It is Time

Time for another Tito's mixer post.

aka scrounging for mixers or,

how to get Hydrated and Baked at the same time.

Doing the dirty work so you don't have to.

As a legal disclaimer, I highly recommend you do not do this with cheap bar Wodka.
Tito's rocks.

Actually, this is not bad at all. Going down quite smoothly. Now that I think about it...this could be quite dangerous.

Gatorade and Tito's.*

Not acidic like Wodka and orange juice. (acid reflux, yuk.)
No carbonation like the previous orange soda experiment, although, that was pretty tasty.

Yes, this is going to be very dangerous.




*  Tito's straight up is clean enough to sip straight up, or palatable as shots, but I don't want to stumble up the stairs just yet.  I might have some more complaining to do.

I never thought I would be traumatized by dinner.... until tonight.

I am visiting a friend of mine in New Haven, CT and deep in the heart of their 'Little Italy' is a very nice, little restaurant.  Appetizers were great,  Atmosphere fantastic, nice wine...

The waiter, was pretty much fresh off the boat from Italy.  His English was pretty good but very accented and when explaining the off menu specials of the evening the lobster with pasta and a spicy tomato sauce sounded fantastic and while we were deciding my friend (who is full blooded Italian) explained to me what it was.  So that's what I ordered.

Apparently, even my friend who grew up in New Haven's "Little Italy" had no idea of the horror that awaited me.

The waiter brings out a bowl, spoon, small fork and cracker to crack claws.  I looked at the waiter and asked if I was going to be served a whole lobster with pasta on the side or something.. he gave me the quizzical dog look and walked away.   My friend thought that maybe it was just the claws or something... so not to worry all is going to be fine.

So a little while later....   this arrives in front of me....

Okay I wasn't expecting this at all!  so i pick through it a bit and see the green guts or whatever it is that is inside the lobster (my friend called it the tomalley pronounced tomale) and I thought I would hurl (had to be because it was green and apparently it's just fat not guts.. but it's.... green).   I did eat some of the meat but really it was just too freaky for me to stomach.

The Antenna are what killed my appetite. Even my friend was taken back by it and was pretty grossed out and considering some of the stuff she grew up seeing cooked.... that's saying something.

So the waiter asked if everything was okay....  I told him that I wasn't expecting that and it was  a bit troublesome for me to eat...    he said in his heavy Italian accent.... "If I had said 'lobster meat with sauce" the lobster would have been in the sauce..."  (I guess since he said lobster with pasta and sauce he meant the pasta and sauce is in the lobster.)

So lesson learned....    do not order off menu specials if you can't understand what the waiter is really saying....     or....    ask a lot of questions first.

I find this troubling because some day I will go to Italy.....    oye....   I better start learning some Italian.

If I get through the night without nightmares of lobsters chasing after me or jumping off my plate to sing the blues to me.... I will be amazed.

This has been a blogpost from Belle, live from New Haven CT.

Tomorrow I will be going to New York City for the first time....    I can't wait!!   Hoping to see my nephew tomorrow who lives in Brooklyn.

Belle.  

Snaking

Not the slithery kind.  Although I've had many interactions with both poisonous and nonpoisonous.
I have a live and let live attitude. As long as you are not within the kx59 snake personal space zone and you move away, mr. or mrs. snake, you are good to go. Otherwise, I will kill you with a softball, or anything else at hand.
I digress.
This was supposed to be a public service announcement post about how to snake your sewer with a garden hose.
If you have young'ins, which one of their chores is to clean the kitchen each night, instruction to run the disposal while dumping left over spaghetti will avert the need for this helpful tip.

If you dump left over spaghetti into the disposal while it is not running, it will snake it's way down into the main sewer line under your house.
I know this because the main sewer line under our house clogged up, with about 10 pounds of accumulated spaghetti, some years back.

How to snake your sewer with a garden hose:

Remove cleanout cap. ( if you do not have a wrench, a pair of channel lock pliers, or cannot find the cleanout cap..default to plan B and call a plumber)

Actually, the previous step was the second, (I learned this after garageneering this)
The First Step is to put on clothes that you were going to throw away any way.

 Open hose valve full on, drag garden hose to scene of crime.
Insert hose into cleanout and begin back flushing sewer pipe.

There are ridges in the pvc pipe connections under your foundation. These will cause the end of the hose to hang.  The way you get past these is to twist the hose as you push it down the pipe.  Push, twist, push, twist, etc.  When you hit a hard spot that won't seem to give, you've found the clog, and it is time to put some moxy behind it.

I did mention to wear clothes you don't care shit about, didn't I?  Oh, and especially shoes.  You won't want those after you are done with this.  I'd suggest flip flops, but it is just gross the stuff that back flushes out. So you'll have to use your best judgment. In retrospect, gallon zip lock baggies closed with zip ties around the ankles might do in a pinch. Hip waders might be better.
At this point it is a twist, ram, twist, ram operation.
You will have achieved success when crap ceases to backflush out of the cleanout.

