackened ashtray and my head involuntarily said to me "that ashtray is like your life."  It amused me, because I knew it couldn't be true, that my life was actually pretty good, but there's a part of my brain that says things it knows it shouldn't say but says them anyway just to piss me off.  When I came back in, I saw Vincent laying on the floor playing with his toys and his eyes were reflecting a fairly similar blue to the photoshop blue, and I thought this is when any functioning person would think to themselves "..and then I saw my beautiful child's beautiful blue eyes and everything was just alright again," but that didn't really happen.   I love my child the very most, like mothers are supposed to do, but despite how pretty his little blue eyes are, more often than not, his loud trumps my quiet, and there's not any serenity to be obtained in looking at him.  So instead, that stupid brainvoice that's usually louder than logic, laughs at me and says "yeah, but you still suck."  

I got myself into the car, and Frank started playing.  Usually Sinatra is a pretty good bet when it comes to cheering up, but like I said, I'm not depressed.  I wasn't sad, I was just Whatever (the capitalized kind), and while my ears were perfectly happy to hear my CD start up, most of the pleasure I get that's derived from music is the act of singing along with it and reassuring myself that I can indeed still sing in tune despite about ten years of being a cigarette smoker.  And I really didn't feel like singing.

I did, though, park open windowed next to an elderly woman putting her groceries into her car, and turn up The Girl from Ipanema so that she could possibly be reminded of her childhood.  Maybe its a stereotype to think that old ladies all like Frank Sinatra, sort of like all black people like fried chicken, but I happen to like both Frank Sinatra and fried chicken (and I'm neither old nor black), and if those are the gifts I have to give, it doesn't hurt anybody to try and offer them.

I intercepted a cart being returned by a very regular looking middle aged suburban mom type looking woman, and was absolutely shocked at the happiness and volume that came out of my mouth when I smiled and said "I'll take that!"  And then I proceeded to follow the funeral procession through the doors, around the bend, and into the store, both ahead of and behind other people with the same shopping cart, entering and exiting just like every other person on any other day, and I was just taking notice of the organic mustards and garlic marinade stand that was strategically placed so that barbecuers alike could grab them on the way in, wondering to myself if I had yet become the organic mustard and garlic marinade type of person, when I saw Them.

Them with a capital T - and They were right in front of my path to the mediocre and boring items on my shopping list, like chicken and cereal bars and milk and eggs and prepackaged salad mix because I was too lazy to pay ten times less for a head of lettuce and break it apart myself - Them.  They.  Those.  

Tomatoes.  Not just any tomatoes though.  They were locally grown, by real people, without steroids and pesticides and shiny fruit spray.  They were organic.  They were a little bit more expensive.  And I didn't care.

I'm not some new age hippie that gives a shit about organic food.  Sorry, but I refuse to raise a stink about GMO foods when I know that sometime this month I'll order a garbage plate and eat it with six beers or a big cup of Mountain Dew.  All of the unhealthy processed food products I've consumed in my lifetime have spoken for me on that issue, and I don't have any judgement to dole out to companies that want to ease the cost and tediousness of food production so that assholes like me can walk the funeral procession into the grocery store and bring home way more food than necessary for their overweight families.  I'm not judging, because I'm not different.

But tomatoes...they are quite possibly my favorite food item ever.  And yet I almost never eat them because its nearly impossible to grow, or locate, a tomato as it should be.  The crap I usually see passing by in the store is not only full of all the stuff that the organic hippies are lobbying against, but they are underripe, overripe, the skin is slightly wrinkled, there's a bruise, they smell wrong, and when you get them home, they taste like they're made out of wax.  

These were not only real tomatoes grown locally by real human beings without pesticides or hormones or bells or whistles, but they looked perfect.  The perfect tomatoes.  Flawless tomatoes.  No wrinkles, no dents.  The color was uniform.  The sign said they were picked and delivered that day.  Off a vine, a real honest to goodness vine.  That grew out of some dirt.  Even my expert gardener father-turned-farmer couldn't grow tomatoes this pretty.  The first thing I did was pick one up and sniff it.  It smelled like a tomato. 

