[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.

So, after blogging about Dana’s post about being “those” neighbors, I’ve realized we really are “those” neighbors.

I was showing off our swanky new exterior lifestyle areas, or whatever it is you call patios these days, to one of our neighbors. We rounded the corner and encountered the large walnut bookcase Husband and I have had propped up in the yard for weeks.

That’s right, kids, intellectuals don’t put cars on blocks in their yard. They put bookcases on blocks instead.

We’ve been waiting to get rid of the bookcase because it was damaged during construction. Spring is a busy time for our contractors and they just haven’t had a chance to haul it away for us. I’d better keep on top of this though, because time slips by pretty fast and if I don’t make sure it gets taken care of we’ll start ignoring it and the next thing we know the grandnieces will be building a fort on it while we sip our hot toddys on the porch and yell at them to get off the lawn.

Oh, the lawn. The accursed lawn. The lawn is a swatch of hay-covered parched clay because we can’t bring ourselves to shell out for sod yet. I’m sure the yarn gives the neighbors something to talk about now that we’ve made the rest of the place presentable. To be fair, we have very little lawn area left, what with the giant porch and lifestyle accessory zones and the flower and herb gardens. Still, there’s enough to be an eyesore.

Mostly, I ignore the desolate wasteland that is the lawn because I have bigger fish to fry. We had 16 arborvitae planted and until they get established, they need to be watered.

My spiritual advisor, Roger, also planted lots of sunflowers, but those need surprisingly little water. I make every effort to plant as few things that need regular (non-rainfall related) watering as possible.

Aside from the herbs and the trees, the rest of the plants are pretty drought and MeanLouise tolerant. I planted a shasta daisy seedling in 1998. Every year I divide and give away as many of it’s spawn as possible. I started out with that one little shasta daisy. Last month when I started dividing them I found I had 97 of them. These things don’t need full sun or water or, apparently, any attention whatsoever. Shasta daisies, like honey badger, just don’t give a shit.


The trees are another story. This year, they need water, and we haven’t gotten any decent rainfall at our house in a while. According to the local rain gauge we’ve gotten about .10 inch in the last month. That means the trees aren’t the only things that need watering, because some idiot who lives here planted lots of tender herbs. The perennial herbs are troupers. The annuals like basil need water.

That involves hoses.

I have become like Wile E Coyote with the fucking garden hoses.

Dealing with garden hoses is going to break me.

For reasons I cannot even begin to explain – but trust me, there is a logical explanation – this is the hose situation as of today: We have 8 hoses connected to various bibs, winders, soaker hoses, sprinkler hoses, other hoses, and possibly my neighbor’s water feature.

I can’t be sure anymore.

What I can be sure of is that I must be supplying some form of comic relief to the neighborhood when I’m out in the yard swearing and fussing. Some of the neighbors are new, they haven’t acclimated to my tenuous relationship with both earthworms and reality vis-a-vis the wonderful world of gardening. I believe I may be frightening them, but they’ll learn. Or move.

I am simply not designed for this kind of domestic horseshit.

If I have to buy another splitter, connector, washer, winder, holder, nozzle, sprinkler, watering can or divining rod I am going to lose what little is left of my mind.

And now, to take my mind off gardening, let’s all have a moment with honey badger: