48 reasons I should have been named Daisy....

And here is where you become fully acquainted with the depths of my garbage guilt.
I am mailing away my trash.
And I am thrilled about it.
I am personally paying, out of my own pocket, to box up and mail away my garbage. And before you even begin to scoff or shoot me a sly knowing looking from under your eyelashes let me specify that this is not a prank. Although can you imagine the look on Aunt Ruthie's face if she received my trash in the mail for her upcoming birthday? I can......hmm.....
But this is not a joke, it's reality.
Plastic #5 and I have a love hate relationship, I love the sour cream that comes in this number, but I hate the plastic. Or do I hate the fact that my county does not recycle this plastic? Or do I hate the fact that people would package and sell stuff and make it available in a county that does not recycle it? Or do I just hate the fact that I have been seriously trying to figure out if I can make my own sour cream so I can avoid all of these packaging issues but the allure and ease of store bought is like a siren in the oceans of temptation and I am the ship full of sailors about to be dashed upon the rocks?
Well, for the time being, I am no longer lost at sea. I have a solution, perhaps not the BEST solution in the world but it's a step. I am mailing away my trash, all of the #5 plastics I have saved up and squirreled away in my closets with desperate hopes for inspiration to come down and conk me in the head so that I may make something with all of these sour cream containers and assuage my guilt that I even have them.
I could throw them away.
In fact I confess I have tried.
I have winged an empty #5 plastic sour cream container in to my trash can and walked a way. I made it about 3 steps before the wave of overwhelming guilt engulfed me. I just can't. Some people can't rob banks, some people can't get tattoos, some people can't say the Lord's name in vain but I just can't throw away a fricking sour cream container.
So I have been saving them. And occasionally when I open my craft closet they stand in there, a towering plastic monument of either my dedication or insanity, or more like a weird mixture of both. As a statue, it symbolizes my love of the environment, of my part in taking care of the earth, my awareness of trash production and contributing to the landfills but also that we might be sour cream addicts.
However no longer will this monument of #5 plastic mock me. Because I am mailing it away. There is a company called Preserve that creates products from recycled plastics and they accept mailed in contributions of #5 plastics. Their program is called the "Preserve Gimme 5". Before the hard core people jump on my back like lunatic monkeys, yes I realize mailing things off, consuming fuels and all that stuff has it's own negative impact on the environment as well but this is a start.
Also the company Preserve has done a study to analyze the impact of mailing #5 plastics away. And since they said it so much better and probably with less words and more punctuation than I ever could:

• "The results showed the benefits of keeping #5 plastics out of landfills and remaking them into new products outweigh the environmental impacts of shipping them back to us. We hope that the success of our program will help convince local recyclers of the value of taking #5 plastics back in more communities across the US."

So you see, it's a step. It's not the ideal solution. I do not know what the ideal solution would be. For the world or me. Maybe for me it would just be completely weaning off of items that are packaged in #5 plastics. We already have started this to a point. We buy as many products as we can that come in containers we can recycle. I save what ever can't be recycled and at least try to reuse it, giving it an extra life, one more purpose at the very least before being shipped off to some mysterious hole in the ground.
I have a dream.
Zero trash household. Ohhhh I got goosebumps. Like most things this will be something I will have to work at and for. It's not the sort of thing that is going to happen over night. But you never know......can you imagine how fabulous it would feel to some day not be responsible for any non-recyclable trash? Ohhh goosebumps again.
If you also suffer from #5 plastic guilt then perhaps we ought to start a support group. I can bring cookies and coffee and tubs of sour cream and we can share our woes over the lack of acceptance of #5 plastic in our own counties. And then we can make enchiladas and decorate boxes of trash to mail away.
It'll be fun.
For the time being I have 48 less reasons to feel guilty when I haul my trash down to the curb. Though I do now have 48 reasons to seriously consider the sour cream consumption in this household of two people. Seriously you'd think we gulp down mugs of the stuff for breakfast lunch and dinner. They say the human body is 70 % water, not here, we have to be at least 70% sour cream by now.....

A is for Absolutely Adoring Asparagus....