Then, I filled a bag with them, ever so gently, because throwing caution to the wind and buying too many  of the more expensive tomatoes with wild abandon is about as adventurous as I get these days.  I didn't even want to put them into the cart, for fear of dinging one of them and ruining the whole thing.  I found myself wishing they made special tomato pillows for the cart seats, satin and velvet lined with tassels coated in solid gold, something that would protect the only real tomatoes I'd seen since last year's yield of my dad's garden from any bumps or bruises or unhappiness they may experience on my trip through the store.  I was thinking that I might not even eat them, I might just look at them until they went bad, and I wouldn't even take pictures because I didn't want to share them with anyone the way I would share Frank and fried chicken.  The voice, though, knew better, and reminded me that of course I was going to eat them.  And then I smiled.

Cleaning out the Closet

So, I recently joined a book club.  I have no idea why, because if you asked me if I was a book-club-joining type person I would have laughed and given a resounding "hell no," - but it seemed like an idea that was too good to pass up.  What can be better than being given an assignment of a book recommended by a group of people to read every couple of months, and then meeting together to drink wine and talk about your own personal take on the book you all just read?  It gives me the always-coveted opportunity to voice my own opinions to a group of other human beings who have to listen.  I know I'm selfish like that, but it also makes me a fabulous public speaker that has never experienced even the slightest bit of stage fright when addressing as many people as can fit in an area.

It also gives me the opportunity to push my own agenda, another useful flaw of mine, when it is my turn to pick a book that I love - and everybody else has to read it.  I am certainly a glutton for power, but I do try to use my powers for good.

I kind of knew that any book I was assigned that I had yet to hear about was destined to change my life.  Not because of some crazy spiritual link with fate or god or dharma or karma or whatever other gobblety gook people subscribe to, but because *everything* I come across tends to change my life.  I find meaning in the strangest of places, I make small inconsequential concepts rise to profound heights of enlightenment, because I'm damn good at that, and then I head out into the world and throw up my newfound enthusiasm into whatever brains I can find that are willing to absorb it.  And I like it that way.

The first book was the Happiness Project.  Now I'll admit I'm more of a free spirit than my husband, but even I have my moments of cynicism and the part of me that identifies with Stefan on a fundamental basis went *scoff*, okay, lets read this hippie shit.  Then I'll make some noodle salad and smoke a bong and sing some John Lennon.

But no, this book is a very practical and scientific guide to de-stressifying (I made that word up!) yourself, and basically tackling anything that stands in the way of feeling fulfilled, and thus, happy.  No, I take it back.  Its not a guide.  Its just the way this one lady did it, and that's pretty cool, because everybody's different.  But she and I are luckily a lot alike, which cuts down on the amount of imagination I need to figure out how to make this stuff work in my favor.

I'm not saying I'm gonna turn this barely used blog into my own Happiness Project, or even go balls to the wall trying to change my life.  (I'm also not saying that I won't.)  But, I can't deny the fact that I could be a hell of a lot happier in general.  Nothing in my life is particularly bad, I have every reason to be happy and grateful, and overall, I am.  But much like the author of this book, I am frequently tired, overwhelmed, I complain too often, I get snarky with my kid, my husband, my parents, and even the cat, and I figure I could use a condensed version of all of the scientific studies, spiritual ideals, philosophies, and simple solutions since the dawn of time that have helped people feel less shitty, and more, well, Happy.

Its pretty cool.

I don't quite know what I'm gonna do with my newfound enthusiasum yet, and these things tend to fade from me once I completely overload myself with any idea, so I'm not jumping the gun just yet.  But I can tell you two things that are going to make today different from the rest.  One: on the whiteboard on my refrigerator  it is written "Do what needs to be done."  (With a big ol' smiley face, so Stefan doesn't come home from work and think the voices are telling him to kill us all.)  And Two: pretty soon here, I'm cleaning out all of the clutter in the upstairs rooms.  Clothes, toys, papers, junk that doesn't get used.... I've never had a problem being a packrat, I am keen to throw out as much as possible at all times.  But that doesn't stop the junk from appearing.  This time, I'll throw out what can't be used, and donate the rest.  The goodwill dropoff center is literally within walking distance of my house, and laziness is not an attractive quality.

Catch you on the flipside.

