It's true. There are people out there who will make snap judgments about you based on appearance, or first impressions. Some of those snap judgments are not reversible, or if they are, it takes a LOT of time to overcome them. Personally, I usually give people a while before I decide whether or not I like them. It takes a long time to get to know a person, and depending on how guarded they are, you may never get to know certain people at all.
And... to those people, I say: Damn. Whatever. If I had more time to try and draw you out, I would... but I'm already juggling 15 things on my right hand while trying to figure you out with my left, so I guess I'll catch you at some point on the flip side. Maybe it's just not our time yet. Whatever.
And... to the ones who make the snap-judgments based on a single meeting, I say: Screw you.
It has been said by many, many people, and I will say it again: There will always be someone out there who has more than you, or looks better than you. They might be more articulate, or stylish. They might have a little more personal growth in their background. The list goes on, and you know what? Who the fuck cares? If anything, I think it's a great thing to meet people who can teach me a thing or two.
Most of us can stand to learn new things, am I right? I think we all have something to teach one another, and the quicker we learn this, the happier we will be.
That said, I believe life is way too damn short to worry about what some person you have only just met thinks of you. Just be yourself. Chances are? You are probably pretty great without adding any sort of affectation, or trying to make a good impression.
And if not? Try stuff out. Keep trying stuff out until you find something that makes you come alive, and thrive. This doesn't necessarily mean you need to make a living at it. It could simply be something that gives you enough enjoyment to keep going, and work a job that you may not necessarily love, but must do for survival. You also don't have to be a virtuoso in the beginning. No one is. We all have to start somewhere.
But you know what? You will have so much more energy for that job, than if you didn't pursue whatever it is that you love. Just try, damn it! And you never know: maybe the inspiration or idea to do something really well will lead to a better position or offer. Life takes strange turns at times.
Pay attention to them.
But don't pay attention to stupid people. After all? They are stupid. Spend more time reminiscing about the tape single while listening to this gem, dug up from my demented youth. It was a marvel.
-H
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
On when it is a good time to be dramatic and kick some ass:
Today was kind of a busy work day for me. I had a quick-turn project to work on in my studio. This basically means that the photographic subject matter is brought to me, and I shoot and process all in the same day. This is no big deal if I don't have a lot of other jobs in process, but right now, I do. I'm a busy lady, and I love it.
I was going to do this product shoot in my studio, but conditions were not really suitable for the pieces I was trying to capture. See, I work with refracted light when I am shooting glass, meaning I have to figure out a way to suspend the product over the light, and allow it to illuminate the pieces from underneath.
For now, because I have not yet built or found a glass table small and suitable enough to keep in my studio, I have been shooting the pieces on the glass shelves in my bathroom. Hey. Don't judge. I have done some AMAZEBALLZ work this way. So far, only my friend E has watched me do this. And she did for a while today, and totally cracked up, as I climbed into my bathtub, propping myself up on the edge to get the shots. It works. Whatever.
Anyway, because of this I did not notice that a transient had settled in on the property between my house and the neighbouring building, housing three businesses. This has been an ongoing issue for us since we have moved in here. The problem being, the dumpster and small inlet between the two properties. It is very easy for someone to go back there and hide from the world... well, most of it.
As soon as I did notice him, though, I called the police. This particular transient has been notorious for certain offenses. I had suspected someone was doing something there for a while, because I discovered my clothing catalogues opened to the lingerie section back there from time to time.
Yeah, I try not to think too much about it.
I told the dispatcher that I needed to step out to pick my children up and explained the pertinent situation to her. She said she would send someone out there to move the guy along.
Well, when I arrived back home, not only was he still there, but he was masturbating in plain view, and my children both saw everything, and of course shouted "EWWW!!!"
Yeah, that was fun. Explaining drunken transient masturbation to a five year old.
Not OK.
So, I called the police again, this time in practical hysterics, explaining what had just happened. once again, the dispatcher said she would send someone out.
About 20 minutes later, I received a knock on my door from someone I will refer to as "Officer Butthurt". He pointed to the transient, and asked me if that was who I was referring to.
I explained that it was, indeed.
He then had this to say: "So, you do realize that he not on your property?"
At this point it was very difficult for me not to verbally abuse this idiot. "Yes. But he is visible, and he is making my yard an unsafe place for my children to play."
"Explain to me what you saw today, Miss."
"It's Mrs., first of all, and secondly, I called for the first time at 2 PM. No one came to do anything then, even after I had explained that this man has a history of masturbating back there, in full view of everyone.
"When I came home from picking my children up from school, he was doing exactly that, and my children saw everything. Have you ever experienced the joys of explaining public, drunken, transient masturbation to a five year old? Well, I did about 20 minutes ago. That was GREAT fun!"
"Well, again, this is not on your property. I will go next door, and see if they are willing to have me remove him. If they let transients stay back there as a rule, I will have to let him stay."
"But the landlord has signed a no-trespassing agreement with the police department. Seriously. What the... huh???? Are you for real? Really? HE WAS MASTURBATING!!!! HE WAS EXPOSING HIMSELF TO MY 5 YEAR OLD! HOW IS THAT OK?"
"Those are the rules, Ma'am."
With that, he walked next door. I can't tell you how violated and under-valued I felt here, and now moreso by the police officer than the fucking drunken transient masturbator dude.
I thought they would set him straight and he would remove the man. No. They did not. And he did not.
Absolutely infuriated, I started texting my friends like a madwoman, since my children were being loud, and acting confused as to why I was keeping them in the back of the house, away from the windows. One friend suggested I alert the media. Another suggested I call the mayor's office. I finally just put a show on for my kids, quickly walked next door to the art gallery.
