̶H̶o̶m̶e̶l̶e̶s̶s̶ ̶C̶h̶r̶o̶n̶i̶c̶l̶e̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶T̶a̶m̶p̶a̶ Lost in the Carolinas: ROW 80 DAY55

Here it is 9:00 in the am and I am excited to be making this post. JC coined a word last night, or a term, or whatever and it’s a doozy. I'm also really exited about Silly Dad Blog Names.(SHAMELESS PLUG FOR DADDIES; GO READ ABOUT THEM; CELEBRATE THEM. SEE THEIR ANTICS. VOTE FOR THEM. MANY PRIZES ARE AT STAKE. THEY'RE CRAPPY PRIZES, BUT THEY'RE PRIZES!) I have to back up and explain something first. When don’t I. Because I’m pretty abysmally tremorous, I tend to stay away from things that have more than one moving part, things with sharp objects and things that heat up. I’m a disaster in the kitchen. Whether or not that has anything to do with my bobcat-like domesticity, I can’t say, but it’s not my Happy Place. The only reason I can deal with a viola is that I have done it for so long and there is a powerful bunch of muscle memory going on. I think it trumps whatever those little bastard neurons or non-dopa ropas are or aren’t doing. I’m still reading about this disease; the only two things I’m clear on: 1) no 2 cases of Parkinson’s Disease are alike and 2) Parkinson’s exacerbates or causes MENTAL problems (I’m already Bipolar). Key issue is LOWERED IMPULSE CONTROL. Now, we’re talking! Gimme LESS impulse control than I already have which is about zero! Send me out on the streets with rabid druggies, and a metal cane. Get your stop watch. Take bets on who will win. There’s only one problem; they won’t come near me. I have a rep, and a bad one. Well, shit. I need new victims, er, contestants.

I kid, sort of. I do try to act prickly and mean it, but this is to the ones who are looking for money, or a bad time. They get what I’m about in 5 seconds. Anyway, none of this is about all of the crap that happens out there in the real world. This happened at home. I actually did whip up a bit of a dinner. I took a few chicken filets, whisked some Campbell’s French onion and Golden Mushroom soup and a can of stems and pieces mushrooms in a glass bowl and covered the raw chicken filets, which were about 2 to 3 inches across. They were thin and cooked in less than ½ hour. I served over yellow rice with saffron, real saffron. Yum. Here is the very, very basic recipe, tailor at will

1 Can Campbell French Onion Soup

2 Cans Campbell Mushroom Soup

8 oz. Can Mushrooms Pieces and Stems

6 - 8 pieces raw chicken filets, rinsed and dried

4 cups prepared Yellow Rice, with Saffron

Directions: Dump and stir 3 cans of soup together in a glass bowl w/cover, whisk madly. Throw in mushrooms. Bury Chicken filets. Cover. Bake at 400° or until tender.

JC is diabetic; I try to cook healthy for him and one of the lovely things I have discovered recently, is I go from starved to completely full in .05 seconds and I have to stop eating. Part of it is the fact that I have ½ a stomach, but I used to be able to eat everything in sight. Now, I have to be in the “mood,” because of the damaged nerves from my Parkinson's and I can’t eat as much. Yesterday was the first time I've cooked in 2 months.

Anyway, I have some kitties. They’re not real kitties. They’re pixilated “kitties.” On “FooPets.” This is the first time I haven’t had real kitties in a long time, because I fear that I may not be able to care for them at some point. So, I have electronic kittles. You have to feed, and water and play with them. You buy them little pixilated toys and flea medicine, with money you “earn.” Anyway, I was giving my pets a bath. I really miss real kitties, like Trotsky and Bootsies; my electronic "kitties" resemble them physically. Sometimes, I wonder if that was smart.

All well and good, of course, the idea of giving the cat a bath in my house always led to epic brawls. We had a ginger cat named “Oliver,” and about once a month, he would roll in motor oil and lay under my father’s feet. Now this part is important. They had an ongoing feud. My father would wait until Oliver (the cat, not the person) was taking a shit in my mother’s flower garden, and then, my father would run out the front door and rattle the can opener, just to see the horrendous look of tortuous indecision on the cat’s face. Daddy would then run back in the house, cackling madly. And people wonder what is wrong with me. Anyway, Oliver would wait, a day or so, then go and find someone who had a car on life support and roll in the driveway after that person had had their car towed, or miracle of miracles, was able to start it and drive away.

Oliver would then sneak back into the house via the kitchen screen (“it’ll keep out the big ones”) and hide under the kitchen table. This cat, of course knew the rhythms of people and knew when weekends were occurring. Being 10 am and all, Daddy was well into his Ripple and I was sitting around, enjoying the show. Make no mistake; it WAS enjoyable. I never knew what my father was going to say, but it would be funny. Or, it might be this: “What the hell is that Goddamned smell? Oliver! You’ve been rolling in motor oil again!” And the Battle Royale would start. Up the stairs, down the stairs, my father would chase Oliver. If my mom was putting dishes in the dishwasher, Ollie would try to hide in the dishwasher; my father would then fling dishes out of the way, cursing madly. Greatest show on earth and an entire Dumb Show. This was them stretching their brains, or playing, or whatever it was. This was the reason we ate out of so many Blue Bonnet Margarine bowls and of so many paper plates.

Once Daddy got his hands on Oliver, the yowling and screeching began. Oliver would hang onto the curtain. He tore it down once. We either took baths for a month, or took showers and swam to the bathroom door because no one gave a damn; it was too entertaining. Ollie would get the full treatment, as allowed. Soap, rinse and bound up in a towel. He looked like he was in a straight jacket. I never noticed that he was any appreciably cleaner after his “bath” from my father. He’d still have oil patches on his back. My father always looked like he’d been through that cheesy “Mangler” from the movie of the same name. Then the cycle of violence would begin anew.

What brought all this idiot reminiscence to the forefront was the Foopets faux pas and what happened. Despite the cooking, I need to stick to non-lethal activities. The list is growing. When I went to “dry” my kitty I must have gotten carried away and I fell out of my chair. No harm done and I have not a shred of dignity and JC is used to my inanities, so I was fine. He looked at me and said, “I don’t know if Stupidicaid covers that.” There ensued what Stupidicaid claims would look like: “fell out of chair playing Foo Pets. Slipped on mouse.” “Set hair on fire while cooking.” That might be covered by Stupidicaid. What about “Run over bus while dead drunk.” Or “Knocked in head and robbed by crack ho. See expense report.” We might draw the line there. What a concept. Stupidicaid, indeed.