The Boogeyman is said to be the embodiment of terror. In fact he lives off of fear. So what better way to make sure you survive other than creating fear.
Maybe I'm the Boogeyman. I love scary movies and Halloween. I love scaring people. True fear is a real emotion that people cannot control. To look into their eyes at that apex of emotion is to look into their soul. But in order to instill fear into somebody you must set it up perfect. I go to great lengths every Halloween to set the stage and peer into the soul of those who would cross my path. But that is only once a year. A true Boogeyman scares people year round.
Throughout my life I have not been the luckiest of individuals when it comes to oral care. It started young, around 8 years of age, that I met Dr. Pains. The tell-tale sign of this venture, other than his name, was the fact that he worked out of a strip mall in Homestead. This sadist had a thing for needles and thought nothing of poking you a minimum of 10 times. And that was just for a cleaning! Dr. Pains had a devilish grin that curled above his goatee each time he drove a hypodermic onto your flesh. To say that I feared the man is to say that I think coffee is okay.
Now the dentist's office is littered with paraphernalia just to cause fear. Pamphlets with decay and disease strewn amongst out of date magazines. Models and posters of teeth gone wrong prominently displayed.
But to set the stage for fear you must incorporate all the senses. Like the smell of a dental office; the fine powder of enamel and dentin and pulp cause a scent that cannot be duplicated in any other setting. The sound; in between the tinny crackling melody of Lite FM elevator tunes is the high-pitched shrill of the drill, a noise that is instant tinnitus to anyone not wearing scrubs or a white coat.
And you might as well throw in some victims who are ashen white and rubbing their jawlines as they stumble to the counter TO PAY FOR TORTURE! The receptionist is chipper as can be while she charges them and asks if everything is okay.
Okay? The poor sap is so juiced up with Novocaine he mumbles something that could be a complaint, but you can't understand him. Of course the receptionist smiles and nods and sends him on his way. Her gaze falls from him while exiting to you sitting with your leg pumping like a piston in a Ferrari.
She calls you up and directs you to a room or stall or closet or hostel with a strange looking recliner, metal trays, odd light fixtures, and a few items with hoses or cords slithering away from them. She tells you to have a seat and the "Doctor" will be with you shortly, which is a lie.
Come on, if we are going to set up the scene for fear then there must be some anticipation thrown in right before the Boogeyman appears. You're not supposed to expect him!
So, after you've read the same three little crappy signs ("Home is Where the Heart is" on a goose with a bonnet, "Live, Laugh, Love Often" on a heart, "Brush, Brush, Brush!" on a tooth) ad nauseam, you decide to take a nap, only to feel his presence behind you.
You turn with a jerk as he tells you to lean back and begins to lower the chair. Like you're not in a vulnerable enough position, he leans it back far enough that you feel you will slide out of it head first.
He tells you to open wide and comes at you with some metal pick thing and starts prodding around. He asks if it hurts when he does this, grips you by the face and jams the pick into the exposed nerve in your mouth. You flail helplessly on the chair attempting to scream, but the saliva that's collected at the back of your throat (now you know why they lean that chair so far back) stops it from happening. Pure genius, in an extreme evil kinda way.
Then he says, "Want to see something really scary?"
And you think "NO, I've seen that movie", but he shows you anyways. He shows you that the tooth Dr. Pains fixed all those years ago, yeah, that crap is no good and needs to be redone. These sickos are working together!
He then wipes a swab of Orajel around your gums to help with the needle he's coming at you with. Really, if Orajel was going to provide any sort of relief don't you think I would have jammed a tube of that crap in there before electing to enter the world of the deranged?
And of course you feel the needle and all its contents swelling in your gums. He injects so much of the crap it overflows to your taste buds.
He says he wants to give it a second to take effect and that's all the time he does. Next thing you know there's a DeWalt jammed in your yap and chunks of tooth are splintering across the room. And some insane assistant is slipping a soda straw hooked to a shop-vac into your mouth trying to suck your tonsils out!
Are you scared? Damn right you're scared! After the whole incident is over you tell yourself you're going to brush 5 times a day and floss after every meal. And you do! For about a week. Then six months go by and you get a phone call from the receptionist trying to schedule your checkup. She's talking to you like a siren calling to sailors and you think, sure why not, I've been taking care of my teeth. Haven't I?
But the Boogeyman knows better and he's waiting to scare the crap out of you. Hell, you're scared just at the thought of having to see the guy!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Something Winged This Way Comes
While reviewing the less than desirable debt/equity ratio of Bank of America someone threw something at my window, hard. The someone turned out to be Mother Nature.
The wife and Peanut had just left for a bike ride while Monkey and I stayed home so she could write “I will learn to use self-control” a thousand times (30 times).
Thinking it was one of the two bikers I stood up and looked to see what the missile was. It was covered in feathers and sprawled out perfectly still.
“What was that?” Monkey asked.
“It was a bird.”
“Really?” she said and shot from her seat at the table.