It wasn't love at first sight.
In fact, if truth be told when I first laid my eyes upon it I was skeptical. Asparagus did not sweep me off my feet with passionate promises of what it could do to my taste buds. Instead it lay in unassuming piles, a little snootier than the rest of the vegetables, a little pricier, and it knew it.
I think that's what put me off for so many years, regular folks like myself didn't eat asparagus, fancy pants folks who served "h'ordeuves" instead of snacks ate asparagus. People who thought they were too good for broccoli ate asparagus next to their piles of caviar smoking illegal cigars that cost more than my entire wardrobe and sipping on a brand of whiskey that only rich people's tongues can palate.
I have an imagination, it's true, imagination does not equal accuracy.
In fact my wild and rampant mind wanderings in the exotic and exclusive world of asparagus had left me blinded to the simple tastiness of this vegetable for YEARS now. There are family feuds that have resolved quicker than my asparagus skepticism.
I am embarrassed to now admit, humbly so, that it was not asparagus who was being snobby but me....
But I have made up for it in spades and have consumed so much asparagus in the last 3 weeks that I am sure the asparagus Over Lords, sitting on their piles of asparagus money are wondering why they suddenly need an extra truck load of asparagus delivered to my local store. They are right this minute with their noses buried in lists and numbers and facts and trying to figure out what has changed.
It's me.
I like asparagus. In fact, it may be more than that. I might have a wee bit of a crush on my new best, edible, friend. First thing into the cart at the grocery store and first veggy that pops into my mind when preparing a meal these days.
There is no need to ask what's for supper in this household, at least for a little while, because the answer, always said with the same breathy laugh that is so indicative of new love that's still in the honeymoon stages, will always be the same, "Asparagus."
I'm like that.
It's a damn good thing there are no children, besides the plastic 5 dollar cheapy toy kind that we haul out for holiday photos to make the parents feel *grand*, in this house. Because I am guilty of playing favorites. If I like something, like say a fancy schmancy veggy that had never crossed my lips for the first 30 years of my life, then so long broccoli, screw you squash you can kiss my Ass-paragus goodbye. When I am with a vegetable I am only with that vegetable for the duration my interest lasts. And even when the weight of nutritional facts starts weighing heavy on my conscience, poking and prodding reminding me that vegetables are good but one shouldn't eat only one vegetable from now until eternity runs outta tape, I cheat.
My husband, who loves asparagus too but perhaps not to the all inclusive 3 week binge of it that I do breathes an obvious sigh of relief after tentatively inquiring as to what I had in mind for supper, and I promptly answer, "French Fries!"
His relief is palpable, one can only wax poetic about stalks of green for so long and listen to one's wife moan about 30 years lost in a haze of anti-vegetable ignorance for so long.
What? Have I gone crazy you ask? Did I not just wear my fingers to the nubbins tippity tapping away about how awesome asparagus is and now I'm gonna prance off with the lowly potato? Am I that easily swayed? While I do tend towards the "love 'em and leave 'em" favoritism queen-esque attitude in the food world, let me let you in on a little secret.
I had asparagus WITH my french fries.
I have married the two and they are living happily ever after in oven frizzled, slightly roasted, salty bliss. Are they a match made in heaven these two vegetables? No they were a match made in my kitchen as a way to sneak some more asparagus into the meal because it is as yet still my favorite of the week.
We have tried them long length like fries themselves, divine. We have chopped them smaller in to little chunks which my husband actually prefers, divine-er. All the sauces that go so lovely with french fries goes just fine with asparagus. Which in our home means, bar-b-q sauce, vegenaise and lots of salt! MmmmMMMmmmMmmmmm.
The way that I go about cooking the 2 together is I start a batch of oven fries the way I normally would, only about 5 to 10 minutes away from being done I pull the pan of oily fries out of the oven and sprinkle my chopped up asparagus all over it, returning it to bake for another 5 to 10 minutes until everything is golden and delicious and making one hop about anxiously in front of the oven door with a rumbling belly and a desperate *must have it* gleam in one's eye. A sprinkle of garlic, pile it all high on a plate, supper is served and once again asparagus steals the lime light away as I shove french fries aside to get at the golden tinged nuggets of green goodness.
And is that all?
HA!
Ha I say, stomach full of one of the best salads I have ever had the pleasure to devour, this month at least. Next month I may be eying up squash or getting the skinny on string beans but while my asparagus lust is still sizzling I have also been making creamy lemon dill asparagus salads. HOT salad, as in temperature not spice.
I enjoy the textures and temperatures of pouring hot saucy vegetables over a really hearty lettuce like endive. Yummmm. Not only yummmm, but easssssssy.
Frizzle up chopped asparagus and olive oil with salt and black pepper in a pan until tender and bright green and they're cooked just to the point where you start risking burned finger tips so you can nip pieces of asparagus out and pop them into your mouth to the dual delight and horror of your tongue. It's worth the burn.
Add a dollop of sour cream and another of vegenaise, turn the heat off and add chopped garlic and fresh dill, sprinkle some fresh lemon zest in there too. Stir it up with a couple of healthy squeezes of lemon juice and and ohhhhhhhhh you have no idea how happy it makes your asparagus. A few chopped heirloom tomatoes not only add flavor but pretty color as well.
Chop a little cheese of your choice and sprinkle it over a bowl of hearty endive and then pour the steaming, oh so dilly fragrant and creamy, lemony asparagus over top. You will hear a sigh, that's to be expected, endive enjoys a warm bath as much as the rest of us. Then you will hear another sigh, that's most likely you.
I do not know how long my love affair with asparagus will last, though I suppose it will never really end, it will just move to the side as I meet a new vegetable or fruit who will grab all of my attention for a while as asparagus becomes part of the background of my meals. Playing favorites is a delicious way to live life, exploring the possibilities of a particular food item.
And if the others, past favorite foods, get jealous....you can eat 'em to shut them up.

