Well hello, childrens. I know it's been some time since I've posted a new blog, but I've been spending most of my time these days working at an actual job for money, so I haven't had much time for folderol and frippery. However, with the holidays well upon us, I do get some time off, and I get to do a lot more of two things I like: cooking and drinking.
This year's Thanksgiving was one of the best I've had in years. My husband and I got to spend time with family and friends, and I got to go completely apeshit in the kitchen. Some truly magical stuff happened there, I gotta tell ya, and Paula Deen would be proud of the amount of calorie-bombing goodness I crammed in there. Let some trendy women's magazine scold you about healthy holiday alternatives, if that's what you're into; if you're reading this blog to collect recipes, chances are you don't give a shit.
So here you go. Installment One of a slew of recipes guaranteed to give you The Itis. Today, we start with the topping.
Mama's Fat-Ass Duck & Mushroom Gravy
What Y'all Need:
About 1 1/2 cups of duck fat. Delicious, delicious duck fat, root of all that is tasty.
About 1 cup of bird drippin's from a roasted turkey or chicken.
Around 2 cups of all-purpose flour.
3-4 cups of hot bird stock.
1 carton of mixed mushrooms, diced. I used white button and portabella.
1/2 of a nice-sized sweet onion, diced.
Some white pepper.
What Y'all Do:
Get out your 5-quart Dutch oven (or if you don't have one, a big pot or pan, but seriously, get a Dutch oven. TJ Maxx, like 60 bucks!) and warm it up on the stove-top at medium-low heat. Drop about 2 tablespoons of duck fat in that bad boy and let it melt, then toss in your onions and fry 'em up for a couple of minutes. Then add in your mushrooms. Let the onions and mushrooms cook together for another minute or two, then add in the rest of your duck fat and start stirring.
Once everything's evenly coated and glistening, start slowly adding your flour. You want it to integrate with the fat and form a dense paste. You can reserve back some of your flour, because if you're like me, you don't measure anyway and you just eyeball everything. Anyway, you want that paste to get just this side of golden-brown, and you should be kinda struggling to stir that delicious mess. At this point, pour in your bird drippin's, dust it with a little more flour, and stir until everything's pretty much evenly mixed. Then slowly add in your stock and keep stirring. Do not stop stirring; you don't want this stuff to stick. Keep adding stock and cooking it up until it's nice and thick, but do not let it boil. Add white pepper to taste.
This will make almost a half-gallon of gravy. You can hook you up an I.V. bag and just mainline it if you want to go straight to coronary-town, but I recommend ladling it tenderly over your holiday feast, and the leftovers you'll be eating for the next week, and spreading the damage out a little.
Keep checking back for more holiday recipes, and start prepping that nap couch.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
A Novel Suggestion
Let me just say this first: I like Stephen King's work. I really do. I pick up a nice, thick tome of his every now and again when I'm ready to embark on a nice, long journey with the printed word. And he does have a way with words, quite frequently; I'll make a case for IT being one of my favorite books of all time, and one of the best I've read.
HOWEVER.
After having recently slogged, often joyfully, often painfully, through The Dark Tower with Detta/Odetta/Susannah, and having recently started watching the TV adaptation of The Stand, and being familiar with Mr. King's work in general, it is blatantly obvious that the poor man does not currently, probably never has, and perhaps never will, know any black people at all. None. And certainly not with any kind of intimacy.
Stephen King does not have any black friends. Otherwise they would likely have taken him gently aside and explained to him, in kind and soulful terms, with the patience and folksy wisdom displayed by all of the Super-Duper Magic Negroes present in his works, that, well...we don't sound like that.
So here's my pitch: Stephen King, if you're ever open to it, and if you haven't already gotten a million similar suggestions, I will be your Black Friend*. If you feel you've got enough friends already, and don't want to add another to your roster (I know how you like your privacy, and I agree with that wholeheartedly), I will, for a modest fee, at the very least be your, I dunno, "Urban Marketing Consultant."
Just...please, stop making us sound like that.
* It should be duly noted that I am willing to also provide this service to any and all random melanin-challenged, Anglo- and/or Euro-American, or otherwise "Caucasian" folks on a case-by-case basis, with an hourly rate applying, willing to barter.
HOWEVER.
After having recently slogged, often joyfully, often painfully, through The Dark Tower with Detta/Odetta/Susannah, and having recently started watching the TV adaptation of The Stand, and being familiar with Mr. King's work in general, it is blatantly obvious that the poor man does not currently, probably never has, and perhaps never will, know any black people at all. None. And certainly not with any kind of intimacy.
Stephen King does not have any black friends. Otherwise they would likely have taken him gently aside and explained to him, in kind and soulful terms, with the patience and folksy wisdom displayed by all of the Super-Duper Magic Negroes present in his works, that, well...we don't sound like that.
So here's my pitch: Stephen King, if you're ever open to it, and if you haven't already gotten a million similar suggestions, I will be your Black Friend*. If you feel you've got enough friends already, and don't want to add another to your roster (I know how you like your privacy, and I agree with that wholeheartedly), I will, for a modest fee, at the very least be your, I dunno, "Urban Marketing Consultant."
Just...please, stop making us sound like that.
* It should be duly noted that I am willing to also provide this service to any and all random melanin-challenged, Anglo- and/or Euro-American, or otherwise "Caucasian" folks on a case-by-case basis, with an hourly rate applying, willing to barter.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
WTF? Why Is My Body Trying to Sabotage Me?!
Jeezy Petes, I hate my latest birth control. Also, why is it that I always manage to go to Planned Parenthood when I'm PMSing, hard?
Here is a list of things that have moved me to tears today:
Here is a list of things that have moved me to tears today:
- A fitness magazine
- My blood pressure numbers
- A vast array of choices in hormonal birth control methods
- Biltmore Avenue
- A photograph of the Queen of England
- Driving downhill whilst listening to Fresh Air with Terry Gross
- The lack of padded-cup bras in my size at the local Belk...or... any bras in my size, really
- A display of Keurig coffee makers and the corresponding selection of K-cups
- Wal-Mart. Just...Wal-Mart
- I-240
- A number of songs by The Killers
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Don't Like My Tattoos? Screw Ya: A Body Acceptance Rant
Seems like every time some chick shows a picture of her new tattoo, I end up hearing the same damn comment from somebody: "Yeah. That's gonna look just great when she's 50." This cheeses me off to no end, people. Why? It assumes a number of things that I find just fucking ridiculous.
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." Yeah, because when talking about people who decide to get tattoos or other body mods, you just know that the first thing they consider when deciding to alter their body is whether it's going to conform to conventional beauty standards. Particularly at some arbitrary age someone else has decided equals "old and gross and un-fuckable." Yepper. First thing on the checklist.
"That shit is permanent. It's going to age!" HOLY SHITBALLS, YOU GUYS! You mean something decorating my body is going to sag, wrinkle, fade, and discolor? Well that sounds a whole lot like something else I'm quite familiar with...what is it called...right on the tip of my tongue...oh yeah, THE HUMAN BODY. None of us are going to look 19 forever. None of us. We will gain weight, lose weight, get sick, sunburned, dehydrated, sprout hair in weird places, lose hair in weird places, and be subject to gravity like the piles of oily goo suspended from a rigid bone structure that we all are. WERE YOU AWARE? People age. All the time. Big fuckin' whoop.
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." To whom? To you? Maybe she doesn't give a flying fuck. Maybe what she does with her body is her business, not yours. Maybe her ink is her way of claiming her body as her own, signing it as her property, letting other people know that she's in charge of it and loves it enough to decorate it with things that are meaningful to her, or commemorate experiences that made her the woman she is. Or maybe she's the trashy skank you think she is, Officer Body Police, but that probably means she still doesn't give a flying fuck. Even if she's "just doing it for attention," who gives a shit? It's still her body and her choice. If you don't think she should get attention for her tattoos, don't give her any. Problem solved.
Or...you could disparage people's body choices when they don't align with your idea of what they should look like. Some people really respond to that. And you know what happens then? They get tons of plastic surgery to keep their bodies and faces taut, tight, and un-aged. I wonder how the Body Police feel about those mods, eh?
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." Yeah, because when talking about people who decide to get tattoos or other body mods, you just know that the first thing they consider when deciding to alter their body is whether it's going to conform to conventional beauty standards. Particularly at some arbitrary age someone else has decided equals "old and gross and un-fuckable." Yepper. First thing on the checklist.
"That shit is permanent. It's going to age!" HOLY SHITBALLS, YOU GUYS! You mean something decorating my body is going to sag, wrinkle, fade, and discolor? Well that sounds a whole lot like something else I'm quite familiar with...what is it called...right on the tip of my tongue...oh yeah, THE HUMAN BODY. None of us are going to look 19 forever. None of us. We will gain weight, lose weight, get sick, sunburned, dehydrated, sprout hair in weird places, lose hair in weird places, and be subject to gravity like the piles of oily goo suspended from a rigid bone structure that we all are. WERE YOU AWARE? People age. All the time. Big fuckin' whoop.
"That's gonna look great when she's 50." To whom? To you? Maybe she doesn't give a flying fuck. Maybe what she does with her body is her business, not yours. Maybe her ink is her way of claiming her body as her own, signing it as her property, letting other people know that she's in charge of it and loves it enough to decorate it with things that are meaningful to her, or commemorate experiences that made her the woman she is. Or maybe she's the trashy skank you think she is, Officer Body Police, but that probably means she still doesn't give a flying fuck. Even if she's "just doing it for attention," who gives a shit? It's still her body and her choice. If you don't think she should get attention for her tattoos, don't give her any. Problem solved.
Or...you could disparage people's body choices when they don't align with your idea of what they should look like. Some people really respond to that. And you know what happens then? They get tons of plastic surgery to keep their bodies and faces taut, tight, and un-aged. I wonder how the Body Police feel about those mods, eh?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Happy Mamas Day
In honor of Mothers Day, and particularly the wonderful lady who made it possible for all y'all to have the pleasure of my company, I thought I'd put something up here. Way back in 2008, I wrote an essay about something that has been a constant source of humor, frustration, and bonding between me and my mom: my hair. Y'all enjoy.
Love you, Mom!
That Good Hair
Love you, Mom!
That Good Hair
I just read a blog/article on The Root (a sort of Pan-African web community) about a biracial girl, her relationship with her white mother, who had no idea what to do with her hair, and politics.
It made me think. And it made me feel.
Being multiracial, many of your relationships with the rest of the world revolve around that quirky bush that crowns your head for most of your life. The author described a childhood memory of running through the house every morning, trying to escape her Irish mother and the "Green Monster"--the hairbrush.
I have similar memories of squirming, squealing and outright outpourings of tears as my mom laboriously worked a brush through my misunderstood frizz, and I'm sure my sister sympathizes. Most of the photos of little me, up until almost the millennium, involve some kind of poof, tangle, or fuzz on my tiny head. I remember one of my brother's friends affectionately calling me "Bushweed" all through the sixth grade. I remember the horrors that ensued when my crazy white grandma would take us to the beach for a week, letting the salt and sun tie my, and my sister's, hair into impossible knots because she "liked the way it looked when it got all wild like that." And then, of course, my mother would throw a complete fit because she would have to undo the damage.
