I Sometimes like Margaritas

In the summer, after a drenching summer rain has passed, and the sun begins to sear when not hidden by bulbous grey and white clouds, I like to go outside and lay on my hammock and read. Now on these days, the weather is not particularly cool. 


Often, however, a cooling breeze filters the heat enough so that it is just possible to comfortably lie very still, under the hammock’s canopy and enjoy some Cold War era science fiction.


When I am chilling in my digs down here in Texas’ Gulf Coast, I sometimes like to partake in a classic libation called the Margarita. This tasty and refreshing concoction is by no means my own creation. You may well know it. It comes in various costumes, most, no doubt, festooned in colorful suger draped nightmares. The most egegiously awful are those created with sour or premade margerita mix. But who am I to judge? I don’t like too much sweet and my comfort food is an episode of King of the Hill.
I like a tangy, lime drenched margarita with triple sec, contreau, tequila, and a splash of soda water. The contreau allows just a bit of sweetness to an otherwise limey drink. The triple sec, well, it makes the drink good too.

Sources of Yeast for Beer

There’s this show on television where some blonde haired broad from California apparently wonders around the country tasting homemade craft beer.  Her name is Meg Gill.  She loves beer.  She also seems to be looking for home brewer to steal a recipe from or some such nonsense.  Okay, maybe “steal” isn’t the right word.  I think she’s holding a contest of some sort.  Like whomever wins, gets to have their beer brewed in an actual, real-life brewery.  So anyhow…

In one particular episode, this chick is wondering around New York City, hanging out with hipsters, and drinking beer when she encounters a self-styled anarchist. The anarchist lives in a house.  The anarchist seems clean, well-groomed, and clothed.  The anarchist has a job, because anarchists have to eat too.  He also brews beer.  He wins the contest, because anarchists are all about competition.

The most interesting thing about this anarchist fella is that he sources yeast from a log.  He found the log in a park somewhere.  This makes him unique because yeast is pretty important to the production of delicious beer.  Also there are many sources of yeast.  Basically yeast adds flavor to beer.  From what I understand, if you ferment strawberries with yeast, or something…look I really don’t understand the science behind this, but I think the yeast eats the strawberries and poops in the mixture or whatever, and “magic” beer that tastes like strawberries eventually appears in your closet.

Anyhow, upon hearing about log yeast, I thought – “I create beer using yeast harvested from my very own, special, vagina.”

Of course, I thought this was hilarious.  I’m sad that way.  So I immediately skyped my husband, because he was in the bathroom and I can’t say such marvelous thoughts aloud when my a dad is around.  My dad is sitting right here.  My dad thinks dark drinks, like coca cola and Guinness, are the devil.  I asked my dad why he thought this.  And he didn’t answer, so my assumption is that he’s a stealth Mormon or something.

I also skyped my sister, Pat.  Pat sends me a picture of her new couch in response.  This makes me sad.  I want a reaction, damnit.  I can’t keep vulgar stuff like this to myself.  Finally she responds – “Eww, tab, eww.”

 

 

Mundane List Plus a Story

  1. Got banned from /r/gendercritical
  2. Purchased toilet paper, paper towels, and other, various, household sundries.
  3. Set up a mosquito trapper in the back yard.
  4. Inflated my taco pool float.
  5. Joined my dad in making fun of my chihuahua – “Mexican Gigolo.”
  6. A tiny triathlon on my own.

Now here’s a story.

Bad Situation

It never happens like they say it will.  This is, obviously, a horrible way to start a story. It’s very cliche.  Of course nothing “ever happens” like people imagine it will.  But I’ll say this first, I really get energized when listening to disco music from a century ago.  So when that’s how they caught me.  Isn’t it weird?

I was listening to some Gladys Knight.  Keep on keeping on, as I’m apt to say.  But really I never say things like that.  I’m skittish person.  I’m always scared.  Always scared.

When the knock came and Gladys Knight was singing and I was shaking my shoulders and just trying, trying to be happy, well, I lost it.  You could say I panicked.  The thing is, what are your choices?  What are my choices?  There are two.  Run or die.  How dramatic is that?

Last week though I was pretty sure I was just going to submit.  Wrong place; wrong time.  No use for me.  Very rare anyhow.  What was my father thinking?   “Oh she’ll be fine, I can just raise her to be as gender nonconforming as possible.”  Cue my obsession with nail polish and frilly dresses right?  No. not at all.  I’m what they used to call a “tomboy.”  There was no other way.

Here’s the deal though, there was no other way.  The money or prestige or whatever was too good for my for my dad to pass up.  I don’t blame him.  The idea was he’s work the five year contract and then get us the hell out off this rig.  But then, as it happened, he died.