Card carrying vigilante....

I was too busy minding the UPS man's business when it arrived.
Eyes fixated on the legs I could see in the back of the truck through it's open doors, I wondered why he was parked there and if perhaps he was behind the disappearances of not one but three different trash bins in less than a year. I wondered if I should be pro-active and go Citizen's Arrest all over his uniformed self in an effort to detain him and search his vehicle for my missing garbage cans. Also, so I could finally say I'd placed some one under citizen's arrest. I mean some one who wasn't family. In case I haven't said it before there is nothing more satisfying than jacking the arm of your Aunt Ruthie, who picked nibbles of pie from your plate one too freaking many times, up behind her back as you holler in her ear, "ARREST ARREST, CITIZEN'S ARREST!!!"
Satisfying that is, until she laughs because she thinks you're joking....and you have to ease up on the arm because deep down you're not joking and think Aunt Ruthie would look nice with iron bars in front of her face. HER face and not your own so it's best to stop these things before the authorities have to get involved. She really would by the way, look amazing behind iron bars. I'm not saying I don't love Aunt Ruthie I'm just saying I'd love her more if she was in jail and I had all the pie to myself.
So obviously, with deep thoughts such as these, my eyes trained steadily and unblinking on the UPS man's legs that were looking more and more nefarious by the second I did not see the exact moment when my husband pulled our mail out of our mail box.
I did not hear him for a few moments either, as the constant muttering, the litany of "Whatareyouupto? Huh? Citizen's Arrest! Make a move UPS man, make a move!", that I ran though just under my breath obscured his words from me.
When finally the haze of suspicion that had gathered thick about my head like a storm cloud was penetrated by my husband's excited voice I broke my stare and turned to bright blue eyes.
"Huh? Wha?" I said. Which I know sounds rather oaf like but I swear I said it in the most lady like, most dulcet, non-evil thought having, way a wife can.
"What's this?" He says with a sly look and a careless wave of his hand, flourishing the envelopes from the mailbox the way a magician wields his cards. My eyes track the movement, they zero in on the top envelope, my name leaps out at me and then the logo. The return address pierces my heart with a little zing, a thrill that makes me say "MINE!" as if I was suddenly channeling a 2 year old and I snatched the envelope.
I've gotta tell you, that was one hard to open envelope. It just did not work. Yet another supposedly inanimate thing was defying my will but I wrestled with it. I tore it open like a T-Rex would bust open open a Hadrosaur. Not a pretty image but accurate.
When finally, bits of envelope littering the front seat like confetti, and all thoughts of suspicious UPS men on possible lunch breaks, or garbage can purloining missions, or maybe even being under cover secret service on stake out at the end of our driveway had finally fled my head completely, I hastily unfolded the letter inside.
And there it lay, gleaming up at me. Shiny and new with my own oddly stoned looking face looking back at me. Eyes forever caught in the beginnings of a sleepy blink, my face, my card, my driver's license. Sweetest piece of plastic I ever slobbered all over in the front seat of a Civic.
Sure I had passed the driver's test and the tester had checked the "pass" box on my paper work. Sure I have been legally a fully licensed driver for over a week already....but it's not the same. Just like placing Aunt Ruthie under citizen's arrest for willful cookie snatching and un-lawful sharing of privately owned perfectly sweetened coffee...it's not the same as the REAL thing. The actual physical proof in your own hands, be it a California issued driver's license or hand cuffs The feeling is outta this fricking world..........
Since it bears repeating...I got my driver's license.
Now I can chase down garbage bin thieves on wheels, not just feet.