I walked up to one of the employees, and asked her: "Did a police officer come in here to speak to you about a transient?"
"Yes."
"Did you tell him to remove said transient?"
"No. I told him to call the landlord."
"Do you have the landlord's number."
"No. I don't."
"I need to explain the circumstances of this particular transient. He has been jerking off back there, and I can't even let my children go near the window right now. We need to remove him, stat!"
"I don't know what to tell you."
I walked to herb store. It had a sign on the door that said: "Be back in 5 minutes."
FUCK!
I walked into the record store, and explained the situation. He promptly gave me the phone number for the landlord. When I dialed it, it showed up as "Next door building landlord."
I am awesome.
I know it.
Shut up.
I called him in tears, explaining the situation to him. He was livid, since we both knew that he had gone to the Police department and signed the aforementioned agreement with them.
Mr. Hed arrived home not long after this, and I was in tears, and quite distraught, because it really felt like nothing was going to be done about this. He went into the basement and pulled out a shovel. I then spent about five minutes talking him out of getting popped for assault, because yeah... is it worth it? Not really. But it was nice to know that he was taking it seriously.
I instead, explained that I was more upset with how the police handled this than anything else. So, the next thing I knew, he was on the phone to the cops, giving them a real earful.
Thanks, honey.
His wife came over and smoothed things out with us, telling us how to handle the police, by telling them to be sure to check their records here, and look up the no-trespassing agreement.
Not long after that, I watched the man get arrested across the street. He is gone. Hopefully for good.
And we also received a call from the landlord of the building. He has plans to secure that area so the transient problem will hopefully be history.
But in the same call, he let us know that he talked to the same officer who originally responded. And because of the way things were handled in the first store he went into, and was told that he needed to call the landlord, but that they didn't have the phone number for the landlord, he felt "Jerked around", and just left.
So... because of an officer's ego, I had a rawther unpleasant afternoon.
Mr. Hed has plans to give them yet another earful tomorrow, because apparently he was told to call back on day shift. Uh... the officer felt jerked around? Really? Poor piggy.
Seriously. What a day! Good lord!
-H
I was going to do this product shoot in my studio, but conditions were not really suitable for the pieces I was trying to capture. See, I work with refracted light when I am shooting glass, meaning I have to figure out a way to suspend the product over the light, and allow it to illuminate the pieces from underneath.
For now, because I have not yet built or found a glass table small and suitable enough to keep in my studio, I have been shooting the pieces on the glass shelves in my bathroom. Hey. Don't judge. I have done some AMAZEBALLZ work this way. So far, only my friend E has watched me do this. And she did for a while today, and totally cracked up, as I climbed into my bathtub, propping myself up on the edge to get the shots. It works. Whatever.
Anyway, because of this I did not notice that a transient had settled in on the property between my house and the neighbouring building, housing three businesses. This has been an ongoing issue for us since we have moved in here. The problem being, the dumpster and small inlet between the two properties. It is very easy for someone to go back there and hide from the world... well, most of it.
As soon as I did notice him, though, I called the police. This particular transient has been notorious for certain offenses. I had suspected someone was doing something there for a while, because I discovered my clothing catalogues opened to the lingerie section back there from time to time.
Yeah, I try not to think too much about it.
I told the dispatcher that I needed to step out to pick my children up and explained the pertinent situation to her. She said she would send someone out there to move the guy along.
Well, when I arrived back home, not only was he still there, but he was masturbating in plain view, and my children both saw everything, and of course shouted "EWWW!!!"
Yeah, that was fun. Explaining drunken transient masturbation to a five year old.
Not OK.
So, I called the police again, this time in practical hysterics, explaining what had just happened. once again, the dispatcher said she would send someone out.
About 20 minutes later, I received a knock on my door from someone I will refer to as "Officer Butthurt". He pointed to the transient, and asked me if that was who I was referring to.
I explained that it was, indeed.
He then had this to say: "So, you do realize that he not on your property?"
At this point it was very difficult for me not to verbally abuse this idiot. "Yes. But he is visible, and he is making my yard an unsafe place for my children to play."
"Explain to me what you saw today, Miss."
"It's Mrs., first of all, and secondly, I called for the first time at 2 PM. No one came to do anything then, even after I had explained that this man has a history of masturbating back there, in full view of everyone.
"When I came home from picking my children up from school, he was doing exactly that, and my children saw everything. Have you ever experienced the joys of explaining public, drunken, transient masturbation to a five year old? Well, I did about 20 minutes ago. That was GREAT fun!"
"Well, again, this is not on your property. I will go next door, and see if they are willing to have me remove him. If they let transients stay back there as a rule, I will have to let him stay."
"But the landlord has signed a no-trespassing agreement with the police department. Seriously. What the... huh???? Are you for real? Really? HE WAS MASTURBATING!!!! HE WAS EXPOSING HIMSELF TO MY 5 YEAR OLD! HOW IS THAT OK?"
"Those are the rules, Ma'am."
With that, he walked next door. I can't tell you how violated and under-valued I felt here, and now moreso by the police officer than the fucking drunken transient masturbator dude.
I thought they would set him straight and he would remove the man. No. They did not. And he did not.
Absolutely infuriated, I started texting my friends like a madwoman, since my children were being loud, and acting confused as to why I was keeping them in the back of the house, away from the windows. One friend suggested I alert the media. Another suggested I call the mayor's office. I finally just put a show on for my kids, quickly walked next door to the art gallery.