Final step is to disrobe before entering the house, and rinse with a different garden hose.

oh, one last helpful pointer: 

keep your mouth closed

Fifteen Years Ago

When we moved into this house this tree was seven feet tall. I could wrap my index finger and thumb around the trunk.

 I've had it professionally pruned and deep root fed twice. Once just before hurricane Ike came to visit.  Good call on Belle's part, I admit.
I've not had eight or nine hundred dollars to spare lately to get it done this year.
Oy. It's taller than our two story house now, and the canopy is as dense as a Q-tip.
Isaac winds his way into the gulf.
Firewood I don't really need.

Raise taxes by 50% or shut down the federal government

From the BJF mailbag:
I vote for shutting down the federal government, after all, they got us into this mess.
Not the  most scintillating narration, but informative. The executive summary: We're boned.

Toes

Bluesun inspires another post and reminds me of more calamities I've survived without the Nannystate legislating me into a rubber room for my own protection.  It was the delayed pain aspect that brought back the associative memory.
Sometimes, when you stub your toe, it hurts like an em effer right away. Sometimes there's this delay, just long enough for you to think, "crap, here comes the pain."  Bluesun sidles off into the miracle of the healing process and in few words makes a connection to the Milky Way Galaxy, or something.
Waitress!, I'll have what he's drinking...
From my own experience, I've learned that some toes are more important than others.
Aside from sprained ankles, I've egregiously jammed my right big toe twice.  I recall the hobbling around for days on end. I recall the event that caused the hobbling for one of them. The other I've completely sublimated.
The event I recall involves a soccer ball.  To set this up, I needed a visual aid. I've seen these things hundreds of times and I realize I have no idea what they are called.
So, I go on a google search..let's try "metal balls on strings"  Hmmm, "Ben Wa balls", maybe that's it.
Yeeaaah...No. That's definitely not what I'm looking for. Ah, there it is.

In the midst of the Publik Schule Physical Education class, taught by three coaches, two of which were retired Marine Drill Sargents (I am not making this up, there is another whole post there now that I think about it) all of us gangly middle school boys were playing soccer.
Somebody booted the ball almost straight up into the air and it landed far outside the shin kicking herd.  Immediately, I broke away. At the same moment the other "fast kid" did as well. The field was open, it was just him and I.  We arrived at the ball positioned exactly 180 degrees from one another, relative to the ball.
If you grab two of the balls (assuming you are not a TSA "agent") from each end of newton's cradle and release them at the same time, they will bounce in opposite directions, and the center ball will not move.
We kicked the ball at exactly the same time. We both did a reverse Lindy and face planted on the field. The soccer ball did not move. After catching my breath, I learned that your big toe is very important in the process of walking. I was reminded of this concept for some days after that, every time I took a step.
I've found that really jacking up your little toe hobbles your walking ability as well. The little toe seems to provide yaw control, and when it is not functioning quite correctly, you may find yourself walking in large radius circles. But, that's another post I suppose.

The Unimportant Toe:
I have umpteen busted knuckles, scrapes and cuts from working on cars over the years. A toe injury is unusual.  I had worked the better part of Saturday, diagnosing and replacing parts under cloudy skies in a vain attempt to get the Astro Beater Van running again.  Saturday night, it rained.
Sunday morning I got up, bed head and all, and went out barefooted to think about the problem. I got into the driver's seat of the van and sat there for a while thinking about the symptoms of the problem.  I decided coffee would help so I shifted and put my left foot down in the well of the door, not thinking about my wet feet. I pushed on my left foot to turn for the exit and my foot slipped.
I kicked the inside of the door, pretty good mind you. You have five toes. You might have stubbed the Big toe, and certainly the little toed and perhaps by collateral damage the adjacent toes, but under what circumstances would you ever stub your middle toe?
I found it.
It hurt, sort of, after a delay. By the end of the day, the whole toe had turned black..well there was some purple in there too. So I'm thinking I need to go to the Doc. Surely it's broken. Conventional wisdom says there's not much to be done for a broken toe though. Tape to it's neighbor and get on with it.  Try not to walk in circles.
What I discovered is that it did not impair my bipedal motion whatsoever. Over the following days, it got to looking worse. I was pretty sure is was going to dry up and fall off. But, like Bluesun noted, the healing process is a miraculous thing.
It's still there, fulfilling it's role as the filler between the toes that hurt when you stub them.

It's....ALIVE!

