New Blender!!

Remember that blender I killed - er, rather, died of natural causes?

Apparently, I assisted it. (C'mon, we all knew I had to have had some part in it's demise...I've taken out just about everything else) Evidently? The frozen solid items go on top of the liquid.

Who knew?!

Not I.

I've always assumed that the blender and the slow cooker have those things in common...the harder to cook (or demolish) go on the bottom; the easier to handle items, that need less work? On the top. Torqued out the damn blender. Took me 8 (maybe 10?) years or so, but I kind of thought if my mother could keep a washer and dryer alive for over 20 years, I should be able to keep the damn blender.

Instead, I've taken the big leap:

I've upsized. To the Deluxe model. I'd some assistance in picking it out, and not simply the big red Target SALE tag on it either. It said Deluxe. Clearly, that means me. Great claims for gnashing up to 2 cups of ice at a crack, has a smoothie setting all it's own, as well as crush, liquify, and chop.

I read the hand book.

Thank God I did.

Very clearly states that it won't froth egg white, whip cream, or essentially bring anything to a stiff peak. It will not chop veggies, and (it does say this) - this model should not be confused with a food processor.

Um...........except........it processes food. Into drinkable yumminess. So okay, I can totally give on whipping cream or egg whites, egg substitutes and every other no-no item they had til I got to the very bottom of the page:

No meat products.

Did you hear all the music stopping over here? Like at one of those obnoxious dance clubs, where you've something private to say, you've said it once, your companion didn't hear you so you yelled it - at the same time there was dead air from the mixer so everyone heard you?

Me too.

The no meat thing simply foreshadowed the next (and thankfully final statement): Do. Not. Put. In. Dishwasher.

What the hell do they mean it doesn't belong in the dishwasher? And I've to take it apart? Those tine blendery knive things are sharp! I totally have no business being on the end of that. Another scary line? "Be certain to line up the seal appropriately".

Um....wasn't that done, say, at the plant?!

I've a horrible feeling this one may not last long. Oh, I'll follow the directions, even the part that says "do NOT immerse in water" - but the no blending meat?

If it can crush ice, 2 whole cups at a time, why can it not take down a little fall off the bone tender ribs? Or steak tips?

Sure, it looks gross. People eat things that look gross all the time. Sushi leaps to mind. Or onion tart. Or canned, pickled beets. I could go on, but I'm nauseas already. Granted, I don't eat any of those things - but pureed meat products? While I still can't chew?

Totally don't care what it looks like. If it's meat, I'm getting it thru a straw.

I thought about asking J if there was a way to amp up the horsepower; but he's already threatened to take his tools home, and I've still not used the nail gun.

Or other things that might possibly attach to the scary air compressor.

Poor thing is already in my kitchen, might as well get the shock of it's life: being used for purposes the plant manager never intended.

Takin' out the trash

Brilliant idea to clean interior of sadly neglected, completely disgusting interior of huge green trash can:

swap out your with your neighbors, the real Neat Freak ones!

Genius!

I nearly broke my arm patting myself on the back. Sadly, I had this brilliant idea, just shy of the time they got home. Verifying their's had no identifying marks (mine doesn't, unless you count the smell) I'd nipped under the hood, if you will, to admire a can so clean I swooned . Reaching out to ever so casually, so as to not arouse any notice, for the handle -

The bastards arrived home.

That's right.

Another great idea botched by the arrival of the damn owners.

Instead, I was left doing it the old fashioned way: drag can closer to house, but not so close that the aroma of smushed Duty Bags, Rotted Whatnot, along with Unidentifiable Ickiness leaked into the garage, to sneak into the house. Dragged hose out of garage, far, far away from car, as windows were in the down position (the better to load up with misquito's that'll lay in wait for me in the am) flipped can onto side, applied spray.

Gagged.

Yanked bottom of new suit down, discovering (thank you Fox for pointing it out) that the flirty skirt of this one? Quite a bit shorter than the other one. Still a Mom Suit, as no bits escape to be seen, but the backside, only on the left, does tend to travel northward at any given moment.

What a classy picture this made: mom in black and white, strapless bathing costume, bent nearly double, gagging, rinsing out what I can only classify as true garbage.

Perhaps, because it was.

Turn can upright, (re-adjust bottoms, again) add copious amounts of soap - I do quite prefer that Method Grapefruit Soap - it's pink, smells fabulous, and kills the odor of just about anything! Washing out our can is the real test of any soap.

For good measure, used an entire bottle of Natural Cleansing and Sterilizing Agent: white vinegar. Add more water.

Note to self: do not fill can higher than half shin height, because you won't be able to heave the fucking can onto it's side, to empty water.

