Candy Rant

"I killed a rat with a stick once."

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

You Have Summoned Me?

(Last year's Thanksgiving post, warmed up, served again. Because of my laziness. Happy Thanksgiving!)

That's right. Take a good look.

I have always been this ugly. I never went to the prom. I frightened young children. And I was picked last for every barnyard game. Even when I got onto a team, the game was almost always Red Rover, and I was too weak to break through the link between the cow and the goat, no matter how fast I ran.

So go ahead. Chop off my head and cook me and eat me. What do I care? I long for the afterlife where I might become a fuzzy bunny or a cute yellow chick.

What's that? You wish to know if there is anything I'd have done differently in my life? Yes, many things. I'd have tried to be more of a leader than a follower. I'd have eaten on the good china every day. I'd have come inside the barn when it rained, instead of looking upward to my near-drowning. I would tell someone, anyone, the key to life that I've discovered. In fact, I will tell you.

All you need to know is--



Tuesday, November 25, 2008

One Step Out of the Bloggy Closet

A few weeks ago I added The Pragmatic Chef to my blogroll.

Guess what? A guy who cooks great food and feeds it to his annoying wife is the writer of that blog. I am madly in love with him. And also married to him.

Sunday, November 23, 2008


I've never been a fan of peace signs. Even in the '70s. They just seem so...cheesy. I'm even less fond of people forming the groovy 2-fingered one. Show me an oily Ashton Kutchner or a pretentious Olsen twin shooting one of those at the crowds of snapping cameras, and I know I'm capable of homicide.

That said, Friday was a rotten day for me. Various reasons. The final one? A flat tire. And even though AAA changed it, free of charge, and then the tire place fixed the tire, free of charge, the process had been the icing on the big ugly cake that was Friday.

In the evening, Scott offered me the distraction of a cool Mexican restaurant called Two Hippies Beach House. He'd been there a couple times for lunch, but I had yet to see it. A tiny little place, built just like a seaside shack where you walk up to the window and order and then head back to your blanket with your coconut smelling sunburn. Seating is outside under an awning, and running all around the seating area is a flower box, filled with plants which are intermingled with hundreds of little drink umbrellas AND the occasional vintage Matchbox car.

The food could've been hardtack soaked in raccoon urine, and I'd have been happy just because of the ambience. But the food was great. Big fat delicious tacos for $1.50 each. I got the vegetarian with beans, cheese, onions, tomatoes, cabbage, salsa, avocado and more salsa. Scott got the beef. We got 4 tacos, some chips and salsa, and split a bottle of water and it was TEN DOLLARS.

It was a very good distraction from my neon misery quotient that day. And even this hardened, peace-signs-are-lame chick had to go back for a cupcake. I only saw that the icing was pink. I didn't see the design until I left the place. First peace sign ever to make me happy. And then I chewed its face off.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Best Lyrics Ever

When I visit Indiana, I always end up listening to country music on the car radio. I don't know why. It just seems fitting.

I heard this gem sung by Reba McIntire and just about chewed the steering wheel off in my frenzied delight. It was written by Bobbi Gentry (Same person who wrote "Ode to Billie Joe." Anybody remember that?) and has the most deliciously cheesy lyrics in the history of country music. I've highlighted my favorite parts.

If you know of any worse/more scrumptious country lyrics, please tell me.


Well, I remember it all very well lookin' back
It was the summer that I turned eighteen.
We lived in a one-room, run down shack
on the outskirts of New Orleans.

We didn't have money for food or rent
to say the least we was hard-pressed
when Momma spent every last penny we had
to buy me a dancin' dress.

Well, Momma washed and combed and curled my hair,
then she painted my eyes and lips.
Then I stepped into the satin dancin' dress.
It had a split in the side clean up to my hips.

It was red, velvet-trimmed, and it fit me good
and standin' back from the lookin' glass
was a woman
where a half grown kid had stood.

She said, "Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down!
Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
but if you want out girl it's up to you.
Now get on out, you better start sleepin' uptown."

Momma dabbed a little bit of perfume
on my neck and she kissed my cheek
Then I saw the tears welling up
in her troubled eyes as she started to speak

She looked at our pitiful shack and then
she looked at me and took a ragged breath
She said, Your Pa's runned off, and I'm real sick
and the baby's gonna starve to death.

She handed me a heart-shaped locket that said
"To thine own self be true"
and I shivered as I watched a roach crawl across
the toe of my high-heeled shoe

It sounded like somebody else was talkin'
askin', "Momma what do I do?"
She said, "Just be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy.
They'll be nice to you."

She said, "Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down!
Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
But if you want out girl it's up to you
Now don't let me down,
now get on out, you better start sleepin' uptown."

That was the last time I saw my momma
when I left that rickety shack
The welfare people came and took the baby.
Momma died and I ain't been back.

But the wheels of fate had started to turn
and for me there was no other way out.
It wasn't very long after that I knew exactly
what my momma was talkin' 'bout.

