Turkey Sucks

There, I've said it.

Yes I'm bitter because the annual Thanksgiving standoff has resulted in my need-to-please-the-family-to-compensate-for-my-loser-brother-whose-trial-is-in-two-weeks taking over my sense of reason and making me volunteer to cook tomorrow. Damn my aunt who can't cook all to hell for not stepping up again.

So last night as I was considering what to cook for just six people (we know my bro and the crank skank wouldn't dare show up), I decided turkey is out because, well, in my humble opinion, turkey just isn't that great. The only thing it has going for it is that it's big, dumb and slow and the pilgrims were able to catch it easily. I'm surprised grouse isn't the annual feast bird out west. It's not especially flavorful. Nine times out of ten it's dry. It's a bitch to carve. My dog is allergic to it. And, worst of all, it results in mandatory turkey-based meals involving stale rolls and can-molded cranberries for the first two weeks of December each year. If turkey were as great as we pretend it is for that one day a year, it would be more common in restaurants and frozen meals - wouldn't it?

I thought about cooking cornish game hens to try to keep with some semblance of tradition. Then I realized I don't want to cook game hens, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, and all that other stuff you only eat once a year because I'll be stuck with the leftovers. So I decided on an alternate menu that includes some of the family's favorites and will all be consumed in one sitting:

Oysters Rockefeller (dad's fav)
Prosciutto wrapped asparagus (mom's fav)
Crab cakes with secret homemade remoulade sauce (everyone's fav)
Filet of sole stuffed with cajun rock shrimp and crab meat (it's good)
Steamed veggies (for health reasons)
Rice pilaf (for my aunt who will complain if there's no rice or potatoes)
Boston Cream Pie (my fav)

The good thing about this menu , other than that it's all tasty, is that I doubt there will be a rush on any of the items at the grocery store since everyone else will be scrambling for Mrs. Cubbison's dressing mix, cheap turkeys, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie.

And whoever complains first about the lack of Thanksgiving fare (taht's you aunt P, oh, wait, you don't read...) gets to cook next year.

Enjoy your turkeys.

Yes, I know this post sucks but I haven't been out with any overweight militants in at least three days.

I just never learn, do I?

Okay, I was trying to keep this a secret but it's giving me so much material I feel that my temporary embarassment is worth the sheer entertainment value of the thing: I put an ad online a couple of months ago to meet people where I'm moving.

Don't worry, I've hidden the profile now so you stalkers can't find it. And yes, there were pictures on it. Lots of them. One involving a spiked dog collar and leather...

So here's the deal with internet dating: women who post pictures and appear to have at least six teeth, weigh less than 200 lbs, and have two or more limbs, get responses. Lots of them. Strange ones. Short ones. Long ones. I-love-you-will-you-marry-me ones. Didn't-know-you-could-live-past-12-with-that-disorder ones. I-paid-for-a-glam-shot-just-for-this ones. And occassionally, seemingly normal ones. It's kind of like shopping at Ross - you have a lot of seconds, overstocks, and irregulars with an occassional good find that seems like it won't fall apart at the seams until you've tossed in the spin cycle a few times.

I posted my ad a couple of months ago and have been contacted by a number of candidates. Actually, more likely every single man in Kern County that can search the internet. Being a nice girl (sometimes) and realizing people are putting themselves out there to respond, it's my policy to attempt to reply to anyone who takes the time to actually write me a note. The problem is that so few men get responses, when you do respond to their note, they immediately fall in love and start building their world around you. God forbid you have a few e-mails and then allow for a phone call before choosing chocolate or vanilla for the wedding cake. And if you don't respond they'll send you a nasty e-mail breaking up with you and telling you what a b**** you are. Seriously, I can't believe how many times I've been broken up with by men I've never met.

So a couple of weeks ago I exchanged phone numbers with G, a private pilot with a house on the local runway that has a hangar instead of a garage. He has traveled the world as a bush pilot, cargo pilot, and probably less-than-legal-stuff pilot. Now he's settled in the high desert to be closer to his son. We spoke on the phone and had a great conversation - about the military (having both been in), places in Mexico we've been to, earth-moving equipment (men are fascinated by my equipment operator past), and life in general. He sounded active, adventurous, and fun. It was a nice conversation and I looked forward to meeting him.

We had another phone conversation at some point and discussed my crazy family and their zoo. He mentioned that his son loves animals and he'd love to take him out there if possible, date or no date. So I told him the next time I was in town I would take him and his son out to see the animals. The next time was set to be Saturday and he just happened to have his son that weekend. Perfect, it was set up.

It was after this second phone call when the first sign of crazy appeared. Last Monday to be exact. I came home to one message from G on my home phone, then four hang ups on the machine. My cell phone, which I rarely turn on, had 6 missed calls from him! This was all in a span of about two hours. No messages but the one, and a bunch of hang ups. No sooner had I cleared the messages on both phones than my home phone rang. I did not pick up. Another hang up, presumably from G. Then the cell phone rang. Again, I did not pick up. In fact, I switched both phones off, made a mental note of G's propensity for phone stalking, and called it a night. The call log on Tuesday showed four more calls to the cell. Remember, we hadn't met yet.