I was hesitant to show her because she is very sensitive when it comes to animals. She has a strange gift when it comes to them. Animals of all kinds are drawn to her, like Saint Francis. The idea of explaining why a kamikaze bird committed suicide on our back porch to a sobbing child is never appealing.
We stepped out the back door to see the small sparrow like bird attempting to move. I scooped him up and was surprised to see such vibrant colors on a sparrow.
“Is it going to be okay?”
“I don’t know sweetie.”
I set it down on a little table on the porch and we looked as it sat kind of funny.
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure sweetie, but be gentle.”
The eight year old stroked the bird so lovingly and said “Get well pretty bird.”
It sat still and I thought for sure there would be a burial, so I decided to get a picture of him.
Shortly after, the wife and Peanut showed up and Monkey was quick to show off her little friend.
“Is it going to make it?” the wife asked.
“I don’t know, I’m shocked it’s still alive.”
After a couple more minutes the bird raised its head, looked around, then sped off into the woods. Later I learn that is was a Kentucky Warbler.
“Wow, didn’t think that was going to be the outcome,” I said.
“I knew he was going to be all right,” Monkey said.
I patted her on the head, “I’m sure you did.”
Such a beautiful creature and a pretty bird too.
The wife and Peanut had just left for a bike ride while Monkey and I stayed home so she could write “I will learn to use self-control” a thousand times (30 times).
Thinking it was one of the two bikers I stood up and looked to see what the missile was. It was covered in feathers and sprawled out perfectly still.
“What was that?” Monkey asked.
“It was a bird.”
“Really?” she said and shot from her seat at the table.
I was hesitant to show her because she is very sensitive when it comes to animals. She has a strange gift when it comes to them. Animals of all kinds are drawn to her, like Saint Francis. The idea of explaining why a kamikaze bird committed suicide on our back porch to a sobbing child is never appealing.
We stepped out the back door to see the small sparrow like bird attempting to move. I scooped him up and was surprised to see such vibrant colors on a sparrow.
“Is it going to be okay?”
“I don’t know sweetie.”
I set it down on a little table on the porch and we looked as it sat kind of funny.
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure sweetie, but be gentle.”
The eight year old stroked the bird so lovingly and said “Get well pretty bird.”
It sat still and I thought for sure there would be a burial, so I decided to get a picture of him.
Shortly after, the wife and Peanut showed up and Monkey was quick to show off her little friend.
“Is it going to make it?” the wife asked.
“I don’t know, I’m shocked it’s still alive.”
After a couple more minutes the bird raised its head, looked around, then sped off into the woods. Later I learn that is was a Kentucky Warbler.
“Wow, didn’t think that was going to be the outcome,” I said.
“I knew he was going to be all right,” Monkey said.
I patted her on the head, “I’m sure you did.”
Such a beautiful creature and a pretty bird too.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
To Whom it May Concern
Working in a jail provides a writer an abundance of material, everything from characters to situations to catch phrases. The trick of course is to figure out how to use them without being too obvious and pissing off the people you work with. And then sometimes you have to be careful not to upset your wife.
One day we were cleaning out some files and came across a letter that was sent to an inmate, but the writer didn't list the inmates name in the address and no return address. Why it was kept I don't know, but being curious in nature I decided to read said letter for some clues.
The letter was from some love sick girl who babbled on about how she couldn't wait for the unknown inmate to get out so they could live happily ever after in some single-wide. Okay, she didn't say single-wide, but I think it's a pretty safe assumption especially considering...
At the end of the sappy ramblings I hit gold! This would be something, somehow I would use in my writing and it goes like this:
"I have a little something for when you get out. I got some of those edible panties and can't wait for you to use them. Unless I get a case of the munchies and eat them myself."
What?!!! That is awesome! Up to that point I had never heard of anyone getting the "munchies" so bad that they decided to break open their edible panties. I would have never in a million years thought of something like this.
So I decide that since this is headed for the trash I might as well hold on to it. When I get home there's the junk drawer that I empty my pockets into, keys, wallet, eye drops, letter, chap stick, etc.
Days go by and I forget about this white-trash correspondence. That is until my wife decides to clean out the junk drawer and comes across it.
"What the hell is this?"
I turn to see her waving the letter at me.
"Isn't it funny?"
"No!"
Then it dawns on me that unless you know that this thing was sent to a jail you're not going to know who the intended recipient was. "No, no, no. That's not for me. It was an old letter that had no names or addresses."
The wife still giving me the evil eye says, "And why do you have it?"
"You gotta read the last paragraph, it's priceless."
She does, still doesn't find the humor in it, and tosses it on the counter.
"What? Come on, munchies, edible panties. That's good stuff!"
The wife walks away shaking her head.
I still think it's funny.
One day we were cleaning out some files and came across a letter that was sent to an inmate, but the writer didn't list the inmates name in the address and no return address. Why it was kept I don't know, but being curious in nature I decided to read said letter for some clues.
