October 2009

A text conversation I had with Bat:

Him: Got your Halloween costume all ready??
Me: no…too lazy. what’re u again?
Him: A cow. MOOOOOO
Me: with teats?
Him: Yeppers. Jealous?
Me: only if u rig the teats so that if someone pulled it, milk would squirt out. can’t u fill it or something?
Him: Do I really want strangers pulling my teats?
Me: who wouldn’t?! u’d be a true cow.
Him: You want strangers to pull YOUR teats?
Him: Nope, just sayin.
Me: ur udderly insane.
Him: Ha! Best pun ever!
Me: thanks! i’m punny.
Him: That was bad.
Me: ur just jealous. cows are like that. mooove on.
Him: You had a good first effort, then it was all downhill.
Me: hmmph. just cuz u can’t 6-stomach it.
Him: Erk.
Me: bovine.
Him: I can take my teats off.
Me: put it on your head & dance around! u can make a milkshake!
Him: Now you are just reaching.
Me: hay now…
Him: Bleh.
Me: oh come on, i know u laughed. i doubt you get usda prime entertainment like this from other people tonite.
Him: That remains to be seen! Aren’t you guys gonna do anything?
Me: nope. just handing out candy to the minute minions. of course, in ur case, u’d be a mignon.
Him: I’m bringing duct tape with me to SoCal.

Happy Candy-Gathering, readers! Drive carefully out there tonight, lest you inadvertently vanquish some little demons darting about with sugar highs.

Yesterday, I took the day off to support some young family members in another courthouse. The case resolved itself to the family’s satisfaction, so after a shabu shabu lunch together with the family, Mr. W and I went to Disneyland. (How cliche, huh?)

Earlier this week, I got thrown into a mood of urgency when I found out that the Halloween theme ends this weekend, as with the brand new Jack Skellington-MCed fireworks show “Halloween Screams,” which according to friends who’d seen it, is absolutely spooktacular.

Mr. W and I bought annual passes again. I’d been against renewing my annual pass since I found out after buying one a few years ago that Mr. W doesn’t ride the rides, but this time the hubby was a trooper as he popped two Dramamine and didn’t complain once. We waited for the fireworks show to start, shivering on the ground in the center circle facing Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

Soon, an announcement came over the loudspeaker that due to the wind condition, the fireworks show may be canceled. Since we’re now in the midst of Santa Ana Winds season, and we know that these winds peak at night, Mr. W and I got up and left. We don’t know if they actually did cancel the fireworks show, but given how much stronger the gusts had become as we walked to the car, it most likely canceled. We’re going to try again tonight after work. I’m dragging Ann along, since she also recently got an annual pass and was instrumental in convincing me that I needed one, too. Fun, fun!

Sorry for the poor quality photos; these are from my cameraphone. Rest mouse pointers over photos for captions.

James and Ann’s big idea, born right here on this blog, of taking me on my virgin voyage to The Boiling Crab came to fruition last night. There were five of us, and despite all the reviews I’d read online about 2+ hour waits (they don’t take reservations), we got lucky and got in within about half an hour. We ordered 1lb of mildly spicy shrimp, 1lb of medium spicy shrimp, 1lb of medium spicy crawfish, 1lb of king crab legs. Also, a basket of sweet potato fries and fried catfish with spicy fries (crunchy fries, perfectly seasoned; catfish was generously sized, fresh and tender). We shared pretty much everything. The level of fire wasn’t as insane as the crawfish Mr. W and I had in New Orleans the other week (which trip I have yet to blog about), so that’s great, my gastro-intestinal lining didn’t have to dissolve this time. The table was a covered with a sheet of wax paper, which we ate off of because the food is simply served in clear bags without the benefit of plates or utensils. As soon as we sat down, Ann took the roll of paper towels on the table and started tearing off sheets, stacking them neatly on the table. I eyed her growing stack and she said, “Believe me. We’re gonna use all this. And you won’t be able to do this when you start eating.” She was right, and we used exactly every sheet she tore off, and no more. Talk about accuracy! I managed to only dirty my thumb, index and middle fingertips in my dinner endeavor, and I noticed Ann did the same. Red fingertips, that’s about it. Our plastic bibs remained relatively unscathed. The boys were less neat, the worst being James, who had red sauce coating both his hands, his entire palms, dripping down his wrists. Needless to say, he really enjoyed his food. Mr. W loved the seasoning and generous garlic chunks in the sauces. New Orleans was just suicidally spicy, salty and tart; this place had FLAVOR. If you can stand the hands-on messiness, Boiling Crab is definitely an experience for no-nonsense Cajun seafood-boils at a good price; including 6 or 7 beers AND tax and tip, the tab came out to $20 a person.
* (+)Bonus: you get to find out exactly where all your papercuts are when you eat here. Owie.
* (-)Bonus: food photography is impossible here unless you want your camera to be sticky and stinky forevermore. Or if you can resist eating.

