Fried Zucchini and the Black Panther Party

I made fried zucchini this weekend and it was delicious.  When I worked at a bank years ago, a coworker brought in these huge zucchinis from her garden.  I asked my other coworker how should I prepare them.  She said to fry them.  So I slice them thin and dip them in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs.  I fry them in a little olive oil.  When they're done, I sprinkle them with lots of black pepper and a little garlic salt.  It's so simple and so delicious.

I've been trying to get myself to write, but haven't felt inspired really.  I have this fiction book in my head about these three brothers, one dead, one a complete dirt bag, and one who is a gay but married to a woman.

I watched a Maya Angelou documentary last night to inspire me.  Then I watched one on the Black Panthers, who were misrepresented by the media and who continue, I think, to be misunderstood.  This brought me back to the idea of racism.  Through my own education and growth, I've examined my views on race and how I treat people.  I'm in a good place with that (although kudos to my mother for giving me a great non-racist start in life).

My idea was to interview people in the country and take the temperature of racism.  Racism as how we all see it.  I mean to get a sample of all kinds of people.  I might even do a separate section on the police (which, truth be told, I don't hold in high regard based on personal experience and that, overall, police seem more racist as a group).

The saddest part of watching the Black Panther footage is that years later, now in 2017, police think being black is suspicious.  People existing as they are cultivates probable cause.   

So, I don't know what I can come up with as a white lower-middle class woman, but all I know is that I have black literature and I have their words to guide me, so I'll give it a go.

I had completely forgotten about this poem.  Imagine a president who valued a woman and her words and her mind.  Imagine a president who was overly excited to share geographical roots with an African-American woman.  Imagine a president who was enlightened enough to be inclusive and to find commonalities with a person of a different gender and race.

Hold on to this memory because it's far better than our present reality.

I'm so sorry, Dolly.

I had my first mammogram today (I'm fucking 40).  I bitch about my age, but, seriously, I am lucky to have access to preventive medical treatment.  Being 40 means my health insurance covers a yearly mammogram now.

It didn't even hurt and it wasn't uncomfortable at all.  I was more nervous about staying still.  I'm guessing the results are kosher as I have no reason to think otherwise.

Naturally, I wanted to come home, relax with some wine, and draw Dolly Parton.

I will not draw this pants suit. The 70s were a trying time for all of us, although for me, it was mostly eating, pooping, and learning.  Wait, not much has changed...

I was thinking how much I liked my large breasts and why not celebrate them by paying tribute, pen to paper, to the queen of boobs?  A good plan, one would think.  How could something as innocuous as wanting to draw Dolly bring me into the caverns of my mind's eye and force myself to confront the many things that might be wrong with me?

Dolly, I'm in a downward spiral since attempting to draw you.  It's not right, but it's okay.

This looks like the pig people on Twilight Zone.  I love you, Dolly. 

This one looks like Fred Armisen dressed as Dolly.

 

We'll  keep you company while you sleep.  You're never alone.  We're always waiting to pounce on you and give you pig surgery. We are working 9-5 to find you. 

Thank you, stomach!

This will be quick and painless.  I think my body saves up its gas to only release at my desk and on the treadmill at the gym.  I noticed today that these are the only two locations where I ever have to burp.  I could go to a fancy restaurant and drink champagne and would not need to burp until I returned to my desk or hopped onto the treadmill.  Not the elliptical; only the treadmill.

What the actual fuck is this?

Welcome To Massachusetts

Massachusetts welcomes you.  🚙

So, I have some tips for those driving in MA who aren't from here.  🚗  No one is going to let you go.  Ever.  If you're trying to make a left onto a busy street, it's best to make a right and then find a quiet side street to do a shameful, defeated U-turn.

And you need to drive with resting bitch face all the time.  If you don't look completely pissy, other people will call 911 and think that you're high or drunk while you're driving.  So don't look too happy behind the wheel. 🚕

You saw my blinker, bitch. 

Now we get to the blinker.  This is a no-win situation.  You need to use it each time you make a turn.  However, most of us don't bother or forget.  No matter which one you choose, you will be condemned and yelled at.  🚖

Driving in Massachusetts is like a terrible gamble and if you're lucky, you escape with your sanity and your life.

If you're a pedestrian, you're fucked.

Pink Ghandi, the Massholes would have you beating the hoods of cars at crosswalks by lunch, son. No war or political turmoil, no injustice could prepare you for I-93 South.  You'd be honking and telling someone to go fuck his mother in no time.  

 We know it's "the law" to stop for you, but we will just pretend not to see you.  So just wait for no cars to be coming and then cross.  🚘

I hope this helps someone.  Massholes is a real word for a reason, people.

Aging gracelessly while boring you just a little bit along the way and you're so welcome.