My hair has a unique texture. My mother's hair is thick--each individual strand is thick in and of itself, and there are an awful lot of them as well--and coarse, and bright red. It's actually a lot like "Black people hair," even though she's white on the outside. My dad's hair is mostly not there these days, but the old pictures of him and his high-top fade attest to the fact that it is Black People Hair for sure. I haven't met any of our Native American relatives with hair, as my great-granddad didn't have any by the time I met him, but I can only assume it's probably dark and silky. Somewhere in all that you get me.
My hair is what my melanin-blessed folk call "That Good Hair." It's thick but soft and springy, with a smoothness and strength to it. Some of my melanin-challenged folk still think of it as coarse, but they're used to that fine, swooning silk they've got atop their own domes.
My hair and I have had a difficult relationship; it's been like a forced marriage between two people who don't speak the same language. We've communicated poorly, and it's been a long process learning to do it better. Sometime in high school I discovered short hair, which worked immensely well--it gave my curls a chance to shine, without all the dry length and damage to frizz it out. And in college I discovered Black People Hair Products, with which I have attacked and made sticky several of my melanin-challenged brethren.
Black People Hair Products tend to come in but a handful of categories: Greasy, Sticky, Caustic, Jiggly, and Candy Shell. They are EXTREMELY STRONG, whatever form they take. But that's what it takes. Styling white people hair is like folding satin napkins: you have to be careful and gentle with it. Styling Black people hair is like carving a hardwood table: you gotta use some elbow grease. Black people hair is also typically dry as hell. I know from anecdotal evidence and visual confirmation that white people hair tends to get quite oily and stringy-looking if they don't wash it every coupla days. Black people hair doesn't tend to come with its own oil, so it has to be purchased separately.
But with the magic of relaxers, non-pH-balanced shampoo, heavy conditioners, oils aplenty, heat, and satin wraps, I have managed to cultivate the delectable locks you have seen pictured.
Many people may ask, "Why? WHY?! You had such interesting, ethnic hair! The curls, the CURLS!!!" Many people have indeed asked that, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Relax. I can have the curls any time. I do in fact enjoy them a great deal (as evidenced by the college years when I was rockin' the Blaxploitation 'fro). But hot damn have I been waiting all my life to be able to toss my head and have my hair COME BACK DOWN for a change. To have the wind actually pick up the strands of my hair and tug at them, rather than just bouncing off and going "What the fuck did I just hit?" To not have a perpetual up-do. It's just about options, yo.
And all of this makes me think, makes me wonder. Sure, my mom knew more than the average cracka about Black hair. But I wonder what it's been like for her to have a child who looks so much like her...and yet so not. Seeing us apart, people would probably never guess we're even related. But put us next to each other and watch us smile, and it's like "You mean I can get that in Ivory AND Khaki?" I wonder how my mom feels about the fact that I have, by default, been identified more with my dad's people? About the fact that, much like a certain Magic Mulatto in the not-so-White House, people don't always count her in my genetic makeup.
I think she probably feels a lot like many other parents of multiracial children feel: she loves me, and she's proud of me and the fact that my skin is a different color than hers doesn't matter a bit. I'm her little girl, regardless of how old I get, or how poofy my hair is.Sunday, April 24, 2011
It's Okay That I'm This Excited, Because I'm Also Embarassed
YOU GUYS.
OH MY GAH, YOU GUYS.
SERIOUSLY!
You know what I'm this flippin' excited about?!
TOWELS!
...
...
Yep, it's that ridiculous. And I know you're at least a little disappointed in me, but hear me out. About four years ago, I got these really cute towel/washcloth sets for my bathroom. Fluffy white towels with a striped border of one plum stripe and one hot-pink stripe. I had my very own twee little apartment for the first time in EVER, so I had liberty to decorate as fluffy-pants girly as I wanted, and boy howdy was I going to go all the way. Hence the pink-and-purple towels and the hot pink bath rug. I had visions, folks--visions of setting women's rights back two, maybe three hundred years with the sheer vapor-having, corset-wearing, lace-betrimmed, tacky-ass fluffery of my bathroom. Oh, it was going to have hot pink shit all over the damn place, and little Eiffel Towers and pictures of teacups with stupid shit like "Le Tea" printed on them, and potted African violets, and everything was going to match my pink and purple towels.
Needless to say, my visions did not come true, as we still maintain the right to vote. Part of the reason is because, after I acquired said towels, they stopped being in stock. Anywhere. I searched high and low in bath decor for things that would match those colors, but it's a futile effort, lemme tell ya. So I gave up and got some lavender towels and went on with my life, sort of. Every time I was in a Target or TJ Maxx or Bed, Bath & Beyond, I'd surreptitiously meander through the towel section, just to see if they had anything in those magical shades of pink and purple--particularly more towels, because something in my Southern belle nature just won't let me rest until all my damn towels match.
I'd given up. I'd started contemplating other color schemes, even. Until today.
I was in the K-mart looking for a pair of cheap, slutty shoes because my husband and I have actually started going on dates every now and again and you gotta keep that romance alive but still mind your budget. After being disappointed that K-mart, of all places, had nary a cheap, slutty shoe on the shelf, I wandered past the bath section on my way out. And there, right there, staring me in the face, were MY EXACT TOWELS.
THE VERY SAME TOWELS. STRIPES AND ALL.
THE ENTIRE SET, YOU GUYS.
FULLY STOCKED.
They had the bath towels, the hand towels, the washcloths, the bath mats, the toilet rugs, the whole frackin' shebang, in striped, in pink, in plum, in plain white--friends, they had it all! I just about fell over in sheer cottony delight. I would have done a victorious song and dance right there in the aisles, but there were people around, buying marked-down marshmallow Peeps, and I thought they might call someone to come take the crazy lady screaming, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! THEY'RE TOWELS!" off to the loony bin.
So instead I very quietly selected a few bath coordinates and nonchalantly sauntered to the checkout line, hoping no one else noticed how perfect and awesome my towels were (stay away from my frickin' towels, denizens of K-mart; I'll be back on payday). My inner Martha Stewart can rest easy for now.
And yes, I know this has all sounded completely, mind-blowingly silly. But at least I know where my towel is, a'ight? (And if you don't get that reference, drop what you're doing right now and go read this book. I don't care if you're in traffic; they'll wait. Plus, you'll be a better person for it.)
OH MY GAH, YOU GUYS.
SERIOUSLY!
You know what I'm this flippin' excited about?!
TOWELS!
...
...
Yep, it's that ridiculous. And I know you're at least a little disappointed in me, but hear me out. About four years ago, I got these really cute towel/washcloth sets for my bathroom. Fluffy white towels with a striped border of one plum stripe and one hot-pink stripe. I had my very own twee little apartment for the first time in EVER, so I had liberty to decorate as fluffy-pants girly as I wanted, and boy howdy was I going to go all the way. Hence the pink-and-purple towels and the hot pink bath rug. I had visions, folks--visions of setting women's rights back two, maybe three hundred years with the sheer vapor-having, corset-wearing, lace-betrimmed, tacky-ass fluffery of my bathroom. Oh, it was going to have hot pink shit all over the damn place, and little Eiffel Towers and pictures of teacups with stupid shit like "Le Tea" printed on them, and potted African violets, and everything was going to match my pink and purple towels.
Needless to say, my visions did not come true, as we still maintain the right to vote. Part of the reason is because, after I acquired said towels, they stopped being in stock. Anywhere. I searched high and low in bath decor for things that would match those colors, but it's a futile effort, lemme tell ya. So I gave up and got some lavender towels and went on with my life, sort of. Every time I was in a Target or TJ Maxx or Bed, Bath & Beyond, I'd surreptitiously meander through the towel section, just to see if they had anything in those magical shades of pink and purple--particularly more towels, because something in my Southern belle nature just won't let me rest until all my damn towels match.
I'd given up. I'd started contemplating other color schemes, even. Until today.
I was in the K-mart looking for a pair of cheap, slutty shoes because my husband and I have actually started going on dates every now and again and you gotta keep that romance alive but still mind your budget. After being disappointed that K-mart, of all places, had nary a cheap, slutty shoe on the shelf, I wandered past the bath section on my way out. And there, right there, staring me in the face, were MY EXACT TOWELS.
THE VERY SAME TOWELS. STRIPES AND ALL.
THE ENTIRE SET, YOU GUYS.
FULLY STOCKED.
They had the bath towels, the hand towels, the washcloths, the bath mats, the toilet rugs, the whole frackin' shebang, in striped, in pink, in plum, in plain white--friends, they had it all! I just about fell over in sheer cottony delight. I would have done a victorious song and dance right there in the aisles, but there were people around, buying marked-down marshmallow Peeps, and I thought they might call someone to come take the crazy lady screaming, "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! THEY'RE TOWELS!" off to the loony bin.
So instead I very quietly selected a few bath coordinates and nonchalantly sauntered to the checkout line, hoping no one else noticed how perfect and awesome my towels were (stay away from my frickin' towels, denizens of K-mart; I'll be back on payday). My inner Martha Stewart can rest easy for now.
And yes, I know this has all sounded completely, mind-blowingly silly. But at least I know where my towel is, a'ight? (And if you don't get that reference, drop what you're doing right now and go read this book. I don't care if you're in traffic; they'll wait. Plus, you'll be a better person for it.)
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Oh Snap, Where I'm at Now?
Ahhh, the joys of interstate relocation.
That's right, folken, my husband and I have once again abandoned our former domicile for greener pastures; in this case, moving back to Asheville. And I have to say, as complicated and harrowing as moves can be, this one was cake. We've got this thing pretty much down to a science, as much as we've done it since we moved in together (woo-hoo, livin' in sin!), and a good bit of planning ahead and steady follow-through will turn pretty much anything into a much easier experience.
Speaking of planning ahead, I'm so relieved that I remembered to pack my thermal leggings. Over the couple of days we spent loading our truck and moving our stuff, Atlanta had its first bout of 80-degree weather for the year. It was truly beautiful, my friends, after a snappy (but not as devastating as last year) winter and breezy early spring. To just be able to go out in a tee shirt and shorts and not run back into the house desperately seeking a hoodie was pure bliss. Despite the beautiful weather we had, though, I remembered how Asheville gets around this time of year. Oh, she's a temptress. "Come on, it's 75 outside! Isn't it beautiful? Put those sweaters away; unpack your linen pants and go saunter around downtown all day! Let the sweet scent of patchouli and lady armpits wash over you, aaaaaaaaannnnnd BOOM, MOTHAFUCKA! 44 DEGREES AND HIGH WINDS! HOWDOYA LIKE ME NOW?"