I took a break after creating count 41 of my 44-count child molestation/rape case verdict forms to take a peek at Barney Stinson’s blog (see my blogroll on right to link in the future). “How I Met Your Mother” just started back up and I’d forgotten to see if the blog were updated as well.

My eyes and heart swelled as I saw all the Barney awesomeness sitting there, one post to correspond with each of the 5 episodes that have been aired this season. I’m behind! I devoured greedily, reliving each episode, chuckling at Barney’s witticism, sarcasm, and sexism, and toward the end, I saw to my dismay the biggest temptation toward something I’d been holding out against. Barney now TWEETS. I’ve thus far refused to get on Twitter, saying I’m not gonna be involved in yet another social networking addiction, and certainly not going to be leashed to it via my omnipresent cell phone. Thankfully, though, I discovered that I can click on Barney’s Twitter page and read all his tweets on a webpage without ever subscribing to the service itself. I caught up quickly, swallowing the jealousy over seeing other people actually interact with Barney via Twitter (he even hit on some women! I wanna be one of them!).

For now, I can stay strong. I can turn away from participating in Twitter. But only because I have 6 more sexual penetration verdict forms to create.

I was driving to work today and thinking about my sleeping habits. Mr. W’s daughter left on a 5-day trip to New York, so we have the house to ourselves. Mr. W embraced the freedom by returning to his old nudist self, whereas I found nothing more luxurious than falling asleep for the past 2 nights downstairs in the living room with the TV on, alone. Of course Mr. W and my parents, people with wholesome “normal” sleeping habits, think I’m the most undisciplined sleeper ever, too lazy to turn off the lights and TV and go upstairs to bed when I’m getting tired. Deep inside — okay, not even very deep — I don’t want to go upstairs and lay in bed properly and go to sleep. The fact is I can knock out within the first commercial when a TV’s on, but if I were laying in bed upstairs, no matter how exhausted I was, I would lay there awake. It’s too proper. I fall asleep a little more easily if I were lying slightly improperly, such as perpendicular to Mr. W, or facing completely the opposite direction (sleeping with my head at the foot of the bed). There’s just something about not truly being ready for bed that makes me contrarily sleepy. It’s like falling asleep in class. You know you aren’t supposed to fall asleep, and you fight to stay awake, but all that resistance just makes it all the more tempting to doze off.

In the car this morning while parked on the freeway, I thought about my childhood. My mom made me go to bed at specific and etched-in-stone hours. She’s kinda anal about schedules, and gave me an extremely structured upbringing. Occasionally, I would beg to break the structure and a few times thought myself the luckiest girl in the world when she’d agree to let me take a cold shower instead of a hot one on a warm night, when I was allowed to have a visiting cousin or two spend the night, when I was allowed to stay up an hour past my bedtime so that I could watch a news story that the TV channel had been teasing during my permissibly awake hours. Once I was allowed to sleep in the bathtub. (I never asked for it again; it only seemed a cool idea in theory but I think in the middle of the night I took my pillow and blanket and retreated back into my bedroom.) As for the one occasion my hour-long begging finally resulted in my parents’ grant of a delay of bedtime so that I could watch a news program — I ended up never having seen the news story anyway, as my own snoring and my parents’ laughter woke me up 15 minutes into the extra hour I’d painstakingly earned. I was forced to go to bed immediately shamefaced after that. So why, as an adult, have I not retained the good sleeping habits my mother so specifically imposed on me in my impressionable childhood years?