AARP is at it again.  This time, they're offering me a day bag.  I'm assuming it's a bag I'm supposed to pack with crap because they think I'm retired and that I'm going to go grocery shopping @ 10am.  Or that I'm going to go out to lunch by 11am.  Its something I can drape over my lap while I sit in Barnes and Noble and read entire books in their chairs without purchasing because I'm retired and have nothing going on.  One thing I know for sure: they do expect this bitch to be loaded with butterscotch candies.

 Or is it a day surgery bag?  I realized the other day that there's something worse than turning 40 and that's turning 41.  Let's see how that goes.

I like how this bag is meant to be my companion.  I wonder if it can carry a good conversation?  I mean, would my new bag and I have anything in common?  What's its sign?  It wants to live with me; this is all happening too fast. 

I have a friend who's visiting me.  I made him a Boston Cream Pie.  It's the first time I've made one.  I fucked up and didn't use cake flour, so the cake part didn't rise and was kind of dry, too.  It was okay though.  Serviceable.

It wasn't terrible.  I mean, it's nothing you'd want to pay for.  It would be like if you had a semi-lucid, slightly crazy friend, you might be in the mood for this. 

The snake is going to wrap around her neck and do something with her boob.  I still want her to have rainbow hair, but I'm not sure how to make this happen.

Sometimes you get the wrong soap in life, but you have to at least be happy you're clean.  This is an awkward shout out to my sister.  She really liked the soap @ my house and bought some, but got the wrong scent.  So I went to my friend's house and he had the correct one.  So he and I were laughing and he said to take a photo and send it to her.  My message is that even with the wrong soap, it's still soap and life is still good, you filthy beast. 

Just relax, Clarice.

I had a totally relaxing day off today.  Of course, I still wake up at the crack of dawn because I'm me.  I made myself some delicious banana bread muffins.  It's been pretty chill.  Why not do one of the facial masks I got at Walgreens?  Um, what the actual fuck is relaxing about this?  I'm pretty sure that it's going to cause a serial killer to hone in on me as a victim, or it's going to turn me into a serial killer.  Let's face it; I've got the John Wayne Gacy painting vibe going on.

This is really creepy.  I'm a big Stephen King fan and a horror movie fan as well.  But this is fucking weird looking. 

I've been working on the gypsy painting.  It's coming along, I guess, but I am having trouble with her hair.  I know what I want the hair to be, but can I pull it off?

My dog is healing well from his knee injury.  However, he will now only eat his food with Alpo gravy on it.  Also, he has his own recliner and he's able to jump up and sit on it again.  My dog has his own recliner.  I don't even have a recliner.  Or gravy.  Lucky dog.  

And I have a crush on a man at the gym who looks exactly like this emoji:👴🏻  

He was on the machine next to me the other day and I was pretty excited.  Then I forgot where I was and that he was there and I burped.  It wasn't terribly loud, but it might have been terribly classy. 

Is this really a designer broom?

I saw this at the grocery.  Who cares what your broom looks like?  Here is my dream handbag, meant to carry champagne.  I don't see why I can't use it to carry my champagne to work every day.

Is this really a knock-off Louis Vuitton broom?

I've been working on this gypsy painting.  She has skin now.  I want to call her Esmeralda.  It just sounds exotic and I just sound psychotic.  I also wrote a poem and I can't tell if it's shit on paper or any good.  I'm experimenting with meter; maybe going to try to give it a rhythm (method, nation?).

So I made this apple cake.  I did not try it, but people @ work liked it.  I did taste the batter while I was making it and it was delicious!  I used one teaspoon of cinnamon and sprinkled some pumpkin pie spice in it instead of two teaspoons of cinnamon.

She ugly, but she taste good (allegedly).  The batter was amaze-balls. 

  Well, I was at the gym today and was working out, looking around.  I saw an odd food show on the TV where they were frying what looked like blood and putting what looked like poops or turds into it.  This was being cooked after they had sliced some sort of hog's head looking thing.  I then caught some poor bastard running on the treadmill and got mesmerized by the movement of his neck fold fat while he was jogging.  I feel like it means he's really trying and I'm proud of him.  I look like an asshole Muppet on the treadmill, so I am not judging, just observing.

But look who is lightly jogging a bit and getting better?

Am I gonna turn into the Judy Garland of dogs from my pills?  Come on, get happy.  

I have elaborate plans for my after death: I want a New Orleans funeral like in "Live and Let Die."  I also want the country of Mexico to make pinatas on the day of my death/funeral.  They can make them with my hair curly or straight (the pinata will be like a bust of my head).  Now I also know what I want on my tombstone (although I want to be burned and spread in completely inconvenient places by all sorts of people).  I also want part of me shot into space, preferably my eyeballs. 

Bitch, I want a tombstone, too.  I also want a fountain and pets that just live where my tombstone is.