CategoryLife

1) The past week and a half has seen me harboring a cold that (while not epic) is definitely not fun. We will not go into details, mmkay?

Since half my team caught something at the same exact time, we’re all kind of assuming it came from the team outing we had volunteering at Second Harvest Food Bank. That, or the Jamaican buffet we ate at the same day for lunch.

Volunteering was rather a lot of fun when doing it with friends. We sorted meats.

Lots. And LOTS. Of meats.

As in, several pallets of ~10lb hams that didn’t sell for Thanksgiving. An alarming number of “chicken paws” packages (yes, it is what you think it is. No, I don’t know why it’s labeled paws when chickens have no such thing). One giant tub of “pork chitterlings”. Several boxes of exploded clams (voted “worst smell of the day” without any competition whatsoever).

Meat. Meats for days, you guys. (And some really gorgeous fish options as well. Most of the meat we sorted was really lovely, but that doesn’t make for a very entertaining anecdote).

2) I have the start of my story!

I have the first line. I have the first chapter. I even have the start of the second chapter.

We’re in good shape. I just need to not feel like exploded clams before I get started. (well, WANT. I want to not feel like exploded clams. One could easily argue that a kleenex box on my writing table would help with the physical symptoms, but the body exhaustion ain’t fun.)

3) Random brain noodle of the day.

“The Devil Went Down to Georgia” is a popular country song that most of you are probably familiar with. Johnny fiddled his country little heart out and beat the devil in a bet of his soul against a golden fiddle.

Nice, right? Little guy sticking it to the big bad?

WRONG. I posit that this story would be encouraged by any half-wit devil on the receiving end of it. Sure, there’s a bit of an ego-jab, but how could that compare to the hundreds or thousands of people who listen to the song and think “hey, maybe -I- could win a bet against the devil”.

BOOM. Soul-harvesting statistics surely climbed as a result of this song.

…

And that? That is why I think maybe I should wait for my thoughts to settle into normal thinking patterns before I start writing.

Just sayin’.

I recently finished reading The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, by Marie Kondo.

Amazon describes it thusly …

Japanese cleaning consultant Marie Kondo takes tidying to a whole new level, promising that if you properly simplify and organize your home once, you’ll never have to do it again.

… and now that I’ve had time to ruminate upon it, I have thoughts. (more…)

I promised a follow up to my Emergency Freezer Burrito post, and you shall have it forthwith!

I’m a fan.

(temptation to hit the publish button rising. riiiisssiiiinngg….)

In all seriousness, I tried two sizes of tortillas. The larger “burrito” size, and the one-size smaller family-pack that I got from Costco. (Sorry I can’t give a more useful size description than that — costco’s website doesn’t list them and apparently tortillas come in a lot more sizes than I expected).

The “burrito” size was the recommended size and although I can see why (it was MUCH easier to roll a full burrito with the extra inch or so around the edges) the convenience of buying a crapton of inexpensive tortillas outweighs that in my mind.

Because I am incapable of creating a burrito with the recommended amount of stuffing, you guys. (more…)

I think I’m going to try making some freezer burritos this weekend during my weekly leftover generation session.

Emergency Freezer Burritos (or EFBs, as they are affectionately called) are something one of my coworkers does regularly, and something that came up during a recap from this year’s THAT Conference attendees.

Looks like they’re good even as breakfast burritos, too!

And you know me, I do love food wrapped in a tortilla. So clean. So tidy.

The general idea is that you make a large batch of various fillings (beans, rice, eggs, meats or tofu, squash, peppers ….) and create a boatload of burritos all in one go. Wrap them in tinfoil, label them, and freeze them.

Then you can grab one from the freezer for lunches (microwave in a napkin to reheat) and have a variety of healthy, inexpensive homemade delights.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

If you’ve already tried these, hit me up in the comments with how it went for you or any tips and tricks!

I’m trying something new.

This is a common theme for me. I become unhappy with some aspect (or aspects) of my life and I try something.