The letter was from some love sick girl who babbled on about how she couldn't wait for the unknown inmate to get out so they could live happily ever after in some single-wide. Okay, she didn't say single-wide, but I think it's a pretty safe assumption especially considering...
At the end of the sappy ramblings I hit gold! This would be something, somehow I would use in my writing and it goes like this:
"I have a little something for when you get out. I got some of those edible panties and can't wait for you to use them. Unless I get a case of the munchies and eat them myself."
What?!!! That is awesome! Up to that point I had never heard of anyone getting the "munchies" so bad that they decided to break open their edible panties. I would have never in a million years thought of something like this.
So I decide that since this is headed for the trash I might as well hold on to it. When I get home there's the junk drawer that I empty my pockets into, keys, wallet, eye drops, letter, chap stick, etc.
Days go by and I forget about this white-trash correspondence. That is until my wife decides to clean out the junk drawer and comes across it.
"What the hell is this?"
I turn to see her waving the letter at me.
"Isn't it funny?"
"No!"
Then it dawns on me that unless you know that this thing was sent to a jail you're not going to know who the intended recipient was. "No, no, no. That's not for me. It was an old letter that had no names or addresses."
The wife still giving me the evil eye says, "And why do you have it?"
"You gotta read the last paragraph, it's priceless."
She does, still doesn't find the humor in it, and tosses it on the counter.
"What? Come on, munchies, edible panties. That's good stuff!"
The wife walks away shaking her head.
I still think it's funny.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Crack's List Mirror
So remember the couch and Eight Ball Annie? Well, I guess I can't lump all Crack's List sellers as deviants. The wife found a big free standing mirror and decided it would make a great item for the girls. We load up and head to an apartment complex to view said mirror. Of course I'm ready to meet another skunk mouth freak with track marks, but instead found what appeared to be a normal family a little down on their luck. Father, mother, son, and daughter; all who dressed, talked, and acted normal.
They were crammed in the little apartment that was clean and organized. The father explained there just wasn't enough room for the mirror, he picked up as a project.
It was what the wife had in mind, so I kindly parted with the $40. In turn the father handed it to the wife and told her to go buy dinner. Win-win situation.
So let the project begin...
Here's the mirror. A little rough, but nothing bad.
A little separation from a crack in the frame.
A little wood glue...
A couple of clamps and all's good.
Remove mirror from stand and...
Lightly sand. I used a foam backed 320 grit sand block. Flexes just right to get into all the details.
Time to paint. I tried this new Rust-o-leum product and gotta say I wasn't too impressed. Seemed like a lot of waste and a huge mess.
It did, however, cover pretty good.
The fumes were so much that I had to move the project out onto the yard with a tarp.
Thought about removing the back and taking the mirror out, but that would have been the easy route, so instead I covered it with tape and newspaper.
Time for part two of the wife's vision turning the back of the mirror into a chalkboard.
This stuff worked pretty good.
Here's the finished product and the girls acting silly as usual.
Flip it over and you can hold class.
Sorry, no crack heads, or incontinent dogs, but had to show off my white trash handyman skills. Note them skills with the spray paint, we don't need no stinking brushes.
They were crammed in the little apartment that was clean and organized. The father explained there just wasn't enough room for the mirror, he picked up as a project.
It was what the wife had in mind, so I kindly parted with the $40. In turn the father handed it to the wife and told her to go buy dinner. Win-win situation.
So let the project begin...
Here's the mirror. A little rough, but nothing bad.
A little separation from a crack in the frame.
A little wood glue...
A couple of clamps and all's good.
Remove mirror from stand and...
Lightly sand. I used a foam backed 320 grit sand block. Flexes just right to get into all the details.
Time to paint. I tried this new Rust-o-leum product and gotta say I wasn't too impressed. Seemed like a lot of waste and a huge mess.
It did, however, cover pretty good.
The fumes were so much that I had to move the project out onto the yard with a tarp.
Thought about removing the back and taking the mirror out, but that would have been the easy route, so instead I covered it with tape and newspaper.
Time for part two of the wife's vision turning the back of the mirror into a chalkboard.
This stuff worked pretty good.
Here's the finished product and the girls acting silly as usual.
Flip it over and you can hold class.
Sorry, no crack heads, or incontinent dogs, but had to show off my white trash handyman skills. Note them skills with the spray paint, we don't need no stinking brushes.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
ZAP!
Let me tell you something. I have a high pain tolerance. I know there are plenty of people who say this, but for me it is true. Some examples would be: I’ve been Tasered three times. I’ve had my face dowsed with pepper spray. I once slipped and ran a bow saw over my arm. I went two years with a torn bicep tendon hoping it would fix itself. When I was a kid I suffered through the night with appendicitis thinking the pain would just go away. Through all these things and many others I never cried or screamed or curled up in the fetal position (though the appendicitis was close). I’ve always been able to control and deal with pain. That was until…
One of the great things about the state of Florida is the water. Might even be the greatest thing. With hundreds of miles of shoreline it is easy to find a place to slip into the water and go fishing.