But you can suck it, fickle mountain weather! I've got my longjohns, my leg-warmers, my fuzzy socks and my Fugg boots! I've got sweaters and jackets and hoodies galore! BOOYAH!
Still, I am looking forward to the gorgeous spring weather no doubt coming just around the corner in fits and starts. I know it'll show up soon, and then I'll wax my legs and shave my armpits and everything, and get outside and enjoy it.
What's on the agenda these days? House hunting, putting in some part-time hours on the old retail circuit in between coloring my comic pages, figuring out what I'm going to do with my hair next, and looking for a cat to adopt. Busy times, y'all, and I'll likely write entries about each of those things as they come up. But for now, I'll just be chillin' in the mountains with the fam, drinking excellent coffee again, being able (and willing) to walk places, and not taking my damn life into my hands every time I decide to drive. Ahhh...it's good to be home.
That's right, folken, my husband and I have once again abandoned our former domicile for greener pastures; in this case, moving back to Asheville. And I have to say, as complicated and harrowing as moves can be, this one was cake. We've got this thing pretty much down to a science, as much as we've done it since we moved in together (woo-hoo, livin' in sin!), and a good bit of planning ahead and steady follow-through will turn pretty much anything into a much easier experience.
Speaking of planning ahead, I'm so relieved that I remembered to pack my thermal leggings. Over the couple of days we spent loading our truck and moving our stuff, Atlanta had its first bout of 80-degree weather for the year. It was truly beautiful, my friends, after a snappy (but not as devastating as last year) winter and breezy early spring. To just be able to go out in a tee shirt and shorts and not run back into the house desperately seeking a hoodie was pure bliss. Despite the beautiful weather we had, though, I remembered how Asheville gets around this time of year. Oh, she's a temptress. "Come on, it's 75 outside! Isn't it beautiful? Put those sweaters away; unpack your linen pants and go saunter around downtown all day! Let the sweet scent of patchouli and lady armpits wash over you, aaaaaaaaannnnnd BOOM, MOTHAFUCKA! 44 DEGREES AND HIGH WINDS! HOWDOYA LIKE ME NOW?"
But you can suck it, fickle mountain weather! I've got my longjohns, my leg-warmers, my fuzzy socks and my Fugg boots! I've got sweaters and jackets and hoodies galore! BOOYAH!
Still, I am looking forward to the gorgeous spring weather no doubt coming just around the corner in fits and starts. I know it'll show up soon, and then I'll wax my legs and shave my armpits and everything, and get outside and enjoy it.
What's on the agenda these days? House hunting, putting in some part-time hours on the old retail circuit in between coloring my comic pages, figuring out what I'm going to do with my hair next, and looking for a cat to adopt. Busy times, y'all, and I'll likely write entries about each of those things as they come up. But for now, I'll just be chillin' in the mountains with the fam, drinking excellent coffee again, being able (and willing) to walk places, and not taking my damn life into my hands every time I decide to drive. Ahhh...it's good to be home.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Moms: A Body Acceptance Rant
Hey chilluns. I know it's been a while; Mama's been busy with her new job, her family, and packing up her humble abode in umpteen liquor boxes in preparation for The Big Move next week. (FYI, liquor boxes make the best moving boxes, ladies and gents; they're designed to be strong enough to port glass bottles full of liquid safely, surely they will hold your books and Yule decorations. Plus, they're small enough that even if you're a noodle-armed mini-chubber like me, you can still lift them, no matter what you fill them with. LIFE HACK.)
Today I want to talk about something that's really been burning my biscuits lately: the perception of mom bodies.
I'm so beyond sick of the stigma surrounding mom bodies! I'm tired of hearing it echoed over and over that "childbirth ruins your body." You can sense it when you hear discussions about the changes a woman goes through bearing children--the sadness that another lithe young frame is now all used up, busted, blown out, worn out, burned out, RUINED.
Oh, we see the beautiful celebrity moms with their healthy glow and baby bump, their oh-so-modest weight gain, and immediate shedding of those few pounds to regain their red-carpet bodies a few days after quietly slipping a precious infant out of their magic vaginas...or that's the image we're sold, anyway. Oh, we know that in order to look so good pregnant, they must spend millions of dollars and employ an army of personnel to make sure that they don't cave to a craving for pizza or even osmose the vapors from a glass of wine 50 feet away from them; that they employ personal trainers from hell and sadistic nutritionists after the magic birth to restrict their diets down to nothing but raw fruits and vegetables and pill supplements and keep them chained to the treadmill 24 hours a day in order to torture their post-birth bodies back into shape...because that's what the magazines tell us. And we despair, because without all that money and help and self-control, we're doomed to become fat, saggy, stretch-marked RUINS.
And it's that word, that awful word, RUINED, that really gets me. It insists that there is only one acceptable body, and that a woman who bears children, a mother, is permanently banned from it. That if you choose to have children, you're no longer able to be considered sexually; you've been relegated to livestock status; you're a brood mare, a breeding cow, or at the very least just plain gross.
What the hell? Seriously, what the hell? I know our society has an obsession with maintaining a preteen body, and that a post-birth body is symbolically the complete opposite of that, but this really takes the whole damn cake in the Pissing Me Off contest. GUESS WHAT, PEEPS? WE'RE ALL GONNA GET OLD, IF WE SHOULD BE SO LUCKY. We will gain weight; our skin's collagen will just give out eventually; gravity will do transformative magic to flesh we didn't even know we had; we will get wrinkles; we will no longer be 21! THE HORROR.
And as someone who is planning on getting knocked up in the next year or two, yup, I know what I've got in store. I will get stretch marks; I know this because I already have them from frickin' puberty (oh shit, where did these baby-bearing hips and giant fluffy boobies come from?!), and I do not care. My tummy will not have the same snap it used to, and I give not one shit, because I plan on getting a little heavier as I age anyway; my frame happens to be of the sort that looks better with a little weight on it, despite what social messages say. My boobies will probably not go too far south, because they have some amazing staying power even at the retarded huge size they are now, but even if they did, so what? And yes, I will probably wear sweatpants a good amount of the time, and may not take the time to brush the spaghetti out of my hair before I go to the store, but you can bite my chubby, baby-bearing ass, public. My body will not be RUINED, it will just be different, and it will be frackin' magical for having produced LIFE, and for surviving what is still one of the most dangerous human activities outside of extreme sports or bear-fighting.
My stretch marks are my tiger stripes, and my floppy milk tits will be my fertility badges. So back the fuck off.
Today I want to talk about something that's really been burning my biscuits lately: the perception of mom bodies.
I'm so beyond sick of the stigma surrounding mom bodies! I'm tired of hearing it echoed over and over that "childbirth ruins your body." You can sense it when you hear discussions about the changes a woman goes through bearing children--the sadness that another lithe young frame is now all used up, busted, blown out, worn out, burned out, RUINED.
Oh, we see the beautiful celebrity moms with their healthy glow and baby bump, their oh-so-modest weight gain, and immediate shedding of those few pounds to regain their red-carpet bodies a few days after quietly slipping a precious infant out of their magic vaginas...or that's the image we're sold, anyway. Oh, we know that in order to look so good pregnant, they must spend millions of dollars and employ an army of personnel to make sure that they don't cave to a craving for pizza or even osmose the vapors from a glass of wine 50 feet away from them; that they employ personal trainers from hell and sadistic nutritionists after the magic birth to restrict their diets down to nothing but raw fruits and vegetables and pill supplements and keep them chained to the treadmill 24 hours a day in order to torture their post-birth bodies back into shape...because that's what the magazines tell us. And we despair, because without all that money and help and self-control, we're doomed to become fat, saggy, stretch-marked RUINS.
And it's that word, that awful word, RUINED, that really gets me. It insists that there is only one acceptable body, and that a woman who bears children, a mother, is permanently banned from it. That if you choose to have children, you're no longer able to be considered sexually; you've been relegated to livestock status; you're a brood mare, a breeding cow, or at the very least just plain gross.
What the hell? Seriously, what the hell? I know our society has an obsession with maintaining a preteen body, and that a post-birth body is symbolically the complete opposite of that, but this really takes the whole damn cake in the Pissing Me Off contest. GUESS WHAT, PEEPS? WE'RE ALL GONNA GET OLD, IF WE SHOULD BE SO LUCKY. We will gain weight; our skin's collagen will just give out eventually; gravity will do transformative magic to flesh we didn't even know we had; we will get wrinkles; we will no longer be 21! THE HORROR.
And as someone who is planning on getting knocked up in the next year or two, yup, I know what I've got in store. I will get stretch marks; I know this because I already have them from frickin' puberty (oh shit, where did these baby-bearing hips and giant fluffy boobies come from?!), and I do not care. My tummy will not have the same snap it used to, and I give not one shit, because I plan on getting a little heavier as I age anyway; my frame happens to be of the sort that looks better with a little weight on it, despite what social messages say. My boobies will probably not go too far south, because they have some amazing staying power even at the retarded huge size they are now, but even if they did, so what? And yes, I will probably wear sweatpants a good amount of the time, and may not take the time to brush the spaghetti out of my hair before I go to the store, but you can bite my chubby, baby-bearing ass, public. My body will not be RUINED, it will just be different, and it will be frackin' magical for having produced LIFE, and for surviving what is still one of the most dangerous human activities outside of extreme sports or bear-fighting.
My stretch marks are my tiger stripes, and my floppy milk tits will be my fertility badges. So back the fuck off.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Wait, what? What am I doing? Oh...working!
Hey, y'all.
The last few days have been kind of a run-on haze. Sorry I neglected you, but I've been terribly busy. "Doing what?" you ask. Well, aside from feeding my family and taking the car to the shop and running everyone to and from work, and doing the grocery shopping, and finding time to wash a little laundry here and there, I've been working!
And not just any old job flippin' burgers, but actually doing a branch of my dream job. That's right, kids, Mama's currently engaged doing some new colors for Macon Man.
I've wanted to work in the comics industry since I was 12. I've always been into drawing and art, and since I was two years old, you couldn't hardly find me without a pencil or a crayon or a paint brush in my hand. Plus, my dad has been an avid reader and collector of comic books all his life, so there were always comics around the house. Heck, when I was five, my "imaginary friend" was Batman. I just never knew that people actually got paid to make comics, until my dad started sharing his comics magazines with me; there were interviews and industry news and how-tos in there that opened up a whole new world for me. I decided I wanted to be a comic book artist (a penciler, specifically, at the time), and started drawing sequential pieces, and when I was 12 my dad helped me put together a portfolio and took me to my first comic convention. It's been off into the wild blue yonder since then, pretty much.
My husband and I actually moved to the Atlanta area to advance my career. I dunno if you know it, but Atlanta's probably the second or third most poppin' joint for comics creators; there are all kinds of studios and independent artists and writers here; most of the guys and gals who show up for Dragon*Con in the comics section are locals. It's a very exciting place for young up-and-coming artists, between The Cartoon Network and all the veterans available to one.
