You’re never too old to learn…. Spoons.

 

I love my state, I really do.

Maine has beautiful scenery, clean air, quaint villages, a huge craft beer industry and lobster I can’t eat….

 

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But we also have a thirst for knowledge.

And classes for almost everything… as proved by the local continuing education brochure I received last week.

 

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(There’s an ass on the cover named Jack Cass, you know it’s going to be good.)

Alongside the normal foreign language and computer courses there are some Maine-centric things like boat captaining and crossbow hunting, but I’m going to focus on the odd. The funny. And the downright bizarre.

 There are too many seriously wackadoodle choices for one blog, so it’s going to be a weekly series until I run out of ridiculousness. Let’s begin.

Class #1 :

Quantum Spoonbending.

Yes, you read that correctly. The description is as follows…

“What is the value of this spoon bending class? If, with very little training, you can easily bend a spoon that you could not easily bend before (if at all), then you can begin to see how powerful you actually are! Learn to access the subtle energy field that surrounds us all. The metal softening mechanisms you will learn in this class are actually quantum mechanics techniques you can transfer to enhance your daily life. This is the same energy field ancient and new age healers are accessing to perform healings and miracles. You will learn and practice several different techniques that will not only allow you to bend spoons, but allow you to experience inducing other changes in material reality. Learn how healers have been able to mend broken bones instantaneously and see how it might be possible for you to perform miracles in your own life. There is a $10 materials fee payable to the instructor at the start of class. No discounts.”

Let’s break this down –

1) Do I need a spoon to realize how powerful I really am?

Doubtful.

 

 

2) Transferable techniques to enhance my daily life.

Really?

 

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(Sorry, I couldn’t resist)

3)  If it’s the same process people are using to perform healing and miracles… why would I be happy just bending a damned spoon?

 

 

4)  A $10 material fee with no discounts.

   But… but…

What if I bring my own spoon?

 

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Classes start  Nov. 7th  6-8:30

Duration 3 weeks.

High tech hair?

 

So I’m an 80’s girl.

I grew up with MTV,  parachute pants and yes…

Big hair.

 

 

Okay, not that big.

But it’s fair to say I went through a considerable amount of hair spray in that decade and did my part to widen the hole in the ozone layer.

Fashions may have changed….

 

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But my  naturally curly hair still requires a  vat of industrial adhesive and a trowel  bit of work.

I’m always on the look out for new products and stumbled across this the other day:

 

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Helmet Head sounded about right, so I bought it.

But what did Cationic Hydration Interlink mean?

Definition of cationic. 1 : of or relating to cations. 2 : characterized by an active and especially surface-active cation. a cationic dye.

Thanks for nothing Webster.

Wikipedia?

Cationic polymerization is a type of chain growth polymerization in which a cationic initiator transfers charge to a monomer which then becomes reactive. This reactive monomer goes on to react similarly with other monomers to form a polymer.

 

 

Beyond confused, I went to the source.

 

 

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Proof positive that even the company who produces it has no clue what the heck it is.

Well, you can string a bunch of science terms together and stamp sucker on my forehead, but that’s okay.

 

 

It’s the price we girls pay for looking good.

 

 

I’ll huff and I’ll puff…..

 

And I’ll blow your paper garage down.

(Alternate title – You have got to be sh*tting me.)

 After years of  relentless nagging  gentle persuasion, I finally talked the husband into replacing the old rotted siding on our garage this weekend.

He started removing it out front, which was fine.

(No plumber’s butt shots. You’re welcome.)

 

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Then he turned the corner…

 

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Started ripping, and found….

 

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Paper.  Lots and lots of paper….. but no walls.

Paper walls!

Fuckety, fuck, fuck.

There was literally nothing behind the old siding but paper.

 

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Who does that?

“Gee honey, wood is expensive. Grab me that spiral notebook and the trashy romance novel you were reading last week.”

Good grief, even the 2 little pigs used sticks and straw.

Needless to say, the husband was not amused at all the extra work this was going to entail.

 

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I tried to make light of it and told him we could have an awesome transom window, but  he had a hammer in his hand and a strange look in his eye  that didn’t go over well either.