Decent pictures of mah spiders

Aphonopelma sp. New River adult female - "Lilu"

Cyclosternum fasciatum (tiger rump) juvie female 

Euathlus sp. Red (Chilean flame) adult female "Sarah"

Avicularia avicularia (common pink toe) penultimate male - "Moses"

Psalmopoeus pulcher unsexed sling

Kochiana brunnipes unsexed sling/juvie - "Littlest One"

Cyriopagopus sp. Sulawesi Black unsexed sling - "Vader"

Paraphysa parvula unsexed sling "Vermelha"

Holothele incei unsexed sling

Iridopelma hirsutum unsexed sling - "Algol"

Poecilotheria subfusca lowland (Bara), unsexed juvie - "Argyle"

Psalmopoeus cambridgei (Trinidad chevron) juvenile female - "Lightning"

Nhandu coloratovillosus adult female - "Persephone"

Nhandu tripepii unsexed sling, mid-molt - "Hedwig"

Psalmopoeus cambridgei unsexed sling - "Mojo"

Ephebopus cyanognathus unsexed sling - "Lucky"

Aphonopelma waconum adult female - "Mustache"

Grammostola rosea adult female - "Daisy"

Aphonopelma punzoi adult female - "Lucinda"

Aphonopelma hualapai adult female - "Tank"

Ami amazonica (sp. Columbia) unsexed juvie - "Pebbles"

Hapalopus formosus Pumpkin Patch sp. small unsexed sling - "Valentine"

Thrixopelma pruriens unsexed juvie

Bonnetina cyaneifemur juvenile female

Ceratogyrus darlingi unsexed sling - "Beezel"

A Photo Interlude

In my first entry at the beginning of the year, I mentioned my photo-a-day project that I've been doing mainly via Facebook.  I shared a couple of my daily photos, and I thought I'd pick out a few more of the good ones to share with you all here.

Apologies for the lack of wit, truly, I'm tapped out.  I'm sick and therefore filled with snot and drooling on myself.  Look at the pretty pictures instead.

 Mossy Tree

 A Little Birdhouse In Your Soul

 Ridley

 Sunset Over Penfield

 Mini Houses

Puddle Reflection

 Nhandu chromatus, Fizzgig

 Cold Sunset

Innocence 

Spotlight: Psalmopoeus cambridgei

Its no secret that I like green tarantulas better than all other spiders.  I don't know why it is, because green has never been all that high on my list of favorite colors, and tarantulas come in all sorts of insane colors.  Purple and black starburst patterns, bright orange, neon blue, you name it.  But those I find most pleasing to the eye are the ones that come in various shades of green. 

My first green tarantula was the Psalmopoeus cambridgei.  These hail from Trinidad, where they get their common name, the "Trinidad Chevron."  I'm not a fan of common names, as many of them are misleading - but these are very aptly named.  On the tips of their toes, they sport bright orange chevrons, similar to the Nike symbol.  The rest of them is a lovely olive green with an intricate pattern of black/dark green stripes on the abdomen. 

If you were a Psalmopoeus cambridgei, your little slice of real estate would look something like this:

Except that you would likely be looking down from the top of one of those trees.  These big green beauties are arboreal, tree loving spiders.  They max out at about seven diagonal inches.

The neat thing about the species in the Psalmopoeus genus is that they are one of a small number of New World genera that lack the urticating bristles on their abdomen, something that most tarantulas originating in the American continents posses.  Being New World tarantulas, however, they also lack medically significant venom.  Because of this, mother nature has blessed these spiderkids with a fantastic alternative to itchy hairs and painful bites.  Speed.

I'm personally attached to this species because it was my first of the Psalmopoeus genus, and the first species I have ever worked with that had the ability to run extremely fast.  My first, who has grown into a lovely juvenile female, when I opened her shipping vial, ran up my arm, panicked, ran back down, and took a flying leap into the vial she was to be housed in.  It all took about 0.5 seconds, and was over before I could blink.  Right then and there, I named her Lightning.

Since then, she and I have had a tumultuous relationship.  I occasionally request small favors from her, such as documenting photographs, not flying out of the lid when I crack it to put food inside, and refraining from eating my face off during rehousings.  So far, she has done so grudgingly, and I don't take for granted that it will continue.  However, every interaction I have with her gives me a further window into her psyche.