And I was left in a foreign country with no hope of escape, unless of course, I agreed that I was a man.  I had always been a man. And, guess what, I would be happy to undergo a, not too invasive, procedure to affirm my gender identity.  The little thing that my had hadn’t mentioned to me when we came here was that he had vouched for my masculinity.

They don’t like us.  This country was founded on the ideal that we are not needed anymore.  And they’re right.  We aren’t.  Tits. Vagina. Babies.  They can manufacture those.

So by now you’ve guessed that they really didn’t catch me.  I was here all along.  I was waiting for my affirmation.  They were friendly towards me.  I was cooperating. Gung-ho. Totally a man.  Ready to join the struggle to create a real technological utopia.  Ready to help haul in an asteroid.   My father was pretty smart.  So am I.  Or so their tests said.  But there is this pesky problem.  Pesky. Pesky.

[to be continued…maybe…if I feel like it…]

 

 

Confessions. Chicka Chicka Lit!

Confession Number 1.  I like reading Chick Lit.  There I said it.  Phew!  This crazy gorilla monkey has been weighing on my conscious for like, at least, a year.

I’m sure that it comes as a surprise that someone as burly, hirsute, and masculine as me secretly devours stories about dainty, usually rich and (gasp!) privileged, but fun loving, ladies who are forever looking for beauty, love, sex, and an equal wage.  Just looking at me, you’re probably all thinking “gosh, that’s a totally  lady (err dude?) who never fantasized about working in the fashion industry and dating male models.”

Well, like you know what buddy? You’d be wrong, okay?  I totally dug Glamorama.  Seriously, if you haven’t read Glamorama, you totally should.  It’s all sorts of dirty.  Also, it features an international terrorist organization comprised solely of hot models.  Now I know what you are saying, “Tab, that sounds like the plot of Zoolander.”  It sorta does, but Glamorama came out first and it features a lot of raunchy sex.  Like lots.

So I listen to lots of audio books, since like my job is fine but it’s not really that hard.  So I listen to a lot of books.  This week I’ve listened to three books written by ladies who have decided to be okay with being fat.  This is called “health at every size” or “fuck! is it really my duty as a chick to diet from 12 to 72? I mean seriously?”

I generally agree with that sentiment.  I mean there is more to life than worrying about food.  I think.  Hell, may as well take up smoking.  You’ll die sooner and the thin people’s precious, precious taxes can be preserved for war or more “shovel ready” jobs or whatever.  Maybe space exploration or beggars in Spain. Here’s a review of one of the books I listened too.


 

Fat Girl Walking – Sex, Food, Love and  Being Comfortable in your Skin – Every Inch of It

The Who:

Brittany Gibbons is a mommy blogger and a body positivist. In the medical vernacular, her body is what would be termed “obese.” She gave a TedX talk about being comfortable in your own skin.  During the talk, she took off her clothes.  Yes, she got naked on stage.  So that’s why she’s famous.

The Good:

Brittany dropped out of college, because she had a crazy mad panic attack after her boyfriend left town.  Her mother wasn’t some diet crazed mother dearest – “No more BUTTER BAGELS!”  Her husband genuinely seems to love her. Brittany was a stay at home mom for several years.  Her husband lost his job when Chrysler went bankrupt. As a result her family had to go on public assistance.    She found a new calling as a blogger.  Apparently, she makes money off of the blogging.

The Bad:

Brittany is not a good writer.  I can say this with certainty, because I have a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from an – wait for it – IVY LEAGUE UNIVERSITY.  Her grammar and sentence structure is fine or whatever.  I guess? I was never good at the grammar.    But the book was seriously boring for long stretches.  This may be okay for some folks, but for hard working analysts like me who toil all day staring at spreadsheets, long stretches of rambling mendacity is not okay.  Not okay.

My Fancy Opinion:

Brittany comes off as conceited and self-important.  Also, attention seeking. I think taking off your clothes in front of an audience is a little uncalled for.   I get that she is trying to prove to the world that she’s beautiful in spite of weighing 220lbs.  That’s fine, if that’s what you’re into.  Oh yeah, she wrote a whole chapter about forcing herself to have relations with her husband for a whole year.   To be fair though,  I’m not really the target demographic of this book since I don’t have kids and I have relations with my husband all the time.  I’m mean, isn’t that why people get married?  To have dependable relations?

Brittany is also really dopey. Throughout the narrative, I kept thinking “wow, this lady…this lady is sorta dopey.” Like she complains about having lots of student loan debt, but she 1. dropped out of college, 2. was a stay at home mom, and 3. she got naked during her TedX talk.  Dopey.

And the killer, Brittany is not funny.  That’s unforgivable in my fancy opinion.