Look especially classless while bending over to pick up the papery bits, plastic juice bag straws, and that one catalogue nearly glued to the bottom of can, only after finishing, realize that the neighbors across the street had the best view of flirty skirted new suit.

And the big ol' ass it hangs on.

Moral of today's adventure?

Utilize brilliant idea next week, say, in the middle of the afternoon. While most folks, (these one's in particular) are at bridge. Or whatever it is that old people do.

Or, I suppose, I could simply enjoy my clean can - not that I swooned at cleanliness; more like swooned from both fatigue and horror - at least until next week.

When something else will leak through the bags, Pucker's copious additions may stick to the side, or some other horror will need discarding.

In which case?

I'm going back to plan A.

True Value

I had to replace a little something at the house; an important something, really, but after that experience in the store I won't name (this time for real, why give them any press?) I went back to where I always find what I need, including all the help to truly Do It Myself:

True Value.

In Millbury.

I started there, during the entire I Am Going To Put Up Chair Rail Before His Party Project; sadly, they don't carry chair rail. They do carry a wide array of other things - the carpet cleaner, with hose? That I thought for sure wouldn't suck (har -har) was as fabulous as promised. The carpet, the couch - looked beautiful. The owner, JR, didn't even make me feel like an idiot for not having any clue how to use the damn thing. Or that I'd waited til J was out of town, so I had to do the carpets right now, today - not, you know, when some big hulking guy could lug around 5 gallons of water and non-sudsing soap.

Um, 5 gallons is heavy.

Now, I'm happy to admit I'm out of shape; carrying the dog last night (she didn't listen when I called her, so I resorted to embarrassing her by carrying her to the car - I doubt it was as effective as if I'd done it to my son, but I really can't lift him) - all, say 25 pounds of her.

(okay. maybe 30. who's counting? we're on a diet, sheesh)

The 5 gallon pail with wee handle?

Good. Christ. In. Heaven.

I'd be in shape in no time if I hauled those babies around any more than I did - including the stairs. I considered, I'll be honest, going around the house to the outside, thus skipping stairs altogether - but how to explain that I didn't want to do the stairs, I'd rather try not to spill or fall with a giant bucket of stuff past my neighbors windows?

Anyhoo....back to yesterday, which turned into today.

Fox and I went into True Value, in Millbury - I explained, to JR, what I needed. I did not want to replace pieces that didn't need to change; simply the one piece that did. Not only did he pick one out, but he opened it up (generally, a big no-no), looked at it, showed me where all the parts went, put it back in the box, assuring me if it didn't work, bring it back; he'll help find another one - all while looking appropriately excited that Foxy's tooth fell out.

What a novelty: losing a tooth in a hardware store.

It's living in a glassine bag, with True Value printed on it - it went into school for Show and Share. I'll bet that was a new one.

Today?

I started project.

Slit my had using a phillips head screwdriver. (ps, you can indeed press too hard - the fucking thing sinks into your hand like no one's business!) Swore. Several times.

JR said it should take maybe 20 minutes.

For him, maybe.

Me?

45 minutes.

Including a break to wrap up owie. Put pizza in oven for Fox. Let dog lick my ankle. Some swearing.

Messed around with the different size screws that were included - see? Here? At TRUE VALUE - a store that backs up it's name, for example - their items include additional hardware, should you have custom fit whatnot.

Nothing in this condo is standard.

Extra screws? A major plus.

In the end?

I. Did. It. All. By. Myself.

I didn't need J to do it; I didn't have to ask my neighbors to come help me (breaking into my car after locking myself out of house nonwithstanding) - so now I can totally brag:

I can do it: I simply need to go to True Value.

True Value? Measured in how many times I'll go back, and not feel ridiculous asking for help. On something. Or...really....anything.

Biggest bang for not only my buck, but my sense of pride in not being a wilting wall flower?

True Value indeed.

Microwave Bombs

Too much of a good thing does indeed, tend to blow up in your face.

I have a recipe for a clean microwave - yes, it's an actual recipe, it has ingredients - such a fabulous recipe, that it'll take years of ickiness right off the top, sides, door, and bottom, in a mere two minutes. Or more. Depends on layers of grime, and atomic cooking abilities of microwave. For those of you who need four minutes to heat up a cup of coffee, adjust your cooking time accordingly. I need a mere 15 second to take a cup of cold coffee to Burning Oil level of heatedness, so I certainly fall into the 2 minute category.

Now, while it's true that the microwave needed a little TLC, as Mag's pointed out, it's not like the microwave where I first concocted this recipe - that would be on the XMIL (X-Monster In Law) who's layers of grime were more numerous than levels of Earth to reach the core.

In a word? It was GROSS.