Sometimes it works, and it sticks around. Sometimes it only lasts for a little while. Sometimes it gets chucked right outside the flippin’ window the next time I look at it.

I like to think of it as Livin’ the Scrum Life — cycles of effort and work and experiments, followed by evaluation and change. Gotta love agile.

This week’s big experiment is a new app/website called Habitica.

You tell it what you want to get credit for doing.

You do the thing.

You tell Habitica that you did the thing.

That’s all pretty standard in the zillions of todo list apps out there. But here’s the difference.

Habitica rewards you. (more…)

So a few weekends ago I changed the oil in my car for the first time.

To some of you, this is a pretty boring topic, I realize. For me, however, it was the first time I’d ever even CONSIDERED doing it, and it was … interesting.

It’s all my mom’s fault, really. (more…)

Prissy the Shar-Pei

Growing up, the first dog I remember in our family was Prissy. A rescued Shar-Pei, she was one of the sweetest and gentlest dogs you could hope for.

I remember her wrinkled cinnamon-roll tail and her round manatee-like muzzle with equal fondness.

Mother

The most interesting thing about Prissy wasn’t her breed, however. It was how devotedly she approached the life calling of “Mother”.

She gave birth to exactly one litter of puppies while in our care. Apparently, that wasn’t remotely sufficient for her big heart.

If a puppy ever graced our backyard, her cinnamon-roll would spiral in the closest thing to a wag she could accomplish, and she would scootch under the old truck we had in the back and produce toys we didn’t even remember giving to her. Anything to please the young pup. Balls, frisbees, dirty rags that used to be stuffed animals … whatever she could find.

Bella’s Kittens

I had a cat named Bella who would routinely balloon with kittens. (No, we were not conscientious pet owners. I now know that unfixed outside pets are neither normal nor acceptable, but middle-of-nowhere Texas was not known for its forward-thinking)

Now, Bella would wait as long as possible before having her kittens. I swear, it seemed like their eyes were already open at least once when I first met a littler.

Additionally, she would suffer through the only the merest brush of motherhood. She grudgingly suckled her kittens until such time as they could be trusted to eat solid food, then soundly ignored them forever.

Prissy, on the other hand? ADORED these so-young castoff kittens. She took over their raising, which included suckling them from teats that long ago should have dried up after her own litter was gone.

Many times, you could look out the back window and see her lying in a patch of sunlight, a nearly-grown catling suckling happily at her belly.

Stray Kittens

One night, I was driving home with my mom when I thought I saw the glint of light off tiny eyes.

“I think I just saw some kitt–” I began.

“–NO YOU DIDN’T!” mom tried to convince me.

Alas for her, I was not convinced. We turned around and found ourselves the new owner of two teensyweensy kittenthings.

We took them home (one short-haired and black, the other long-haired and gray) and set them in a wheelbarrow so the rest of the backyard menagerie could get used to their scent.

Bella hopped up next to them, arched her back like she’d landed in water, gave me one VERY offended look, and proceeded to disown even the notion that the other kittens existed. She tolerated their presence in her domain, but did not stoop to share square footage with them. Ever. Their sin of existing simply could not be forgiven.

Prissy, on the other hand, circled the wheelbarrow like a mad thing, whining and begging to be given the kittens. When we finally gave in and let her mother them, I’ve never seen her more relieved or happy.

Poncho the Goat

Then there was Poncho.

Poncho was a goatling we bought at a flea market called First Monday probably hours after her birth. She was a frail, black and white darling of a kid, and we bottle-fed her for months.

Prissy adopted her instantly, which led to some very interesting moments where you could look out the back window and see Prissy, standing, allowing a baby goat to drink milk from her, and looking at least a little bemused about the whole thing. Kittens and puppies knew to drink laying down, of course, but whatever this weird tall dog needed, Prissy was going to offer. Even if the creature DID headbutt her in the belly in the middle of a meal.

The National Rifle Association (Eddie Izzard voice)

So … I’m a member of the NRA, and it happened by accident.