Rating: 2.5 chin whiskers

 

 

 

 

My old dog is a tough old bird

My fifteen year old miniature pinscher is dying. She has a tumor that is pressing against her heart. This is causing congestive heart failure. Her kidneys are also failing.

My 15 year old miniature pinscher is  a jerk. (I can’t say bitch, because she is unable to have puppies.)  She bit the vet during her last examination, despite being muzzled and despite subsequently collapsing from fatigue. She marches around the house and demands food. She argues, cajoles, and pleads all the while her hind leg is mercilessly shaking from arthritis.  She terrifies my 64 lb lab-mix.

She’s basically always been a giant asshole. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that her charm hasn’t diminished with old age and sickness.

I  love this stupid dog. She reminds me of my maternal grandmother. I know that seems harsh or wrong or something else for my cousins to dislike me over.  But hear me out!

My grandma was a fucking badass.  She raised sixteen (never mind, fifteen  – dammit. But seriously, what’s one more kid in this scenario? Like they could field a baseball team or something? Right?  I mean wtf? Go grandma’s uterus!) kids.  She raised several of my cousins. She worked hard all her life.  She was a great cook.  She was hilarious.  But she was also mean, crude, and well, she could be fairly blunt and hurtful. (Not to me, though ’cause I’m like vulcan or something.)

Anyhow I think my grandma would have loved my old ass jerk face of a dog. So like when my dog dies, I hope she and my grandma can hang out in heaven or wherever. That would be great. Thanks.

Conversation Between Me and My Sister’s Cat

Me: I love animals, except for you, you homicidal cat.

Molly: I’d hardly call throwing up in your shoe “homicidal.” In fact, you should think of it as a nice reminder of your new status in this household.

Me: Oh yeh?

Molly: Well, I see things as definitely going in my favor. Firstly, that horrid canine of yours is now devoid of sight and can no longer bite my fur out whenever I walk by. Second, that other little yappie canine has somehow disappeared.

Me: But your mistress has also disappeared…

Molly: That’s of no consequence as I have recently acquired a new – well for lack of a better word –

Me: Puppet? Minion? Slave?

Molly: Hmmm..slave…no, no, no I am much too progressive for that. In fact, my admirer…yes, that’s it…admirer. My admirer provides me with a most safe space where I am routinely groomed in the most aggressive fashion.

Me: My husband brushes your hair, so you decide to throw up in my shoe.

Molly: Exactly. Status.

Tidbits of My Spectacular Life

  1.  Eating bacon definitely causes butt cancer.
  2.  My dad caught our lawn chairs in a compromising position –

20151026_102700 (2)

3.  This seems like a sensible and hilarious solution.  I mean, nothing can go wrong with this one.  Nothing went awry with the one child policy.  Nothing. At. All.  –

Too Many Men? Share the Wives

A shortage raises the price of goods, in this case, women, he explained. Rich men can afford them, but poor men are priced out. This can be solved by having two men share the same woman….

“Men are publicly debating how to allocate women, as though women were commodities like houses or cars, in order to realize some grand political ideal originating from either the patriarchal left or the patriarchal right,” Zheng Churan, one of five women’s rights activists detained in March while campaigning, wrote in an essay for a WeChat group called Groundbreaking. “Behind the imbalanced sex ratio of 30 million bachelors lie 30 million baby girls who died due to sex discrimination. But somehow everyone’s still crying that some men can’t find wives.”

“Why Don’t I, Yet, Have a Miniature Elephant in My Vast Menagerie?”

As I was listening  to Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park during my commute through eternal Houston traffic this morning, a thought occurred to me.  Why don’t I, yet, have a miniature elephant  – a pygmy elephant – in my very own personal menagerie?  You see I live in the suburbs of West Houston.  It’s cheap.  It also allows me the luxury of collecting various biological specimen, such as a Labrador Retriever mix, a chihuahua, a crotchety ancient miniature pinscher, a big siamese cat, a comet goldfish, an oranda goldfish, and a male human.   To this impressive menagerie, I’m most eager to add a miniature elephant. So why don’t I yet have one?

This question is vexing, because first, according to Jurassic Park, they should be on the market by now.  Second, I want one now.  Third, I should have my very own tiny elephant, right now, this very moment, grazing in the grassy patch of Katy Prairie (not the singer, ’cause that would be weird) that makes up my backyard.

My guy would certainly be a dusty gray.  He would have wrinkly, chubby knees just like the big guys in Africa and South Asia.  He would also have a powerful tusk.  Except, he would be tiny and he would be named Hercules.

I’m thinking that Hercules should be the size of a small dog.  The right size, to my imagining, would be about the size of my chihuahua.  Pachuco weighs roughly six pounds. Just kidding that little chunker is usually a good 7.5 pounds.   Sadly, like his mistress, his weight fluctuates depending on bread consumption and blissful denial.