I walked up to one of the employees, and asked her: "Did a police officer come in here to speak to you about a transient?"
"Yes."
"Did you tell him to remove said transient?"
"No. I told him to call the landlord."
"Do you have the landlord's number."
"No. I don't."
"I need to explain the circumstances of this particular transient. He has been jerking off back there, and I can't even let my children go near the window right now. We need to remove him, stat!"
"I don't know what to tell you."
I walked to herb store. It had a sign on the door that said: "Be back in 5 minutes."
FUCK!
I walked into the record store, and explained the situation. He promptly gave me the phone number for the landlord. When I dialed it, it showed up as "Next door building landlord."
I am awesome.
I know it.
Shut up.
I called him in tears, explaining the situation to him. He was livid, since we both knew that he had gone to the Police department and signed the aforementioned agreement with them.
Mr. Hed arrived home not long after this, and I was in tears, and quite distraught, because it really felt like nothing was going to be done about this. He went into the basement and pulled out a shovel. I then spent about five minutes talking him out of getting popped for assault, because yeah... is it worth it? Not really. But it was nice to know that he was taking it seriously.
I instead, explained that I was more upset with how the police handled this than anything else. So, the next thing I knew, he was on the phone to the cops, giving them a real earful.
Thanks, honey.
His wife came over and smoothed things out with us, telling us how to handle the police, by telling them to be sure to check their records here, and look up the no-trespassing agreement.
Not long after that, I watched the man get arrested across the street. He is gone. Hopefully for good.
And we also received a call from the landlord of the building. He has plans to secure that area so the transient problem will hopefully be history.
But in the same call, he let us know that he talked to the same officer who originally responded. And because of the way things were handled in the first store he went into, and was told that he needed to call the landlord, but that they didn't have the phone number for the landlord, he felt "Jerked around", and just left.
So... because of an officer's ego, I had a rawther unpleasant afternoon.
Mr. Hed has plans to give them yet another earful tomorrow, because apparently he was told to call back on day shift. Uh... the officer felt jerked around? Really? Poor piggy.
Seriously. What a day! Good lord!
-H
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Ich bin ein großer Sonderling.
It's true. I have become this as of late... meaning I have time to actually write something. See? My kids started school last week. I had so much to accomplish in the time they would be occupied at school, that I decided to move my workout time to the early morning. It was supposed to only be for the two days included in the first week of school, but something took over; a big, feathery, early bird like creature from the lofty branches of the freak tree, sounding a bit like a crazy crow but looking strangely familiar; known to most as four-thirty A.M. Yes. In order to do what it is I need to do before everyone else is up and about, this is the time I must rise.
CAWWW!
It has been good. Mostly. Even though all of the cool people are still sleeping at this hour, and in the days of my long past childhood, the television would have been showing a test pattern at this hour.
Yeah, it's cool. Really. It is.
Because... I'll tell ya: I can't believe how much I have been able to accomplish since I have started doing this! I start off each day dancing. Since I've just gotten out of bed; doing this, I look a little like Richard Simmons on crack. And I like it. And... like I have said in the past, it really is for the best that no one sees me dance. It's true. Some people have their ironic glasses and accessories. I have my ironic activities. Still though, It is seriously the only form of exercise that does not become tedious, because I actually sort of have to think about what I'm doing. There is also music; albeit lame dance workout video music, but I live it with. Really, it's just fun.
Oh shit! Does this make me some sort of closeted dance hipster? Here is where I get ridiculously neurotic. Look away. No one should see this.
K. Yeah. I'm over it. I don't care. I dance. I dance at four-thirty in the goddamned morning to lame assed dance videos on netflix that my husband makes fun of... if I choose to do them while he is awake, and you know what? I'm writing about it now, so I must not really care who knows. Or, it's possible that I've lost my filtering ability at this point in the day. After all, I have now been awake for 17 hours.
But I have lost some weight, gone down a couple pants sizes. That's all I care about. Whatevs.
And, OK, yes. It is kind of turning me into an evening zombie. I start to desire a tasty repose right around 7 P.M. I usually completely fizzle out and want to suck my thumb by 9 if I am not already in bed by then.
Early bedtime meltdown aside, it does serve me well in other ways, too, I suppose. It is nice to have all of the preparation stuff out of the way so I can focus on my daily tasks. And right now? I have a lot of them. I am trying to actually get a business off the ground now that I have time during the day to make it work. See? I take pictures. Photographic pictures. And it is time to slap that bitch until she coughs up some scrilla. Yes. Yes it is. Big pimpin'. I do it because it's necessary. As of today, the fruits of my pimping labour have actually scored me some work, so I'll take it.
I do now have a decent-sized studio space, and it will get nicer as time wears on.
In the near future, I will also be joining a friend's team walking in AIDS Walk, Portland! I would love it if people would sponsor me, and/or join us! You don't even have to donate the smallest amount listed. There is a check box for "Other Amount", so even $5, $10, or whatever you can muster would be greatly appreciated!
So, this is what has been going on in my world as of late. I realize it has been quite a while since I have posted anything. It is amazing the amount of energy wrangling a couple monkeys and recharging a business takes! I am so looking forward to the days ahead. And I am sure the amount of time I have to devote to my friends and other parts of my life (that seem to have been neglected lately...) will change as things adjust, I'm sure.
-H
CAWWW!
It has been good. Mostly. Even though all of the cool people are still sleeping at this hour, and in the days of my long past childhood, the television would have been showing a test pattern at this hour.
