I discovered a dark secret last night. My son, at age ten, is living up the blogger stereotype. He is unemployed, living in his parents’ basement, and wears sweatpants all day. And has his own blog, which he updates more than I update mine. I should buy him a bag of Cheetos so he can stain his fingers and keyboard and perfectly round out the image. Imagine, living the dream by ten. I need to teach him to type in all-caps and get him on Wonkette next. I guess I have one more website to monitor every day. Sigh . . .

Oh hey, I’ve found god! It turns out he was busy making podcasts and kind of tuned us all out, which explains why everybody keeps searching so hard for him. His creator, apparently, is a former Mormon. Trippy, man (yes, I am high on stress and lack of sleep).

Okay, that’s it. Hopefully the boy-child will forget to post today and I can pull ahead in the great blogger wars.

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I can hear the chocolate calling me. I’ve given in, sucking down a dozen dark chocolate, cocoa-dusted almonds over the last hour, and still they cry out to me. Jennie claimed that urges are your body telling you you need something. Does this mean I am low on dusted chocolate pleasure?

Not speaking of which, I have been thinking of earlier days and phone calls I had received while working in a veterinary hospital. And still wondering how a person could possibly discover that she is allergic to guinea pig semen. I wouldn’t think that your average person, allergic or not, would ever discover said allergy. Now please excuse me while I go bleach my brain again.

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Fucking hell. I’ve missed two days of exercise, and I feel like crap. I wrenched my left shoulder on Sunday, moving the pool table for Vally’s Valentine Party. Dramatically increasing my chocolate and sugar intake while eliminating exercise does not seem to have fixed things. I can barely move my left arm, and typing is now a one-handed affair. I think I need either more alcohol or more muscle relaxants and anti-inflammatories. Too bad I cannot work or think when I’m medicated enough to be pain-free. This is going to be a fun week.

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So we did a blind taste test this weekend: Four whiskeys, no clue. Ballantine, Knob Creek, Buffalo Trace and Maker’s Mark. Ballantine, a true Scotch, failed quickly. Harsh, with no depth, it had no chance against the three bourbon whiskeys. Surprisingly, Maker’s Mark, which I figured would be the champ, was also a wash. While slightly different, we haven’t decided which we like better of Buffalo Trace and Knob Creek. (with many apologies to my 1996 GMC Sierra…) We may not be able to make a reliable automobile, but America can craft a decent Whiskey.

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Oh hey, it’s finally starting to look like winter out here. The one night I don’t bother to park my truck in the garage, and it snows “wicked hahd” (We’re heading over the the East Coast is another month or so and I had to get some Bostonian out of me. So sorry). I’d snap a pciture, but I don’t feel like getting up right now.

So, I’ve found the perfect balance of exercise and gluttony: If I only eat and drink to excess 4 days a week and live well the other three, I continue to get fit. As long as I can exercise heavily for 2 hours every day of the week, I can have my ice cream, scallops and 5 glasses of wine 4 days a week. Yay. I’m really f***ing tired. There’s no way this plan can fail, right?

Actually, it’s kind of fun seeing how hard I can push myself. Being somewhat sparse in the meniscus department thanks to a couple of knee injuries, I haven’t really run in 20 years or so. Now I’m doing 8-9 miles a day, brace-free. Even better, I no longer end up curled up in the fetal position afterwards, holding my knees and moaning. Life is good. As long as we don’t get snowed in.

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Jennie picked up a box of Meyer lemons the other day. This may be the end of my latest fitness kick, as they (the lemons are still the subject. Pay attention, damnit!) make the most amazing Lemon Drops. Oh well; at least I managed to drop 35 of the 75 pounds I wanted to shed. Damn you, tasty booze!

A Lemon Drop is much more enjoyable than a six mile run any day . . . Besides, with the whole fitness thing, my center of balance is completely out of whack. It’s much better to have all the weight at your middle rather than in your chest and arms, right? I’d make a lousy weeble right now.

Hmmm . . . I think it is time for another Lemon Drop. I feel almost coherent.

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My love affair with N. Idaho has faded. Cheap land is not worth the political climate. This is what Sarah Palin calls “real America,” a chunk of nation so backwards they think a right-of-center pol like Obama is a socialist. As a heavily-armed pacifist, I spend too much time at the local shooting range. I park next to the truck with the extra-large window decal exclaming “Obama, change for the worse.” My daughter’s civics teacher is a teabagger (and no, not the good type; she believes in the tea party movement and all of its contradictions). My neighbor asks me how I like the peace and quiet, or more specifically, how wonderful it is without blacks or Mexicans. Sorry, but I want a bit or variety, a little color in my vanilla landscape. So my love affair with N. Idaho has faded.

I look forward to battling mildew and the salt air rather than closed minds. Sure, I’ll have to give up my 30-round magazines and assault-rifle sleekness, but California is where I want to be. Hello Redwoods, goodbye bigotry.

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I completed my Saeco Aroma espresso upgrade this week, adding a frothing pitcher, steel tamper, non-pressurized portafilter and the cutest little red knock box from Seattle Coffee Gear.

For the past three days, I have been able to make espressos strong enough to double as paint remover, so it has definitely been worth it. I may have to work on my tamping technique, however. Per Seattle Coffee Gear’s instructional video, I should be using 30 pounds of pressure. So far, I have been pressing down on the tamper while jumping up and down, applying the full 250 pounds of me as pressure. The result is an almost pitch-black brew for the first ounce, dark brown for the second ounce, and the equivalent of the first ounce using the pressurized portafilter for the third ounce.

Vally, Jennie and I may have ulcers by the end of the month, but I’m definitely extracting the full flavour of the coffee now.

The only part I’ve had problems with is the knock box. It is small, red and adorable, but it was definitely not designed for six double shots every day. By the time I am finished making espresso, I’ve also made an incredible mess of splashes and puck pieces all around the knock box.

Next week I’ll try frothing.

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WTF Democrats? Health care should be simple. We have a majority in the House and Senate, and a Democrat in the White House. We easily won the Presidential elections less than a year ago. By Republican standards, we have a mandate to do whatever the fuck we want. Why, then, are we constrained by the Republicans and their obstructionist practices? Screaming loudly and making shit up does not constitute valid opposition. If it did, we could replace the entire Republican party with a pack of chimpanzees (Seqways optional). We would get a lot more done, and I am pretty sure a lot less shit would get flung.

You are wasting our majority and any chance at real reform. Compromise with the self-branded “party of no” does not do anything other than prove that we are not serious about reform. Really, are we trying to pass reform, or is this all just posturing to try to appease those of us in the party who hoped for change? It’s starting to feel like Max Baucus and the rest of the insurance company shills are the only ones who have a voice in this. Let’s ignore the birthers, baggers and bitters and just reform health care. No compromise, no consensus building, just fix it. And when you’re done, maybe pull your collective head out of your collective ass and drop this anti-Acorn nonsense. Surely there’s a Dem somewhere between the White House, Senate and House with a spine.

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I pour a tall shot,
three ounces of Tarantula,
then cut a thick wedge of lime.

Giving it a lick,
the base of my hand is prepared
for the requisite salt dash.

All is ready now:
My salted hand, a shot, and lime.
I pause and take a quick breath.

When I was younger,
the shot would have been Cuervo Gold
or something equally harsh.

I am older now,
and have learned that a tequila
needn’t be a punishment.

Lips to salted hand,
I lick, anticipating now
the mix of flavours coming.

The shot glass tipped back,
tequila spreads across my tongue
and then I swallow slowly.

Biting the lime wedge,
my center fills with spreading warmth
and I prepare the next shot.

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