To be continued….

(Face it, this project is going to take a month of Sundays and if I have to live through it? So do you. That’s the beauty of blogging! But if it makes you feel any better, I had a large splinter in my butt from rubbing against a piece of rough cut wood yesterday so …. I still get the worst of it.)

Now they’re just screwing with me.

 

I live in Maine, land of the lobster I can no longer eat.

 

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It’s a cruel twist of fate which came about 7 years ago. I’d eaten that glorious, butter dripping crustacean all my life and loved every scrumptious bite…. until my traitorous body woke up one day and said no more.

No more lobster chowder, no more lobster rolls, no more lobster pie…. hell they hadn’t even invented lobster mac and cheese yet so I missed that too, damn it!  (I’ll spare you the details of what happens if I eat it now, just think Linda Blair in the Exorcist and leave it at that.)

It’s not easy being lobster allergic in Maine, the damned things are everywhere.

On our license plates…

 

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At every biker rally we attend…

 

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See?

 

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That’s me… cursing everyone for eating  lobster when I can’t …. not sitting at the table.

Hell, we even have a festival devoted to the creature.

 

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They crown a queen who leads the parade with King Neptune.

 

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Everyone eats lobster.

Except me.

 

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(I can’t attend anymore. The husband says drool isn’t my best feature)

Yes, we take our lobster seriously up here and I’ve  railed against fate, banged my head against the wall, invented new swear words   learned to live without it.

So why?

Why does that damned bottom dwelling bug continue to screw with me?

Yesterday… this showed up in our local grocery stores.

 

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And if that’s not bad enough…

A friend sent me this card.

 

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Now that’s just…  wrong.

 

 

Never trust a Corpse Reviver.

 

(Bet that got your attention.)

So it started out simply. Dinner with friends at a trendy, boho chic restaurant in a converted mill.

They’re famous for their infused liquors, so we ladies started out with these:

 

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They were small.

And pink!

 

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And with names like Garden of Eden and Frankly My Dear…

How bad could they be?

Bad enough that after 2 of them, our husbands were telling us to lower the decibel level.

After 3, they were waiving down the waiter and telling him to rush our food order.

The men had chosen curried mussel appetizers, which didn’t appeal to us in the least.

 

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Mussels, blech!

Those slimy little nuggets that get halfway down your throat and say, ” I think I’ll just sit here a while and let her contemplate what she swallowed.”

No way. Not this chicka…

The guys were happily cracking them open and getting covered in green slop in the process.

 

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It was disgusting.

It looked like pea soup, or vomit. (Same thing in my opinion.)

But then my girlfriend and I ordered Corpse Revivers.

 

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They’re traditionally known as the hangover cure, so we figured we’d skip a step and get right to it.  Gin, Cointreau, Lillet Blanc, lemon juice and Absinthe.

I blame the Absinthe.

Have you ever had Absinthe? Whew!

In no time at all? Those mussels looked GOOD.

We were digging in with gusto.

 

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Slop covered shells were flying, we were dragging the bowls away from our husbands. We had to order extra Naan to soak it up.

I believe we may have fought over the last piece.

It wasn’t pretty.

Never trust a Corpse Reviver.

I know I shouldn’t laugh….

 

But I had to, because it’s nice to know I’m not the only idiot out there.

Earlier this year I performed the bone head move of forgetting to put my car in park when exiting.  (Not my finest moment, feel free to chuckle) I had pulled up to an ATM and dropped my card out the window while attempting to use the machine. (Hey… it was winter, in Maine. Read cold, bitter wind and snow…. sh*t happens.)  I backed up and got out to retrieve the card, apparently without shifting into park.  Not good.

Naturally the ATM machine was on a slight hill and the car started to roll away… without me in it. The sight of  a wide eyed and crazed woman  (in beautiful high heeled grey suede boots that are now ruined. *Sob*)  trying to jump into a moving vehicle was probably quite amusing for the bank teller watching from the window, but it ceased to be funny for me when I saw my beloved Ethel  ( Yes, I name my vehicles. Don’t you?)  was headed for a line of parked cars.

