When is fettuccine alfredo not fettucine alfredo?

What vegans think food looks likeWhen it’s a raw vegan fettuccine alfredo.

So here’s the thing – raw vegan food is…not real food.

According to the well-known, well-researched, amazingly trustworthy source, Wikipedia, “raw veganism is a diet that combines the concepts of veganism and raw foodism. It excludes all food and products of animal origin, as well as food cooked at a temperature above 48 °C (118 °F). A raw vegan diet includes raw vegetables and fruits, nuts and nut pastes, grain and legume sprouts, seeds, plant oils, sea vegetables, herbs, mushrooms, and fresh juices.”

Had I know in advance that the “restaurant” I agreed to go to served only raw vegan food, I might have to question my mental health in making that decision. Instead, I just knew it was vegan, which is somewhat acceptable. I’m a vegetarian, and I like some of the ideas behind veganism, but I’m not down with the idea of raw veganism any more than I’m down with the ideas of breatharians.  (I worked with a breatharian, but more about that in another blog…)

Their menu claimed it would be actual food:
Fettuccini Alfredo – served raw veggie noodles. And it comes with cashew butter with some lemon juice (or so they told me).

Then they brought it out. And I wanted to cry.

How the hell was that fettuccine? Or alfredo?

Trusting to the wisdom of Wikipedia once again, we can see that “Fettuccine Alfredo…is a pasta dish made from fettuccine tossed with Parmesan cheese and butter. As the cheese melts, it emulsifies the liquids to form a smooth and rich sauce coating the pasta. In other words, it is pasta with butter and Parmesan cheese (Italian: pasta al burro e parmigiano), one of the oldest and simplest ways to prepare pasta.”

As I stared at my bowl of not fettuccine alfredo, I was reminded of a paradox I’d heard:

My grandfather had an axe that had been handed down through the family, and he finally handed it off to me.

Unfortunately, after many, many years of use, the handle broke.

I brought the axe to a hardware store, and I got a new handle attached to it.

Then, a few years later, the axe head broke, so I brought the handle to the hardware store and got a new head.

The question is – is it still my grandfather’s axe?

And is it still fettucine alfredo?

 

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“O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.”

bed image meme credited to iFunny.comMe at 8 PM: I definitely need to get to sleep before midnight tonight.

Me at 10:30 PM: Fell asleep taking a bath, but avoided drowning by waking myself up with my own snoring.

Me at Midnight: I should totally go to bed now, but I’m almost done dealing with the checkbook and the bills.

Me at 1:30 AM: This episode of “Lock In” (county jail edition) is almost over…

Me at 2:15 AM: Damn, I’m not even tired!

(Title is a quote taken from Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg – Her Dream.)

 

 

Ah, the romance of Valentine’s Day!

sad apple by sophisticat at morguefile

Sad apple says he’s sad because he hates Valentine’s Day

It was yesterday that I realized that I don’t care about Valentine’s Day.

Give me any other holiday, and I’m good to go. I even like Easter.

But Valentine’s Day? It has some kind of messed up messages.

Dear Lonely People –
Feel even lonelier! You’re welcome!

Dear Couples –
Go out to a restaurant that’s super crowded, completely unromantic because of the crowd and the noise and the insanity, and if it’s a really “nice” restaurant, you’re probably paying jacked up prices for a limited menu. Once you’ve suffered through a dinner that is probably not exact the best thing you’ve eaten because the wait and kitchen staff are totally overworked and underpaid, go home exhausted and in a bad. And, hopefully, drunk. Collapse into your bed.

Ah, the romance of Valentine’s Day!

And here are some memes to keep you happy.

vday meme1Valentines Day meme _4

vdaymeme5vday meme3

vdaymeme6vdaymeme7

vday meme2

(Unfortunately, I did not find any attribution for them, so if they’re yours, please let me know so I can fix that ASAP.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m an asshole

judge ornament - morguefile - davidpwhelanI caught myself being one of those people

You know what I mean, right?

Those people?

That’s right.

I caught myself being an asshole.

I was at Target. I was in a hurry. And Target – being Target on a school day around 2 p.m. when all the moms are trying to buy their groceries before their kids invade their houses again – well, Target was overwhelmed and understaffed.