Working Title: License to Flaunt

Possible Alternates: "I'm on a roll", "Wheely happy", "I'm a happy jalopy", "Driving my own Destiny" or my favorite "Finally oh fricking finally I got the same dang piece of paper (soon to be plastic card) that every other kid and their sister and 4th cousin twice removed got when they were 16 and I some how managed not to until I'm 31 but it's all cool now cause they can go suck it and the cars they rode in on!"
Today I drive free.
Today I can go down to the car and slip the key into the ignition and roll smoothly down the driveway with nothing but my own off key humming to accompany me.
Not that I want to, it's just knowing that I CAN. The devil inside, who so often voices it's own opinion, prompts me to admit I suppose I could have done that any time but let me add that now I can LEGALLY. You know, it's a lot like illegally only less nerve wracking and less bail.
Today I got my license and didn't slobber grateful kisses all over the testing lady.
Today I swallowed fear like it was made of cookie dough, jamming it down into the very pit of my stomach where I chained it, lashed it, tied it up with guts and a sprinkling of positive attitude that was 10 months in the making.
Little motes of good thoughts and pink globs of husbandly love fluttered about my head as my cheeks flamed, my lips dried and my eyelashes tried to once again assault my own eyeballs, all part of a scheme to undermine my confidence. But I willed the panic away, I ignored the sweat, I smiled at the other DMV-ers and not a single snarl escaped my lips when we literally waited an eternity for my turn with the tester.
AN ETERNITY, to most it appeared just an hour, but my husband and I know different, it was an eternity. And it was a test beyond the test.
The focus of the day was the behind the wheel test of course but the Universe was also there, testing my will, my spirit and my resolve. I am pretty sure that as the DMV-er's kids shrieked like demented monkeys, running about the front of the building as their parents idly watched, that the universe was also watching me. Perhaps in it's eyes I was the demented monkey screeching kid who should know better than to disobey it's parents. It kept a keen eye on me to see what I was gonna do, was I going to crack and run away screaming...or stay and take the dreaded test?
I saw it, to every one else it was but a single shiny black crow perched on the edge of the DMV building, but our gazes locked and I knew it was actually the Universe. I may not get an officially stamped piece of paper at the end of IT'S test but I would get to wave the finger of my choice in fear's face.
The universe made that eternity, that endless stretch of time happen. Poking and prodding at my fear, seeing if it would grow and blossom into the dark bloom of terror that it has in the past. But it didn't. I met the Universe's test head on and acknowledged what it was doing. The crow cawwwed, a universal laugh of amusement. Muscles will grow weak and floppy like wet noodles if unused, the universe was providing me an extra opportunity for muscle building. Thanks...I think.
Nerves may have stretched but I'll be damned if they snapped.
I don't mind admitting the nerves. In fact to deny them would remove all the awesomeness of my feat from today. My nerves were giant red pulsing things that snarled like monsters and chewed away at my resolve. I smacked said nerves in their beasty faces with a little standard transmission know-how and old fashioned logic. I COULD DO THIS. Nerves can not deny logic.