I pulled on rubber gloves, (see? I learned from the Clean Bath Get Wart Experience) tackled that sucker with just about everything. Nothing. Doing. Pulled out all the stops, some ingenuity - of which I had more than cleaning products - and devised The Recipe.

One 2 cup Pyrex measuring cup. Glass.

Three drop dishwashing fluid - I like Method's Grafpefruit Soap, it smells pretty, and it's pink

Four drops lemon juice (fresh lemon, fake lemon juice, lime juice from a wedge left over)

2 minutes

Open microwave after two minutes, wipe clean with either paper towels, or, that hand towel hanging on the stove you were going to wash anyway, once you realized the dog'd been licking off your son's greasy handprints from Chinese food night. Whatever. Either works really well.

This morning, I used the Hand Towel Method, as the fiber was better suited to trying to grind off overcooked baked bean residue from the top and sides. (Note to self: do not leave tupperwear top closed during reheating: those suckers blow right off spattering sides of appliance. Hmm. I'm noticing a theme here....microwave activities involve some form of controlled bomb sightings)

Honestly, I'm still a wee tad under the weather, still adjusting to the whole Use My Brain and Hands to communicate instead of what was once a great yapping maw. I really didn't feel like using all the elbow grease required to remove baked on beans.

Simple.

Close door, add 2 minutes on the clock, continue to ignore physician's orders, and talk through wired jaws with Mag's, on the phone. I convinced her to come here, instead of laying in bed to watch her fave movie - like, hello, tea totally rates above something you can rent. What we talk about? Not rent-able. Hell. Mostly not even repeatable. Hey, what are best friends for, anyway, right?!

Pacing on the phone in this house in an acquired art form; I rounded the corner from my circle round the dining room table, into the kitchen just in time to see the microwave door blow open.

Holy.

Hell.

Who knew that too much freaking steam would pop open the door of a perfectly slightly higher rated than normal microwave?! Eggs, potatoes, yes. STEAM?! Good news though! Microwave still works, and all that stuff I didn't feel like peeling off with my fingernails?

Fell right onto the microwave plate during mini-explosion. Wipe down: a veritable joy!

Scared out of my pants? A rather unpleasant side effect. Fear that I'd have to tell J that I'd blown up a microwave using only water? A nasty moment as well. He already knows that I can take down cell phones, a vacuum and a car using water; I don't need to verify my destructive tendencies with electrical appliances, especially as I'm about to repeat this cleaning process on his microwave.

Thus, I'll scale back my cooking time, and give his microwave the spa treatment - enough treatment so as to be beneficial; not enough to blow up in my face.

Cuz' really? There is such a thing as Too Much of A Good Thing.

Clearly.

Wired

This whole wired jaw thing is annoying.

However, on the plus side, Fox and I have managed to work out a system of sign language (okay, so it needs a LOT of practice, but we rather do work well together, whereas J seems quite reluctant to get on board) - worked tremendously well when we stopped at Wendy's last night for dinner. He had 3 sets of nuggets (some of the dog) and I had a root beer float. Am loving the floatage.

Even Pucker Up and Smooch Me has learned a few signs. She already knew hand signals for sit, wait, stay, down - your basics, if you will - but she's so smart (yes, I do realize this is in direct opposition to other posts, where she's been portrayed as dumb as a box of hammers) she learned a new sign for "kennel up you stupid dog" - it's the same sign I use for idiot drivers, a universal sign, if you will.

That's right. Ye Olde Communication finger is our new symbol for Get In Your Kennel Before I Skin You And Wear You As A Stole.

Granted, the lines of discipline are a wee tad hazy; liquid oxycontin really does have that effect. I know that some things aren't really okay?

I no longer care.

This stuff has the amazing effect of passing out the Whatever Attitude - so long as you don't seriously cross me?

Have at it.

Sure, I draw the line at leaping off the balcony, trying to hit the couch - but when last night, Pucker was chasing what we thought was a bug, and it turned out to be Cookie, our newest hamster, I didn't do the Holy Shit Freak, as I might have.

Instead, I calmly told J to handle it.

And he did.

When the pharmacy, bless their little hearts, couldn't fill the script, as the Dr. didn't fill out the script correctly?

That was not a good moment.

When they finally figured it out, and it was delivered into sweaty, agony filled paws?

I forgave them the four hour wait.

In fact, until just now, I'd nearly forgotten all about it.

The bad news, is that with my jaw wired shut, and talking at a one hour a day limit (and that's really stretching it, ps.) all those pithy, witty remarks for which I am known, occur only in my head, where I can hear them.

Such a waste.

I'm now devoting a greater deal of my time to Facebook, where I can comment to all at once! and, mostly likely reach a much greater audience. This could the launch of my comedic career, if I really put my mind to it.

Which is unlikely, given that in a few moments, I'll forget I even had that idea.