I knew what I had to do.
Then I made myself this solemn vow:
I's gonna to be a lady someday
though I didn't know when or how.

But I couldn't see spendin' the rest of my life
with my head hung down in shame.
You know I mighta been born just plain white trash.
but Fancy was my name.

She said, "Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down!
Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
but if you want out girl it's up to you.
Now get on out, you better start sleepin' uptown."

Wasn't long after that a benevolent man
took me in off the streets
One week later I was pourin' his tea
in a five roomed penthouse suite.

Since then I've charmed a king, a congressman
and an occasional aristocrat
and I got me an elegant Georgia mansion
and a New York townhouse flat.

Now I ain't done bad

Now in this world there's a lot of self-righteous
hypocrites who call me bad.
They criticize Momma for turning me out
No matter how little we had.

But I haven't had to worry 'bout nothin'
now for nigh on fifteen years
But I can still hear the desperation
in my poor mommas voice ringin' in my ears.

"Here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down!
Oh, here's your last chance, Fancy, don't let me down.
God forgive me for what I do,
but if you want out girl it's up to you.
Now get on out, you better start sleepin' uptown."

Thursday, November 13, 2008

The Never-Ending Battle

Do not argue with my mother about food. More specifically, do not ever bother attempting to convince her that you are, perhaps, not a freak if you have different food preferences than she does.

Because you ARE a freak. Here is a brief list of foods that I cannot stand to eat:

Hot oatmeal with milk poured onto it
Sweet pickles
Sour cream
Pork (except for bacon burned beyond recognition)

My mother has verbally bitchslapped me for not liking these foods. She says "You just don't know what's good. That's what's wrong with you."

The main conflicts we've had over food have centered on mayonnaise. Mom can't fathom what kind of imbecile would eat a sandwich without mayonnaise slathered onto it. Every single time she has made me a sandwich in my entire life, she has either put mayonnaise on it against my will, or, beginning about ten years ago she stopped putting mayonnaise on it automatically, but asks "You want mayonnaise on this?"

To which I respond "How many years have you been asking me if I want mayonnaise and how many years have I been saying no?"

To which she responds with either "I thought maybe you'd snapped out of that crap" or "You still don't know what's good" or her extra snarky "Oh you're just SO picky, aren't you?" And I won't even describe the nuclear blast that occurs when she agrees to put only mustard on the sandwich, but puts it on there WITH HER MAYONNAISE-Y KNIFE! She does this on purpose. She wants to lure me into believing I have won the battle and then she launches her horrible condiment missile into the demilitarized sandwich zone. And she takes great pleasure in doing this.

I've tried to reason with her. I've told her that taste preferences are exactly that: preferences. They are the OPINION of your taste buds. Everyone likes different foods. I deliver a marvelously eloquent speech about how I have never in my life persecuted someone because they like different foods than I like. And that when I make HER a sandwich, I courteously put on the condiments of her choice. Because *I* offer people the freedom to decide what tastes good and what tastes like slimy martian afterbirth. I give examples of the foods that Scott loves to eat, but that I find abhorrent, like sushi, and steaks cooked rare enough to be wrung out like a bloody sock and hung on a clothesline. But because he is FREE TO CHOOSE such disgusting things to eat, I let him be.

"And so," I tell her, "you should get off my back and realize that I will never like mayonnaise and this is my right as a human being."

"Well, you're just a queer," she says. And by "queer," my mother is not referring to a slur on homosexuals. She means that you are too effing stupid and weird to be on the planet. And so you should piss off.

She took extra delight last night when my sister brought her special "Hawaiian Hoagie" for supper. I made broccoli and cheese soup (I do not cook...I mixed up water and powder) and my sister brought the hoagie. It's a big round loaf of bread, sliced into 6 thin bread layers. She stuffs the layers with beef, ham, turkey, onions, cheese, lettuce and tomato on it. And between each layer, she puts on MAYONNAISE. The flack I got at the dinner table for picking off the beef and ham was enough. But when I started performing microscopic surgery on the thing, scraping the multi-layered mayonnaise off with my scalpel and then sponging up the excess, you'd have thought I was jamming a screwdriver into the shiny finish of the dining room table.

My sister and mom were like coyotes suddenly poked with hot sticks while watching baby bunnies run freely over their front paws. My dad and I looked at each other, perplexed, unable to even sort out what they were saying. I did hear a few shrieking words.

Apparently I am a queer.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Honked-Off Pumpkins

My sister's good friend Renee has brand new twin grandbabies. Boys.

They were not amused in the least by their Halloween costumes.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

What My Sister Found on Her Backyard Patio the Night Before Halloween

She said he was very lethargic from the cold weather, and it took him a long, long time but he finally worked his way off the concrete and back into the grass.

He looks so pitiful that he reminded me of this little poem by Richard Brautigan.

"The Alarm-Colored Shadow of a Frightened Ant"

The alarm-colored shadow of a frightened ant
wants to make friends with you, learn all about
your childhood, cry together, come live with