Did you know that at our local Barnes and Noble, there are no less than 12 different books on how to grow marijuana? I wouldn’t have normally even taken notice, but I was perusing the shelves for a book on heirloom gardening. Its actually Natalie’s fault, I was reading her blog about how she started a garden project and ended up going into some sort of ‘alternative agricultural store’ which we all know is a front. Now she says she’s growing ‘tomatoes’ in her garden. Right.

Natalie's Tomato Plants

So, coincidentally that nights movie was Saving Grace on Netflix.  A lovely woman, my general age and great taste in furniture (which is really beside the point). Anyway, her husband passes away and leaves her destitute, in a lovely English garden estate – so to support her previous level of living, she grows pot. I was relating to this woman.  I actually got mad at Left Brain after watching this movie – just on principle (because he has neither died nor had an affair or left me on the threshold of debtor’s prison). But I have been concerned about the state of our retirement lately – so I am thinking about starting a ‘garden’. So as I see it, I have only two workable possibilities for retirement – either grow pot or move in with you dear. {I’ve always thought you would be great at growing pot Mom, you’ve got such a green thumb. And I can totally see you with the munchies, the last time you were here you ate all the semi-sweet chocolate chips from my baking cupboard.}

Truthfully, I think the growing would be the easy part of the process, as a 50-something woman who has several decades of gardening under her belt. The puzzling part this venture is {jail time?} –  distribution. Where would I sell my high-quality organic marijuana? {Pot-Mart Mom, its right next to Wal-Mart.} I don’t hang around with the right friends, there isn’t a lot of call for it at the Mission Committee at church, and I don’t have the right clothes for selling pot. I had a fringed halter top once, but I am just going to guess that it wouldn’t look quite as good on me now as it did in 1974. So my only realistic option is a staff of salespeople. Also, quite possibly a specialist for quality control, because at my weight the munchies could be a complete wardrobe disaster. Do you think I would have to pay someone for that, or is the actual job benefit enough? I refuse to have them hanging out at my house either – if I wanted a bunch of people acting stoned and eat everything in the fridge I’d have had more kids. I think I should be a wholesaler, at my age I can’t be responsible for a bunch of stoned sales associates. And I can’t afford to offer health insurance either.

You know Honey if we did this together we could go larger – we could buy land. Several little pieces of land actually, satellite farms under assumed names like Duane ‘Moon Head’ Schmidt and Misty Meadows. Because if your father finds out about this, it will be a marital moment with aftershocks that will be felt for months.

So what do you think Honey, new business venture?

Love from your Mother, Queen B.

Happy Mother's Day - here is some 'POT'ting soil!

{Just so you all know – I’m 89% certain that she’s kidding.}

(I’m down to three things left on the Baby Bucket List – the other two were Reach a Good Weight and Go to Europe – and I don’t want to be the only fat-ass in Europe, so Yoga was it.)

The first thing I needed was a partner – so the next time Queen B. came over, I told her she had a fat ass and I had the cure – yoga. It would be quick and effortless, she’s a sucker for quick and effortless.

HB: Ok, the Y has yoga and we’re going. Do you have sweatpants?

QB: I don’t wear sweatpants, it makes my ass look fat. 

HB: Your ass is already fat, but yoga will help. Let’s shop. 

So we immediately sat down on the couch, pulled out the laptop and did some online shopping. Hello Old Navy yoga pants (we’re on a budget). Three days and $100 later (budget my ass), we have a lovely package from Old Navy bearing eight items of yogawear. We were so excited that we started stripping down in the kitchen to try everything on.

QB: *holding up a tank top* This is tiny, did you order children’s wear?

HB: Its yogawear, its supposed to be tight – and its Spandex so it will stretch – and Old Navy runs big, its fine.

QB:  *halfway into the tank top* Was this made in China by very little Chinese people? Because this would only fit a tiny Chinese woman. 

HB: Yeah Mom, thats why we wear 2X, it means the size of two Chinese ladies whose names start with X. Xing and Xiong.

QB: They need to make this stuff bigger. Obviously if you’re doing yoga its because you’re fat. Skinny people don’t need yoga, and if they show up at yoga in clothes that fit, they’re just showing off. Its like a self-esteem class for them. 

HB: Quit acting like you’ve ever been to a yoga class. You don’t even know how to spell yoga.

Since we were in the kitchen, there were no mirrors – so we pour ourselves  into our first ensembles, electric coral racerback tank top and yoga capris, then turn around to model to each other. And great, one of the pants can’t be returned now because SOMEONE laughed too hard and wet her pants.

QB: Your thighs look like a couple of homemade bratwurst in those pants. 

HB: What is that coming out of the back of your racerback tank top – OMG Mom, you have C cups, facing backwards. 

There's been a security breach at Las Camisas!