In front of me was a woman, cart full of baby stuff. She had a super-nice Michael Kors bag, and she was using a WIC card to buy her baby stuff.

I jumped to the conclusion that she didn’t deserve the bag, that if she had the money for the bag, why was she on WIC?

Okay, I told myself. Maybe it was a gift. Maybe she got it from a thrift store. Maybe… Well, maybe it wasn’t my business in any way, shape, or form.

Just because she is getting help doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve some fun and some luxuries. It doesn’t mean that she should be punished and constantly struggling.

Why shouldn’t she buy a Michaels Kors purse? Why shouldn’t she buy Starbucks? Why shouldn’t she buy fancy dinners at steakhouses?

She isn’t any less worthy than anyone else.

If I could assume that she didn’t “deserve” her purse, why couldn’t I instead assume that she did “deserve” it?

Why couldn’t I assume that she worked hard – maybe harder than me and everyone else I knew – and that she was just screwed over by life? 

I hope she uses her WIC for all those necessary purposes and spends some of her income on nice things for herself. I hope she has a fun night out. I hope she has a good, reliable car that she doesn’t need to worry about. I hope she can take days off work and go to the beach, bring her daughter or sons or daughters and sons.

I hope that other people aren’t assholes like I was, and I hope that if they are, that they catch themselves, too, and that they remind themselves that it isn’t their business, either. 

A Bug Named Sue

Bug Off - Image by Mel Candea via MorguefileNow, I’m not saying that you *have* to applaud me or give me an award. I’m just saying that I deserve your applause. And an award.

There was a bug.

A little beetle-looking bug. Brown. Some legs (I’m guessing there were six? Isn’t that the standard for bugs?). Wings. But wings that were not yet unfurled. Let’s name it Sue.

I only saw Sue because the cat was chasing her. And failing. Failing hard. The cat would run up to Sue. Sniff her. Sue would put on a burst of speed and escape. Then the cat would run up to Sue. Then sniff her. Then Sue would put on a burst of speed and escape.

The race lasted for the length of the kitchen. I watched it, breathless, hoping to see the Sue lose the…battle? That might not be the right word for it. It was more like a baby learning how to crawl and falling asleep mid-movement.

Sue survived all the way to the table. The cat gave up. Well, more than it already had. And Sue was just sitting there on the tile. Looking sad.

I made a deal with Sue. I wouldn’t throw a massive book on her, and I’d put it outside to live out the rest of her little beetle life, but only if she let me sweep her from the tile and onto the dust pan with the long handle that kept me from bending down and getting too close to her without her showing me she could fly.

I figured a verbal agreement was better than no agreement at all, and got the broom and dust pan.

Sue refused to get into the dust pan at first, but the second time, she let me sweep her up and calmly sat there – a little oval of brown in what could be a sea of blue, but was really just some cheap plastic.

Sue held very still as I walked the dozen steps to the back door, and she didn’t jump into the air and attack me with her wings. She just chilled out on the dust pan as I opened the door and stepped out onto the cold concrete of the back patio.

Apparently Sue had gotten comfortable in the relative safety of the dust pan, and she refused to get off it. Without a cat bothering her, I guess she didn’t feel the stress to move. Or maybe Sue hated cold weather, too.

I had to tip the dust pan and gently swat at Sue.

No, I didn’t kill her!  She upheld her end of the deal, so I upheld mine!

She finally slid onto the ground, and I’d like to think that Sue nodded her little beetle head in appreciation for all I’d done for her.

So, hold your applause, for now. Once I finish getting the trophy engraved, there will be an awards banquet. But Sue will not be invited.

Sign: Please don't drop off your unwanted pets and other animals here. We will just have to dispose of them.

When mom groups go from bad to worse…

Sign: Please don't drop off your unwanted pets and other animals here. We will just have to dispose of them.I admit, I love belonging to mom groups in Facebookland. They are full of drama and crazy. You don’t get to see that sort of thing in public unless you hang out at Wal-Mart at two a.m., and since I have no urge to be at Wal-Mart at all, much less at two a.m., I use my groups to keep me happy.

