23 July 2009

Can It

I can have an adventure pretty much anywhere, but the grocery is practically Disneyland. When I pull into my grocery, I can't wait to buy, interact with others there, and effectively piss away half my paycheck. See? Disneyland. If the checkers donned mouse ears, I wouldn't know the difference.

What I can't understand is why people purchase things like this giant One Whole Chicken in A Can.

Who in their right mind thought this was a good idea? Were the Chicken Ready people all sitting around one day staring at a pile of over-sized juice cans, "What else can we stuff in here? Gee...I think a chicken would fit."

I thought you wouldn't believe me so I had to stop isle traffic while everyone stared at me taking a photo of this outstanding delicacy. I'm pretty sure it's the most disgusting thing I've seen on a shelf. Aside from tripe or pigs feet in a jar, it's right up there with the top 4.

I was told the can opens up and out comes a chicken in one gelatinous blob. Now that's gonna be tasty. Perfect for company or even Christmas dinners.

Chestnuts roasting on the open fire AND hot damn! A Whole Chicken in Can!

The one in the picture comes without the giblets. I'd hate to open up my Whole Chicken in a Can to find out I'd bought the kind with giblets. Wouldn't you? There has to be room in there for an ENTIRE chicken though, and when I pay for an entire chicken, it darn well better have the giblets, too.

And why not Two Whole Chickens In A Can? Sometimes people get hungry and One Chicken In A Can just won't do.

Another problem is that Whole Chicken In A Can doesn't mention whether this was beheaded chicken, or clawed and footed chicken.

I don't know how I will live on not knowing but I think I'll manage.

~Bee only eats canless chicken.

20 July 2009

I Should Have Entered The Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest

As the big letters spelling PIE passed in front of her, filling her tri-toned windshield right before impact, her eyes couldn't help but catch a glimpse in the rear view mirror of how lovely she looked, face gently framed by her new No-Fade, No-Drip Revlon #184 hair color she had done herself thanks to Hair Hut Beauty Supply, only to be jerked back into a fearful reality by the inevitable prophetic absoluteness of her mother's voice that stuck in her head, "You better have on clean underwear if you ever get into an accident with Bradley Pie Truck".
~Jenn of Bee Repartee, safe driving, clean laundry wearing blogger.

For the 2009 Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest winners click here.

17 July 2009

My Stylist Is Named Chuck

We spent the day at the pool again today.

Good fun, good sun, and good lord, some awful swimsuits. Believe me when I say that I've seen my share.

Years ago, I had the unbelievable fortune to answer an ad in the paper for a model. It was for a major corporation that required a part-time secretary and a part-time model for their design department. I interviewed on a Friday and arrived on the job by Monday.

I was more than thrilled. I was a bona fide Jantzen diving girl.

Working in the rag business was bittersweet for me in many aspects. Fashion ruled as a fickle mistress, determining deadlines, necklines, and tan lines. Designers came and went. Fashion fluctuated from season to season. In one creative misstep a designer's baby could easily become yesterday's brat.

If anything you have to have a thick skin to work in the fashion industry. I did not have thick skin.

As a fledgling teen, I was thrust into an environment that was driven by what was hawt and what was not. I read so many Italian and UK Vogue Magazines that year. Let's just say I didn't wear a sack to work, but it should have helped.

My boss would laugh at me after one of my protests over the dishrag size of my suit. "You got it you flaunt it, don't you think?"

Being my dad's tomboy, I never thought much about fashion. I was more of an imitator. I'd see it and wear it.

Cyndi Lauper had lots of bracelets? So did I.

My neighbor bought acid washed jeans? I was at the Gap using my savings to buy the cool jeans.

Molly Ringwold had a fedora hat. So did my friend, Dani. Now I wanted one.

(Am I dating myself here?)

Fast forward to 2009 and I'm still not a natural fashionista. When it comes to something beyond my chucks, t-shirt, and a good pair of jeans, I'm a lost cause. Sure, give me a little black dress and some heels. Almost anyone can pull that off. Some guys can pull it off better than I can.

To my surprise, my artsy fartsy, left-handed, 6 year old has started to scrutinize my choices. She'll stand in her little boots, jeans, denim jacket and tiny purse, hair perfectly coiffed while giving me an expert critique, "MOM. Those shoes do NOT match. Go change, pleeeeease?"

Yeah, my stylist--who still eats glue and dons a Hello Kitty comforter on her bed. The one covered in stuffed animals. But I have it on good authority that's hawt.

~Bee loves her Chucks

09 July 2009

Gonorrhea, Neighbors, and Berry Picking

For the love of all that is holy. I have to do another post in this lifetime so you can see what kind of shenanigans I am up to.

I bought a book on how to write. I know I can string a group of coherent phrases together that sound remotely intelligent however this is a book for a REAL writer. Not bloggers like me who have appeared to have fallen into the Grand Canyon on their last vacation.

Okay, not really. I didn't go on vacation. Unless you call endless days at the pool getting skin cancer a vacation.

Where was I? Book...

SOooo this book is supposed to make me a DF Wallace, Agatha Christie, Edith Wharton brilliant writer. I dove into the chapters and am attempting to do their exercises to beef up my sentence structure with.

Haha, I just ended my sentence with a preposition just to see if you noticed.

I remember growing up, and being the homeschool prodigy I am, I can recall with crystal clarity my mom taking every opportunity to keep my English in check. She would ask me to slow down, speed up, or "diagram that sentence" when I'd try to explain something to her. The thing is, I am a horrible excuse of a linguist when I get excited. My brain is sprinting to the end of my story and between my vocal cords going awol and being excessively tongue-tied, I simply can't keep up.

Well, now there is a book for that but diving into their word building and sentence structuring, the book should have been named, "If You Want To Feel Like The Writer Equivalent of a Mouth-Breather, Buy This Book".

So that's coming along nicely.

Need I say more? We are going to be van shopping soon. Not because I want a car payment but because if we steal one, we go to jail. Repair is no longer an option for the Ford "Windstop" but I've been thinking. I think I'm changing my major to auto repair because auto shops make bank. I'm going to have to ebay one of my kidneys soon or set my van on fire and claim my insurance check. Ha. Ha. Just kidding Insurance People, I'd roll it off a cliff.

Safety first, kids.

We've all done the digital switch and only one TV in the family room has a digital tuner. Im going to throw it away because I don't watch TV anyway. Our humble mud shanty just got electricity and running water, so I'm not holding my breath for cable any time soon. We haven't missed the TV, in fact, it's been weeks since I've watched anything. I know I haven't missed much but I do like watching Entertainment Tonight to see who's dropped dead lately or to hear of my favorite little city.

Welcome to Insanity Town. Population: Robert Pattinson.

Like who wouldn't wanna go there? Teens are getting pregnant just thinking about him. Gay women are going straight. Grown women are mailing panties to his house. God Bless Entertainment Tonight for letting me know.

As for dead people and Hollywood? They are dead. It's sad, but we are all dying so lets get on to other important things, like taking the kids berry picking this weekend or setting the van on fire.

I did it as a kid and it's pretty much a rite of passage in my family. We'd go berry picking and on the sweaty drive home stop for our Big Gulp and have a car sing-a-long. This is where we learned all 11 verses of Oh My Darlin' Clementine. Which by all right is a morbid song about a Gold miner, '49er who loses his love when she drowns and then all is set to right when he kisses her little sister.

Dear God, people! This is supposed to be a kids song. Wait till we start on the one about the neighbor with the friendly gonorrhea and how we die in a zombie apocalypse.

This weekend is berry picking. It's the All American past-time for people who can't afford to shop at Safeway and apparently its more health conscious than meeting the neighbors. I might make some freezer jam on Saturday if I can swing it. Otherwise, we'll be at the pool afterward getting cancer with Dapoppins and her kids.

With our Big Gulps.

Singing Oh My Darlin' Clementine. And What's A Little STD Between Neighbors.

I just made that up.

~Bee will sing all 11 verses at her van's funeral.