Once upon a time moving the car mere feet in the drive way caused me great agonies the likes of which the Victorian ladies of by-gone swooning days could have related to.
Once upon a time the idea of stopping the car on a hill and starting again with out rolling backwards for ever and eventually crashing into something made my hands shake and heart stutter.
Once upon a time I navigated through traffic with arms so stiff they ached when we came home and I named my own sore ankles "clutch foot".
But 10 months passes and as my husband said many a time in a constant cheerful tone, an un-wavering will of support, "We're eating an elephant sweetie. One bite at a time, that's all you can do."
So I bit off moving the car and I swallowed it and damned if it didn't taste like the best fudge brownie you never had.
I hauled at the stopping and starting the car on a hill with my teeth, ripping it to shreds until my stomach was full and the drive around town no longer seemed like a series of straight stretches punctuated by hills of fear and incessant praying that the light didn't go red before I got to it so I wouldn't have to stop and start again right there because Lord help me some buffoon actually thinks they get to drive on this road too and actually has the audacity to be right behind me and what's he gonna say when he gets a face full of my fender?
Driving through traffic became less of a physical exercise and I joyfully gulped down long stretches of street, highway and freeway. I sucked them down like vanilla milkshakes and one day, I found myself chatting about all the miscellanea of life to my husband as we navigated through rush hour traffic, chatting idly about the President, food dyes and peroxide powered jet packs. And I marveled at how that could be?
HOW could that be? How can one go from driveway near hysteria to downshifting through the busy intersection on a Friday evening. Because I was eating the elephant. And it tasted gooooooooooooooood.
But the real test, the behind the wheel of the car with a complete stranger who isn't my husband, test was yet to come. And after years of agonizing, worrying and building up the moment to such a momentous mountain to climb...it was over.
OVER!
15 years, 1 week and 13 minutes later and the tester lady was saying that I could practice stopping just a little more smoothly and I was biting my tongue, and swallowing hard to keep down my elephant and finally blurted "Did I pass?"
And she said...."Yes."
Did I hear angels singing and a chorus of otherworldly creatures cheering me on? Or was that just the pinging and twanging of my facial muscles smiling so hard that they popped and sprung free like over tightened guitar strings? (I am sure I will now need a face cast.)
My husband saw me coming, and he knew I passed. Smiles can spread good news faster than a single syllable word.
So we celebrated.
By driving some more of course, for the hell of it instead of practice. We bought arty/crafty magazines and headphones for the ipod. We dined at El Torito because it turns out elephant isn't as filling as you might think.
And every second thing I have said today has been "I GOT MY LICENSE!"
I called my Mom and bragged.
"I GOT MY LICENSE!"
I updated my facebook status message.
"I GOT MY LICENSE!"
I bebopped around the kitchen like I was the first person ever to figure out how to drive a car and be legally licensed to do so. Then I had leftover birthday cheesecake.
By the way, I got my license today.