HB: Mom! You’re not supposed to wear your bra, it has a bra in it!

QB: Its so small it wouldn’t support one boob of mine, get this thing off me, I can’t breathe! Pull on it, quick – but not too hard, the seams are Chinese, they’re not made for this kind of tension!

Ok, next ensemble – electric green v-neck workout shirt and black yoga pants (because black is slimming).

QB: Oh Honey, did you know that those pants had Old Navy stamped on the ass? It looks like a billboard!

Free Billboard Advertising

HB: Oh shut up, your upper arm fat is eating your cap sleeves. 

Queen B. started digging through the bag, “Isn’t there anything larger than 2T in this bag? We need some woman clothes, do they have yoga burqas?”

We put on the least offensive of the purchases, and decide to try out some yoga moves.

Yoga Pose: Downward Facing Dog (or Dropped Donut Under Couch)

QB: We have to do this here, because if this Chinese spandex is going to let loose, it should be in the privacy of home. 

HB: Agreed. No one should witness this. 

Yoga Pose: Warrior Pose (or Will Fight For Food)

QB: We are going to rock this yogi class thing!

HB: Mom, its yoga, not yogi! Next time take your socks off. 

Next Up: Yoga Class! Stay tuned…

They poke me, I spurt out some blood, and its finally time to have some cookies. But I stand up and whammo, my ears are ringing and I’ve been struck blind. The elderly lady in the chair next to me and the 90lb Chinese lab tech have to drag my fat ass back to the chair and put my head between my knees. They plop a wet napkin over my neck and fan me, while I lay there sweating and groaning.

So after a few minutes I start feeling better, and I get up to head towards the cookies again – and no, I collapse back onto the recliner. My stupid lycra fat sucker inner has risen OVER my gut and is cutting into my diaphragm, I can’t breathe, my arms are numb…those better be some frickin awesome cookies.

I finally fake that I am feeling fine, shove two cookies in my mouth and three in my pocket, and lumber back to my work with no eyesight and my ears ringing in my head. I make it to the break room on the unit and look in the mirror to discover that the water from the wet napkin has mixed with my hairspray, and I now look like I should be in a punk rock band. Not to mention, apparently my mascara is NOT waterproof and has run down my cheeks. I go into the bathroom and because I’m still half blind, I’m unable to figure out how to lock the door. I don’t care, I put one foot in front of the door and start stripping. Think Kramer in Seinfeld, I am whipping off my clothes and tearing off the Lycra. And I’m still so dizzy that once I get my clothes off, I end up laying on the bathroom floor in my bra, just praying that none of my coworkers come in and call a code on me.

I am still dizzy, but go Team B. Hive!!

Thank you so much for the delicious dinner you made for your father and I last night. It was also so thoughtful of you to call me at 6:30 this morning to enquire about the state of our gastrointestinal health.  You went on to share that there may have been something in the food because your husband was suffering from the gastrointestinal version of Hiroshima. I immediately grabbed your father and woke him up screaming, “Dear God we’ve been poisoned”! He jumped out of bed in his whitie-tighties, hair standing on end, screaming Where?! Where?!?

I got your father calmed down, poor nervous soul that he is, and started a full morning of second guessing my every intestinal twinge for symptoms.

Your text message later in the morning: “Poor Marmot – he threw up so hard he had to go directly to the shower”.  A lengthy phone conversation followed discussing where to buy new bath mats and hand towels. Somehow I ended up on the phone with Marmot, advising him to exchange his boxer shorts for briefs stuffed with paper towels, for increased absorbency, in an effort to save the remainder of the bath linens his parents gave them for a wedding present.

Then your call few hours later- asking about the medicinal properties of  7-Up vs. Gatorade? I had to ask. “Really Honey, why are you calling me for this? Aren’t you invested by about $50k into a nurse practitioner program?” And my darling Honey informs me ….  “Well yes Mom, but it’s in women’s health – I specialize in crotches, not assholes”. 

By afternoon you too were home from work and spending quality time on the toilet. The next phone call … well I can’t even describe the phone call.  Please, just note: Aloe needs to be completely peeled before being applied to any irritated orifices.

The last text of the afternoon: “Code Brown, send reinforcements!” So being the loving mother that I am, I dispatched Left Brain to deliver a bag of Flushable Moist Wipes and Gatorade – but with strict instructions – “Do not go in, do not slow down, do not even make eye contact! We can still be infected”.

Your father called me after “the drop”.  He had thrown the bag of supplies into the snow drift in the front yard from his moving car.  “It looked like a hunched over bow-legged troll shuffled out into the yard to get the bag as I was driving away, is there some homeless person staying with them?”

I love you darling, but next time I’ll cook.

Queen B.