But, then again, maybe Hercules shouldn’t be that small.  I mean, I definitely want Hercules to be pint sized.  I want to be able to pick him up and cuddle him and whisper sweet nothings into his great, floppy, elephant ears.  I don’t want him to be so tiny, though, that he falls prey to a marauding hawk.  I can just see him.  Hercules trumpeting with panic as he is hoisted into the cloudy sky.  Poor Hercules.

So Hercules cannot be as small as Chuco.  Perhaps Ol’ Herc should be the size of a standard dachshund.  That’s better.  That way he would be too big for a hawk to pick up, but small enough so that his poops would be manageable.

So this brings me to my main point, what the hell geneticists?!  Have you been so emasculated by anti-GMO and green activists that you are no longer actively working on creating my Hercules?  It’s been 20 years, I think, since Jurassic Park was published.  Remember? The movie came out in 1993.  I was 13 years old people!  It’s 2015 now, and nope, no tiny elephant in sight.

Oh Noes! GMO elephants!  I mean once I read this science fiction story where the solution to overpopulation was to shrink the size of the human race so that we’d consume less, thereby, allowing for more people.  How ingenious is that?  So, by that same token, sort of, can’t we save the elephants by making them smaller and selling them to sad sacks like me?  This is the perfect solution.  A win-win, if you will.  The gentrified neighborhoods of Brooklyn and Austin can soon be teaming, not just with Starbucks sipping yuppies, but also with their pet miniature elephants.  Miniature elephants, who will be trumpeting with joyful exultation at being taken for a walk!  I want this future.

Day – I suck

I really do suck for a lot of reasons, but mostly because I get sick a lot.  So, unfortunately and because I suck (obviously), I didn’t get to finish my marathon.  At mile 22 I tripped and fell.  I hit my head.  I was so disoriented and panicky that I decided not to go on.  Instead I went to the medical tent.  Then I was sick with the most awful cold or flu or something for the next three weeks.  This is the first week since the beginning of February that I’ve felt okay.  The whole thing is a major bummer.

So since I was on a very limited workout schedule in February, I’ve decided to forgo the 70.3 in Galveston.  Instead I’m giong to participate in an Olympic distance in Marble Falls, Texas in April.  I’ve also committed to running 13 miles in Lubbock with a 70.3 relay group.  Right now, I’m seriously considering signing up for the 70.3 in Arizona.

Oh yeh, and no Cozumel for me!  Instead, I’ll be volunteering at Ironman Arizona so I can register for Ironman 2016.  I think I need one more year to get my shit together – base wise and time wise – before I endeavor toward a full-blast Ironman.

Why is She So Smug when She Should be Eating Them?

So I’m sitting here innocently watching a movie called Snowpiercer.  Here’s my main problem with this movie – a distinct lack of cannibalism.  I mean these people are –

1. On a train;

2. Sixteen (16) years after the start of an ice age, AND

they aren’t eating people!

I mean what the fuck people.  What the fuck?!  There’s an ice age.  It’s so horrible that about 500 people from all over the world scrambled on to a train in 2014 to escape the horrible, horrible, cold outside.  It’s like 2031 now, and these people are EATING BUGS! BUGS!  No, they aren’t eating the most logical protein source available – sweet, sweet baby flesh.  No. They are partaking in bugs!

AND what’s more, the poor people (the people at the back who are staging a revolt for some stupid reason, most likely because they aren’t getting enough baby protein), are totally and completely PISSED OFF; I mean PISSED OFF, by the astonishing revelation that their food was made of BUGS!

Again, these people are living on a train during an ICE AGE!

I’m sorry I don’t care about the dumb greenhouse.  Most likely, you’d still be eating bugs because aquariums and greenhouses would probably not survive all the hustle and jostle of a train in an ICE AGE.  But, why not eat people?

Human flesh has a lot of nutrients.  Just don’t eat the brains, because you can get a nasty prion disease.  Those are just  awful.

Let me be honest with you, if I were boss of that improbable ICE AGE traveling train I’d have instituted a people eating policy post haste.  First, the old people would be on the menus.  Then surplus babies.  REMEMBER, YOU ARE ON A TRAIN IN AN ICE AGE.  THERE IS NO OTHER HOPE FOR YOU.  YOU TRAVEL ON THIS TRAIN OR DIE.  Hello! Babie eating.  The third thing I would institute is eating big people – so anyone over 5’8 or over 200Lbs would be food.  Sorry, that’s how it goes when you are on a train during an ice age.

And finally, there is no way in all hell that I would institute and maintain a class system on this train UNLESS we are eating the poor people.  Come on! Even if you want the poor people’s babies, why would you spend resources to feed the adults?  Or especially to feed the male adults?  Fuck that.  Eat those motherfuckers.