Nutella or Sanity

The year rolled by with the ominous weight of time. Thundering just beyond our edges of hearing until it clicked, another notch, another year, another 366 days without Nutella under my belt.
Nutella.....
Which is why I probably still fit INto my belt.
I shuddered with relief when I saw the calendar and realized I had made it, had not cracked beneath the awful pressure of desperate cravings that no single jar of Nutella could assuage.
That there had been no dark and creamy void of unconsciousness starting when I had swept my arm through tidily arranged jars on Nutella on the super market shelf, innocently waiting to have their lids turned, their seals cracked and contents devoured in a sweet haze of ecstasy, spilling them in a clunking rain of beautiful music into my eagerly awaiting shopping cart. Had not filled my trunk to near bursting, had not driven with one hand on the steering wheel and one slathered in the physical incarnation of pure edible pleasure itself. There were no moments of confusion, no waking to the clatter of empty plastic jars tumbling from the bed to the floor. No plaintive cries from the cats because 2 days had gone by in a blink of an eye and surreal interaction between myself and it.
Nutella......
I whisper it's name, the very feel of it's syllables on my tongue has my taste buds aching, individually crying out in silent screams for fulfillment.
I close my mouth tightly, squeeze my eyes shut but the image that is forever burned on my retina haunts me. A single jar, the subtle curve, the provocative white lid..... I whimper, I struggle. I wrestle with the craving, grappling with it, a war inside my very own brain wages behind my hazel eyes that stare unseeingly. Looking inwards at the fight between common sense and craving, wondering who will win. Hoping it's a satisfying victory, wondering if while my brain is busy if my body could suss out one last hidden jar of it.
Nutella......
I shudder.
I had kept the dark temptress at bay. Had not hidden jars in the shower to indulge myself in a hot soak and palm full of chocolate hazelnut glory. Had not concocted elaborate plans to build myself a bunker from the empty jars, their contents emptied into the neighbor's swimming pool I had secretly drained at night so that I might truly become one with Nutella.
I did not scream in fury when relatives opened the closet that should not be opened and they did not turn and stare at me with bewildered eyes in the shadow of the mountain of Nutella jars. They did not recognize how close to glory they stood.
Nutella......
You are perfection, this I do not deny. In fact I would have your sweet name tattooed across my left shoulder, right ankle and one side of my buttock if there was not a grocery store next to the tattoo parlor.
I would marry you, entering willingly into polygamy with my Nutella covered husband at my side if it were legal.
I am not ashamed to say I'd do it anyways, shrugging the law from my shoulders, embracing the subtle hazel flavor and chocolate overtones, if I did not fear the very passions you incite in me. If I did not worry for my sanity, if I could afford the amount of you I'd need to keep me satisfied.
Nutella....
You are not a treat to be savored.
I am not the lady from the chocolate commercials.
I can not take a tiny taste and lean back, carried away in apparent spasms of delight. A tiny taste would be lost amongst my intense desire for you, it would be but a drip when my thirst requires an ocean to sate it.
Another year Nutella and I have been apart...for the greater good.
Nutella......
I love you, I hate you.....I love you....

Favorite Flights of Fictional Fancy: Interview with Big Foot

Interview with a Bigfoot.

Me: I think the question we'd all really love to hear the answer to, in fact YOUR answer, is....do you exist?

BigFoot: *sighs* This again????

Me: Is that a no?

BigFoot: This gets tiring after a while you know. How many other mammals do you know have to put up with the utter lack of respect and lack of believability that my kind gets?

Me: So.....it's a yes?

BigFoot: *****moment of strained silence****** YES. I exist.

Me: Lovely! I'd hate to come and find out I've been interviewing a non-existent creature....again. So Mr.BigFoot, what's the deal?

BigFoot: The deal with what?

Me: Your feet! I mean your entire identity is wrapped up in your "big" feet and I'm looking at them and I gotta say.....

BigFoot: What?

Me: Not so big.

BigFoot: Oh for the love of-

Me: Shhhhhh, shh, calm down. Do you want a carrot?

BigFoot: I. AM. NOT. A. RABBIT.

Me: I. NEVER. SAID. YOU. WERE. Sheesh, attitude much? **crunch crunches on the rejected carrot.**

BigFoot: I apologize. I get very stressed this time of year. People popping out of the woodwork like crazed hunters, cameras hung about their necks, that glazed look in their eyes. Constantly dragging pounds and pounds of plaster of paris through the woods to make copies of my foot prints and I never gave any one the right to do that. Sell them on Ebay, they make a fortune and I gotta uproot my family every time the paparazzi get wind of us. I get cranky.

Me: You should have had the carrot. Munching calms the nerves. It's a fact.

BigFoot: ******Another moment of strained silence, this time even longer and
strained-er****** Are we done?

Me: I thought I could paint your portrait.

BigFoot: Sheesh lady, I barely know you. You barely know me and you wanna be painting my portrait. Do I go around chasing you down and asking you all kinds of nosy questions about how YOU smell, and how YOU walk, and do YOU ever shave? NO! I've got to go.

Me: O.k. **hollers to the retreating back of BigFoot as he stalks across the snowy field** It was nice meeting you!

BigFoot: ***Unintelligible grunt***