My father-in-law, Eddie, finished his last day of radiation. He had been dying to go fishing and asked if I’d go wading with him to kind of celebrate the end of the treatments. Of course I am game for it and happy to see him back doing the things he loves.
We cruise up to the Skyway with four dozen shrimp and wade into the water and scurry up the grass. The pinfish were in full force, but we still managed to land a few trout, lady fish and a couple of needle fish.
About two hours into it I see the birds dive-bombing schools of bait and something running under them causing the greenies to go skipping across the surface believe it better to take their chance with the birds. This is about a hundred yards from where we were at. I show it to Eddie and he tells me to head over, he still doesn’t quite have the energy. The thought of snook or reds or even big trout in a frenzy nearly send me into one so I start making my way over there.
Along the way I see plenty of mullet jumping and I hope that’s not what’s really busting out of the water.
ZAP! Just like that. I jump out of the water and dance a little jig. Never saw it or felt it, but I knew exactly what happened. I looked down and on the front of my ankle where the leg meets the foot there’s a small puncture wound trickling blood.
Now I’ve read on here many stories of poor suckers getting stung by stingrays and how terrible it is. And I admit that I’ve rolled my eyes thinking how bad can it hurt? I mean with my pain tolerance I could handle it. Suck it up losers!
I take a deep breath and two more steps. Yeah, BS! The pain intensified rapidly and I hobbled as fast as I could back to Eddie.
"Eddie!" I yelled and waved him over. He waves back then continues fishing. I trudge along a few more feet thinking he can't hear me. "Eddie!" once more.
"Yeah?"
"We gotta go!"
"Why?"
Now I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. "Stingray!"
"Where?"
"My foot!"
"Oh!"
We head back in. I can tell you that was the hardest 200 yards I’ve ever waded; thought a couple of times I might just fall out.
He's up to the truck before me and starts loading his gear. I get up there and toss my crap in the bed of the truck. The pain is radiating from the site up my shin to the knee cap and down my foot to my big toe. I look over and he's trying to change out of his wade boots into his Crocs. His hip has been bothering him so he struggles to slip them on and drops one, struggles to bend over and pick it up, then starts fighting to get it back on again(1). Are you kidding me?! I'm resting my head on the bed of the truck trying to focus all my energy on the pain.
He finally comes around to open my door and starts patting his pockets. Then scrunches his face(2). This cannot be happening! Then his eyes pop open and he starts fishing the keys out of his pocket.
In the truck and on our way to Manatee Memorial I thought about the different things I’d read like meat tenderizer and whatever else and thought the only way to stop this pain will be with a lot of drugs. It took every fiber of my being to focus on the pain and not freak out. The only way I can describe it is extreme cramping, like someone was taking the tendons in my leg and twisting them until they started to knot up. I messed with air and tried every position I could, but nothing I did relieved the pain.
Next thing I know we're passing the exit to get to the hospital(3).
"Eddie, where are you going?"
"Oh, crap."
See, now I know he's screwing with me.
He turns around and starts heading back toward the Skyway and... misses the frig'n u-turn to start heading back to the exit for the hospital(4)!
"You're killing me!"
Eddie whips the truck around in the direction of the hospital.
We arrive and he's kind enough to drop me at the door. I hobble in and the guy at the desk asks me if I want to see a doctor. Why else would anybody go to the ER?! He tells me to fill out some form which I manage to scratch STINGRAY across and toss on the counter.
Sitting there I imagine people think I have Tourettes, because ever few seconds I squirm around and blurt out obscenities. Thankfully there was no one else in the ER. I sat and writhed in pain wishing someone would run out with a giant needle of lidocaine or something. And I hate needles!
Eddie shows up and has a seat next to me. "Anybody see you yet?"
"No."
"Looks like it really hurts."
"YA RACKIN' FRACKIN' NAZIT-TRAP! Yes it does."
After about fifteen minutes the guy at the desk asks eddie if I had been seen yet.
"Yeah, I think someone has(5)."
"WHAT? NO! NO ONE HAS SEEN ME!" What did I ever do to him? I gave him two lovely granddaughters. I... Oh, now I get it. Like it's my fault he has a hot daughter.
Finally, they tell me to sit in the nurse’s office and she says we need to soak it in hot water and I’m thinking screw the water bring me drugs! But I’ll be damned if the pain didn’t go away instantly once the foot was in the tub. Hot water, who knew. Okay some of you knew, but where were you when I needed ya? Hell, if I knew that I would have busted the radiator cap off that truck.
As I sat and soaked it a nurse brought me a couple of Lortab and I’m not sure I need them. But as soon as the foot came out of the water the pain came rushing back. Foot in hot water once more! Between the pills and a now somewhat kind of decent pain tolerance I was able to survive the ride home. A couple of naps and ice and I was more than able to cope.
For all you who have suffered with this I say I am sorry for ever doubting you and now I can feel you pain. For the rest of you all I can say is SHUFFLE YOUR FEET!!!