Yeah, it's cool. Really. It is.
Because... I'll tell ya: I can't believe how much I have been able to accomplish since I have started doing this! I start off each day dancing. Since I've just gotten out of bed; doing this, I look a little like Richard Simmons on crack. And I like it. And... like I have said in the past, it really is for the best that no one sees me dance. It's true. Some people have their ironic glasses and accessories. I have my ironic activities. Still though, It is seriously the only form of exercise that does not become tedious, because I actually sort of have to think about what I'm doing. There is also music; albeit lame dance workout video music, but I live it with. Really, it's just fun.
Oh shit! Does this make me some sort of closeted dance hipster? Here is where I get ridiculously neurotic. Look away. No one should see this.
K. Yeah. I'm over it. I don't care. I dance. I dance at four-thirty in the goddamned morning to lame assed dance videos on netflix that my husband makes fun of... if I choose to do them while he is awake, and you know what? I'm writing about it now, so I must not really care who knows. Or, it's possible that I've lost my filtering ability at this point in the day. After all, I have now been awake for 17 hours.
But I have lost some weight, gone down a couple pants sizes. That's all I care about. Whatevs.
And, OK, yes. It is kind of turning me into an evening zombie. I start to desire a tasty repose right around 7 P.M. I usually completely fizzle out and want to suck my thumb by 9 if I am not already in bed by then.
Early bedtime meltdown aside, it does serve me well in other ways, too, I suppose. It is nice to have all of the preparation stuff out of the way so I can focus on my daily tasks. And right now? I have a lot of them. I am trying to actually get a business off the ground now that I have time during the day to make it work. See? I take pictures. Photographic pictures. And it is time to slap that bitch until she coughs up some scrilla. Yes. Yes it is. Big pimpin'. I do it because it's necessary. As of today, the fruits of my pimping labour have actually scored me some work, so I'll take it.
I do now have a decent-sized studio space, and it will get nicer as time wears on.
In the near future, I will also be joining a friend's team walking in AIDS Walk, Portland! I would love it if people would sponsor me, and/or join us! You don't even have to donate the smallest amount listed. There is a check box for "Other Amount", so even $5, $10, or whatever you can muster would be greatly appreciated!
So, this is what has been going on in my world as of late. I realize it has been quite a while since I have posted anything. It is amazing the amount of energy wrangling a couple monkeys and recharging a business takes! I am so looking forward to the days ahead. And I am sure the amount of time I have to devote to my friends and other parts of my life (that seem to have been neglected lately...) will change as things adjust, I'm sure.
-H
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The vegan pate that kick's Toby's ass any damn day of the week.
First, let me preface this by saying that I am no vegan. In fact? Goose liver pate? Oh yes, please. That is some serious deliciousness right there. But... well? I sometimes get wistful of my vegetarian days, and remember when I used to go through a container of Toby's tofu pate a week. True, it is not a damn thing like the non-vegan version, but still, there was something about it that I used to enjoy.
I've since discovered a soy allergy, so I can't have toby's anymore. Le sigh. That was a sad day.
I will say, and I am not proud of this little fact; that I haven't experimented in the kitchen in a while, and I kind of have to ask myself why that is right now. I love doing this, and I have enough skill and experience now to know that I probably am not going to mess things up to the point that no one will want to eat whatever it is that I throw together. And if I do? I don't usually have an audience. What people don't know about me won't hurt them... or, ultimately, me. Right? Right.
Anyway, I had an idea in my head when I went shopping last week. I have been feeling the need to eat more fiber lately, and try to figure out how to work more veggies into my diet. I am one of those women who laughs with salad just about every day of the world.
Yep. I do it. Shut up.
But still. I felt like more fiber could be worked in somewhere. So, I picked up a couple bags of almonds, and a few extra veggies on top of what I normally buy at the market, went home and performed a little science experiment.
And guess what!? It worked! And holy nom, It's fucking awesome!
So, without further adieu, I give you: My recipe for almond pate.
Instruments of world domination:
Food processor
Cutting Board
A good knife
Ingredients:
1/2 bag Raw Almonds from Trader Joe's
1/4 Walla Walla Sweet Onion
(These are very large. If all you have are little boiler onions, use 1/2 an onion.)
1 medium carrot, cut into small pieces for food processor
1 small to medium rib of celery, cut into small pieces for food processor
1 small handful of chopped dill. (I should have measured this, but alas... I did not.)
2 tbsp lemon juice
Small amount of water for streaming
1 tbsp granulated garlic
salt to taste
Method:
Place almonds in bowl of food processor with pulverizing blade. Pulse until nuts are in small pieces, and stream in a small amount of water; maybe a little more than a tablespoon, just to get it to flow together to a semi-thick paste.
Add onion, and pulse again, until incorporated. If you need to stream a little more water in, that's fine.
Add carrot, followed by celery. Same rules apply to the water. You want it to be able to incorporate together, but not be so thin that it's like soup.
Pulse, adding garlic, salt, and lemon, until well-mixed.
Add the dill last, so it doesn't get too bruised. Bruised anything is not attractive. Bruised herbs? Far from tasty.
You can eat this right away, but it's really amazing the next day. So good on celery and carrot sticks!
-H
I've since discovered a soy allergy, so I can't have toby's anymore. Le sigh. That was a sad day.
I will say, and I am not proud of this little fact; that I haven't experimented in the kitchen in a while, and I kind of have to ask myself why that is right now. I love doing this, and I have enough skill and experience now to know that I probably am not going to mess things up to the point that no one will want to eat whatever it is that I throw together. And if I do? I don't usually have an audience. What people don't know about me won't hurt them... or, ultimately, me. Right? Right.