Sometimes, though, I have the urge to respond in a way that I know will get me kicked out. I can’t get kicked out because, as I mentioned, then I’d have to go to Wal-Mart, and that isn’t a good option.

Instead of posting my responses, I just write them down for myself. But this one is something I want to share because it’s coming up on Christmastime, and I know that this isn’t going to be the only post about getting a pet for the family.

The post was pretty simple – the mom asked what kind of pet she could get that would be “low maintenance.”* 

I couldn’t resist the urge to comment, so I kept it short and sweet: if you don’t care if the animal lives or dies, any pet can be low maintenance.

I’m not sure if she saw it, or if anyone else saw it, or if someone went ahead and deleted it because I’m such a mean bastard.

So here goes my full response:
Hey, we want to get a “pet” – you know, a living, breathing creature that that needs, love, attention, and all the basics of life (food, water, shelter) – BUT we don’t want it to be a hassle.

In fact, if it would take care of itself and clean up after itself, and not cost us any money, that would be ideal.

Actually, if it kept completely to itself unless we wanted to pay attention to it or show it off, that would be the icing on the cake.

Because while we love the idea of a pet, the actual pet part of it is just totally inappropriate for our busy lifestyle.

Plus, you know, sometimes we go on vacation, so we can’t take it with us, and what if we have kids that don’t like it or don’t want to take care of it?

It’s not like you can return it, and if you just set it free, people think you’re mean and callous, and we don’t want anyone to think of us like that. I mean, here we are, wanting to open our lives to this pet – we’re obviously loving and caring or we wouldn’t even consider it!

Picture of rock on beach

My pet rock, Rocky

*(Now, look, I do get it if you haven’t owned a pet before. You might be leery of that commitment. It last for years. We’ve had cats that lived into their twenties, dogs that cracked a dozen years, and even goldfish that made it through a decade! But if you need to question your readiness, it’s time to buy a nice cactus, not an actual living being that will rely on you.)

But he didn’t rape me

Image from KellyP42 at Morguefile.comI know I wasn’t the only teenage girl who had older guys who liked to ply them with alcohol.

One guy in particular, a football player, who should know who he is but probably still doesn’t want to admit it was really on the give her alcohol until she consents plan for sex.

We had known each other since we were in kindergarten, and in high school, he asked me out, so I started dating him. Of course, the dating generally took the form of me going over to his house when his parents weren’t there, and we’d spend the night drinking. Most of the time, it was the two of us, but sometimes there were a few other people around. I’d get drunk, we’d make out, I’d sober up, and I’d go home. The drunker I got, the more he tried to do.

The final time we hung out, we were making out, and he whipped it out. Even though I’d said no repeatedly. I laughed and told him to put it away. I don’t have a totally clear memory of what happened next, but I do remember kneeing him and then going home shortly thereafter.

I was safe.

I had escaped.

Fast forward a few months. I didn’t have anything to do with him. But one day, a friend (male, let’s call him B) came up to me. He had another female friend (let’s call her C). C had been raped by my ex-boyfriend. She hadn’t been given permission to date, and she felt like she couldn’t tell anyone or do anything, so she told B.

I couldn’t convince her to do anything – she thought she would get in trouble, that he would make her life more miserable, that her parents would punish her for dating.

She only wanted one thing: for him to leave her alone.

Ever since their “date,” he’d been acting like nothing happened. He’d talked to her, wave at her in the hallway. All normal behavior. He wouldn’t leave her alone, and she didn’t know what to do.

I’d like to think that I was a badass way back when. Maybe I was.

I found him in a local public hangout, and, with my new boyfriend hanging behind me), I went up to my rapist ex-boyfriend and told him that if he ever bothered her again, even talked to her, I would kill him.

I need you to get the full picture in your mind.

At the time, I was five feet tall and 100 pounds. He was a football player.

The next day, his father (who happened to be a Marine) called my mother. His father told me mother that I should stop threatening his son and leave him alone.

After that, he didn’t talk to me. He didn’t talk to C. Life went on.

Twenty-five years later, I got a message on FB.

From the rapist.

It said, “Remember me?”

I blocked him.