I Am Less Sure About Things Than I Used To Be

Last night, I found a big staple in my take-out potato salad. I wouldn’t mention except that this happened shortly after I had take-out chicken wings that still had some feathers on them.

Now the chicken wings came from a Chinese take-out place. I’ve had them before and they were very good. They weren’t your basic hot wing configuration with the  drumette separated from that other double bone part and then they have the nerve to tell you that you just ordered the 8-pc size implying that you got 8 wings when in reality you received only 4 wings total. No, the Chinese chicken wings are whole wings, coated and deep fried.

There are benefits to ordering your fried chicken wings from a Chinese take-out. First, they are on the “side order” menu, lumped randomly with other fried things like french fries and fried crab sticks. And they come 4 to an order so you don’t have to make a commitment to more wings than you want and that gives you latitude to get fried dumplings or a small lo mein as well. Also, there are a lot of items that your husband can order for his own dinner if he ever should ever want to order anything besides the Chicken with Broccoli combination dinner.

So one night when it was obvious that we missed the shoppping/cooking window for dinner preparation, we started wondering what we should eat for dinner and where should we get it from. I hadn’t had wings in a while so I was really looking forward to them. Sami says he didn’t see them but I sure did. White feathers on the edges of the wings. Maybe they were pin feathers but even so they were pretty sizeable, something like 3/4″ long. You would think that someone would have seen them when they coated them or when they put them into the fryer or when they took them out of the fryer. Pretty hard to miss.

And it just tuned me off of that place all together. We’ve tried other Chinese take-outs (but not for fried  chicken wings) and they haven’t been good for one reason or another. And Sami doesn’t mind going back to the same old place for himself because he didn’t actually see the feathers. But its ruined for me. I can never have take -out from that place again and I cannot even think about fried chicken wings without seeing those feathers in my mind’s eye.

A few weeks after this incident, Sami told the the place recently got a new owner and that fits the timeline for a likely new directive to find a cheaper meat supplier, hence the carelessly plucked chicken wings.

Last night, we were in that same old  missed the shoppping/cooking window for dinner preparation and so we decided to order BBQ ribs with small sides of cole slaw and potato salad. Not from the Chinese place, from Chicken Holiday. I always forget that BBQ ribs mean beef ribs, not dainty little pork ribs like you’d get from the Chinese place which you already know I cannot patronize anymore. Lucky for me or maybe not so lucky, the ribs were huge and super greasy and the sides were extra tangy in a way that I would never make if I were making them so I only ate about half of everything and when I was scraping the potato salad off my plate, I saw this very big staple emerge from the mayonnaise.

And so goodbye forever to Chicken Holiday.

So maybe I’ve been eating feathers and staples in take-out food all along. And my mother once told me she knew somebody who knew somebody who found a little green snake head in a bag of frozen green beans, so there’s that too. Must I give up my lazy life style of take-out food on the spur of the moment and return to home cooking in which I would be the cook? If any of you reading that last sentence think that is ever going to happen, then you are either a first-time reader, a big dreamer or a highly gullible individual.

It’s big problem.  I’m probably going to starve to death.


How’s It Going, Suzette?

Last evening a bird pooped on my head while I was outside enjoying my post-workday beverage. (A post-workday  beverage, I wish to inform my non-Instagram followers,  which can no longer be served in my favorite vintage glassware.)

This morning, I was out in the backyard in my leopard bedroom slippers and I stepped in dog poop.

So how’s it going? Pretty poopy.

Saturday Morning Live

It was 8 am when I started this post. Just the start of Saturday, the point when all things are possible.  I am the master of my own destiny and there’s so much to choose from! I have time to vacuum up the dog hair, scrub the filthy kitchen, pull weeds or just go hog wild and leave the house all together and just roam around. Freedom!

I can do anything big or small. I can just spin this chair around 180 degrees and take a crack at the pile of folded laundry on the daybed and that the things that came out of my suitcase when I emptied it from my last trip. I could go downstairs and make myself a liverwurst and onion sandwich for breakfast. I can do anything.

But we’ve been here before and you know how this goes. I’m just going to sit here and read blogs and cruise around eBay and then it will be time for my customary Saturday nap.

Here is something. It’s a then and now look at my new flowerbed.


The dream and the beginning. May 26, 2014


Three months later: the lush fulfillment. August 23, 2014

It’s been wildly successful which surprises me no end. When I started this project in late spring, the bed was filled with the crappiest, sandiest dirt imaginable. But I planned and planted and then used PlantTone, an organic fertilizer apparently made from feathers but which has attracted earthworms for me before. I mulched everything with a thick layer of shredded pine bark and kept it watered. And it worked!

Also I had a really great new hose nozzle from Kmart that allowed me to stand inside the backyard fence and give this bed as much water as it needed without exposing my nightgowned early-morning self to the paperboy and productive neighbors going off to work.