Yes, I'm still on the right side of the grass.  Haven't posted much lately.
I've been dealing with the minutia of life.  (mellifluous enough Big Guy?) 
New car purchase, dispensing with the dead Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, fixing the leak(s) in the one and only son's Jeep moonroof, fretting about the leak above the windshield in the Astro beater van, helping second oldest daughter with IRS problems (money grubbing assholes) she's all of 22, IRS problems? Nastygram from the IRS? Really?
Fortunately, my older Sister is a CPA that eats IRS agents as horse doovers. ( that's Hors D'oeuvres for those that don't speak George W.)
Dealing with the Homeowner's Association over annual dues, whose acronym is "C.I.A.", buncha busybodies with nuthin better to do.
Pissed actually inspired this post.
 I've made it this far without any broken bones, but thought I'd post up a list of the stupidity and random happenstance I survived as a child (adolescent, legal adult)
And all this with not one iota of help from the federal government no less. Amazing, I know.
Chronologically, more or less:
1)  Age 3 (or perhaps4):  I dragged a chair over to the counter, climbed up and retrieved the bottle of iron fortified Chocks Vitamins from the upper kitchen cabinet. Ate the whole bottle. Hey, they were chewable and tasted like candy. I don't recall my mother being home at time, but she appeared out of nowhere, dragged my ass into the bathrom and stuck her finger down my throat. I requested that she stop doing that, because it was making me throw up. Response was negative.  As I was told much later, she called the doctor and was instructed to do so. Iron poisoning was abated. The only side affect was that my little butt broke out in a rash.
2) Age 5 or so, I got interested in my mother's Singer sewing machine. It was not plugged in, but I thought it was interesting how when I turned the wheel, the needle thing went up and down. In slow motion no less, I managed to nail my left thumb to the base with the needle. In a brief moment of panic, I tried to pull my hand away to no success. I credit myself with the presence of mind to turn the wheel the other way and free my thumb. I've never spoken of this before, not even to the Lovely Belle. I share this in the deepest of confidence.
3) Age 6, 7, 8: Mom was a smoker. She used to send me down to the 7 Eleven with 50 cents to get her a pack of Menthol Salems. The clerk got used to this.  Being 1966 to 1968 in the confines of the Elm Lawn Pen with no video games, internet and only 5 TV channels to watch, my buddy Mark and I hatched a plan. We scraped together 5 dimes by collecting returnable bottles and I bought a pack of cigs. We high tailed it down to the "ditch" and smoked the whole pack. I didn't know you were supposed to inhale, so I just got a nasty taste in my mouth, but boy did we feel all badass and cool.
4)  Age 10:  Genie Smoke. We used to peel firecrackers to get to the gunpowder. We'd collect it in a bottle cap and once full, we'd light it up for a big flash and a lot of smoke. I made the mistake of picking up one of the bottle caps right after ignition.  Rather hot, n'est pas? Blister on my index finger and thumb.
5)  Age 12, 13, 14...lost track:  Firecrackers.  Blew up my fingers a few times trying to throw black cats with short fuses. ( I come by it honestly, my Dad blew off his fingernail handling a ladyfinger firecracker)
6) Age 15 to 18: In spite of the myths about white men, I could jump.  What I could not do well, was land.  I've lost track of which was which, but I sprained my ankles 5 times. On three of the occasions, I turned it so hard, I abraded my ankle bone. On the fifth and final event which ended my pickup basketball career, I heard something pop. Went for x-rays on that one. I was 6'-2", 180 pounds with the ankles of a Ballerina. (Well, a 180 lb. Ballerina)
7) Age 16 to...:  Car wrecks. First with no seat belt. Yes, I'm that old. This post is long enough.
8) Age 48, or was it 49? I forget, at least I'm trying to:  I saved the best for last, so far.  Replacing the rear leaf springs on the the beloved Jeep Cherokee. Leaf springs arrive with no rubber bushings in the eyes, so I order the bushings and do some interwebz research on how to wedge those tootsie rolls in there.
Beware the interwebz.  One process I find involves wedging a screwdriver in the gap at the end of the leaf spring eye to open it up so the round rubber bushing will "slide right in".  This was working fabulously for about three quarters of the bushing. Then it came to a grinding halt. So, standing over the leaf spring, screwdriver wedged, with a rubber mallet, I commence to drive the bushing in. So far, so good. What I did not realize was the screwdriver was starting to back out. The screwdriver found the "critical mass" point and shot out of the leaf spring.
Had it rotated 180 degrees, I'd not be making this post.  The handle of the screwdriver shattered the right lense of my glasses, cracked the bridge of my nose, and bruised my right eyeball. I had a gray spot in the vision of my right eye for about two months hence. There were cuts and profligate bleeding. I could not see out of my right eye, and...I was home alone.  This was one of the very few, "oh my God, oh my God" moments in my life.
Two days later I went for an eye exam for new glasses. My eye doc had a confused look on her face. Still had the gray spot in my right eye field of vision, but I'd made my appointment some weeks prior, and needed to get this done and done. I have to work after all. No rest for the weary.
I left out all the oyster shell cuts, fish hook impalements, the scar on the back of my right hand a sixteenth of an inch from a bulbous vane, knife cuts, abrasions to the bone, etc etc etc.
Still on the right side of the grass.
All you occupiers with your iphones are a bunch of pussies. Pick your self up and get on with it.