The next evening G called my cell and I picked up. One has to deal with these things eventually, right? I answered the phone, "Is this my stalker?" He fumbled with words and excuses: the gist of it was that he had been 45 minutes from Ventura attending his court-ordered anger management class and thought we could meet in the middle somewhere that night for dinner and that's why he kept calling. Impressed as I was by the excuse, I told him I didn't think we should meet. Then he played the son card. Yep, the old, "But you promised you would take him and it's all he's talking about and we'll just go see the animals and that will be it."

So Saturday came and I called G from the road. What can I say? I'm a sucker for kids and it's not the poor son's fault his dad is crazy. The plan was to meet in the middle between my parents' place and his, then have them follow me out to the ranch. We ended up meeting at McDonald's in town. Keep in mind that the guy had a picture on the internet and he looked average.

I arrive at McDonald's and what do I see? An old black Jeep CJ-5 with camouflage seat covers, airplane insignia and a Semper Fi bumper sticker that I just know is his. Something inside my head tells me to put my truck in reverse and skip the meeting - 3 year olds get over stuff, right?

Still, I've been to war, felt poo bags, and seen worse in the form of Batmobiles so I go inside. I scan the room for someone who looks like a familiar stranger and see no one who even remotely resembles the guy in the picture online. In fact, the only single guy I see with a young kid is fat and extremely unattractive. Wouldn't you know it? He recognizes me and attempts to unwedge himself from the plastic booth while balancing his extra large milkshake in one hand and shoving a fistful of fries into his mouth. And there he is, in all his Hoo-Rah glory, wearing the largest pair of camo pants ever made (could they have been converted from an old field tent?), a black turtleneck (not to be worn by men with the physique of Boss Hogg), and a camo hunting cap.

I realize I am sometimes prone to exaggeration, purely for effect, but in this case, I need not lie. The man had to weigh over 300 lbs. And to be dressed in fatigues and driving that Jeep - it was comical. I did my best to hide the shock and focused on his son - a cute kid whose father had no clue. The son was eating a Happy Meal so I sat down to wait for him to finish. And then, in case you couldn't possibly imagine things getting worse, they did.

G started quizzing his son about military aircraft. He would ask him what kind of plane flew 6537 mph, which one had specific rotors, etc., and then sternly correct the 3 year old who cared more about pickles on his cheeseburger than Osprey landing gear. G also told me more than I ever care to know about aircraft. Finally, we headed to the ranch where the fiasco continued.

My father, a Marine drill instructor, did not like the guy one bit. He commented that no Marine would ever let himself got to hell like G had. My mother thought he needed to get a life and we pondered what aircraft cockpit was weight rated for such a behemoth. It was unpleasant and, thankfully, my folks feigned a need for my services once the boy had seen an touched all the animals and gotten his Christmas card shot with the reindeer. I breathed a sigh of relief as G took off down the dirt road and looked forward to never communicating with him again.

Later that afternoon, as I was on my way up to the mountain estate, G called my cell phone. He sheepishly inquired, "You're not interested are you?"

What could I say? I was hungover, had just met a man in camouflage with anger issues at McDonald's to be lectured on military aircraft capabilites, and, oh, he compeletely misrepresented himself in his personal ad?

So I asked him if he would ever date someone who lied about themselves and was 150 lbs overweight? He said no. I replied, then what makes you think I would?

Note to men: 1. Don't lie about your looks - if you ever meet she'll find out. Better yet, lie about stuff she won't figure out for a few dates - like anger management classes; 2. No matter how much you are into planes, trains, or cars, she isn't - just like you aren't into the Hollywood gossip scene - so don't discuss it if she's not asking; 3. Never meet a date a McDonald's; 4. Camouflage is only appropriate as a costume or uniform.

Crushed

So our local chapter of the Hash House Harriers actually had a run in my neighborhood yesterday. Miracles never cease. The run was nice - over the mountains, through the bushes (complete with stickers and pricks), across the river (several times), through the paintball war zone, past a farmer with a gun who did not think having beer-toting adults run through his property was in the least bit amusing, and finally to the keg at the end. After the run I came out of retirement as general manager and led the group through the religious ceremony also known as 'down-downs' wherein we drink beer, sing silly songs, and give someone a toilet plunger to carry around on the next run. Yeah, guess who got it? After that and a few trips to the keg, a group of us headed to the local BBQ establishment for dinner.

So there I am, chortling with friends, thinking how nice it is to be in my 'hood with this motley crew, wearing wet, muddy lycra and a hideous goldenrod shirt when who should I see snarfling some BBQ in my hometown? My crush!

Our eyes locked for a moment before my friend nearly knocked me over with her buckled-over laughter at the situation. I murmurred some semblance of a hello and scurried off to the restroom to assess the situation.

Yep, even through my happily buzzed haze, I could see it was bad. Goldenrod is hideous in strawberry blondes. And the lycra! Good grief, who wears wet lycra to dinner? And my hair - imagine Cousin Itt without leave-in conditioner. I headed back inside to get in line, deliberately avoiding eye contact and feigning small talk with my fellow drunken revellers - one of whom was over talking to my crush giving him a massage as he sat across the table from his wife and child. The nerve! Touching my crush!