But jeezum pete is it a demanding career. Sure, you get to make your own schedule and work from home, but you bet your sweet ass you'll probably be working 12+ hours a day to make that cheddar and meet those deadlines. And trying to be a Fake Housewife on top of that? Bring me a glass of gin and stand the hell back. Here's what's been keeping me sane.
Mama's Tips for Managing a Busy Independent Schedule:
If you find, though, that you wind up looking up from your work and thinking, "Hmm, maybe I should goof off on the Internet for a bit...nah, screw it, I'd rather be doing this," you might have found yourself a job worth sticking to.
The last few days have been kind of a run-on haze. Sorry I neglected you, but I've been terribly busy. "Doing what?" you ask. Well, aside from feeding my family and taking the car to the shop and running everyone to and from work, and doing the grocery shopping, and finding time to wash a little laundry here and there, I've been working!
And not just any old job flippin' burgers, but actually doing a branch of my dream job. That's right, kids, Mama's currently engaged doing some new colors for Macon Man.
I've wanted to work in the comics industry since I was 12. I've always been into drawing and art, and since I was two years old, you couldn't hardly find me without a pencil or a crayon or a paint brush in my hand. Plus, my dad has been an avid reader and collector of comic books all his life, so there were always comics around the house. Heck, when I was five, my "imaginary friend" was Batman. I just never knew that people actually got paid to make comics, until my dad started sharing his comics magazines with me; there were interviews and industry news and how-tos in there that opened up a whole new world for me. I decided I wanted to be a comic book artist (a penciler, specifically, at the time), and started drawing sequential pieces, and when I was 12 my dad helped me put together a portfolio and took me to my first comic convention. It's been off into the wild blue yonder since then, pretty much.
My husband and I actually moved to the Atlanta area to advance my career. I dunno if you know it, but Atlanta's probably the second or third most poppin' joint for comics creators; there are all kinds of studios and independent artists and writers here; most of the guys and gals who show up for Dragon*Con in the comics section are locals. It's a very exciting place for young up-and-coming artists, between The Cartoon Network and all the veterans available to one.
But jeezum pete is it a demanding career. Sure, you get to make your own schedule and work from home, but you bet your sweet ass you'll probably be working 12+ hours a day to make that cheddar and meet those deadlines. And trying to be a Fake Housewife on top of that? Bring me a glass of gin and stand the hell back. Here's what's been keeping me sane.
Mama's Tips for Managing a Busy Independent Schedule:
- Break it down into small tasks. You will go nuts if you don't. Crazy rampage nuts.
- On that note, make lists. A jillion lists. You'll feel accomplished as you cross off each item, and it will keep you on task.
- Schedule regular breaks. You gotta pee and eat, right? And if you spend too long on one task, you will find yourself getting burned out and missing the big picture.
- Make yourself stick to some kind of actual schedule. It's okay if it changes here and there; after all, most people have "weekday" and "weekend" schedules. And you gotta leave wiggle room for unforeseen non-work disasters. If you're the one at home all the time, guess who's taking the car to the shop?
- Go outside at least once a day, or you will turn into a horrible cave troll. And for that matter, get a little exercise daily.
- Designate a work space or work state. You love your family and friends, I know you do, but they need to know that just because you're home doesn't mean you're always available. You need to concentrate like mad for big chunks of the day, and like it or not, that means they need to leave you alone.
- It ain't a hobby any more; it's a job. Treat it like one. Be professional. Be responsible. Be accountable.
- Take the time to get dressed. Seriously, you would not believe how much more productive you will be in a pair of jeans and a comfortable but professional-looking sweater than in those ratty PJs. Slippers are always okay, though.
- Figure out what you need in order to concentrate, but don't let it turn into excuses not to work. You need your Pandora channel set to play mellow jazz hip-hop? All right (it's really a perfect working music, I kid you not). You need 30 minutes of cardio before you can get crackin'? Cool. But don't spend an hour looking for your lucky bobblehead, or rearranging your pencils, before you'll sit down and do something.
- Set realistic productivity goals for yourself, and surpass them as often as you can.
If you find, though, that you wind up looking up from your work and thinking, "Hmm, maybe I should goof off on the Internet for a bit...nah, screw it, I'd rather be doing this," you might have found yourself a job worth sticking to.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
What Mama Likes, Vol. 1
Jesus Christ on a whole wheat cracker. I really want to be an informed citizen, but it seems like every time I read or listen to the news of current events in the U.S., I develop a strong desire to have the ability to make my own head explode. I may speak at greater length about this later, but I'm just too upset right now.
So instead, here is a list of a few simple material things that made me happy today.
Pottery Barn pillar candles. I flippin' love candles for decorating. Any time you just want some nice, low, cozy and/or romantic light, nothing beats a lovely array of candles. I like grabbing interesting scents, and also just having a stock of big ol' candles that will burn long and last me a while. Pottery Barn's unscented pillars are on sale right now, and I was surprised at what a good price they were. Big-ass pillar candle for $6? Heck yeah. I mean, Target's candles of similar size are twice as much. Plus, they have free catalogs, so now I have material I can cut for my "decorating ideas" book.
Cover Girl's new Queen line. A line of products aimed at darker complexions? Color me relieved! And represented by Queen Latifah, no less? A gorgeous plus-size black woman being marketed as the face of beauty? Unlimited excitement!
Charming Charlie. I know you can't tell by the website, but this is largely an accessories store. The reason I like Charming Charlie is because I flippin' love ridonkulous, brightly-colored baubles that occasionally border right on tacky. And CC is stuffed to bursting with exactly that. Thank blob they organize everything by color. Also, nothing in there is out-of-question expensive; I don't think they have any jewelry pieces or sets above $25, so if you want to get a couple of things to jazz up an outfit, you can do it without going over budget.
So there you go--those are a couple of things that Mama likes. Don't forget to vote, and I mean in all the elections; local, state, and national.
So instead, here is a list of a few simple material things that made me happy today.
Pottery Barn pillar candles. I flippin' love candles for decorating. Any time you just want some nice, low, cozy and/or romantic light, nothing beats a lovely array of candles. I like grabbing interesting scents, and also just having a stock of big ol' candles that will burn long and last me a while. Pottery Barn's unscented pillars are on sale right now, and I was surprised at what a good price they were. Big-ass pillar candle for $6? Heck yeah. I mean, Target's candles of similar size are twice as much. Plus, they have free catalogs, so now I have material I can cut for my "decorating ideas" book.
Cover Girl's new Queen line. A line of products aimed at darker complexions? Color me relieved! And represented by Queen Latifah, no less? A gorgeous plus-size black woman being marketed as the face of beauty? Unlimited excitement!
Charming Charlie. I know you can't tell by the website, but this is largely an accessories store. The reason I like Charming Charlie is because I flippin' love ridonkulous, brightly-colored baubles that occasionally border right on tacky. And CC is stuffed to bursting with exactly that. Thank blob they organize everything by color. Also, nothing in there is out-of-question expensive; I don't think they have any jewelry pieces or sets above $25, so if you want to get a couple of things to jazz up an outfit, you can do it without going over budget.
So there you go--those are a couple of things that Mama likes. Don't forget to vote, and I mean in all the elections; local, state, and national.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Apparently My Totem Animal is...Oprah?
Okay, just had to share this. I generally have pretty vivid and wacky dreams, but it's rare that I feel like I'm being given a message of any kind, or even that my subconscious is trying to process something about my waking life. Last night was different.
I dreamt that my husband and I were chilling in some kind of rec center, waiting for something, when Oprah burst in with a camera crew and her staff. Apparently she was on some kind of "real women, real issues" tour where she just showed up at random places and surveyed real women live on camera. She plunked down at our table without warning and announced that, "Today we're going to be talking to Real Women about issues like health, diet, and holiday weight gain. What's your name, darlin'?" I gave her my name and she wrote it down on a form in what looked like a well-traveled back issue of her magazine. "And how much do you weigh?"
I found my Southern sensibilities quite thrown off; I hadn't expected Dream Oprah to be quite so brazenly forward. She kept asking me questions about my weight and eating habits, and, as is often the case in dreams, I couldn't do either of the things I really wanted to do--either get away or take her to task for her promotion of anti-scientific, quack-medical bullshit that's destroying people's health in America. Dream Oprah completely Mom Voiced me. And she didn't believe any of my answers to her questions about my damn eating habits. She just kept looking at me with that knowing look that moms and teachers and sitcom black women can get--"Mmmm-hmm...yeah right, honey; keep lying to yourself."
I'll admit it; I don't have the world's best diet, and I pretty much never frickin' exercise. It's not like I eat McDonald's for every meal. I do manage to get some fresh fruit and veg in there, more than one serving a day, even, and I try to stick to lean proteins. I avoid frying a good amount of the time, and I drink water or orange juice almost exclusively. I do eat refined sugars, though, and gad help me, I love booze. Yes, I should eat more whole grains and vegetables, and I really should get on some kind of exercise regimen. Even if I'm a "good size" (thanks a lot, judgmental media, for putting value requirements on something as arbitrary and variable as body size and shape!) I'm not truly healthy, because I don't do enough cardio.
So I guess I'll start making a better effort to be healthy. Okay, Dream Oprah, are you satisfied? Get off my ass now, ya billion-dollar-havin' bitch.
I dreamt that my husband and I were chilling in some kind of rec center, waiting for something, when Oprah burst in with a camera crew and her staff. Apparently she was on some kind of "real women, real issues" tour where she just showed up at random places and surveyed real women live on camera. She plunked down at our table without warning and announced that, "Today we're going to be talking to Real Women about issues like health, diet, and holiday weight gain. What's your name, darlin'?" I gave her my name and she wrote it down on a form in what looked like a well-traveled back issue of her magazine. "And how much do you weigh?"
I found my Southern sensibilities quite thrown off; I hadn't expected Dream Oprah to be quite so brazenly forward. She kept asking me questions about my weight and eating habits, and, as is often the case in dreams, I couldn't do either of the things I really wanted to do--either get away or take her to task for her promotion of anti-scientific, quack-medical bullshit that's destroying people's health in America. Dream Oprah completely Mom Voiced me. And she didn't believe any of my answers to her questions about my damn eating habits. She just kept looking at me with that knowing look that moms and teachers and sitcom black women can get--"Mmmm-hmm...yeah right, honey; keep lying to yourself."
I'll admit it; I don't have the world's best diet, and I pretty much never frickin' exercise. It's not like I eat McDonald's for every meal. I do manage to get some fresh fruit and veg in there, more than one serving a day, even, and I try to stick to lean proteins. I avoid frying a good amount of the time, and I drink water or orange juice almost exclusively. I do eat refined sugars, though, and gad help me, I love booze. Yes, I should eat more whole grains and vegetables, and I really should get on some kind of exercise regimen. Even if I'm a "good size" (thanks a lot, judgmental media, for putting value requirements on something as arbitrary and variable as body size and shape!) I'm not truly healthy, because I don't do enough cardio.