But I digress. This time, I opened the door and stood there, dumbfounded and gawking.

Standing in front of me is a mountain of red Norwegian wool. And some fur on the top. All I could see was her nose.

HB: Mother of God, its Mrs. Clause. What the hell are you wearing?

She lumbers into the house. Two mittened hands reach up towards the fur and try to pull the hood back, but without fingers she just manages to flail the fur collar around while I watch in total horror at the state of my gene pool.

After a full five minutes of flailing, I hear a distant shriek – Help me!

I wrestle the hood off her head, and the static charge reaches epic proportions – her grey hair stands straight up off her head.

I contemplated the most recent dog bell incident – and the insanity that has ensued the last twelve times she’s rung my doorbell and I couldn’t help myself. I shuffled my slippers across the carpeted floor towards her, and reached out to touch the end of her little red nose.

*SNAP*

QB: You little shit, what did you do that for?

HB: You deserve it for that outfit, have I taught you nothing? What size is it??

QB: Its size Shut Up and Get Me Some Static Guard. This fur collar is generating some sort of electrical charge every time I put it on.

HB: Its God’s way of telling you its hideous and shouldn’t be worn.

QB: Do you like my muff?

HB: Mom, you need to never ever say that – and don’t Google it either.

Let me explain to you about the weather here in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra. We have three temperatures – Almost Freezing, Freezing, and Freezing Your Ass Off. I find the older I get, the more it pisses me off that we live here – but never the less I do try to construct a tasteful look from Gore-Tex and polar fleece.

My mother however has taken a less fashionable route. I don’t care where the parka is made and by who, she looks like she’s wearing a sleeping bag, fur-trimmed.

QB: My new criteria for clothes. Its gotta be big. Its gotta be thick. Its gotta be long.

HB: Dear God, please tell me you’re still talking about polar fleece?

And so, the story ends – with the be-flanned red beast shuffling out the door, yelling over her shoulder…”The matching pack boots are on order!”

This is going to be a long winter folks.

We went on a mission – a candle that will mask dog farts for my office, and a mini-hand lotion for Queen B’s purse. Heavy duty hand lotion because we live in the Godforsaken Arctic Tundra – no concern about greasy after-effect here, she would like something with the consistency of lard, and a better smell so that the dog quits licking her hands.

(She said she ran out of lotion two weeks ago, and I am sorry to report that I believe she’s using butter-flavored Crisco).

(I know this because she’s gone the Crisco route before. She read somewhere that it was good for cracked heels so she put it on her feet and then put wool socks on before bed. As the story goes, Dad put his back out by vaulting over the footboard into bed after seeing the can of Crisco on her nightstand.)

But I digress. Back to Bed Bath and Beyonce. After about five minutes of candle sniffing, we were high as kites and headed towards the back to look for lotion.

Standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a shelf of Brown Sugar and Vanilla scented lotions, Queen B. gives the tester a hearty pump and ends up with an overly generous pile of runny lotion in her hand.

QB: Oh gross, its watery – stick your hand out, I don’t want this much.

HB: <hands behind back> Hell no, I hate that scent. And it looks like semen.

QB: What are you, two? Give me your hands, I’ve got too much lotion! It smells great, nothing like semen.

HB: Omg Mom, have you smelled semen?? Wait – don’t answer that.

During this exchange, my mother is standing with a handful of lotion in one hand, the tester in another, and her purse hanging on her elbow. (And her new red parka which is another post that will be forthcoming, dedicated to Godforsaken Arctic Tundra Fashion Don’ts.)

QB: This is a different smell, its one you like.

HB: You don’t know what scents I like!

Queen B. then lifts her hand to her face to smell the lotion, no doubt in a mothering-reflex where you pretend to enjoy something so that your child will like it. Unfortunately she stuck her nose IN the lotion.

QB: Get over here. Get it off me! I have semen on my nose, get it off me! Get help, get a Kleenex!

So I run over to the sink and grab a paper towel, and being the helpful daughter that I am, I do a quick downward maneuver to get the semen lotion off my mother’s nose. However, I temporarily forgot that the anatomy below your nose is your mouth and rubbed the lotion across her mouth. And because the lotion did kind of smell like vanilla, she reflexively stuck her tongue out and licked her lips.

QB: Ahhh – ged it eff! Ah gad themen on my wips!

Being the helpful daughter I am, I immediately bent over laughing. (Side note – beans are cheap, and organic.) The unfortunate reaction to bending over was a change in intra-abdominal pressure and an accidental discharge of 100% organic gas.

Queen B. hears the discharge and starts to laugh, because the accidental discharge was unfortunately aimed directly at the unsuspecting teeny bopper in the Bath and Booby Works apron who had come to assist.

Queen B’s snort also resulted in more lotion up her nose, and she starts to gag.