Psalmopoeus are fairly reclusive animals.  They like their privacy, their safety and security, and they will go to rather entertaining means to achieve this.  My lady started out in an entirely transparent enclosure, which was soon filled with a maze of tube webs with substrate woven into them.  For a very long time, my photo-ops looked like this:

 Lightning, you have a beautiful toe....at least I knew that much.  

They have a tendency to make what hobbyists pretty much uniformly refer to as the classic Psalmo "dirt curtain."  Not only will they web themselves into a cozy corner, but they will gather dirt and other bits and pieces of anything you may leave around, and decorate until it is completely enshrouded in web and dirt.  You will be lucky to have confirmation that you do indeed have a pet spider, but they are easily lured out with food. 

Tong feeding this baby is one of the highlights of my week.  She will saunter over to the prey as I hold it in the tongs, put her front legs on it as slowly and tentatively as can be, until I let my guard down momentarily and believe that she's going to be gentle.  Then without warning, she rips her meal from the tongs with the force of a professional wrestler, and disappears back behind her dirt curtain.  

Recently, I placed an order with a dealer that was offering cambridgei as a freebee.  I quickly jumped on that offer, in hopes of raising up a potential mate for Lightning in the future.  Having a juvenile that is quickly bordering on adult, I had no idea the amount of sickeningly adorable oozing cuteness that is a cam spiderling, until I opened the shipping vial, and this came strolling out.

For a hopeful stroke of luck, I named this spiderling Mojo, hoping it would tip the balance of fate in a more masculine direction.  He better have some serious Mojo if he is to deal with Lightning's high maintenance personality when he grows up.

Psalmopoeus cambridgei are notoriously easy to breed, and therefore very popular and frequently given away as freebees.  If you think this one spiderling is cute, imagine a whole incubator full of these fuzzy little sock-wearing babies.  

Here, so you don't have to.

(Note the copyright - this is not my photo!)

All in all, these are really entertaining little buggers.  Occasionally they get feisty and decide they'd like to eat you for lunch, but as long as you are prepared for the speed, they are fairly fun and easy to work with.  

My favorite thing about Lightning is my ability to pause and "reason" with her.  It seems that prodding her with a paintbrush does not get me my way - but taking a ten second breather followed by calmly explaining in a reasonable tone what it is I would like her to do, typically is followed by her cooperation.  Now I'm not crazy, and this could simply be spontaneous mood change due to my giving a short attention span time to reset.  But I'd like to think that we have an agreement not to harm one another.  She is not a girl I ever plan to nonchalantly allow to stroll along my arm, but our working relationship has always been quite plainly and clearly communicated. 

Deep down, she really just wants to buy the world a Coke.

28 Days of Recipes: More Blanketed Food

Remember how I said how exciting it is to wrap stuff in blankets?  Well this is no exception.  In fact, I made it with leftovers just for kicks when I had Stefan's sister and her friend over keeping me company one night, and although they were not fans of the ingredients, they said together they were so awesome that they went out and bought more dough so I could make it again.  I'd call that a success.

Cheesy Mushroom Rollups

You need these things, plus a bottle of Dijon mustard, that I apparently didn't feel the need to picture.  Also, I must apologize for the poor quality, as I made these at night, and my camera hates that time of day.

First, you lay out your crescent dough in the triangles it comes in..and preheat your oven to whatever it says on the package.  I believe all packages are different, so just do what it tells you to do.  Obey the package.  Sheeple.

I'm guilty of package obedience too.  I'm not a chef.  What.

Then you chop up some mushrooms!  Make them really tiny, not like the picture.  Don't obey the picture.  I liked this picture, though.  I kind of want to eat it.

And basically...the rest should be fairly obvious.  Sprinkle mushroom pieces and cheddar cheese on your crescent rolls.

Then fold them up however you want, and brush them with Dijon mustard!

I don't have a brush, so I used a spoon and was really generous.

I seriously let that mustard bottle just glop all over my crescent rolls, and it was amazing.  I also sprinkled some cheese on top afterward, because you can't have too much cheese, ever.

Then you bake them!

Apparently "the mustard makes it," at least that's what I was told by the girl who scarfed down like five of these despite the fact that she doesn't like mushrooms or mustard.  Bless her heart.