So I guess I'll start making a better effort to be healthy. Okay, Dream Oprah, are you satisfied? Get off my ass now, ya billion-dollar-havin' bitch.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Stay Classy, Georgia
Well, we're down to the wire with moving preparations; the husband and I decided some time ago to forsake the Big City of Atlanta and head back to our own familiar burg of Asheville, and let me tell ya, I can't wait.
Don't get me wrong, ATL; there are things I will definitely miss. Your abundance of authentic ethnic cuisine; your super-sized Asian grocery stores and farmer's markets, where fresh produce and spices could be had for retarded cheap; your presence of black people in positions of power and influence; and yes, your plethora of big box stores. I liked knowing that I could go back next week and get the same bowl and cup set if I decided I needed more, and that I didn't have to make a snap decision to purchase because the item in question was one-of-a-kind, handmade, limited edition. I do support art, artists, and artisans, and I love that Asheville feels the same way, but I'm just not ready to create my home around hand-thrown, non-dishwasher-safe tableware yet. Especially not if there are to be young children around any time soon.
But I digress. There are things I am all too ready to get away from, and one of them is just...Georgia.
Georgia, darling...you are fucked up. You're like a young heiress to some old cotton fortune who moved into a trailer and started cooking meth, but still for some reason shows up for church every Sunday and has the audacity to be judgmental of the interracial gay couple you saw on Bravo yesterday. Whether it's barring people from buying beer on Sundays, or a school board so inept at getting their shit together that the entire system is threatened with loss of accreditation, or an insistence that underage prostitutes should be criminally prosecuted, you just keep showing your true colors, and, girl, they could use a wash in some color-safe Cheer.
Georgia, I am begging you: lay off the meth and the Jesus creeping, you're making us all look bad, and you're embarrassing yourself. Seriously.
I'm glad that Sunday alcohol sales looks like it's going to get a referendum soon. What the heck reason is there to shut down the beer aisle on Sunday? Oh...wait...religious motivation? Separation of church and state, my friends. I don't care if you think "people oughta be in church on Sunday, 'cause it's the lord's day;" not everyone believes as you do, and some of us don't believe at all. Hell, maybe I believe in Thor, and since mead is the beverage of the gods of Asgard, I think it ought to be mandatory to drink mead on Thursday, or Thor's Day, as it was called before it was corrupted by unbelievers. Doesn't mean I'm right, and it doesn't mean it should be official legislation, because it would be infringing on other people's rights in order to promote my religious agenda.
And the whole child prostitute thing...what the heck, Georgia? Seriously, what is wrong with you? "If these 12-year-old rape victims don't get thrown in jail when we catch them, their pimps might start to think that it's okay to rape and prostitute children, and other kids might get the idea that sex is consequence-free!" Not even kidding about that line of reasoning. Wish I was. But unfortunately, I'm not. Really, pimps would stop pimping if we punished their prostitutes, guys. Oh, and when kids see middle-schoolers walking the streets as hookers and getting raped and beaten up, they get the idea that sex is consequence-free, so they should just start having it. This is the attitude of the Christian Right here in Georgia; way to beat some truly sad victims with the ol' Bible belt, guys.
Asheville has its own set of egregious woo-woo (I swear to Thor, if I hear the phrase, "You should try some homeopathic medicine" one more time, I'm getting my hammer). But the kind of dyed-in-the-wool crazy that comes with the brand of Bible-thumping Jesus creeping that seems so prevalent here is just so much more offensive to me.
Anyway; I'll leave off ranting for today. Mama's got some packing to do.
Don't get me wrong, ATL; there are things I will definitely miss. Your abundance of authentic ethnic cuisine; your super-sized Asian grocery stores and farmer's markets, where fresh produce and spices could be had for retarded cheap; your presence of black people in positions of power and influence; and yes, your plethora of big box stores. I liked knowing that I could go back next week and get the same bowl and cup set if I decided I needed more, and that I didn't have to make a snap decision to purchase because the item in question was one-of-a-kind, handmade, limited edition. I do support art, artists, and artisans, and I love that Asheville feels the same way, but I'm just not ready to create my home around hand-thrown, non-dishwasher-safe tableware yet. Especially not if there are to be young children around any time soon.
But I digress. There are things I am all too ready to get away from, and one of them is just...Georgia.
Georgia, darling...you are fucked up. You're like a young heiress to some old cotton fortune who moved into a trailer and started cooking meth, but still for some reason shows up for church every Sunday and has the audacity to be judgmental of the interracial gay couple you saw on Bravo yesterday. Whether it's barring people from buying beer on Sundays, or a school board so inept at getting their shit together that the entire system is threatened with loss of accreditation, or an insistence that underage prostitutes should be criminally prosecuted, you just keep showing your true colors, and, girl, they could use a wash in some color-safe Cheer.
Georgia, I am begging you: lay off the meth and the Jesus creeping, you're making us all look bad, and you're embarrassing yourself. Seriously.
I'm glad that Sunday alcohol sales looks like it's going to get a referendum soon. What the heck reason is there to shut down the beer aisle on Sunday? Oh...wait...religious motivation? Separation of church and state, my friends. I don't care if you think "people oughta be in church on Sunday, 'cause it's the lord's day;" not everyone believes as you do, and some of us don't believe at all. Hell, maybe I believe in Thor, and since mead is the beverage of the gods of Asgard, I think it ought to be mandatory to drink mead on Thursday, or Thor's Day, as it was called before it was corrupted by unbelievers. Doesn't mean I'm right, and it doesn't mean it should be official legislation, because it would be infringing on other people's rights in order to promote my religious agenda.
And the whole child prostitute thing...what the heck, Georgia? Seriously, what is wrong with you? "If these 12-year-old rape victims don't get thrown in jail when we catch them, their pimps might start to think that it's okay to rape and prostitute children, and other kids might get the idea that sex is consequence-free!" Not even kidding about that line of reasoning. Wish I was. But unfortunately, I'm not. Really, pimps would stop pimping if we punished their prostitutes, guys. Oh, and when kids see middle-schoolers walking the streets as hookers and getting raped and beaten up, they get the idea that sex is consequence-free, so they should just start having it. This is the attitude of the Christian Right here in Georgia; way to beat some truly sad victims with the ol' Bible belt, guys.
Asheville has its own set of egregious woo-woo (I swear to Thor, if I hear the phrase, "You should try some homeopathic medicine" one more time, I'm getting my hammer). But the kind of dyed-in-the-wool crazy that comes with the brand of Bible-thumping Jesus creeping that seems so prevalent here is just so much more offensive to me.
Anyway; I'll leave off ranting for today. Mama's got some packing to do.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Because Chicken Soup Can Fix Anything
One day I'm going to write a manifesto on how to argue without fighting and actually get your problem solved. But today is not that day; today is the day I talk about chicken soup.
If you're new to Fake Housewifing, and you're embarking on the adventure of cooking, I have two life hacks for you: get a crock pot, and buy your chicken with the bones in. I know, I know, boneless, skinless chicken breast is where it's at. But look at the prices sometime. And then look at the chicken breast with the bones and skin. You can get the same meat yield, but you'll pay a lot less per pack. Heck, I got me a bag of 16 chicken legs at the Ingles for $5 last week; you can't beat that with a stick, and you can freeze what you don't use right away.
"But Mama," I hear you cry, "isn't it going to be a lot of extra work de-boning and skinning all those chicken legs, just so you can cook them?" Heck no. Besides, I'm a Fake Housewife now; I've got an extra 5 minutes and a secret weapon: my crock pot.
The crock pot, my friends, is a wonderful kitchen tool, especially if you don't know how to cook. Just chuck you some meat and veggies in there, cover with broth and/or soup, and turn that sucker on. You can leave and go to work, or go run your errands, or take a nap, or get shit-faced drunk and fall down the stairs if you want; point is, you can just wander away, and when you get back, you done cooked something. It's that easy. And the thing about slow-cooking is, as long as you keep your liquid levels up, your meat will basically only get more soft, tender, and juicy as time goes on. This is why the crock pot is perfect for bone-in chicken: cook it thoroughly, and you can literally slide the bones out.
So here's y'all a soup recipe:
Mama's Creamy Chicken Soup
For chicken:
6 chicken drumsticks, bone in
4 vegetable bouillon cubes
5 chicken bouillon cubes
About 6-8 cups of warm water, depending on the size of your crock pot
(Or equivalent amount of chicken broth)
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
A touch of sage and pepper
Meat thermometer.
For soup:
3 cups milk (or soy milk)
1/2 cup white wine
1 can (14 oz.) condensed cream of chicken soup
1 can (14 oz.) condensed cream of mushroom or golden mushroom soup
2-3 cups delicious chicken water from your crock pot
Cooked chicken from crock pot
An indiscriminate buttload of fresh or frozen soup veggies (carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, peas). Just however many you can fit in your pot.
You can cook your chicken a day ahead of time if need be. Just take all the ingredients from Part 1 and put them in your crock pot. Except for the meat thermometer; you'll need that uncooked. Turn your crock pot on high and go watch two or three episodes of Deadwood. Check your chicken with the meat thermometer and see whether it's done yet. If not, practice your new cowboy profanity and watch some more Deadwood. Repeat until your chicken reaches the appropriate core temperature. You can let your chicken cool a bit before you handle it, or you can grab some tongs and a fork and go ahead and attack it. Either way, the skin should just slip right off, and the bones should slip right out, and then you can break up your meat into little chicken-soup-sized pieces. If you're moving forward to the soup right away, just stick the meat in a bowl in the fridge; if not, toss it in a Tupperware and put it in the fridge, and save about 4 cups of the chicken broth from your crock pot. Bonus points if you store it in a mason jar, but just make sure to refrigerate it.
When you're ready for soup, put your milk, wine, condensed soup, and chicken water into a large pot and either stir it or whisk it until it's nice and smooth. Then add your veggies. You can add in your chicken later, since it's already cooked and will just need to warm up. Turn your heat on medium-low and let that concoction slowly come up to a near-boil, stirring vigilantly. Reduce your heat and add your chicken, then keep stirring for a few more minutes, just until it's nice and serving hot. Then serve it. If you feel inclined, make you some cheese toast to go with it.
Mmm. Now that's something great for a rainy February evening.
If you're new to Fake Housewifing, and you're embarking on the adventure of cooking, I have two life hacks for you: get a crock pot, and buy your chicken with the bones in. I know, I know, boneless, skinless chicken breast is where it's at. But look at the prices sometime. And then look at the chicken breast with the bones and skin. You can get the same meat yield, but you'll pay a lot less per pack. Heck, I got me a bag of 16 chicken legs at the Ingles for $5 last week; you can't beat that with a stick, and you can freeze what you don't use right away.
"But Mama," I hear you cry, "isn't it going to be a lot of extra work de-boning and skinning all those chicken legs, just so you can cook them?" Heck no. Besides, I'm a Fake Housewife now; I've got an extra 5 minutes and a secret weapon: my crock pot.