Anyway, I had an idea in my head when I went shopping last week. I have been feeling the need to eat more fiber lately, and try to figure out how to work more veggies into my diet. I am one of those women who laughs with salad just about every day of the world.
Yep. I do it. Shut up.
But still. I felt like more fiber could be worked in somewhere. So, I picked up a couple bags of almonds, and a few extra veggies on top of what I normally buy at the market, went home and performed a little science experiment.
And guess what!? It worked! And holy nom, It's fucking awesome!
So, without further adieu, I give you: My recipe for almond pate.
Instruments of world domination:
Food processor
Cutting Board
A good knife
Ingredients:
1/2 bag Raw Almonds from Trader Joe's
1/4 Walla Walla Sweet Onion
(These are very large. If all you have are little boiler onions, use 1/2 an onion.)
1 medium carrot, cut into small pieces for food processor
1 small to medium rib of celery, cut into small pieces for food processor
1 small handful of chopped dill. (I should have measured this, but alas... I did not.)
2 tbsp lemon juice
Small amount of water for streaming
1 tbsp granulated garlic
salt to taste
Method:
Place almonds in bowl of food processor with pulverizing blade. Pulse until nuts are in small pieces, and stream in a small amount of water; maybe a little more than a tablespoon, just to get it to flow together to a semi-thick paste.
Add onion, and pulse again, until incorporated. If you need to stream a little more water in, that's fine.
Add carrot, followed by celery. Same rules apply to the water. You want it to be able to incorporate together, but not be so thin that it's like soup.
Pulse, adding garlic, salt, and lemon, until well-mixed.
Add the dill last, so it doesn't get too bruised. Bruised anything is not attractive. Bruised herbs? Far from tasty.
You can eat this right away, but it's really amazing the next day. So good on celery and carrot sticks!
-H
Thursday, July 14, 2011
It is fowl, but not necessarily foul.
So I'm going to be boring and write an everyday sort of post. I don't do that often, because I'm a pretentious bitch like that. Some still refer to me as a professional pain in the ass. I kinda hate it when people write about their errand running, and trips to Target. I try to keep it interesting for the most part, but yeah... today? Sorry. You get boring Hedro.
So, chicken sausage. That stuff? It's well... shit. Don't buy it. I don't even give a shit that it was made of the purest, organic chicken. Damn. They ruined it. Unfit for dog consumption. Maybe cats would like it. But cats? Not really known for being that smart. In fact, don't they have something akin to a 7 day memory?
Anyway, this tube-shaped meat, (which I am generally a fan of,) was just wrong. And if you are one of those "vegetarians" who sometimes eats chicken? I can tell you... in this case? Get the pork. Seriously. One pork sausage in your lifetime? Probably not going to kill you. Or stick to tofurkey. If you like your soy, it is a lovely product.
Love-ly.
I was tempted by this stuff the other day at New Seasons. Normally, I'm pretty smart, and I DO stick to the pork. It was lemon chicken. Yum? Well, you'd think. I mean, when I cook a whole chicken at home, I usually do place a few lemon slices under the skin of the breast, along with some garlic and rosemary. That is quite yummeh.
This? Well... I am under the impression that ground chicken should be placed under the category: "what is, and what should never be." Especially when you place it in an impenetrable pork casing.
Heh heh... impenetrable pork.
But back to the situation at hand. See? Chicken? Kinda watery. It needs a release. Especially when you add lemon juice. Yeah, that shit needs somewhere to go. Also? It sort of got fucked up by the grinding process. When there is no grain, and no identifiable... well, anything, until you run across a piece of sinew or something? Yeah, that doesn't work out so well texturally.
Mr. Hed is sitting here reading this as I type, and alternately looking at my face. He actually just told me not to barf. See? This recount of experience is... not sitting well with me.
I'll go faster.
Mr. Hed took the sausages in question down to the backyard to grill. He brought them back up, and when I went to cut into one of them, it was like a flood of vile, horrible liquid was released. I don't even know what to think of this. It was just... nasty. I really could not tell if they were cooked, or uncooked. Flesh adjacent to burnt flesh looked raw, but was it? WTF?
I pinched a small amount from the inside of said tubed meat, and rubbed it between my fingers. I... thought it was done. Thought. It. Was.
So, we take them over to the table, and the entire time we are eating, the only person who is not grimacing in partial horror was our daughter who I am pretty sure has no taste buds, and will therefore eat anything. Seriously. I guess it could be worse, because she could be horribly picky like some children. I'll take it, but still. She gets the leftovers tomorrow, since she actually claimed them.
Anyway, at one point, I really was worried that mine was not cooked, so I stuck it back in the oven. It cooked for a good, long time, and when I took it out, same thing. Exactly the same. So, yes. They were cooked, but just... simply disgusting.
So, word to the wise: keep that shitty chicken sausage far, far away from me.
That said, Mr. Hed and I have decided to open a DECENT chicken restaurant. The kind that does not do bad, bad, things to chicken. Because damn. They died. They should die for a good cause... like being part of something delicious, not something that is, but should never, ever be.
We debating on a name right now, but it has been narrowed down to two: "Taste of fowl", or "Fowl Taste". Oh yes. You'll see. It will be a success.
-H
So, chicken sausage. That stuff? It's well... shit. Don't buy it. I don't even give a shit that it was made of the purest, organic chicken. Damn. They ruined it. Unfit for dog consumption. Maybe cats would like it. But cats? Not really known for being that smart. In fact, don't they have something akin to a 7 day memory?