I tell you what, you can forget all that water-boarding crap; stingrays.
One of the great things about the state of Florida is the water. Might even be the greatest thing. With hundreds of miles of shoreline it is easy to find a place to slip into the water and go fishing.
My father-in-law, Eddie, finished his last day of radiation. He had been dying to go fishing and asked if I’d go wading with him to kind of celebrate the end of the treatments. Of course I am game for it and happy to see him back doing the things he loves.
We cruise up to the Skyway with four dozen shrimp and wade into the water and scurry up the grass. The pinfish were in full force, but we still managed to land a few trout, lady fish and a couple of needle fish.
About two hours into it I see the birds dive-bombing schools of bait and something running under them causing the greenies to go skipping across the surface believe it better to take their chance with the birds. This is about a hundred yards from where we were at. I show it to Eddie and he tells me to head over, he still doesn’t quite have the energy. The thought of snook or reds or even big trout in a frenzy nearly send me into one so I start making my way over there.
Along the way I see plenty of mullet jumping and I hope that’s not what’s really busting out of the water.
ZAP! Just like that. I jump out of the water and dance a little jig. Never saw it or felt it, but I knew exactly what happened. I looked down and on the front of my ankle where the leg meets the foot there’s a small puncture wound trickling blood.
Now I’ve read on here many stories of poor suckers getting stung by stingrays and how terrible it is. And I admit that I’ve rolled my eyes thinking how bad can it hurt? I mean with my pain tolerance I could handle it. Suck it up losers!
I take a deep breath and two more steps. Yeah, BS! The pain intensified rapidly and I hobbled as fast as I could back to Eddie.
"Eddie!" I yelled and waved him over. He waves back then continues fishing. I trudge along a few more feet thinking he can't hear me. "Eddie!" once more.
"Yeah?"
"We gotta go!"
"Why?"
Now I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. "Stingray!"
"Where?"
"My foot!"
"Oh!"
We head back in. I can tell you that was the hardest 200 yards I’ve ever waded; thought a couple of times I might just fall out.
He's up to the truck before me and starts loading his gear. I get up there and toss my crap in the bed of the truck. The pain is radiating from the site up my shin to the knee cap and down my foot to my big toe. I look over and he's trying to change out of his wade boots into his Crocs. His hip has been bothering him so he struggles to slip them on and drops one, struggles to bend over and pick it up, then starts fighting to get it back on again(1). Are you kidding me?! I'm resting my head on the bed of the truck trying to focus all my energy on the pain.
He finally comes around to open my door and starts patting his pockets. Then scrunches his face(2). This cannot be happening! Then his eyes pop open and he starts fishing the keys out of his pocket.
In the truck and on our way to Manatee Memorial I thought about the different things I’d read like meat tenderizer and whatever else and thought the only way to stop this pain will be with a lot of drugs. It took every fiber of my being to focus on the pain and not freak out. The only way I can describe it is extreme cramping, like someone was taking the tendons in my leg and twisting them until they started to knot up. I messed with air and tried every position I could, but nothing I did relieved the pain.
Next thing I know we're passing the exit to get to the hospital(3).
"Eddie, where are you going?"
"Oh, crap."
See, now I know he's screwing with me.
He turns around and starts heading back toward the Skyway and... misses the frig'n u-turn to start heading back to the exit for the hospital(4)!
"You're killing me!"
Eddie whips the truck around in the direction of the hospital.
We arrive and he's kind enough to drop me at the door. I hobble in and the guy at the desk asks me if I want to see a doctor. Why else would anybody go to the ER?! He tells me to fill out some form which I manage to scratch STINGRAY across and toss on the counter.
Sitting there I imagine people think I have Tourettes, because ever few seconds I squirm around and blurt out obscenities. Thankfully there was no one else in the ER. I sat and writhed in pain wishing someone would run out with a giant needle of lidocaine or something. And I hate needles!
Eddie shows up and has a seat next to me. "Anybody see you yet?"
"No."
"Looks like it really hurts."
"YA RACKIN' FRACKIN' NAZIT-TRAP! Yes it does."
After about fifteen minutes the guy at the desk asks eddie if I had been seen yet.
"Yeah, I think someone has(5)."
"WHAT? NO! NO ONE HAS SEEN ME!" What did I ever do to him? I gave him two lovely granddaughters. I... Oh, now I get it. Like it's my fault he has a hot daughter.
Finally, they tell me to sit in the nurse’s office and she says we need to soak it in hot water and I’m thinking screw the water bring me drugs! But I’ll be damned if the pain didn’t go away instantly once the foot was in the tub. Hot water, who knew. Okay some of you knew, but where were you when I needed ya? Hell, if I knew that I would have busted the radiator cap off that truck.
As I sat and soaked it a nurse brought me a couple of Lortab and I’m not sure I need them. But as soon as the foot came out of the water the pain came rushing back. Foot in hot water once more! Between the pills and a now somewhat kind of decent pain tolerance I was able to survive the ride home. A couple of naps and ice and I was more than able to cope.