The crock pot, my friends, is a wonderful kitchen tool, especially if you don't know how to cook. Just chuck you some meat and veggies in there, cover with broth and/or soup, and turn that sucker on. You can leave and go to work, or go run your errands, or take a nap, or get shit-faced drunk and fall down the stairs if you want; point is, you can just wander away, and when you get back, you done cooked something. It's that easy. And the thing about slow-cooking is, as long as you keep your liquid levels up, your meat will basically only get more soft, tender, and juicy as time goes on. This is why the crock pot is perfect for bone-in chicken: cook it thoroughly, and you can literally slide the bones out.
So here's y'all a soup recipe:
Mama's Creamy Chicken Soup
For chicken:
6 chicken drumsticks, bone in
4 vegetable bouillon cubes
5 chicken bouillon cubes
About 6-8 cups of warm water, depending on the size of your crock pot
(Or equivalent amount of chicken broth)
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
A touch of sage and pepper
Meat thermometer.
For soup:
3 cups milk (or soy milk)
1/2 cup white wine
1 can (14 oz.) condensed cream of chicken soup
1 can (14 oz.) condensed cream of mushroom or golden mushroom soup
2-3 cups delicious chicken water from your crock pot
Cooked chicken from crock pot
An indiscriminate buttload of fresh or frozen soup veggies (carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, peas). Just however many you can fit in your pot.
You can cook your chicken a day ahead of time if need be. Just take all the ingredients from Part 1 and put them in your crock pot. Except for the meat thermometer; you'll need that uncooked. Turn your crock pot on high and go watch two or three episodes of Deadwood. Check your chicken with the meat thermometer and see whether it's done yet. If not, practice your new cowboy profanity and watch some more Deadwood. Repeat until your chicken reaches the appropriate core temperature. You can let your chicken cool a bit before you handle it, or you can grab some tongs and a fork and go ahead and attack it. Either way, the skin should just slip right off, and the bones should slip right out, and then you can break up your meat into little chicken-soup-sized pieces. If you're moving forward to the soup right away, just stick the meat in a bowl in the fridge; if not, toss it in a Tupperware and put it in the fridge, and save about 4 cups of the chicken broth from your crock pot. Bonus points if you store it in a mason jar, but just make sure to refrigerate it.
When you're ready for soup, put your milk, wine, condensed soup, and chicken water into a large pot and either stir it or whisk it until it's nice and smooth. Then add your veggies. You can add in your chicken later, since it's already cooked and will just need to warm up. Turn your heat on medium-low and let that concoction slowly come up to a near-boil, stirring vigilantly. Reduce your heat and add your chicken, then keep stirring for a few more minutes, just until it's nice and serving hot. Then serve it. If you feel inclined, make you some cheese toast to go with it.
Mmm. Now that's something great for a rainy February evening.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
[Sigh] No, the Kindle is NOT Going to Destroy Books
I keep hearing this hysteria popping up over and over. "Now that we have e-books, books are dead! Game over, man, game over! Oh the humanity!" Conversely, I also hear this weird false dichotomy, all-or-nothing approach from book purists. "I still like print books! That's why I'll never get a Nook!"
People. Hear me out now, because Mama's only going to say this once (okay, that's a damn lie and I admit it; I'll say it every chance I get, and I will forget I said it to you and repeat myself endlessly, like a broken record). If you buy an e-book reader, or receive one for some pagan gift-giving holiday, it does not mean you have to take all your books out to the backyard and burn them. You're not limited to choosing one method of reading for the rest of your life. You can buy your hardcovers and your paperbacks and sit by the fire smoking your pipe and read them...and when you go on a long trip with limited suitcase space, you're allowed to take your Kindle. You really won't be forced to pick one and declare an allegiance, I swear.
And I know that there's still a fear out there. That if you buy an eBook reader, you'll be endorsing the fall of books, voting with your wallet, so to speak. That you'll be mistaken for one of those people who just wants the ease and convenience of a download, and doesn't appreciate tradition, or heritage, or even new book smell. By gum, you'll be a digital person, a fast-paced, jet-setting hipster with no patience, and no appreciation for history! You might even forget how to cook! You might wake up one day and find yourself on the Google! The horror!
Do not fear. Using an e-book reader does not mean you will start viewing books as ironic, archaic tchotchkes.
But what about CDs?! Electronic music downloads on them Internets have killed the CD already! How long before electronic text downloads kill our books?!
This is really a valid question, one I'd like to address at greater length and lesser sarcasm. Yep, the whole CD thing is pretty well over, IMO, and yes, it is largely thanks to the easy availability of downloadable music. But this is very different from the relationship between books and e-books.
The goal of both CDs and MP3/MP4 downloads is the information itself. You want to listen to the music they contain. The CD does not really offer many benefits that the download doesn't have, and it comes with a lot of additional drawbacks. Yes, you have a physical copy of your music, which you can use as a backup in the event of terminal hard drive failure. But that's nothing you can't circumvent by simply making backup copies of your downloaded music on writable CDs, or even on a portable hard drive. And those bulk packs of CD-Rs cost a lot less than a CD album. The CD album also may come with tracks you don't like, and will never listen to, so the net average cost of the tracks you do want, and will listen to, becomes much higher. $15 for an album where you'll listen to 10 out of 15 tracks? $1.50 per song that you'll actually use. Even if you pay for music via Amazon or iTunes, you could get those 10 tracks for $10 at 99 cents each, and save yourself $5 plus a trip to the CD store. Downloads offer instant delivery of exactly the information you require, at a lower price and they're never out of stock.
So how does this differ from a book? You're after the information it contains, right? Well, yes and no. See, books serve more purposes than just a delivery system for information. As the book-smell fetishists will tell you, a book is sold as an experience as well as a body of information. Books are decorative, if nothing else. They fill a shelf and create an atmosphere in a home library. And they come in many levels of decorativeness--you can have that dog-eared copy of The Hobbit on your shelf and it'll do ya fine...but you can also have that over-sized, leather-bound, gold-leafed special edition with the thick, creamy pages. And that offers a truly different experience. Books appeal to the visual and tactile sensibilities in a way that CDs were never designed to.
If anything, books are much more like vinyl records, which are seeing an upsurge in popularity, even (perhaps especially) among younger audiences who did not even grow up in the era of vinyl's original popularity. Vinyl albums were, and are, marketed as an experience as well as an information medium. Vinyl offers the experience of hearing music in analog format; it offers collectability; it features album art on a scale that merits display, and therefore fulfills the visual aesthetic and decorative impulse. CD album art is of a scale and nature that leans more towards the disposable.
Book purists do have a solid point. But it's not that one format is superior to another; it's simply that books do serve a purpose, and appeal to a market, that e-books can't overtake. Yes, we will see drops in paper book sales. But books aren't going to disappear any time soon.
People. Hear me out now, because Mama's only going to say this once (okay, that's a damn lie and I admit it; I'll say it every chance I get, and I will forget I said it to you and repeat myself endlessly, like a broken record). If you buy an e-book reader, or receive one for some pagan gift-giving holiday, it does not mean you have to take all your books out to the backyard and burn them. You're not limited to choosing one method of reading for the rest of your life. You can buy your hardcovers and your paperbacks and sit by the fire smoking your pipe and read them...and when you go on a long trip with limited suitcase space, you're allowed to take your Kindle. You really won't be forced to pick one and declare an allegiance, I swear.
And I know that there's still a fear out there. That if you buy an eBook reader, you'll be endorsing the fall of books, voting with your wallet, so to speak. That you'll be mistaken for one of those people who just wants the ease and convenience of a download, and doesn't appreciate tradition, or heritage, or even new book smell. By gum, you'll be a digital person, a fast-paced, jet-setting hipster with no patience, and no appreciation for history! You might even forget how to cook! You might wake up one day and find yourself on the Google! The horror!
Do not fear. Using an e-book reader does not mean you will start viewing books as ironic, archaic tchotchkes.
But what about CDs?! Electronic music downloads on them Internets have killed the CD already! How long before electronic text downloads kill our books?!
This is really a valid question, one I'd like to address at greater length and lesser sarcasm. Yep, the whole CD thing is pretty well over, IMO, and yes, it is largely thanks to the easy availability of downloadable music. But this is very different from the relationship between books and e-books.
The goal of both CDs and MP3/MP4 downloads is the information itself. You want to listen to the music they contain. The CD does not really offer many benefits that the download doesn't have, and it comes with a lot of additional drawbacks. Yes, you have a physical copy of your music, which you can use as a backup in the event of terminal hard drive failure. But that's nothing you can't circumvent by simply making backup copies of your downloaded music on writable CDs, or even on a portable hard drive. And those bulk packs of CD-Rs cost a lot less than a CD album. The CD album also may come with tracks you don't like, and will never listen to, so the net average cost of the tracks you do want, and will listen to, becomes much higher. $15 for an album where you'll listen to 10 out of 15 tracks? $1.50 per song that you'll actually use. Even if you pay for music via Amazon or iTunes, you could get those 10 tracks for $10 at 99 cents each, and save yourself $5 plus a trip to the CD store. Downloads offer instant delivery of exactly the information you require, at a lower price and they're never out of stock.
So how does this differ from a book? You're after the information it contains, right? Well, yes and no. See, books serve more purposes than just a delivery system for information. As the book-smell fetishists will tell you, a book is sold as an experience as well as a body of information. Books are decorative, if nothing else. They fill a shelf and create an atmosphere in a home library. And they come in many levels of decorativeness--you can have that dog-eared copy of The Hobbit on your shelf and it'll do ya fine...but you can also have that over-sized, leather-bound, gold-leafed special edition with the thick, creamy pages. And that offers a truly different experience. Books appeal to the visual and tactile sensibilities in a way that CDs were never designed to.
If anything, books are much more like vinyl records, which are seeing an upsurge in popularity, even (perhaps especially) among younger audiences who did not even grow up in the era of vinyl's original popularity. Vinyl albums were, and are, marketed as an experience as well as an information medium. Vinyl offers the experience of hearing music in analog format; it offers collectability; it features album art on a scale that merits display, and therefore fulfills the visual aesthetic and decorative impulse. CD album art is of a scale and nature that leans more towards the disposable.
Book purists do have a solid point. But it's not that one format is superior to another; it's simply that books do serve a purpose, and appeal to a market, that e-books can't overtake. Yes, we will see drops in paper book sales. But books aren't going to disappear any time soon.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Southern School of Cooking
Because I grew up cooking in the great Southern "no measuring" tradition, I am the Zatoichi of the kitchen. I can hear when my waffles are done from two rooms away. I can feel when I've got the ratios just right in my cornbread mix or pancake batter. I can sense when it's time to turn the oven off.
It's awesome when you finally get the hang of it and can just get in there and wing it; but it is a frustrating way to learn to cook.