Looking back, freedom to me had always been 1) staying up as late as I want, and 2) eating whatever and whenever I wanted. If I knew my parents were going to be home late or even not at all as I got older and was trusted to spend a few nights on my own as they traveled, the two excited thoughts that would immediately pop into my head were, “I can stay up all night! And EAT stuff without being harassed!” As an adult, vanity has reined in #2 (although food still tastes better when snuck in nibbles, as opposed to irreverently served in a plentiful plate in front of me), so the only “luxury” I allow myself is the “ha!” I get for being up all night, for not exactly going to bed or sleeping in the position I know I’m “supposed” to. Maybe the way to better sleeping habits would be to untie the deeply-rooted association in my head between “unconventional sleeping style” and “spoiling myself.”

I wonder if my cousin Mark, who also has hideous sleeping habits such as falling asleep in his car once he’s pulled into the garage instead of going in the house to bed first (I can’t say I’ve never done that), falling asleep in the day at locations and during events he was supposed to be alert, has the same psychological roots that formed his sleeping patterns.

I’m impossibly behind in blogging. I blame it on a combination of the difficulty of getting my photos online, and of my not being physically around to do it. I’ve just returned from a 2-week road trip, and with any luck, I’ll be able to cover that trip on here even if it’s by way of a series of picture-book photos with one-liner descriptions.

At some point in the past, on some day, Mr. W and I went to the Los Angeles County Fair. It’s been so long, the event has taken on almost a dream-like quality. *checking calendar* Okay, that was on our last furlough day, September 16. I remember it was furlough day because I’d texted Jordan a photo of us at the Fair and she’d texted back, “Don’t you ever work?!” And I had to explain to her it was an involuntary day off without pay to stave off lay-offs. She didn’t seem to feel sorry for me at all.

These are all Mr. W’s photos. He was testing out his new camera, an upscale Canon that boasts all the features of a digital SLR without the extra lenses to carry around, which he bought cuz he was jealous of my new Nikon SLR. As usual, rest mouse pointers over photos for captions.

The Fair had carnival rides!

The Fair had deep-fried foods! I sent this particular photo to blogger buddy Flat Coke & Flies, my Tennessee girlie who’s a fan of the oil-dunked edibles. I also sent her another sign that pictured deep-fried avocados, smores, zucchinis, and entire White Castle burgers. She thought it looked irresistable and wanted to know which item I’d tried. Deep-fried Oreos? Deep-fried Twinkies? I couldn’t bring myself to try any of them!

Just looking at those fried foods and smelling the grease made me feel so guilty, I got a kosher hot dog and giant turkey leg instead. I know, it’s not exactly a salad, but at least these items were grilled. Plus, Mr. W and I split both.

The day got so unbearably hot and sunny that we both bought hats. I’d been looking for a good hat for years, trying to decide on a fitting style, and it takes desperation to just grab the nearest one that’ll go around my head.

I also petted all sorts of barnyard animals. They don’t look exactly like the cartoon ones in the storybooks, so I had to ask a few times what I was petting. The baby goats were particularly cute…there were 2 that were only a week or so old.

The teenage goats were friendly, too. They liked to be lightly scratched on their heads, where their antlers (are they called antlers on goats?) were coming in. I imagine it’s like teething.

And then there were these fuzzy things. They look like muppet characters to me. Turned out they’re chickens. Are chickens normally this fuzzy? Where the hell have I been? I don’t expect them to look like KFC, but still.

Not shown, I also petted a very nice cow. She was so serene and friendly, leaning against my hand as I caressed her through the pen at the McDonald’s section. How sick and wrong is that, right?! McDonald’s exhibit with two grown cows, and signs on the rails that talk about how beef is processed. I comforted myself thinking that this must be the exhibit cow, and not the hamburger cow. I also decided I really, really want to be Vegan.

This isn’t food (that I know of), but I thought the pair was adorable. A kangaroo mommy and her little joey! I’ll end this food post on that non-food non-dreary note.