Chick-fil-A Tried to Kill Me

This has gone too far. The swan song of the hate chicken has finally hit a sour note.

How dare you attempt to poison me! And with a silent migraine, no less. We’ve gotten along just fine for all this time, but I go to one Pride Blockparty. Coincidence? I think not.


The nerve. The blatant bigotry of completely ignoring my unique food allergy that I failed to inform you about! Putting delicious mandarin oranges in the fruit cup! Monstrous.

I am THE VICTIM here! Nevermind that you clearly display the presence of those diabolical spheres of swelling and misery in your menu photo. #citrusprivilege

I didn’t even eat them. I stabbed them with my fork and put them aside. But it was already too late. You didn’t even warn me that stabbing oranges may spread their juices indiscriminately across the strawberries and blueberries. Typical. So patriarchy. Did the melons consent to being sprayed with those fluids? Please.

Someone fund my pain and suffering!! I will not be satisfied until I have my own clothing line and reality show!

Yes, I’m kidding. I know I’m allergic. I know they put oranges in the fruit cup. I should have been smart enough to realize that removing the offending wedges by stabbing them with my fork was maybe not the brightest idea. Or just had the waffle fries.

Nothing Really Rhymes with Orange

Oh orange! I would write an ode in your honor were you not so aloof in alliteration, cruel in computation, vexed by verse.

You are the abusive lover always promising that you’ve changed. “It’ll be different this time, baby!” Your succulent sweetness disguising your lies.

But alas, our love was ill-fated from the start. I should have known that you’d never truly reform in spite of so many years of peace.

Some part of me will always love you, but I can’t let you hurt me anymore. The temptations of your flesh may be great, but I must be strong.

Farewell fine fruit!

-Yes, I took a bite of an orange yesterday. I know better. If only I’d been programmed with an allergy to lima beans instead. One. Stupid. Bite. It seems the absence of orange in my life has only served to increase the sensitivity. Oh well. At least I’m not allergic to bacon.

It’s a Special Skill

So, about the crockpot lid.

Wait, I should back up. Our kitchen is the eternal remodel and clutter catcher,* and as such is rather limited in counter space. And so we have to get creative sometimes. Particularly when I’ve decided to try something new, and EvylRobot needs to use the kitchen for things like making sure the family doesn’t starve. He’s thoughtful like that.

Got a message from a coworker that she had an overabundance of pears and wanted to spread the wealth around. Of course I volunteered to take them off of her hands. Not that I had any idea what to do with them. Oh you people and your planning ahead!

A few days later, a box of pears showed up on my desk at the office. I took them home and placed them on the floor in the kitchen (remember, no counter space) to await INSPIRATION.

And they waited.

And waited. Until I randomly ran across a mention of pear butter. Hmm. So off to Google I went to find recipes to not follow. And no, you won’t find a recipe here unless you consider the following instructions descriptive enough to copy. (There are several steps I recommend skipping.)

1. Wash old mystery funk out of crockpot because teenage son neglected it.

2. Cut up pears into crockpot while having a beer with Dad. Throw in the couple of Granny Smith’s that have been sitting on the counter too.

3. Add cinnamon, the rest of the nutmeg, some cloves and 2 shots of bourbon.

4. Turn crockpot on low and watch Doctor Who. Wait for magic.




5. Stir between episodes and smell the deliciousness.

6. Let cook for many hours over low heat stirring and smashing. I started this late Saturday night and let it reduce until Monday morning at which point it was a dense paste.

7. Move crockpot from counter top to stove top just to get it out of the way for dinner preparation.

8. Eat dinner. Stow leftovers. Retrieve crockpot.

9. Curse crockpot power cord for being entangled in burner covers on gas range.

10. Lift crockpot higher to disentangle said cord. When you are 5’4″ and barefoot in the kitchen (I know), this requires crockpot to be held over the head.

11. Tilt crockpot just enough to cause the lid to slide.

12. Catch lid with face

20130916_21343813. Watch as lid clatters to the floor anyway because you are incapable of actually catching anything other than a cold with your nose.

14. See stars

15. Curse profusely

16. Place crockpot on counter

17. Add a cup of water to the pear paste. Place lid on crockpot and turn it to the lowest setting.

18. Grab an icepack and a Spaten Oktoberfest and watch Star Trek

19. Swell

20130916_21351120. Once pear butter is reheated, abandon the original plans of actually processing and canning and just stuff it into some jars and stick it in the freezer, reserving one jar in the refrigerator for immediate consumption and another as a thank you gift for the coworker that provided the pears.

Folks, I am a professional. I have advanced personal injury skills. Do not try this at home. This blog and blogger cannot be held liable for any injuries related to trying to cook like Jennifer.

