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My Profile
Retro-retrospection - 2008-10-06
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1:10 a.m. - 2005-05-04
‘Lookin’ for some hot stuff, baby, this evening.’ I’ve got plenty of hot stuff, however I don’t think chili peppers were what Donna Summer had in mind. A slow day today. No laundry done at all. And the aforementioned chilies were the only things that got planted. This year I’m growing basic red chilies, serrano chilies, cayenne peppers, tabasco peppers, and habaneras. The weird thing is, I don’t like hot peppers at all. I eat no-alarm chili and put ketchup on my tacos. I don’t like foods that burn. I don’t understand the appeal. Those puppies hurt! They burn the mouth, scorch the esophagus, inflame the stomach, and a day or two later the real bad news hits. Nuh uh, don’t like painful food. I’m very sensitive to capsaicin anyhow. Just picking the jalapenos last year made my fingertips swell. Can’t use Icy-Hot or Ben-Gay or any of those warming liniments. Welt right up and the pain lasts for days. If I were a physical, rather than an emotional masochist I’d be all set. So I have all these wicked peppers planted and come mid-August there’s gonna be some serious salsa at Casa Sage. Definitely have to use the mason jars, that stuff’ll eat right through plastic. I’m also thinking about doing spicy olive oil this year and giving it instead of cookies at Christmas. If I stumble on some nice looking bottles with pour spouts I’ll be all set. Pier 1 has cool ones, but they cost the earth. See what I can turn up at IKEA. Or maybe the Dollar Store. Unlike Trance’s ghetto crap-o-torium, the dollar stores up here in whitebread country are amazing. There’s this one that has such incredible stuff I just wander around muttering like a demented escapee from a margarine commercial. “I can’t believe it’s just a dollar!” It wouldn’t surprise me to go in there one day to find they’re selling furniture. For a dollar. I made a discovery today. I am NOT in any way, shape or form an adrenalin junkie. I used to like to drive fast, but this was more about mastery than the speed rush. I loved controlling all that power. When I was growing up a guy was only as good as his engine. We girls learned to rate dates by their horsepower. Somewhere along the line I dumped getting a tough car through a guy and went straight for the engine myself. Muscle. Detroit muscle. I cannot convey to you the pain I feel driving these watery, gutless waddling mom mobiles Mike keeps buying me. He’s like a fucking cat with dead gophers! What am I supposed to say when he limps into the driveway with yet another wheezing hunk of junk and then hops out all smiley and proud, “Look what I brung ya! See? I bought it just for you!” I swear, it’s just like the cat. “Oh! You…it…for me? Really? Well, um…thanks.” And there I am, driving another dead gopher. Go ahead. Call me ungrateful. There’s starving housewives in Albania who would love to have my shitty car. Okay, send me their addresses, I’ll send it over ASAP. Anyhow. Back to adrenalin. I find that squirt of ‘fight or flight’ most unpleasant. I don’t like being scared. I spent way too much time in formative years being scared for real. Deliberately going after that feeling for fun is foreign to me. After growing up in my mother’s house, I don’t need to throw myself out of an airplane to know what terror is. I understand why others might get off on it though. I have a theory that most thrill junkies had very cushy, very non-threatening childhoods. Gosh I’m bland. No spicy foods. No bungee jumping. No horror movies. But I’m already planning the Christmas goodies! Only true slapdash adventurers put off doing their holiday prep until the last 8 months beforehand. Talk about getting in under the wire! Whoo. Way to walk on the wild side, LA. Boring is, as boring does, ~Mrs Mayonnaise
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