For all you who have suffered with this I say I am sorry for ever doubting you and now I can feel you pain. For the rest of you all I can say is SHUFFLE YOUR FEET!!!
I tell you what, you can forget all that water-boarding crap; stingrays.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Melt-In-Your-Mouth Pancakes
My kids love pancakes. They must since I am the best pancake maker ever (according to them)! Here's my recipe for keeping the little ones thinking I'm awesome:
First thing first. Coffee.
Make sure you have at least two cups before you start, that way you can handle the incessant "Are they done yet? Are they done yet?"
Next is your ingredients.
1 1/3 cup soy milk (Just shut up and go with it. If you want to use whole or skim do it)
2 cups Bisquick
1 egg
2 tablespoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Add and mix ingredients in that order.
When you mix them (I use a fork instead of a whisk) you don't want to go gangbusters, just turn it nice and easy until the lumps are no bigger than peas. Don't mix all the lumps out (that's waffle batter).
Pour the batter into 4-5 inch circles on a hot skillet. Go with 325 degrees.
When the edge curls up and you start to see bubbles coming through it's time to flip.
While the other side is browning go ahead and rub butter on them. Go with salted butter. It's pancakes, are you really worried about your health?
Finally, slap them on a plate and dowse them in syrup. And make sure the syrup is heated. Cold syrup is for losers.
If you didn't quite understand my directions you can always look on the back of the Bisquick box. What, you think I came up with this on my own?
First thing first. Coffee.
Make sure you have at least two cups before you start, that way you can handle the incessant "Are they done yet? Are they done yet?"
Next is your ingredients.
1 1/3 cup soy milk (Just shut up and go with it. If you want to use whole or skim do it)
2 cups Bisquick
1 egg
2 tablespoons of sugar
2 teaspoons of baking powder
2 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Add and mix ingredients in that order.
When you mix them (I use a fork instead of a whisk) you don't want to go gangbusters, just turn it nice and easy until the lumps are no bigger than peas. Don't mix all the lumps out (that's waffle batter).
Pour the batter into 4-5 inch circles on a hot skillet. Go with 325 degrees.
When the edge curls up and you start to see bubbles coming through it's time to flip.
While the other side is browning go ahead and rub butter on them. Go with salted butter. It's pancakes, are you really worried about your health?
Finally, slap them on a plate and dowse them in syrup. And make sure the syrup is heated. Cold syrup is for losers.
If you didn't quite understand my directions you can always look on the back of the Bisquick box. What, you think I came up with this on my own?
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Crack's List
Like I don't put up with enough crap at work, my wife has struck once again!
I love the fact that she is our CFO and does a fine job at making sure our money goes the distance. But sometimes it's just not worth saving a buck. I think sometimes she gets a little too frugal. And sometimes I'm the sucker in the whole deal.
So she's doing her thing trying to make sure we don't spend the inheritance that the kids won't get by shopping on Craig's List. You may have heard of this thing. You know where people list items for sale like cars, furniture, jewelry; and sometimes they list services for sale like handyman or yard work or sexual favors or serial killer victim. I'm pretty sure those last two might be one and the same.
On this particular occasion my wife has decided that she is going to save us a bundle by finding a leather couch for dirt cheap. She calls me at work to notify me that we need to go look at a sleeper sofa. Are you freak'n kidding me?!
"Babe, it's been a long day (a 12 hour day)."
"Yeah, but this is a really good deal. $350 for this Lazy Boy."
"Babe, really."
"No, seriously, it's leather and lists for $900 new. The lady said that she's desperate, that they're going to come get her car if she misses another payment."
Sirens are now sounding in my head. "And where is it at?"
"Nokomis."
Sounding like Jim Mora I say "What's that? Nokomis? You talking about Nokomis, are you kidding me? Nokomis?"
"Listen, I've dropped the girls off at my folks and grabbed my dad's truck. Meet me over at Five Guys for dinner and then we'll go check it out."
Damn it! She knew she'd get me with the Five Guys offer.
I meet her there, down a burger, fries, and a hand full of roasted peanuts. Then we hit the road. I ask her what the directions and she reads me something like this:
"Go to Blackburn, but not the Blackburn you're thinking of. Cross over it and take your first right. Follow that road and it will be the first condo on the left."
And I'm like what?
"You don't know where that is?"
"It's frig'n dark out and that doesn't make sense!"
"You don't have to yell. Do you want me to call her?"
I jerk the truck off the road. "Call her."
We get somewhat better directions and as luck would have it we're right around from her. Pulling in, I see the first condo on the left and a piece of crap 1990 Cavalier in the driveway. Are you catching these signs?
I back the truck in and say into the steering wheel, "This is not going to be good."
"Come on, how bad can it be?" Pitched right down the middle. "But if it is, you figure out how to get us out of here."