Teeny Boobs: Can I help you find anything?

HB: <eyes averted> No thanks, we’re good!

I grabbed my mother’s arm and dragged her out of the store – we recovered with two coffees and scone. We’ve never liked that stupid store – who names a store Beyond Bath Works anyway?

So we decided to make our own vanilla. If Ethyl can make vanillin, so can we! And we’ll save tons of money!!

#1 – Buy vodka. As it turns out, newly-voted-member of the mission committee at church Queen B. hunkers down next to the floorboards of the truck, while Honey purchases two fifths of their best vodka. Current savings: -$34

#2 – Buy vanilla beans. Go to Good Food Store and purchase $28 of organic vanilla beans from Madagascar, along with various all-natural supplements to assist with weight-loss, and glass bottles (no doubt organic, because they’re in the Good Food Store) to put the vanilla in. Followed by lunch special of tofu egg salad made with vegan-aise, organic hokey-pokey, dried apricots from the bulk section, and a bag of raw milk cheese curds that were eaten while shopping. Current savings: -$136

#3 – drive to Queen B’s house because she has the tools – funnels, kitchen shears, and homemade brownies – in Honey’s 13 miles-to-the-gallon truck. Stop for gas on the way. Current savings: -$170

#4 – Sample the vodka for freshness. This involves closing all the blinds so that any other members of the church mission committee don’t witness it.

The church mission committee

#5 – Bottle the vodka with 4 vanilla beans in each jar until we run out of beans. What do we do with the extra vodka?

#6 – Sample a little more vodka, to celebrate our frugality and good sense to make our own vanilla. Toast the impending ruin of the propylene glycol farmers. We could probably sell our vanilla on Etsy. Toast our future success as entrepreneurs.

#7 – After some toasts, Queen B. admits that she was known for her vodka fruit shooters in college, and would like to pass down the traditional recipe for future generations.

#8 – Out comes the blender, and the perfecting of the recipe ensues. Oh Honey we really shouldn’t let this vodka go to waste, besides, we need to drink all the evidence before your father comes home. 

#9 – First try at fruit shooters. This is good stuff, but we need more pineapple juice.

#10 – Second try at fruit shooters. This is seriously yum, next batch needs more orange juice

#11 – Third try at fruit shooters. OMG this stuff is frickin’ amazing, add more vodka!

#12 – After six tries, we have the recipe just the way Queen B. thinks she remembers it.

#13 – Dad (Left Brain) calls on his way home from work, Queen B. gets the giggles and hands the phone to Honey who tells him to pick up Chinese because we’re too drunk to get anywhere near the stove to cook. Current savings: -$212

Bonus Feature: Queen B’s Perfected Fruit Shooter beverage, circa 1977.
Quantities are a little fuzzy, but we’re sure this is very close:

• Half a can of frozen orange juice consentrate (although orange-mango or Orange-pineapple can be substituted)
• 1 fifth of vodka
• Coconut extract
• 1 can of pineapple chunks in juice
• Ice cubes
• Lots of little plastic swords
• Maraschino cherries (optional)

Pour your preferred quantities of OJ, vodka, and pineapple chunks in juice into the blender. Add a couple drops of coconut extract and ice, and blend until frothy. Stab pineapple chunks and cherries with plastic swords and add to the drink – if they land on the floor just throw them in anyway, the vodka will kill all the germs. Drink with a straw for additional effect (sucking all the vodka off the bottom).

Note – Change of business plan from Queen B. and Honey’s Etsy store – scratch selling vanilla extract, we’re going to sell frozen fruit shooter kits. This stuff is awesome!

PS – We were going to take a picture of what we did, Pinterest-style, but Queen B. wouldn’t get off the floor – she had her face plastered to the sliding glass door that had snow on the other side, trying to get rid of the gin blossoms before we took a picture, where she fell asleep.

Its a very high-census ICU that has some majorly sick patients (hem/onc) which should be incredibly challenging. I’ve never worked intensive care – I’ve worked trauma surgery and on a step-down unit, but ICU is a whole new game for me. I’ve always said that my best days as a nurse could be described as hair-raising, but now that I think about it, I was young in those days and I drank a lot…lol

Passing the time waiting for a trauma case!

But anyway – I bought navy blue scrubs in size Tent and more of my favorite Smartwool socks, dug my white Birkenstocks out of the closet – and tomorrow is my first day! Cue the nervous diarrhea, and I’m crossing #19 off the list!

Marmot and Max on Max's memory foam dog bed!

I had heard a rumor that there was someone in town who did canine massage, so I Googled it and found her, and she came out to the house a week later. She spent over an hour with him and the next day, he obviously felt fabulous because he was running in the yard again! We’re thinking that with how great he seemed to feel afterwards, we might do regular visits with her!