Good news? I was able to jump in, hit the brake and avoid a demolition derby style accident.  (I swear I heard my insurance company sigh in relief.)

Bad news? When I jumped in and grabbed the wheel…. it turned and I smashed into the end of the ATM.  (Loudest crunch… ever.)

 

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$1800 dollars worth of door damage later, I felt like an idiot.

But…

Not as much of an idiot as a girlfriend who recently took a trip to Canada with friends.

 

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Yeah.

 

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They stopped at a gas station to use the restroom and forgot to put it in park.

It rolled out of the station, down a hill and hit a rock.

I know I shouldn’t laugh.

Really I do.

But no one was hurt….

So I’m sorry,  but.

Bwwwaaahhhaahhhhaaa!

I’m not the only idiot.

These things must be celebrated!

😈

Have you ever done this?

 

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I know better, and yet…..

Stomach rumbling, I sashay up and down the aisles tossing  HoHo’s and Ring Dings in my shopping cart at will.

(If they called them Cellulite Starters and Butt Wideners I wouldn’t, so you see…. it’s really not my fault.)

I buy salad tossers I’ll never toss, fizzy fruited drinks I’ll never drink and worst of all…. more deli meat and cheese than a school cafeteria will use in a month.

Oh, the pressure of the deli counter!

You take a number, wait in line, peruse the 307 varieties of flavored sliced turkey breast and when it’s finally your turn? You can’t just order a 1/4 lb of roast beef and call it good…. can you?

(Well I can’t. Which is why you should all come to my house for lunch tomorrow. BYOB. Bring your own bread…. because I never seem to buy the correct corresponding amount.)

And the paper products!

Why can’t I ever remember if I need them? I always buy too many which results in episodes like this:

 

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Note to self –

Never leave the closet door ajar when you’ve purchased too much Charmin.

 

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To say he enjoyed it would be an understatement.

 

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The beast was positively orgasmic.

And none too eager to relinquish his prize as I cleaned up around him.

 

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Moral of the story?

Buying too much at the grocery store can not only be wasteful and expensive….

But bloody as well.

So what’s up with Kale… and why does everyone want me to eat it?

 

(Disclaimer – I am not a kale fan, and the popular leafy green will be heavily disparaged in this post.)

 

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I’m a good girl. I eat my veggies, green and otherwise.

Yes, Popeye I even eat my spinach.

Hell, I live in Maine… I have been served dandelion green and Nasturtium bloom salad and smiled. (Although I do draw the line at Fiddleheads, those slimy aborted fern fronds people in New England go beserk for every spring. If I’m going to ingest something I pick alongside the road it had better be blackberries. Preferably in brandy form. But I digress.)

Throw a little kale in my salad, fine. I won’t revolt. (Hell, if you smother it in enough blue cheese dressing, I will eat a brick)

But please…. stop trying to incorporate it into everything else.

My girlfriend served a big bowl of kale chips with French Onion Dip at a party.  (Not cool…. bring back my Ruffled Lays.)

Another friend invited us over for an Italian dinner. Sweet! Until I saw the lasagna as well as the ravioli was stuffed with kale.  (That’s just wrong.)

 

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I do not want your kale frittata.

Your kale burgers, your kale pie….

 

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And most of all your kale pizza!

That’s just sacrilege.

 

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The kale craze has gone too far.

Okay, it’s nutritious… but enough’s enough.

From now on I’ll be flying my new banner high and proud.

 

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Long live Rocky Road!!

All hail Mint Chocolate Chip!

 

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For the love of all that’s holy….

Noooooooooo!!!!

 

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What the…… WHAT?

 

Okay, so I know I’m not young anymore.

I’m not down with what’s hip or cool to the kids these days. (Proven by the fact I still say down with, hip and cool.)

But when I saw our neighbor’s son riding his bike yesterday….

I felt a tad bewildered.

 

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Is this a thing now?

 

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Or has the poor boy been swallowed by a giant lime green flesh eating amoeba?

 

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I’m not on Instagram, so if one of those annoying Kardashian chickas has made this outfit popular…

Will someone please let me know?

Because otherwise the next time I see him…. I’m going to stand on our deck and throw darts to release him from his inflatable prison.