*Who am I kidding? Every flat surface is a clutter catcher.




Behold the Power of the Kilt: Part Deux

Wear loose fitting long pants, they say. Tuck the hem of your pants into your socks, they say. So I ask you, who is more appropriately dressed for a day in the woods?

If you said me in the cargo pants with drawstrings at the ankles rather than my kilted and legginged* husband, you’d be wrong.

Behold, my knee

kneeSo itchy and oozy (not to be confused with Uzi, which is something else entirely). There are more bites, but I do try to keep this site generally safe for work. For those that would like to know, these were apparently conservative chiggers as they stayed exclusively to the right. Or maybe they were liberal chiggers attacking the right. Don’t bother alerting the media.

I hate chiggers. But I suppose it is awful hard to love a parasitic creature that wants nothing more than to liquefy your flesh for consumption. Mmm, scrumptious. Gosh, they seem more liberal all the time. Free ride, free meal, Occupy Jen’s right leg!

You see, this is why you should donate. Because, as noted previously, the kilt can tame the wild feline. It wards off flesh eating, non-PC sounding larval arachnids. And with your help, it can cure cancer. (And also, prizes)

*yep, I’m making up words again.



Note To Self

Don’t use the finger with no feeling to work the slide on a Ruger Mark series.


But at least it doesn’t hurt. Honestly didn’t realize it had happened until I noticed all the blood.

Don’t Grit Your Teeth and Push Through The Pain

So everyone knows I screwed something up in my back.  Pinched a nerve.  Pulled something in the trapezius* family.  Something.

You know what happens if you are feeling kinda better and take an all day defensive handgun class? Flinch. And pain.  Like can’t get out of bed without help kind of pain.

And more flinch.  No matter how much you think about applying pressure to get the surprise break on that trigger, pain is an extra effective teacher.  Even though your instructor spends special time with you with an awesome drill that you will make sure to use on some new shooters, you will fall back to the flinch.

And then you get to meet your freaking deductible in medical bills.  Fan-freaking-tastic. Not to mention shooting like crap because raising your left elbow high enough to deal with recoil causes your neck to spasm. Like screw up your sight picture violent spasm.

I know.  I said I was going to go ahead and do the class because an assailant was not going to ask me if I was feeling up to being assaulted in that moment.  It’s true that they won’t, but you are not likely to need 250 rounds to deal with that assailant either.

The instruction was top notch, really.  I had a couple of stages where I was hitting an index card like a pro. When I did everything he told me to do, I shot like a rock star.  And then I wanted to cry. If you can’t bring your support arm perpendicular to your body without wincing, you’re not in shape for training.  Get healthy, then train.

This is yet another time that I am telling you to learn from my mistakes.  It is going to take a lot of practice for me to actually learn the skills that were taught and overcome the bad habits that the pain pushed.  I’ve never had a flinch. And yet, now I’ve got to beat one.  Don’t make the same mistake.

*which apparently is going to take a while to heal.  Dammit.

It’s A Special Skill

And I am uniquely qualified.  I have proof.

I managed to injure myself in my CPR/First Aid/AED class. I bruised the back of my right hand doing chest compressions.

Like I said, special skill. I didn’t realize it until after class and the cuff on my jacket brushed my hand.  Hmm, my hand isn’t usually so tender, nor so swollen.

I have now successfully injured* myself in pistol class, shotgun class, and First Aid class. I’ve always wanted to go skydiving, but I should never take a class in it, apparently.

And a side note, telling people that being trained in First Aid is important to you because you regularly take children into the woods with firearms can get you some funny looks. Also, the new dummies are cool.  They have little lights in the shoulder that light up when you are doing it correctly.  If you ever plan to have a heart attack in my presence, do me a favor and please have little green, yellow, and red LEDs installed in your left shoulder.  It’d really help me out.

*not seriously, I save my serious injuries for when I’m doing something completely mundane.  My scars do not come with good stories. Unless you want to spin up some yarn about my epic battle with a garden shelf. Or how my daunting quest was thwarted by a cinder block wall to the forehead (Hey! That one happened in PE class; I think I’m detecting a pattern). Maybe even how that vacuum cleaner totally had the toe-breaking kick coming.

Thankfully, I Havent Updated My Random Injuries Category In Months

I guess it was time.

You know, because I did not yet have a scar there.

And maybe, just maybe, high heeled boots are not the best tool for breaking branches for my in-law’s chiminea.  Or perhaps metal garden shelves are not the best place for faces to land. But hey!  Now my in-laws and their house guests have a new story to tell.  Because all impressive injuries need audiences.  And bourbon.

My left hand and knee and bruised up as well as my right hip. I’m spending today at home.

On the bright side, I’ve got blog content.  And the swelling has gone down.