The Bucket Brigade

I'm not a parent and I realize I'm lacking the "if I actually had a child, I'd think differently" belief, but it's of my own poor opinion that we have become an overly-padded society. I never think twice about wearing all of my gear when I get on my motorcycle, but bicycling down the street? Helmets for roller-blading? Come on. Grow some neck muscles. I wear my gear because I must (in my head)...motorcycling has the potential for extremely painful and/or deadly injuries, even at 30 miles an hour. But if you are struck retarded hitting the curb with your melon while riding a ten-speed, my friend, that's not irresponsible. That's survival of the fittest.

Growing up, I've gotten scars; my brother had chipped a tooth...in fact, a couple of times we've wounded each other permanently (thermostat to the scapula and alledged steak knife wound in the hand); this is stuff that just happens when you're growing up. Actually, all the scars have stories. There's the two-inch scar on my stomach from where my cat launched off me when I was high school age. I have a visible scar from where the kite string burned through the skin in my wrist in grade school when I was trying (unsuccessfully) to fly a kite down my street...a talent I seem to be lacking even now. My knees crunch audibly in yoga class...they don't hurt...I know one is crunchy from dislocating it long ago, not sure why the other one emulates.

Brother sports a scar under his chin from barreling down a hill on his face instead of his mountain bike. He likes to tell people that the hospital gave him internal stitches as well as external because there wasn't enough "meat" to close the wound. There's the one on his elbow from another sports-related incident.

We know how we "earned" all our scars, and yet, somehow we survived them all. We played in the dirt, we stomped in the rain puddles barefoot, we've thrown sand in each other's face. We didn't have anti-bacterial blahty-blah, HEPA yadda-yadda, anti-microbial schmala-schmal. We had chicken pox, colds, stomach flu (okay, maybe the world would be a better place without stomach flu...that really blows). I really believe that without the dirt, scum and bacteria around, we'd all be frail and asthmatic. I'm probably alone in this line of thinking, but I'm starting to see it in the children that are being raised around me. The ones who fall and go boom, skin a knee, get back up and move on are growing up healthier than the ones slathered in alcohol hand rub and living in Filtreted homes.

As I write this I realize, if I ever have kids, they're gonna be dirty as sin. ;-)

Now THAT's festive

Mom decided to celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a BIG way. Or this is what happens when you're gone for 5, 6 weeks.

Ohhhh! Scenic!

I found this via a blog of a blog of a flickr.

My brain -> Ooo! What a pretty pond! All kinds of flowers and lily pads......[click] [throw up a little] Ooo! Blue Jello! Left out on the counter too long! Hey, it's still scenic.

Darn her.

A couple of weekends ago, the brother, his friendgirl and I were all lounging about on a Sunday afternoon. The discussion of mushrooms comes up. Not the trippin' kind. The eatin' kind.

I've been a lover of edible mushrooms most of my life. While the majority of society will put cream of mushroom soup in their green bean casserole or as an ingredient in another tasty recipe, I (and my cousin Heb) scarfed an entire can down at a time. Straight from the pyrex bowl, if unattended. With half a bag of crushed saltines. It kinda resembled rough plaster. Mmm, delish.

Friendgirl is newish to my life. She visits with us (well, she visits with Brother) from WAY up north in Chetek and brings mad cooking skills. On any weekend, we might have lasagna, a breakfasty dish with an unpronounceable name, or brownies. I like Friendgirl. Like a lot of people, there are things she won't eat...unfortunately, her dislikes occasionally clash with mine and my brother's likes. We are meat eaters; Friendgirl, not so much. This is new to me as most of the people in my life are meat eaters as well (and butter, mmm). It's not infrequently that I look like a callous asswipe when I make something with bacon in it, or order something for all of us and forget about the meat thing. It takes getting used to. So, she'll probably be accidentally eating pork products on occasion for some time, because I'm an idiot.

Back to the two weeks ago...Friendgirl is in conversation with Brother and I join in when the topic of mushrooms comes up. She says, "Eating mushrooms is like...well, have you ever bitten into human skin?" ......

Sure, I've nibbled on my fair share of male earlobes when I once cared about dating. I once even tried to bite through my novocained lip post-dentist. Good thing I'm not grossed out by it. I'd hate for Friendgirl to live with the stigma of swearing me off my life-long love of fungus. But now I can't stop thinking about that. Mushrooms are INDEED similar in texture to human skin. And now you, dear reader (if there are any of you out there), will not stop thinking about it either. Every time you sit down to your portobello steak, mushroom marinara, or New York Strip smothered with buttons, you (and I, of course) will think about it. My gift to you.