After dinner, when our raucous crew was leaving, peer pressure forced me go back into the BBQ place under the guise of introducing two fellow runner-drinker-lawyers to the crush to harass the hapless crush a bit. It was awkward but not as awkward as it could have been if I'd had my toilet plunger in hand.

In the end, I smiled all the way home as I relived the hilarity of it all. You see, the really fun thing about a crush when you're an adult is that it renders a normally gregarious and witty person (that would be me) completely speechless, dumbfounded, and questioning why you hadn't gone home to change and primp before going to the restaurant lest the elusive crush show up at your local BBQ establishment on a Sunday night out for dinner with his family. Not much can do that to an adult after living a bit and you've got to savor the silly little moments when you can. After all, anything that can defeat steadfast ration for a fleeting second is worth some contemplation.

And don't worry, it's not that I'll ever act on my crush. It's just that it's so darned fun having one. The element of surprise is one of the best parts of the crush: you don't wait to see the crush, you don't even ever anticipate it, but when it happens it leaves you in a schoolgirl-waiting-to-be-asked-to-the-prom-by-Johnny-the-football-captain-oh-my-god-he-just-looked-at-me-I-may-puke kind of way. You know you're never going to the prom with Johnny (because he's with that cheerleader you don't like), but you still like to think about it.

So here's to crushes, wet lycra, and being rendered speechless at The Oak Pit.

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The Berserker Defense

This is why the Vikings are my favorite football team.

Some players allegedly rented a boat on a lake in Minnesota, took some booze and women with them, then, somewhat surprisingly, experienced drunkennesss and sexual activity. The crew of the boat was so upset they weren't getting any that they turned back two hours early and notified authorities.

Here's what was reported to the authorities:

"The crew members told Hennepin County sheriff's deputies they had to step over and around players and naked women engaged in sex acts...There was lap dancing with a fair amount of cash floating around the floor with the dancers, leading quickly into sexual acts in a nature so explicit imagination wasn't necessary," Doyle said.

And here are some of the responses from the satisfied players:

"They're killing my name," Smoot said as he walked to his car in the parking lot.

Dude, your name is Smoot.

"That's crazy. Sex? Come on," said Moore, the team's leading rusher with 187 yards.

Yeah, sex is pretty crazy man. Who the heck does that anyhow?

Maybe they aren't Vikings after all, but Berserkers. The two are often confused by the uneducated. If they are indeed berserkers, there is a reason for this crazy behavior:

Theories to explain berserker behavior

One explanation behind beserker rage, suggested by botanists, is that in Scandinavia, one of the main spices in alcoholic beverages was the plant bog myrtle (Myrica gale syn: Gale palustris). The drawback is that it increases the hangover headache afterwards. Drinking alcoholic beverages spiced with bog myrtle the night before going to battle, might have resulted in unusually aggressive behavior.

Those who believe in the existence of spirit possession favor a theory that the berserk rage was brought on by possession by an animal spirit of either a bear or a wolf. According to this theory, berserkers were those who had cultivated an ability to allow the spirit of a bear or wolf to take over their body during a fight. This is seen as a somewhat peculiar application of animal totemism.

Proponents of the drug theory favor ergotism or the use of the fly agaric mushroom. Drunken rage would do as well. It is also possible that berserkers worked themselves into their frenzy through purely psychological processes, i.e., frenzied rituals and dances. According to Saxo Grammaticus they also drank bear or wolf blood.

A UK television programme in 2004 tested the possible use of fly agaric and alcohol by training a healthy volunteer in the use of Viking weapons, then evaluating his performance under the influence of fly agaric or alcohol compared to no influence. It was obvious that use of fly agaric or alcohol severely reduced his fighting ability, and the tentative conclusion drawn was that berserk state was achieved psychologically; otherwise berserkers would have been too easy to kill. On the other hand, the Zulu impi are said to have made use of snuff containing cannabis and/or mushroom-derived psychoactives to enhance their performance in battle.

You've gotta love British scientific methods.

Going berserk – berserksgangr or berserkergang – could also happen in a middle of daily work. It began with shivering, chattering of the teeth, and a chill in the body. The face swelled and changed its color. Next came great rage, howling, and indiscriminate brawling. When the rage quelled, the berserker was exhausted and dull of mind for up to several days. According to sagas, many enemies of berserkers exploited this stage to get rid of them.

I have experienced this.

U.S. professor Jesse L. Byock claims (in Scientific American, 1995) that berserker rage could have been a symptom of Paget's disease. Uncontrolled skull bone growth could have caused painful pressure in the head. He mentions the unattractive and large head of Egill Skallagrímsson in Egilssaga. Other possibilities are mild epilepsy, rabies, and hysteria.

Hmmm...Thick skulls and insanity?

Today the word "berserker" applies to anyone who fights with reckless abandon and disregard to even his own life, i.e., "goes berserk".

Yes, I am that geeky.