Just Call Me Wild Thing. Yup.

So, I am in the hardware store buying spray paint. I am in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood and I note that the aerosol cans are not locked up in spray paint jail. I do not have to ask a bored employee to unlock the prison gates to buy spray paint. I can just select the paint. And then buy the paint. It is a revelation in shopping, yes.

Note: I do not know why spray paint in a fancy hardware store in a fancy neighborhood does not require security guards. Perhaps the adolescents residing in the fancy neighborhood are either lacking in the artistic ability required for vandalism or do not wish to spray their private school logo on the wall  of the local bistro, under cover of darkness, no.

Oh, yes. As an adolescent, I had occasionally urges to stick it to the man, sure, and I definitely caused my fair share of mayhem and whatnot. Oh you'd better believe it.

Note: No you shouldn't. I am a liar.

I carved my name in a bench at The Ice Burgie. Oh, yes I did. And, if I recall correctly, I was taken to the police station for breaking the curfew and blaring my car stereo at all hours of the night.

Note: No, I wasn't. I am a liar.

But the point is ... I am buying adulterated spray paint by my own free will and choice.

I am at the checkout, looking down, digging in my purse for my wallet.

Note: The Trophy Wife has a giant handbag which is sadly disorganized.

The store clerk is ringing up my purchases.

I am still digging.

Are you over the age of 18? she is asking.

I stop digging. Am I on candid camera?

I look up. My golden hair falls back from my 40-something face. We make eye contact, the clerk and I.

Oh, she says.

And that is all.

But for one brief moment, I am a wild adolescent once again, drinking soda pop in the parking lot after dark, cruising the strip, although my car is overheating and that's kinda lame. I am carving my name is benches. I am turning in my homework ... a day late.

Oh, the wildness of youth.

Heck, yes!

Just Roll With It.

Actual USGS Scientists at Work

So, the earth is shaking out here in California, a bit, yes.

I do not care for the earthquakes, no.  Mostly because earthquakes are so darn unpredictable. Earthquakes tend to strike when I'm on the potty or naked in the shower or watching Temptation Island. I do not wish to be found in the ruins with my pants puddled around my ankles or in my birthday suit or lazing around on the couch watching cheesy television.

And then there's all the drama. Not from the residents of my fine state, no, because mostly it's how we roll, pun intended.

It is the drama of the USGS.

Note: United States Geological Survey, yes.

Having emerged from his underground bunker in the wastelands of the Nevada desert, probably, The Earthquake Scientist is on the evening news, standing in front of a map and some gadget that looks like my Grandma's old washtub and is pointing and looking grim, yes. Very grim. In somber tones he delivers the bare facts. No sugar-coating from this guy, nosiree.

There is a 99% probability that California will experience a 6.7 magnitude earthquake ... wait for it ... wait for it ...

... in the next thirty years.

Thirty years? Really?

How much government funding does it take to figure that one out?


Thirty years?

Well, I want a piece of this action. I predict that a major hurricane will make landfall in the state of South Carolina ... in the next thirty years. I predict that Will and Jada will split up ... in the next thirty years. Heck, I'll even go out on a limb and predict that the Lowly Chicaco Cubs will end their century-old World Series drought ... sometime in the next thirty years.

Ooh, I think I kind of have a knack for this thing.

I wonder if there are any job openings at the USGS?

Heck, yes!


Note: This post is not intended to diminish any of the suffering of individuals or countries that may have experienced major earthquakes. I'm just fooling around.

A Wolf. In Scout Clothing.

So, I am a Den Leader.

Note: I know, I know.

But I can't help myself really. Sure I am saying. And I am smiling, even! Sure, I can be a Den Leader.

How hard can it be to corral ten 8 year old boys for an hour once a week? I am thinking. After all, I like boys. I raised a boy. I married a boy, sort of.

Note: I am breaking out in a sweat.

But being a Wolf Den Leader has its perks, yes. I have a spiffy uniform with a necker-cheeef that really ups my street cred. Plus, as a leader, the Wolves refer to me as Akela, which is Native American for Is that Lady Really Wearing a Cub Scout Uniform in Public?

But I am a good sport and with a rocking pair of boots, I can pull off nearly anything, including a scout uniform.

So, I am a Den Leader. Today, we learn about The Buddy System, which can be summarized as this: Get a Buddy. Stay Together. The End.

But Cub Scouts turn The Buddy System into some sort of Lord of the Flies scenario with each Wolf jockeying for position, trying to buddy with the Alpha Male, who by the way, is delineated by his ability to give Turkey Bites to the buttocks of the other Wolves without Akela's detection.

Note: Don't mess with Akela. It has been a long day.

Then one Wolf says to another, We are buddies because we've known each other ever since we were born. Right, Jake? The Other Wolf gives him a Turkey Bite and responds, Dude, my name is Jason.

Ah, another long-lasting friendships made right here. In the Wolf Den.

Good job, Akela.

Heck, yes!

Sweet Holy Amnesia, Batman!

My life is so boring.

Note: Oh, it has not always been this way, no.

Previously my life was filled with amnesiacs who fell off bridges and were nursed back to health by misunderstood ex-prostitutes with hearts of gold. Nowadays, the only amnesiac in my house is The Hub who forgets to take the garbage out.

My life was a tangled mess of love triangles with outrageously beautiful people with outrageously impressive wardrobes. Now the closest thing to a love triangle around here is sneaking in an episode of Sister Wives when no one else is looking.

Note: I know, I know.

Once my life boasted heartless baby swaps, persistent brain tumors and the dead-coming-back-to-life. And everyone had six-packs and perky boobs and private jets and cash oozing out of their pores.

Sweet Holy Moses.

Oh, All My Children. How I miss you.





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True. Grit.

Today, a cooking lesson, sort of.



I am making an orange vinaigrette to top a mixed green salad with roasted beets and pistachios. I am grilling and juicing and emulsifying. I am zesting and tasting and seasoning.

And although the Kosher Salt Box and the Albers Quick Cooking Grits Box are similar in shape and similar in heft and similar in color, they are not, in fact, interchangeable in cooking applications.

Oops.

The Hub hears my lament.

Note: 'Lament' may or may not be a euphemism for a colorful expletive.

He listens sympathetically to my sad Tale of Two Boxes.

Well, he says, look at the bright side. You have discovered a brand new recipe.

Wait for it ...

A brand new recipe, he is saying, for Orange Vinai-Grit.

Sweet Holy Moses. The Hub is a freaking genius.

Be still my heart.








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