When my mom and grandma were teaching me how to cook, they did remember to mention that one could always consult a recipe, but for things like pancakes, cornbread, eggs, and other common staples, the conversation went much more like this:
"Okay, so you get your cornbread mix and your eggs and milk, and you do this." [Pours apparently random amount of ingredients into bowl and starts stirring.]
"Wait, what? How much do I need?"
[Grinding pausse.] "Uhh...well, you just kinda...here, this is what it's supposed to look like. You put in enough until it looks like this."
"O...kaaaaay..."
"Then you cook it until it's done."
"Wait, how long do I cook it? How do I know when it's done?!"
"When it looks done."
[My head asplode.]
I always wondered why--why cook like this? Why fly into the kitchen armed with an idea of what that bread product is supposed to look like at the end result and just ignore the plethora of gadgets and doodads and measuring utensils available to the modern kitchen? Why the heck does it seem like so many Southerners do this? From my great-grandma's Red Velvet cake (which she confessed she couldn't write out a recipe for, unless she "got in there and made one") to my mom's cornbread, it seemed like everyone was just winging it through a pretty damn complex skill set.
Then I thought about my great-grandma, sharecropping on a farm in rural North Carolina, with thirteen kids and virtually no money. If her biscuit recipe called for eight cups of flour, she might not have had it. And she certainly couldn't have just nipped around to the store and picked up some more. She would have had to make it work with what she had, no matter what she had. And if she was cooking with a wood stove, forget the fancy pre-heating timers and oven thermometers that keep our temperatures even and precise. When you live in poverty, like so many of my ancestresses have, you've gotta cook based on the end results, because if you get stuck on Step Two because you don't have enough eggs, you don't eat.
So you figure out how to substitute, stretch your ingredients, how to wing it. You can hop into any kitchen you're presented with and throw something together. You can tweak the heat of the oven and stove by feel until it gets to right where you need it. You can recognize the signs of doneness in a piece of meat or a pan of muffins and cut the heat at the right time, no matter what the timer says. You can re-create flavors, or adjust them, even when you don't have quite the ingredient called for. You end up learning a ton about food chemistry; even if you're no Alton Brown, you know what's going to happen if you use melted butter instead of softened. And there's always someone a phone call away who can explain to you why your pinto beans keep coming out tasting weird.
I must say, having learned a good deal of this slapdash way of cooking, it's very freeing. You learn to trust yourself and your instincts, you're not afraid of experimenting, and even if you lose all your recipe cards in a...*ahem*...freak accidental kitchen fire, you can at least still make beans and cornbread.
It's awesome when you finally get the hang of it and can just get in there and wing it; but it is a frustrating way to learn to cook.
When my mom and grandma were teaching me how to cook, they did remember to mention that one could always consult a recipe, but for things like pancakes, cornbread, eggs, and other common staples, the conversation went much more like this:
"Okay, so you get your cornbread mix and your eggs and milk, and you do this." [Pours apparently random amount of ingredients into bowl and starts stirring.]
"Wait, what? How much do I need?"
[Grinding pausse.] "Uhh...well, you just kinda...here, this is what it's supposed to look like. You put in enough until it looks like this."
"O...kaaaaay..."
"Then you cook it until it's done."
"Wait, how long do I cook it? How do I know when it's done?!"
"When it looks done."
[My head asplode.]
I always wondered why--why cook like this? Why fly into the kitchen armed with an idea of what that bread product is supposed to look like at the end result and just ignore the plethora of gadgets and doodads and measuring utensils available to the modern kitchen? Why the heck does it seem like so many Southerners do this? From my great-grandma's Red Velvet cake (which she confessed she couldn't write out a recipe for, unless she "got in there and made one") to my mom's cornbread, it seemed like everyone was just winging it through a pretty damn complex skill set.
Then I thought about my great-grandma, sharecropping on a farm in rural North Carolina, with thirteen kids and virtually no money. If her biscuit recipe called for eight cups of flour, she might not have had it. And she certainly couldn't have just nipped around to the store and picked up some more. She would have had to make it work with what she had, no matter what she had. And if she was cooking with a wood stove, forget the fancy pre-heating timers and oven thermometers that keep our temperatures even and precise. When you live in poverty, like so many of my ancestresses have, you've gotta cook based on the end results, because if you get stuck on Step Two because you don't have enough eggs, you don't eat.
So you figure out how to substitute, stretch your ingredients, how to wing it. You can hop into any kitchen you're presented with and throw something together. You can tweak the heat of the oven and stove by feel until it gets to right where you need it. You can recognize the signs of doneness in a piece of meat or a pan of muffins and cut the heat at the right time, no matter what the timer says. You can re-create flavors, or adjust them, even when you don't have quite the ingredient called for. You end up learning a ton about food chemistry; even if you're no Alton Brown, you know what's going to happen if you use melted butter instead of softened. And there's always someone a phone call away who can explain to you why your pinto beans keep coming out tasting weird.
I must say, having learned a good deal of this slapdash way of cooking, it's very freeing. You learn to trust yourself and your instincts, you're not afraid of experimenting, and even if you lose all your recipe cards in a...*ahem*...freak accidental kitchen fire, you can at least still make beans and cornbread.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Did I Just Channel My Mother?
I had my first-ever Mom Voice moment today. You know that voice: the booming, authoritative, near-militaristic sharpness that suddenly explodes from somewhere above you and demands to know if you've lost your damn mind. The voice that grabs right ahold of your brain-stem and forces you to freeze in your tracks and drop whatever foolishness you were doing. That voice.
I worked my next-to-last day in the party goods store today. We were crazy busy, because we've had a break in the cold weather. I was helping a co-worker re-assemble a display, and I heard, from around the corner, the distinct "ting, ting" of two wineglasses knocking together. I poked my head around the corner and saw a little girl, maybe five years old, who had picked up two of our whisper-thin and overpriced wineglasses, and was banging them together. Like bells. I popped around there immediately, pointed my finger at her, and boomed out, "UNH-UH. NO. NO." Not in a panic; not as a request; as a command, not to be disobeyed under any circumstances, in a tone that brooked no argument. Her father sprang into action, snatched the glasses out of her hand, picked her up, and immediately started apologizing to me in a tone and body language that surprised me somewhat. He looked at me like a guy whose boss has just caught him looking at porn on the work computer. I just said, back in my normal customer service Inside Voice, "I'm sorry sir; we can't play with those." He nodded and skedaddled.
My co-worker smiled knowingly at me and said, "You're going to be a great mom."
Hells yeah.
I worked my next-to-last day in the party goods store today. We were crazy busy, because we've had a break in the cold weather. I was helping a co-worker re-assemble a display, and I heard, from around the corner, the distinct "ting, ting" of two wineglasses knocking together. I poked my head around the corner and saw a little girl, maybe five years old, who had picked up two of our whisper-thin and overpriced wineglasses, and was banging them together. Like bells. I popped around there immediately, pointed my finger at her, and boomed out, "UNH-UH. NO. NO." Not in a panic; not as a request; as a command, not to be disobeyed under any circumstances, in a tone that brooked no argument. Her father sprang into action, snatched the glasses out of her hand, picked her up, and immediately started apologizing to me in a tone and body language that surprised me somewhat. He looked at me like a guy whose boss has just caught him looking at porn on the work computer. I just said, back in my normal customer service Inside Voice, "I'm sorry sir; we can't play with those." He nodded and skedaddled.
My co-worker smiled knowingly at me and said, "You're going to be a great mom."
Hells yeah.
Tutorial Tutorial
Oh boy. One of the difficulties I'm facing in my career as an artist is terribly embarrassing: I'm not a master of Photoshop. I can do many things with it, and have in fact been given some basic training and great tips on using it to color comics, which is what I need it for. But, like I said, I'm no master, and there are some basic functions and tools in that program about which I have just not got a single clue yet.
Unfortunately, Photoshop isn't one of those intuitive programs (for me at least) where you can just dicker around with a tool or setting for a few seconds and go, "Ohhh, that's what that's for. Neat," and then immediately apply it to maximum effect. Nope. That mofo is technical and complicated, and while the help menu manual is a good place to start, sometimes you just need someone to show you how to do something specific.
Enter the helpful masses of friends and colleagues with a single piece of advice: "You can just Google Photoshop tutorials." I don't know which Google they're using, but so far I have not stumbled upon a rich cache of applicable knowledge. No, in my often fruitless searches, I've learned pretty much one thing: there's not hardly a soul on the planet who understands what the word "tutorial" means, much less how to make a good one. So here it is:
Mama's Tutorial Tutorial.
The point of a tutorial is to teach someone something. Someone who knows nothing about what you're about to do in your video. With me so far? Okay. Let's start with some common mistakes:
Questions to answer at every flapjackin' step of the process:
I know this sounds tedious, maybe even frustrating, but remember: you decided to make a tutorial. You need to teach this to a bunch of people who may not know jack shit about what you just did. If you're just sitting there saying, "Now we grab our Pen tool" and using your hotkeys, some poor kid in the audience may be eight steps behind now, going, "Wait, what? Hold on, I still haven't adjusted my Tolerance!"
One last piece of advice, for the more advanced tutorial makers: it's cool to discuss theory; please remember to pause a bit when you do, and keep discussing those basics--which tool, where, and why.
Now, armed with this pearl of wisdom...get out there and...somebody help me with my Photoshop. (Or, if you do know of a particularly good video/text tutorial that hits all the high notes, feel free to send me a link.)
Unfortunately, Photoshop isn't one of those intuitive programs (for me at least) where you can just dicker around with a tool or setting for a few seconds and go, "Ohhh, that's what that's for. Neat," and then immediately apply it to maximum effect. Nope. That mofo is technical and complicated, and while the help menu manual is a good place to start, sometimes you just need someone to show you how to do something specific.
Enter the helpful masses of friends and colleagues with a single piece of advice: "You can just Google Photoshop tutorials." I don't know which Google they're using, but so far I have not stumbled upon a rich cache of applicable knowledge. No, in my often fruitless searches, I've learned pretty much one thing: there's not hardly a soul on the planet who understands what the word "tutorial" means, much less how to make a good one. So here it is:
Mama's Tutorial Tutorial.
The point of a tutorial is to teach someone something. Someone who knows nothing about what you're about to do in your video. With me so far? Okay. Let's start with some common mistakes:
- A speed video of you blasting through a color job, start to finish, is not a tutorial. It's a demonstration of your skills, and more entertainment than education. If you're going to do a time-elapse video of you coloring a piece, you are hereby not allowed to call it a tutorial.
- Consider the fact that your audience is going to need to follow along with you. If you're not going to be featured talking, put whatever music you like over your video and position your damn camera so that people can get a good, clear view of your workspace. They will need to see what tools and settings you're using to achieve the effect. Maybe throw in some pop-up labels and info.
- If you are going to be talking, for blog's sake, be specific as hell! If your video features long pauses in between you giving lame, "I'm not comfortable talking to people" statements like, "Well, we're gonna use some green for this...there, that's pretty much done...I guess you can kinda get the basic idea here," UR DOIN IT WRONG.