How it became my job to develop an escape plan from a place I didn't want to be in to begin with is still lost on me.
As soon as we step out there's some little piss ant dog yipping at us.
"Come on baby, it's okay. Stop barking."
I follow the voice to, yep you guessed it, a crack head! All skin and bones and jittery. She waves us in. My wife catches my look and starts to giggle. As we step in the "smoke-free" home (yeah, smoke-free since the time my wife called you)it gets even worse in the light. This chick's hair has been died and fried so bad it's more of an orange color with a green sheen in the light. She looks like tarantulas are crawling out her eyes from the caked-up mascara.
So Eight Ball Annie begins her spastic impression of Vanna White telling us what a great deal it is and how bad she needs to get rid of it. She convinces my wife, and therefore me, to have a seat. My wife to the left and Eight Ball Annie on the right. At that point her Rat Terrier/Chihuahua/Pomeranian/ whatever ankle-bitter mix jumps on my lap.
"Oh, that's my little Pipsy. I had to rescue him. He's incontinent so they were going to put him down."
My wife once again manages to keep her giggles to an undetectable level from the rock monster whose skin is obviously irritating her to the point of scratching it off.
"So you said it's a sleeper?" my wife asks just to keep this freak show going.
Apparently my gaping jaw was enough to cause a Cheshire's grin to stretch across her face.
Eight Ball Annie leaps from the couch and begins to rip the cushions of the couch. I step back out of the way and just when I didn't think it could get any worse I suddenly feel the need to gouge my eyes out.
See, the lovely Eight Ball Annie is wearing this soft nicotine stained linen sundress. Of course the benefits of such a garment are its light and airy feeling and in some cases its sheerness, but this was not one of those cases. Because as Eight Ball Annie bent over in front of me she gave me a not-so-lovely shot of where that pink t-back disappeared. This, once again, amused the crap out of my wife. I thought my burger would join the pillows tossed across the room.
Fruitlessly, Eight Ball Annie tries to pull out the "never-slept-on" folding bed. It keeps binding on her and I figure this is the out we needed, but my wife is enjoying this entirely too much tells me to give her hand.
The thing opens to reveal a sheet stretched over the "never-slept-on" mattress. All I can think is Luminol and a black light would set this thing aglow.
Just as I'm about to say something bounding in from the front door that was left open comes a screaming three year old who begins jumping on all the furniture.
An exhausted elderly man steps in and tells Eight Ball Annie that her child, once again, came running into his place to hang out. He waited fifteen, twenty minutes but mommy never came to get her (and he couldn't take it any longer).
Now instead of irritating the old man the little brat is irritating me. Eight Ball Annie does a fine parenting job of ignoring her and keeps looking from me to my wife for one of us to whip some cash so she can run out and get her fix and turn the scream'n demon's shrieks into a lullaby. And just as I'm about to break her dreams I'm interrupted once more.
"Hey, hey, hey! Quiet down! Pot Head Pete says as he comes out of the bedroom apparently just waking up from a nap... At 8:30 pm? "Wus up," he mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen type area looking in the variety of chip bags open on the counters. Must suck waking up with the munchies and a screaming kid. Oddly the strangers in the house didn't seem to phase him. Hmm...
"Well, I don't think it's gonna work. It's uh, too small. Too small for the space we're looking at," I finally get out and grab my lovely wife's hand.
"You sure? I'll take $300!"
"Yeah, sorry, even at $300 it's not going to change the size."
"Well, okay guess it's not going work," the wife says, finally showing me some support.
We show ourselves out and load back into the truck.
"Babe, what the hell?"
"Okay, okay you were right."
"There's a reason they say 'No shoes, no shirt, Nokomis*.'
"Look at it this way, at least you got some new characters," she says with a smile.
What could I possibly write and use that chick. I guess my blog.
*Just so it is noted, not all the losers in Nokomis are crack heads.
I love the fact that she is our CFO and does a fine job at making sure our money goes the distance. But sometimes it's just not worth saving a buck. I think sometimes she gets a little too frugal. And sometimes I'm the sucker in the whole deal.
So she's doing her thing trying to make sure we don't spend the inheritance that the kids won't get by shopping on Craig's List. You may have heard of this thing. You know where people list items for sale like cars, furniture, jewelry; and sometimes they list services for sale like handyman or yard work or sexual favors or serial killer victim. I'm pretty sure those last two might be one and the same.
On this particular occasion my wife has decided that she is going to save us a bundle by finding a leather couch for dirt cheap. She calls me at work to notify me that we need to go look at a sleeper sofa. Are you freak'n kidding me?!
"Babe, it's been a long day (a 12 hour day)."
"Yeah, but this is a really good deal. $350 for this Lazy Boy."
"Babe, really."
"No, seriously, it's leather and lists for $900 new. The lady said that she's desperate, that they're going to come get her car if she misses another payment."
Sirens are now sounding in my head. "And where is it at?"
"Nokomis."
Sounding like Jim Mora I say "What's that? Nokomis? You talking about Nokomis, are you kidding me? Nokomis?"
