When I was a kid, our next door neighbors had a Hammond organ. They used to let me play it but their sheet music selection was pretty limited.

Very limited.

Let’s put it this way: if you ever form a Jim Croce cover band and need some funky organ breaks for “Time in a Bottle,” I’m your girl.

I have no idea how this post was supposed to end because I went down a rabbit hole for a while. I was linking to Jim Croce’s website and the front page link for “dinner reservations” was deeply confusing until I discovered it led to the Croce’s Restaurant site. Croce’s Restaurant is closing in December. It’s in San Diego, I bet Batty has been there.

I should really get back to lecture writing. Or watching shitty movies. Ooh, my lecture is on urban legends, so I could watch the movie Urban Legends and multitask!

Untitled
[embedded image: post-smoothie cleanup operation]

This morning I decided to make a green tea fruit smoothie because I had a large quantity of frozen fruit. This is not rocket surgery. You put fruit, green tea, honey and lime juice in a blender. Then you paint the ceiling with the smoothie when you accidentally turn the blender back on after Husband removes the lid.

I make it sound much easier than it is.

In between, there are a few intermediary steps that involve destroying Husband’s kitchen appliances, as well as a significant amount of profanity.

Destruction and profanity. That pretty much sums up my entire cooking style.

To be fair, the death of Husband’s beloved kitchen appliances was not exactly my fault.

Much like the ape uprising wasn’t exactly Caesar’s fault in Conquest of the Planet of the Apes, but was more precisely the result of what is known in scientific circles as the Ricardo Montalban Effect, an inevitable trajectory begun when Cornelius and Zira travelled back through time in Escape from the Planet of the Apes.

I’m not sure Husband sees it that way. Frankly, Husband should have seized operational control of this entire enterprise as soon as he heard me snuffling around in the kitchen, but he didn’t.

So really, who’s to blame here?

Ricardo Montalban, obviously.

First, the blender mysteriously refused to work. Husband joined me in the kitchen as soon as he heard me muttering and swearing at the blender. The indicator lights were on and the outlet worked, but no matter how much button-pushing we tried, the blender was an inert object. Our blender has 3 buttons. It’s not a complicated device.

For a brief moment I thought I’d well and truly lost my ability to function as an adult, so I felt better when it didn’t work for Husband, either.

House elves, we* agreed, are to blame for the death of the blender. I would feel bad if Ricardo Montalban was blamed for killing our blender.

At that point, Husband suggested we use the mixie. He dumped the ingredients from the blender carafe into the mixie carafe and started the mixie, which promptly broke. The little plastic pieces that spin the blades all broke off.

To be fair, the mixie has endured years of steady, almost daily use, and I contend it was time for a new one. I never touched the mixie, so clearly this was in no way my fault. I didn’t even suggest using it.

Clearly, this was Husband’s fault.

Although I may have been the one who failed to warn him that the pineapple chunks were still frozen and that there was a quarter cup of honey in the mix just waiting for an opportunity to ooze to the bottom of the carafe and gum up the blades. So that may have been my fault, but who can say, really?

While Husband was standing over the mixie, possibly administering Last Rites, I plugged the blender back in and hit the start button in what I figured was an act of futility. Of course the bastard roared to life. One of the three buttons didn’t work, so it’s still a bit of a mystery what’s up, but “on” and “off” were in good working order so who needs to the pulse function?

Husband dumped the ingredients back into the blender carafe, at which point we discovered that hard clump of honey and pineapple in the bottom of the mixie carafe.

You don’t need this much detail, and we don’t know for sure this is what killed the mixie, but I like typing the word “mixie.”

We then made smoothies without any further difficulty.

Unless you count the part where Husband removed the lid from the blender and I immediately reached over to make sure the blender was turned completely off so that we wouldn’t have any more accidental disasters. The carafe was still sitting on the blender body, where Husband left it when he removed the lid. Instead of powering down when I hit the button, the blender roared to life and geysered smoothie all over the kitchen counter and everything on that counter.

Obviously, it was his fault for not maintaining situational awareness (read: remembering that I was still in the room) and taking the carafe off the blender body before he removed the lid.

Husband does not agree with my logic.

In closing, making smoothies is serious business. Also, don’t forget to clean out the toaster while you’re wiping smoothie goo off of every other surface in the room.

—————
*We. I. One of those.

I spent hours today crafting a post about professionalism and web-presence. Then I glanced at twitter and all hell broke loose (in my brain).

I’m not, by any means, a fearless person. Still, I like to think that I don’t let any phobias control me, but I know that’s not true.

I’m deeply, utterly, completely afraid to eat powdered donuts.

Suffice to say it’s all because of Gamera Vs Guiran, Creature Feature with Dr. Paul Bearer, and the fact that a tiny irrational part of my brain wants me to believe eating powdered donuts will enable these women to open my skull and eat my brains:

1284923936_5

Today, Scientific American asks: “Nano-Powder on Your Donuts: Should You Worry?”

Hell, yes, you should worry!

You should lie awake all night tonight worrying about this, like I’m going to.

I haven’t even read the article yet, I’ve been so busy worrying about the headline.

Those women are going to try and steal all of our brains.

All. Of. Our Brains.

All of them.

Or, if you’re unconcerned with food safety and/or alien brain-suckers, you can revisit this early 21st century classic meme, (turn up your speakers) the creepy donuts, which is what I found when I searched my archives for a post about The Powdered Donut Monster Movie Incident of 1976.

I’ve decided to start a foundation. I don’t know what else to do, but my conscience won’t let me sit idly by any longer.

I know an undertaking like this is a labor of love and loss and potential heartbreak, but I can’t watch these poor bastards suffer any longer.

What spurred me to action?

Each day I discover that people I know – good people, decent people, people I love – have a terrible problem: they think Yuengling is a great beer.

Jesus wept.

How does this happen? How does this happen?

Why would you go to a bar with an amazing selection of beers – cask beers lovingly crafted by some of the greatest brewers on Earth – and insist on ordering Yuengling?


[embedded video]

Won’t you please help? Together, we can make a difference.

It seems like practically everyone we know is doing a Cleanse of some kind. Master Cleanse, juice cleanse, high-protein cleanse.

Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse.

The peer pressure has simply gotten to be too much.

I hereby announce that I’m doing a Spring Cleanse.

I started last night. I call it The Margarita Cleanse.

It was working well until I felt the need to demonstrate to husband the baboon behavior that resembles the yogic sun salutation series. Then it was still working well, but one whole side of the Taqueria got pretty quiet while I held my arms up in the air and screeched.

OK, I didn’t really screech, but I probably should have. Just holding my arms up in the air probably looked ridiculous.

This morning, I’d like to request that you not do any screeching.