There’s more good news in this current photo. You’ll note a limp and dying portulaca draped over the brick edging in the lower right hand corner. It is dying because it got tromped during a visit from the local gang of adolescent deer. Which tells me that every flowering plant that I selected for this bed is of no interest to hungry deer. If they were, they’d be chewed down to the roots.

So I’ve got the right elements there – I just need to dial it back a bit and make some layout adjustments for next year. That little resin pigeon obviously cannot hold its own against such abundant vegetation so I might replace it with one of my chicken planters in the spring.

And there we are. It’s 9:30 now. Still plenty of time to vacuum. As if.



It’s early morning and I’m watching a recording of The Late Late Show on the DVR while I wait for the coffee to finish perking or whatever a modern brewer does to produce coffee. Drip, I guess. Waiting for the coffee to stop dripping. Craig Ferguson and Garrison Keillor are yukking it up and I just caught myself making my father’s face.

My father was self-contained if that’s how you want to put it. He was the Silent Commander type and kept quiet except to criticize or to holler. But once in a while when something amusing was on the TV, you’d look over at him and he’d be grinning like a jack o’lantern.

I say “the” tv because this was back in the day when households had one tv and watching it was a family activity. Even if he wasn’t sitting down for a whole show, the laughter would attract him and he’d stand in the doorway as if under a spell with the widest possible smile, his eyes shining  with the reflection of the televised images. In that moment, he was enjoying himself. If anybody spoke even to say <em>oh boy wasn’t that funny? </em>the spell would be broken and he’s put his regular buzzard face on again and leave the room.

Sometimes I do that now. I catch myself with my mouth stretched wide and my eyebrows lifted up. Maybe I’ve always done it but I’m only occasionally aware of it. It’s a solitary exercise.

And The Winner Is …

poll results

I was really hoping to discuss gin but w/e the people have spoken.

The reason I don’t blog about World Famous Fashion Icon And Busy Mom™ Michelle Obama anymore is because … well, there are actually three reasons:

  1. We are no longer subjected to the daily media fest declaring her to be beautiful and stylish and so I no longer feel the need to correct the false narrative.
  2. More and more people are starting to realize on their own that she’s not exactly beautiful inside or out.

…but the main reason I don’t blog about her anymore is …

3.  She is so predictable that she’s actually boring.

At this point, I don’t think there’s a soul in the world who doesn’t expect her to show up 90% of the time dressed like an oversized clown and dressed for the other 10%  in fabulous and expensive couture. And there’s no doubt at all who’s will predominated for which outfit selection:  MOO herself or or her handlers.

Is there anyone who is surprised that her choice if she could be anyone else in the world is the overpainted underdressed overtressed  product of lifelong focused marketing efforts that panders to the lowest common denominator. I can totally imagine MOO lost in contemplative reverie, wishing that she had a sister that would pummel old Barry in a private elevator.

And yes she is going to eat all the grease while preaching the opposite, she is going to vacation in luxury settings for extended periods on the tax payer’s dime; she is going to look bored or irritated at official photo-ops. It’s all her standard behavior. It might be newsworthy if she made extemporaneous remarks that weren’t filled with slang, grammatical errors or snide swipes at her husband. But, if history is any indicator, that’s not going to happen. I do notice that she’s not constantly lip-licking anymore so they must have changed her meds and that is only mildly interesting to me.

Nope. She is an awful specimen as First Ladies go. You want to occupy yourself with a fascinating First Lady? Here your most fascinating First Lady: Jacqueline Kennedy. And her lover Rudolph Nureyev! (note: “Bobby Kennedy and Rudi kissing each other passionately in a booth”. The mind boggles!)

Old Jackie was no shy flower. While America as a whole considered her to be the nation’s symbolic Madonna, she was hiding away in her White House bedroom to smoke cigarettes , drink vodka and produce piles of correspondence to her friends complaining that she didn’t want to see ” fat little women hopping around in the same dresses” as hers.

If we must talk about First Ladies who are products of main stream media fantasy and entirely different in reality, the let’s talk about Jackie. At least she had style. For real, not trumped up adoration for questionable wardrobe choices. Despite Jackie’s wishes to be unique, every female age 12 and up no matter their race or creed swarmed the streets of America wearing a pillbox hat as soon as they possibly could. And when Jackie showed up for Mass in a lace mantilla, that was the beginning of the end for the American millinery business. I have yet to see in any airport or major gathering a single female sporting a boob belt. There was, I will admit,  a brief fascination with big 3-D fabric flowers on cardigans, but that ended quickly once the ladies realized that it looked like shit for the birds.

This is how we were then:


My guess is two double vodkas went down PDQ after this.

This is how we are now: 

My guess is it took two vodka martinis before this event.

My guess is it took two vodka martinis went down before this. And then some champagne after, with a little bit of lobster to snack on.



Let’s Ask Suzette A Question

The question with the most votes by 9am Saturday morning will be answered in full on this blog.