"Listen, I've dropped the girls off at my folks and grabbed my dad's truck. Meet me over at Five Guys for dinner and then we'll go check it out."
Damn it! She knew she'd get me with the Five Guys offer.
I meet her there, down a burger, fries, and a hand full of roasted peanuts. Then we hit the road. I ask her what the directions and she reads me something like this:
"Go to Blackburn, but not the Blackburn you're thinking of. Cross over it and take your first right. Follow that road and it will be the first condo on the left."
And I'm like what?
"You don't know where that is?"
"It's frig'n dark out and that doesn't make sense!"
"You don't have to yell. Do you want me to call her?"
I jerk the truck off the road. "Call her."
We get somewhat better directions and as luck would have it we're right around from her. Pulling in, I see the first condo on the left and a piece of crap 1990 Cavalier in the driveway. Are you catching these signs?
I back the truck in and say into the steering wheel, "This is not going to be good."
"Come on, how bad can it be?" Pitched right down the middle. "But if it is, you figure out how to get us out of here."
How it became my job to develop an escape plan from a place I didn't want to be in to begin with is still lost on me.
As soon as we step out there's some little piss ant dog yipping at us.
"Come on baby, it's okay. Stop barking."
I follow the voice to, yep you guessed it, a crack head! All skin and bones and jittery. She waves us in. My wife catches my look and starts to giggle. As we step in the "smoke-free" home (yeah, smoke-free since the time my wife called you)it gets even worse in the light. This chick's hair has been died and fried so bad it's more of an orange color with a green sheen in the light. She looks like tarantulas are crawling out her eyes from the caked-up mascara.
So Eight Ball Annie begins her spastic impression of Vanna White telling us what a great deal it is and how bad she needs to get rid of it. She convinces my wife, and therefore me, to have a seat. My wife to the left and Eight Ball Annie on the right. At that point her Rat Terrier/Chihuahua/Pomeranian/ whatever ankle-bitter mix jumps on my lap.
"Oh, that's my little Pipsy. I had to rescue him. He's incontinent so they were going to put him down."
My wife once again manages to keep her giggles to an undetectable level from the rock monster whose skin is obviously irritating her to the point of scratching it off.
"So you said it's a sleeper?" my wife asks just to keep this freak show going.
Apparently my gaping jaw was enough to cause a Cheshire's grin to stretch across her face.
Eight Ball Annie leaps from the couch and begins to rip the cushions of the couch. I step back out of the way and just when I didn't think it could get any worse I suddenly feel the need to gouge my eyes out.
See, the lovely Eight Ball Annie is wearing this soft nicotine stained linen sundress. Of course the benefits of such a garment are its light and airy feeling and in some cases its sheerness, but this was not one of those cases. Because as Eight Ball Annie bent over in front of me she gave me a not-so-lovely shot of where that pink t-back disappeared. This, once again, amused the crap out of my wife. I thought my burger would join the pillows tossed across the room.
Fruitlessly, Eight Ball Annie tries to pull out the "never-slept-on" folding bed. It keeps binding on her and I figure this is the out we needed, but my wife is enjoying this entirely too much tells me to give her hand.
The thing opens to reveal a sheet stretched over the "never-slept-on" mattress. All I can think is Luminol and a black light would set this thing aglow.
Just as I'm about to say something bounding in from the front door that was left open comes a screaming three year old who begins jumping on all the furniture.
An exhausted elderly man steps in and tells Eight Ball Annie that her child, once again, came running into his place to hang out. He waited fifteen, twenty minutes but mommy never came to get her (and he couldn't take it any longer).
Now instead of irritating the old man the little brat is irritating me. Eight Ball Annie does a fine parenting job of ignoring her and keeps looking from me to my wife for one of us to whip some cash so she can run out and get her fix and turn the scream'n demon's shrieks into a lullaby. And just as I'm about to break her dreams I'm interrupted once more.
"Hey, hey, hey! Quiet down! Pot Head Pete says as he comes out of the bedroom apparently just waking up from a nap... At 8:30 pm? "Wus up," he mumbles as he shuffles into the kitchen type area looking in the variety of chip bags open on the counters. Must suck waking up with the munchies and a screaming kid. Oddly the strangers in the house didn't seem to phase him. Hmm...
"Well, I don't think it's gonna work. It's uh, too small. Too small for the space we're looking at," I finally get out and grab my lovely wife's hand.
"You sure? I'll take $300!"
"Yeah, sorry, even at $300 it's not going to change the size."
"Well, okay guess it's not going work," the wife says, finally showing me some support.
We show ourselves out and load back into the truck.
"Babe, what the hell?"
"Okay, okay you were right."
"There's a reason they say 'No shoes, no shirt, Nokomis*.'
"Look at it this way, at least you got some new characters," she says with a smile.
What could I possibly write and use that chick. I guess my blog.
*Just so it is noted, not all the losers in Nokomis are crack heads.
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