Anyway, this tube-shaped meat, (which I am generally a fan of,) was just wrong. And if you are one of those "vegetarians" who sometimes eats chicken? I can tell you... in this case? Get the pork. Seriously. One pork sausage in your lifetime? Probably not going to kill you. Or stick to tofurkey. If you like your soy, it is a lovely product.
Love-ly.
I was tempted by this stuff the other day at New Seasons. Normally, I'm pretty smart, and I DO stick to the pork. It was lemon chicken. Yum? Well, you'd think. I mean, when I cook a whole chicken at home, I usually do place a few lemon slices under the skin of the breast, along with some garlic and rosemary. That is quite yummeh.
This? Well... I am under the impression that ground chicken should be placed under the category: "what is, and what should never be." Especially when you place it in an impenetrable pork casing.
Heh heh... impenetrable pork.
But back to the situation at hand. See? Chicken? Kinda watery. It needs a release. Especially when you add lemon juice. Yeah, that shit needs somewhere to go. Also? It sort of got fucked up by the grinding process. When there is no grain, and no identifiable... well, anything, until you run across a piece of sinew or something? Yeah, that doesn't work out so well texturally.
Mr. Hed is sitting here reading this as I type, and alternately looking at my face. He actually just told me not to barf. See? This recount of experience is... not sitting well with me.
I'll go faster.
Mr. Hed took the sausages in question down to the backyard to grill. He brought them back up, and when I went to cut into one of them, it was like a flood of vile, horrible liquid was released. I don't even know what to think of this. It was just... nasty. I really could not tell if they were cooked, or uncooked. Flesh adjacent to burnt flesh looked raw, but was it? WTF?
I pinched a small amount from the inside of said tubed meat, and rubbed it between my fingers. I... thought it was done. Thought. It. Was.
So, we take them over to the table, and the entire time we are eating, the only person who is not grimacing in partial horror was our daughter who I am pretty sure has no taste buds, and will therefore eat anything. Seriously. I guess it could be worse, because she could be horribly picky like some children. I'll take it, but still. She gets the leftovers tomorrow, since she actually claimed them.
Anyway, at one point, I really was worried that mine was not cooked, so I stuck it back in the oven. It cooked for a good, long time, and when I took it out, same thing. Exactly the same. So, yes. They were cooked, but just... simply disgusting.
So, word to the wise: keep that shitty chicken sausage far, far away from me.
That said, Mr. Hed and I have decided to open a DECENT chicken restaurant. The kind that does not do bad, bad, things to chicken. Because damn. They died. They should die for a good cause... like being part of something delicious, not something that is, but should never, ever be.
We debating on a name right now, but it has been narrowed down to two: "Taste of fowl", or "Fowl Taste". Oh yes. You'll see. It will be a success.
-H
Monday, July 4, 2011
Where I'm from.
A friend reminded me of this writing exercise that circulated a couple of years ago. I had meant to do it then, but got busy and kept forgetting to. I found it very enjoyable to read about where everyone else was from. Now it's my turn, so here goes:
I am from vibrating pedicure machines, from Mary Kay, Canfield's Diet Chocolate Soda, No-Salt, Sweet 'N Low, and Penney's. *I am from the very neighbourhood that Malvina Reynolds wrote about in her song: "Little Boxes". Yes. The yellow one.
I am from the place with almost no trees; where the swimming pool in the backyard was the only refuge from the ground that was so hot you could not walk barefoot outside. From sunburns that would peel like Elmer's school glue off of most of my body after too much time spent in said swimming pool. From made-up Crystal-Light ads in which I would stand on the diving board, flexing my little girl biceps, and singing: "I believe in Crystal Light, 'cause I believe in me!"
I am from the cactus pears, stolen meyer lemons, navel oranges, pomegranate bushes, and palm trees. From enormous water beetles, and June bugs that would dive bomb my perfectly shellacked hairdos, buzzing like crazy trying to escape, because they were too stupid to figure out how to on their own.
That girl who would run around screaming with buzzing hair until a kind soul helped us both out of that jam? Yeah, that was me; also known as the girl from the gawd awful wake-up time of 5:30 AM... the sole purpose? Making sure that hair was absolutely perfect!
I am from my perch atop the old Chevy Van at the Drive-in movie.
From swim parties and grilled steaks; from little restaurants I would make for the ants from the bones of whatever we'd had for dinner that night, hidden far off from where people would see them right away, so the "business" had a chance.
I am from Pomerantz, McIver; The Thomas fat ass, and the Davis flat ass. Yes. I got both. Behold: My ass! For it is both fat, and flat.
I am from the family dinners at my maternal Grandmother's modern, urban apartment that came entirely from Price Club, unwrapped and either microwaved, or baked; the scent of her Wind Song perfume, as well as the spearmint gum she always had giant boxes of in her closet.
From watching the end of certain TV programs just to see my uncle's name in the credits; from standing in line at Dodger games for giveaway items, and listening for hours to the same grandmother's stories of her worldly travels.
One day I will travel just as she did.
I am from both: "Go hang your belly on the fence!" and "Oy Vey!"
I am from a few different faiths, leading to no faith, leading to piqued interest and curiosity about many faiths, once more.
I'm from The City Of Angels; drives through Topanga and Malibu canyons that seemed to take an eternity, the roller rink, the club that beat the streets, the bike path at Venice, and never-ending music. Really. Never. The music never ended. Ever. No. Never. It did not.