Questions to answer at every flapjackin' step of the process:
- What tool did you use to do that?
- Why is it the best tool for the job?
- Where can I find this tool?
- What settings, if any, need to be applied beyond default?
- Where can I adjust those settings?
- How does one apply the tool? Do we need to double-click? Hold down Shift?
I know this sounds tedious, maybe even frustrating, but remember: you decided to make a tutorial. You need to teach this to a bunch of people who may not know jack shit about what you just did. If you're just sitting there saying, "Now we grab our Pen tool" and using your hotkeys, some poor kid in the audience may be eight steps behind now, going, "Wait, what? Hold on, I still haven't adjusted my Tolerance!"
One last piece of advice, for the more advanced tutorial makers: it's cool to discuss theory; please remember to pause a bit when you do, and keep discussing those basics--which tool, where, and why.
Now, armed with this pearl of wisdom...get out there and...somebody help me with my Photoshop. (Or, if you do know of a particularly good video/text tutorial that hits all the high notes, feel free to send me a link.)
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Well, I'm Still in My Pajamas
One of the great things about being a Fake Housewife is that you're not always on camera, so nobody expects you to dress up just to flit around your house on a Prozac-and-Cosmopolitans high. But hey, I made the effort to at least coordinate my pajamas outfit--these fuzzy leopard pants match my pink robe perfectly, dammit. I've even got matching slippers. How's that for fancy?
I'm still in my pajamas because one of my standing rules for a successful day is to never do any work before breakfast. You may be wondering, "Who the heck works before breakfast, anyway?" Scattered housewives who've always had to adhere to a pretty regular schedule and have no clue what to do with themselves now that they're home all the time, that's who. Really, I think the biggest adjustment to "Work From Home" life has been having to set my own schedule, all day, every day. I know, I know, "Oh, boo-hoo, you poor thing, you mean you get to do what you want, all the damn time? Call the ACLU, it's a human rights violation!" But, like many people my age, given an inordinate amount of free time, I will do fuck-all with it. I will sit and dither and realize that the entire day has gone by and I have accomplished absolutely nothing. So I've had to start making rules. And I've discovered that if I pop out of bed and just start working on things, I get bogged down in little details, lose my "big-picture" focus, and forget to eat at all. No work before breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast, here's y'all a simple recipe. You can make it in the microwave, so you know it's extra-classy!
Mama's Mexi-Mocha Mix:
2 Tbsp sugar
2 Tbsp baking cocoa powder
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp cinnamon
Cayenne pepper
1 cup milk, or something like it (soy milk if you like, or straight half-and-half if you're feeling decadent)
Freshly brewed coffee of your choice.
In a substantial mug, combine your sugar, cocoa, vanilla, and cinnamon. I use just a dash of cayenne when I make this, but if you want more, have at it. Pour your milk in and give it a little stir. Your cocoa's going to float to the top pretty much no matter what you do, but it's fun to watch, so that's all right. Put your mug in the microwave on a middlin' setting (if you've got a "Beverage" setting, use that), and nuke it for a minute at a time, stirring in between. If you've got a small whisk, that works even better, because it breaks up the cocoa. Once you've got that hot, spicy chocolate steaming like you like it, add some fresh, hot coffee and enjoy the hell out of it.
You can also use a milk steamer if you've got one, or you can put your ingredients in a small saucepan instead of a mug and slowly heat it on the stove. You'll have to stir it pretty constantly to keep it from sticking or forming a skin, and that's where the whisk comes in handy again, but you end up with a very smooth mixture. I like the kick that the cayenne adds to it; it's a real eye-opener. Mmm, delicious spicy coffee.
Now that we've had our coffee, here's what's on the To-Do for today:
Well, it's Thursday, so that means I'm heading over to reddit/OneParagraph to do maintenance. I co-moderate this great little forum dedicated to very short stories--only one paragraph long. On Wednesdays I publish the "Weekly Challenge" feature, where I give the writers a subject, technique, or idea to incorporate, and on Thursdays I update the master list of all the challenges we've had. It's a great place; lots of good reads in there.
There's always an ongoing cleaning and organization project at the old homestead, of course.
And I'm going to try to figure out a crochet pattern for an amazing bacon and eggs scarf I saw online, because it kicks ass. (And hey, it's breakfast themed!)
Then I've got to start cataloging the art pieces I've got lying around; I'm set to do a big scanning project later this week or early next week, and that stuff isn't going to organize itself.
Anyhow; wherever you be, and whatever you're wearing, pajamas or otherwise, I hope you have a kickass day.
I'm still in my pajamas because one of my standing rules for a successful day is to never do any work before breakfast. You may be wondering, "Who the heck works before breakfast, anyway?" Scattered housewives who've always had to adhere to a pretty regular schedule and have no clue what to do with themselves now that they're home all the time, that's who. Really, I think the biggest adjustment to "Work From Home" life has been having to set my own schedule, all day, every day. I know, I know, "Oh, boo-hoo, you poor thing, you mean you get to do what you want, all the damn time? Call the ACLU, it's a human rights violation!" But, like many people my age, given an inordinate amount of free time, I will do fuck-all with it. I will sit and dither and realize that the entire day has gone by and I have accomplished absolutely nothing. So I've had to start making rules. And I've discovered that if I pop out of bed and just start working on things, I get bogged down in little details, lose my "big-picture" focus, and forget to eat at all. No work before breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast, here's y'all a simple recipe. You can make it in the microwave, so you know it's extra-classy!
Mama's Mexi-Mocha Mix:
2 Tbsp sugar
2 Tbsp baking cocoa powder
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp cinnamon
Cayenne pepper
1 cup milk, or something like it (soy milk if you like, or straight half-and-half if you're feeling decadent)
Freshly brewed coffee of your choice.
In a substantial mug, combine your sugar, cocoa, vanilla, and cinnamon. I use just a dash of cayenne when I make this, but if you want more, have at it. Pour your milk in and give it a little stir. Your cocoa's going to float to the top pretty much no matter what you do, but it's fun to watch, so that's all right. Put your mug in the microwave on a middlin' setting (if you've got a "Beverage" setting, use that), and nuke it for a minute at a time, stirring in between. If you've got a small whisk, that works even better, because it breaks up the cocoa. Once you've got that hot, spicy chocolate steaming like you like it, add some fresh, hot coffee and enjoy the hell out of it.
You can also use a milk steamer if you've got one, or you can put your ingredients in a small saucepan instead of a mug and slowly heat it on the stove. You'll have to stir it pretty constantly to keep it from sticking or forming a skin, and that's where the whisk comes in handy again, but you end up with a very smooth mixture. I like the kick that the cayenne adds to it; it's a real eye-opener. Mmm, delicious spicy coffee.
Now that we've had our coffee, here's what's on the To-Do for today:
Well, it's Thursday, so that means I'm heading over to reddit/OneParagraph to do maintenance. I co-moderate this great little forum dedicated to very short stories--only one paragraph long. On Wednesdays I publish the "Weekly Challenge" feature, where I give the writers a subject, technique, or idea to incorporate, and on Thursdays I update the master list of all the challenges we've had. It's a great place; lots of good reads in there.
There's always an ongoing cleaning and organization project at the old homestead, of course.
And I'm going to try to figure out a crochet pattern for an amazing bacon and eggs scarf I saw online, because it kicks ass. (And hey, it's breakfast themed!)
Then I've got to start cataloging the art pieces I've got lying around; I'm set to do a big scanning project later this week or early next week, and that stuff isn't going to organize itself.
Anyhow; wherever you be, and whatever you're wearing, pajamas or otherwise, I hope you have a kickass day.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Who the Hell Am I, and What the Heck Am I Doing Here?
It's a good question, and one I find myself asking just frequently enough to keep me grounded.
Who are you?
I'm a Fake Housewife. I'm a Southern gal and a progressive skeptical rationalist atheist feminist damnliberal who wants nothing more than to move to a country cottage with her husband and bake cakes and raise babies. I'm a Redditor and an artist.
What are you doing here?
Kind of a long story. I'm sure we've all felt that the economy in the last few years has been kind of like a cheap carnival roller coaster operated by a junkie. (Or at least I have.) I've been on one hell of a ride with that thing; employed, laid off, unemployed, underemployed, and mostly hanging on for dear life, wondering if I'm going to make it and why a smart kid with experience and a degree can't seem to make it out of poverty. A little over a year ago my then-fiance and I packed it up and moved to the big city of Atlanta to pursue my dream of becoming a freelance comic book artist. I had a part-time retail job just to get a regular paycheck, but I dumped it recently so I could focus on art and spend more time with my family. I keep house, I cook, I draw pictures, and now I blog.
That's How Mama Likes What Now?
If you're a fan of Amy Poehler and the twisted shenanigans on "Upright Citizens Brigade," it all makes sense. Some days I just feel like a cynical, slightly trashed and slightly trashy broad who's a step or two away from a few boozy shenanigans myself.
What's a Fake Housewife?
You've seen them "Real Housewives" shows, right? If not, you're not missing much. It's just a series of romps by a bunch of tarted-up skanks with too much money and attitude but a strangely low amount of self-esteem. They don't work, they don't raise their own kids, they don't clean their own houses; they really don't do much but drink and fight and go shopping, it seems like. If that's what it takes to be a "Real Housewife," then I'm a gatdamn fake. I still make time for drinking, though.
Who are you?
I'm a Fake Housewife. I'm a Southern gal and a progressive skeptical rationalist atheist feminist damnliberal who wants nothing more than to move to a country cottage with her husband and bake cakes and raise babies. I'm a Redditor and an artist.
What are you doing here?
Kind of a long story. I'm sure we've all felt that the economy in the last few years has been kind of like a cheap carnival roller coaster operated by a junkie. (Or at least I have.) I've been on one hell of a ride with that thing; employed, laid off, unemployed, underemployed, and mostly hanging on for dear life, wondering if I'm going to make it and why a smart kid with experience and a degree can't seem to make it out of poverty. A little over a year ago my then-fiance and I packed it up and moved to the big city of Atlanta to pursue my dream of becoming a freelance comic book artist. I had a part-time retail job just to get a regular paycheck, but I dumped it recently so I could focus on art and spend more time with my family. I keep house, I cook, I draw pictures, and now I blog.
That's How Mama Likes What Now?
If you're a fan of Amy Poehler and the twisted shenanigans on "Upright Citizens Brigade," it all makes sense. Some days I just feel like a cynical, slightly trashed and slightly trashy broad who's a step or two away from a few boozy shenanigans myself.
What's a Fake Housewife?
You've seen them "Real Housewives" shows, right? If not, you're not missing much. It's just a series of romps by a bunch of tarted-up skanks with too much money and attitude but a strangely low amount of self-esteem. They don't work, they don't raise their own kids, they don't clean their own houses; they really don't do much but drink and fight and go shopping, it seems like. If that's what it takes to be a "Real Housewife," then I'm a gatdamn fake. I still make time for drinking, though.
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