A couple of years ago, I’m tooling around on Groupon. Just seeing deals in my area, that sort of thing. Shoes, manicures, haircuts … the normal shabazzle.

An offering caught my eye — a gun safety class at a crazy good discount.

I’m a writer, I says to myself. And I sometimes write stories with guns. Also, I am currently afraid of guns, and this is not a great situation to be in.

So I bought the class, thinking I’d get a little experience in safely handling a gun. You know. Nothing fancy. I just wanted to know more than “point that end away from you and pull the trigger” as far as guns were concerned. Get some experience actually shooting a gun so that when I wrote about it, it would be more authentic than just regurgitating things I’ve read in other books.

Right? Right. So this all sounds great.

The Class

We drive out to the gun range where the class was being held, and enter what I recall as feeling like a big nice garage. There are chairs and tables set up, an old tube tv on a rolling cart, and a long table filled with different types of guns up at the top.

Pretty close to what I expected.

The room fills up pretty quickly and I thinks to myself, “Self,” I says, “That is more people interested in basic gunmanship than I thought would be here.”

Turns out, I was right on both counts.

1. The class was super full because laws in Wisconsin were changing so that you had to have a license if you wanted to carry a concealed weapon.
2. This was not “basic gunmanship” (I’m assuming that’s the right term. Please don’t disabuse me of the notion if I’m wrong.). This was a “concealed carry” licensing class.

So the room was filled with people who knew more about guns than I do about horses, all of whom were forced to watch painfully contrived videos about the benefits and dangers of concealed carry.

AAAAAHHHHWWWKWAAAARRRD.

The Students

Two of us in the class stood out.

Me, because my still-ignorant self sat at the front of the room and so was one of the first people to introduce myself as “an author looking to know more about guns.” — when everyone else was like “Joe, and I’m here to get my license.”

Awareness of context clues, I do not have.

A fellow in the back who may NOT have been in some sort of mob/mafia situation … but who DID have two “bodyguards” and who ALSO happened to have a gold-plated pearl-handled something  of a gun that the man leading the class requested he display because it was so cool it needed to be shared. Also, I remember something being said about either a chain of massage parlors or dry cleaning companies.

I tried not to listen too closely. There are some things I’m happier not knowing.

The Lesson Plan

ANYWAY, so the class was almost entirely “watch this series of videos,” all of which showed various situations that were defused by the hero having a concealed gun handy. A woman followed into a bathroom. A guy attacked while his car was broken down on the side of the road.

There was also a lot of advertising for various gun-themed vacation/training packages? It’s been a few years, but I do remember feeling bemused at the amount of advertising in the class.

Right. So. The teacher clearly was torn between “oh god, this young lady in the front is clearly in the wrong class” and “everyone else is so bored and is only here to get licensed” so it was a very strange vibe.

I never did actually touch a gun.

On a practical note, I did learn that the teacher strongly recommended mace as a self-protection choice, which I appreciated. Laws about gun use and concealed carry are not straightforward, but peppering someone is far less likely to lead to jail time for a victim to may or may not be able to prove they were defending themselves.

Licensed to WHAT now?

Anyway, end of the class and we were told that we now had our licenses to carry a concealed weapon.

I realize I was slow on the uptake here, so you’ll have to forgive me, but it wasn’t until THAT INSTANT that I realized … I can carry a gun. Secretly. Hidden about my person.

AND I HAVE NEVER ACTUALLY FIRED ONE.

Additionally, I found out via the mail that I was now a card-carrying member of the NRA, to boot.

Um.

Politics about gun ownership aside, I think we can all agree that unless I get some serious training, -I- should not have a weapon. Concealed or not.

Me. Tami. No guns. Checkaroonie.

And yet.

Looming Future

Some day, I feel like someone is going to find out I’m a member of the NRA and that I have a concealed carry license, and I am going to have to answer some very serious questions.

I just … don’t know how to answer them without pointing to groupon and saying “oopsie.”