I am from that ottoman I brought into the kitchen to stand on so that I could watch my Uncle Alan make spaghetti using noodles, olive oil, and allspice.
I am from the chair I would stand on in the kitchen, watching my dad make shit on a shingle, and later sit on to gag the vile stuff down, because it was... what was for dinner. From that empty cafeteria table I shared with my best friend in grade school, eating those head cheese and beef tongue sandwiches I was sent there with. I am from day old spaghetti fried in butter, topped with cheese. I am from my own creation of fat-free cheese sandwiches, microwaved with a dollop of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" on top.
I am from that cushiony stool my dad set up for me to hang out in the studio listening to bands practice and record, and having to stay as quiet and patient as possible. From a place to stand on that stool learning to use a studio mixing board by age 3.
From the summers spent on the Northern California coast with my paternal Grandmother, drinking soda pop from old bottles that had been reused so many times they look like they had been sandblasted along the edges; singing Otis Redding songs to the cats on the balcony. From grandma's rainbow coloured circa 1974 shag carpet I would move between my toes as we watched television programs, all the while listening to her as she would yell at the screen because the Shaklee products she sold were superiour to those advertised.
I am from family reunions in Luxor, near-death experiences in Glacier National Park, and hiding my face from video cameras criminal-style, after not being able to do my hair for 3 days on a cross-country railroad trip.
I am from looking in awe at my great grandmother's 100 year old photograph that hangs on my wall, her lovely bone china teacup collection, and urn containing one pedal from every single rose my great grandfather ever gave her. He died in 1954, and the petals still smell amazing.
I am from the knowledge that comes from pain, and the best advice I have ever received: "If you ever meet a man who reminds you of your father, RUN THE OTHER WAY!"
I am from my own self-worth, and my willingness to heed that advice.
I am from lots of hard work, self-love, and personal growth.
I am a survivor.
I am Hedy.
-H
*OK, not really, but yes, they were totally all made out of ticky-tacky, and yes, the all looked just the same.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Proof that I have had too much exposure to bizarre things as of late.
Life has been pretty eventful, so I apologize for not bringing any witticisms this way for a bit. I'll get back into the swing at some point, once things slow down. But I did want to venture this way to tell you all about one of my more bizarre dreams. I don't normally share that sort of thing, because I don't think most people really care usually. It can be kind of boring subject matter. But this one had me not wanting to wake up. It was that entertaining.
I start off running down Broadway near the Schnitz, on all fours. I'm barefoot, in the street, and keeping with the flow of traffic. I can feel the asphalt under my hands and feet, but it feels surprisingly comfortable and natural. I specifically remember the way the green and red of the traffic signals played off of the varied surfaces of the asphalt rocks. It wasn't wet, but this is something that I tend to notice while crossing the street during my waking hours. There is something beautiful about that, and it was really showcased strongly in this part of the dream; almost prismatic in nature, moving and changing as I traveled over it.
I continued down Broadway until I came to Jefferson, which I followed up toward where I lived about a decade ago near Portland State University, in the Goose Hollow neighbourhood. I passed the apartment complex I once called home, and continued up a path to a much smaller, dingier place; still on all fours, still barefoot, through brambles, broken glass, rusty screws and nails, shattered bottles, caps of said bottles, gravel chunks, and unidentifiable detritus which really could have been anything. I was moving so fast, I was unable to determine exactly what some of it was. It was also darker up there, so that played a role.
I didn't want to get raped, mugged, or lopped. My objective? Unclear. But I was strangely motivated to move like I had never moved before. When I finally arrived at the appropriated complex, I noticed that it had several residences attached in a row, and it was kind of a strange setup. I had to tap in a code that I somehow knew to enter the premises, which sat behind an iron security door. Once inside; instead of a hallway, there was a long breezeway below what should have been a hallway leading to second floor units. I could see stars, since there was no roof. It wasn't exactly an atrium, not exactly a courtyard. Just a strange, seemingly unfinished corridor. They had only ever added planks to the hallways in the floors above and someone created makeshift catwalks using cheap plywood boards which did not meet the sides of the structure, leaving very large gaps on either side that one could easily fall through if not careful.
As I walked through, I felt something on my back. It landed with sort of a thud, and moved. It had claws, and before I really understood what was going on, the damn thing bit me. I grasped it, tearing it away from my body, and realized it was a rat! I threw it as far as I could. It hit the wall, sort of convulsed, then stopped moving altogether. My stomach lurched in discomfort, and I just wanted out of there, but I knew I needed to keep going.
Why? Well, that I did not know.
The farther down into the building I walked, the more rats there were. I picked another off of my back, only this one spoke to me: "You don't want to throw me, little lady! I am a nice rat! See? Feel my fur. Aren't I soft?"
I tried petting it, and while it was rather soft, it too, bit me. I gave its head a twist, broke its neck, and tossed it aside.
Bastard.
I finally reached my destination. The door was slightly opened, and I could hear the song "Time" by the Chamber's Brothers playing on the stereo. This song has long creeped me out. I have never liked it; especially the long version with the screaming man solo in the middle. Yeah, not my idea of a good time, listening to that.
The apartment was pretty drab. Typical basic 1970's unit with wood cabinetry, hollow doors, nicotine-yellowed walls, stale smoke lingering in the air, and brown shag carpet, which was strangely pristine. It seemed to have retained its original luster from the time of installation, which I am sure was not any time in the recent past, despite the unfinished nature of the building.