Here's what they look like on a plate!

Now go forth and make these, and try not to choke on their awesomeness.

28 Days of Recipes: The Egg Thing

Want to know how to win friends and influence people?  This recipe right here.  It is friend making, man (or woman) keeping, popularity on a plate.  

I originally found the bare bones of this recipe in some weird sample booklet that came to my house in the mail.  It was junk mail, but I skimmed it before tossing it, and was glad I did.  I added quite a few of my own touches to the recipe though and over the years have made it entirely my own.  The first time I made it was about eight years ago when living with my (now ex) boyfriend.  I made it for him for breakfast before he went off to work, and he took it along with him to eat on the way.  Let it be said that his place of employment was literally right next door to our apartment (he couldn't get away with calling in sick, since the boss could see right into our kitchen/bedroom window), and therefore he arrived at work with his breakfast still half eaten.  Everybody wanted one of their own.  At lunch time, I made about six of them, and brought them over to hand out to the other employees.  It was all over from there.  My recipe was the hit of the car wash, and although our relationship ended on a rather sour note, apparently was the one thing that he remembered fondly.  A year or so after our breakup, his new girlfriend emailed me, saying that he talked about this thing I used to make, called "The Egg Thing", all the time, and could I please tell her how to make it?

I gladly gave her the recipe. 

I have made The Egg Thing for every man I have dated since then.  Its become like a magic spell of sorts, once I cast Egg Thing, they are mine forever.  This works with friends, too.  Nobody can resist the amazing pull of the Egg Thing.  

Thus, I give you:

The Egg Thing 

But bear in mind.  With great power comes great responsibility.

Here is what you need:

Some large flour tortillas (I used spinach pesto fancy schmancy hippie flavored, but regular works just fine.)

A big ol' bag of frozen, shredded hash browns

Some butter

A bag of shredded cheddar cheese

Barbecue sauce; and

Eggs

You start by melting some butter in a big pan.

Then you throw in some hash browns.  I use about half a regular sized bag to make two Egg Things, but I never really measured it out.  Just pour them in and hope for the best.

And add even more butter.  Because you didn't need those arteries anyway!

Hash browns take eternity to cook.  Go read a chapter of your favorite book.  Get the laundry done.  Pet the cat.  Walk the dog.  Go on vacation.  Eventually, they'll be all golden brown and hopefully mostly not stuck to the pan.  You might want to stir them occasionally, if you aren't actually on vacation.

Then you throw in two of the best things ever in the history of food.  Barbecue sauce, and cheddar cheese.

And mix it together until it looks like this.

The owl approves!

Then you spread it in the middle of the tortillas.  Don't skimp.  Be generous.  Show the love.  Pretend that this starchy, cheesy, barbecue flavored goodness represents your undying commitment to your new friendship or romance.  Plus, you don't wanna have leftover filling, because its really not all that exciting on its own.

Now, as delicious as that looks, and probably is, it will not help you win friends and influence people.  It will not cause an entire car wash to come to your door demanding breakfast.  It will not get you that engagement ring.  Because the magic is in the egg.

Oh yes.  The magic begins.  

If you're like me, you have a horrible time flipping an egg without breaking it.  Well, TOO BAD.  You cannot under any circumstances break this egg when you flip it.  If you do, throw it away, give it to the dog, toss it at the ceiling, but get rid of it and try again.  

SUCCESS!

Only cook it on the other side long enough to not get salmonella.  You want that yolk runny.  This one runny yolk is going to serve your needs for years to come.

Put it immediately in the middle of the hash brown mixture.

Then stab it with a fork until it bleeds magical egg juices all over the place.

And then roll it up like a body in an area rug on its way to be dumped in the river.

Okay, I really hope you roll bodies better than I roll tortillas.  And also, a toothpick won't hold a rug closed. But it will hold the Egg Thing together! 

The next step is very simple.  Feed it to your loved ones.  

They will be yours forever. 

Disclaimer:  I will not be held responsible for the Egg Thing attracting unwanted and unrelenting affection.  If it leads to your inevitable stalking and murder, I assume no responsibility whatsoever, and I just hope that he or she does a better job rolling your body up in the carpet than I did rolling that tortilla.  

Enjoy!