Not far from the front door, there was a sofa covered in crushed velvet embossed flowers. As I walked farther in, I noticed a man sleeping on the sofa, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts. Someone had placed a paper towel covered in hemostats and scalpels on the coffee table just adjacent. He had a cloth over his nose and mouth, that had begun to fall off. Of course I noticed this just as the screaming started in the song.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHKKKKKKKKK!"
Soon, an acquaintance of mine walked in, and began working on the sleeping man. He said he'd used chloroform to put him to sleep, and he reassuringly told me the man could not feel a thing. He just wanted to fuck with him a little; not kill him. Did I want to watch?
No.
But for some reason I wanted to make out with this person, so make out, we did. Because it's what you do. Right?
Not long after that, I found myself traveling back down Broadway using the same means I'd used before.
+++
Really, brain? Really? I guess part of me wanted to wake up, and part of me wanted to know what happened to the man on the couch, and this weird person I hardly know who wanted to do demented things to him. I guess I will never know. Oh well.
Dreams are so strange. They can be so vivid and create such a storyline, and yet, these non-lucid thoughts are all very self-contained, only having to do with things that we have witnessed in our own lives.
The brain sure is one interesting, enigmatic motherfucker. I think it does like to have fun with our sensibilities when we are unable to reason with what is going on in there.
-H
I start off running down Broadway near the Schnitz, on all fours. I'm barefoot, in the street, and keeping with the flow of traffic. I can feel the asphalt under my hands and feet, but it feels surprisingly comfortable and natural. I specifically remember the way the green and red of the traffic signals played off of the varied surfaces of the asphalt rocks. It wasn't wet, but this is something that I tend to notice while crossing the street during my waking hours. There is something beautiful about that, and it was really showcased strongly in this part of the dream; almost prismatic in nature, moving and changing as I traveled over it.
I continued down Broadway until I came to Jefferson, which I followed up toward where I lived about a decade ago near Portland State University, in the Goose Hollow neighbourhood. I passed the apartment complex I once called home, and continued up a path to a much smaller, dingier place; still on all fours, still barefoot, through brambles, broken glass, rusty screws and nails, shattered bottles, caps of said bottles, gravel chunks, and unidentifiable detritus which really could have been anything. I was moving so fast, I was unable to determine exactly what some of it was. It was also darker up there, so that played a role.
I didn't want to get raped, mugged, or lopped. My objective? Unclear. But I was strangely motivated to move like I had never moved before. When I finally arrived at the appropriated complex, I noticed that it had several residences attached in a row, and it was kind of a strange setup. I had to tap in a code that I somehow knew to enter the premises, which sat behind an iron security door. Once inside; instead of a hallway, there was a long breezeway below what should have been a hallway leading to second floor units. I could see stars, since there was no roof. It wasn't exactly an atrium, not exactly a courtyard. Just a strange, seemingly unfinished corridor. They had only ever added planks to the hallways in the floors above and someone created makeshift catwalks using cheap plywood boards which did not meet the sides of the structure, leaving very large gaps on either side that one could easily fall through if not careful.
As I walked through, I felt something on my back. It landed with sort of a thud, and moved. It had claws, and before I really understood what was going on, the damn thing bit me. I grasped it, tearing it away from my body, and realized it was a rat! I threw it as far as I could. It hit the wall, sort of convulsed, then stopped moving altogether. My stomach lurched in discomfort, and I just wanted out of there, but I knew I needed to keep going.
Why? Well, that I did not know.
The farther down into the building I walked, the more rats there were. I picked another off of my back, only this one spoke to me: "You don't want to throw me, little lady! I am a nice rat! See? Feel my fur. Aren't I soft?"
I tried petting it, and while it was rather soft, it too, bit me. I gave its head a twist, broke its neck, and tossed it aside.
Bastard.
I finally reached my destination. The door was slightly opened, and I could hear the song "Time" by the Chamber's Brothers playing on the stereo. This song has long creeped me out. I have never liked it; especially the long version with the screaming man solo in the middle. Yeah, not my idea of a good time, listening to that.
The apartment was pretty drab. Typical basic 1970's unit with wood cabinetry, hollow doors, nicotine-yellowed walls, stale smoke lingering in the air, and brown shag carpet, which was strangely pristine. It seemed to have retained its original luster from the time of installation, which I am sure was not any time in the recent past, despite the unfinished nature of the building.
Not far from the front door, there was a sofa covered in crushed velvet embossed flowers. As I walked farther in, I noticed a man sleeping on the sofa, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts. Someone had placed a paper towel covered in hemostats and scalpels on the coffee table just adjacent. He had a cloth over his nose and mouth, that had begun to fall off. Of course I noticed this just as the screaming started in the song.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHKKKKKKKKK!"
Soon, an acquaintance of mine walked in, and began working on the sleeping man. He said he'd used chloroform to put him to sleep, and he reassuringly told me the man could not feel a thing. He just wanted to fuck with him a little; not kill him. Did I want to watch?
No.
But for some reason I wanted to make out with this person, so make out, we did. Because it's what you do. Right?
Not long after that, I found myself traveling back down Broadway using the same means I'd used before.
+++
Really, brain? Really? I guess part of me wanted to wake up, and part of me wanted to know what happened to the man on the couch, and this weird person I hardly know who wanted to do demented things to him. I guess I will never know. Oh well.
Dreams are so strange. They can be so vivid and create such a storyline, and yet, these non-lucid thoughts are all very self-contained, only having to do with things that we have witnessed in our own lives.
The brain sure is one interesting, enigmatic motherfucker. I think it does like to have fun with our sensibilities when we are unable to reason with what is going on in there.
-H
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