Yep, I Did It Again

And yes, I totally thought about using the word "Oops" instead of the word "Yep," but #1: Poor Britney don't need that, bless her heart; and #2: I'm Southern, y'all. "Yep" is definitely the more appropriate word choice here.

So, we all know that – despite having taken ballet, jazz/tap, gymnastics, and even fuckin’ MODELING classes, not to mention DANCING PROFESSIONALLY FOR MONEY (in musical theatre, you dicks, not that other kind) – Our Miss Hoody is, shall we say… somewhat less than graceful. Which gets her hurt on a fairly regular basis, through no one’s fault but her own damn (if you can diagram that sentence, you’re prolly a redneck). For no other reason than that apparently Jesus thinks it’s funny to teach Hoody a lesson.

Well, t’other day? JC was right.

Y’see, the only one of Poor Dead Fiance’s friends who still speaks to me (other than to call me a junkie whore) has been fuckin’ INSTRUMENTAL in helping me avoid the massive Portal-esque grief spirals (BTW, the cake is a lie) that otherwise would be sucking me in far more often than they do.

Scorecard Update: This person has asked to be called “Caveman,” but I ain’t doin’ that, makes him sound dumb, the which he is not – Hoody don’t hang out with dumb. Not for long, anyway. So I have chosen to call him Zandor (look it up), because that sounds far better than any alternatives I could think of.

And because this is my blog, so I make the fucking rules, dammit.

Back to our story: On this particular day, Zandor had decided that it would be good for me to get out in the world a little, so he invited me to go bowling and play putt-putt with him and his sons (8-ish and 11-ish, respectively, I think – Gleep and Gloop for future reference (again, look it up). So off we set for a Day of Fun!

Now, here’s where Miss Hoody’s legendary lack of gracefulness comes in. You see, the night before, I had been talking on the phone and walking through the yard, and I discovered why they tell you not to walk and talk on the phone at the same time. In that I cracked my fool head against a low-hanging tree branch.

In my defense, I’m pretty used to ducking that particular branch on a daily basis, but this time it was dark and I was distracted. So I misjudged my duck and popped myself a good’un.

But when I went inside to check my head, it was just a little red mark, not even bleeding or swole up or nothin’. No harm, no foul, right?

WRONG.

Fast forward to the next morning, I’m getting ready to go out on the Day of Fun. The little red mark is a leeeeetle more pronounced than the night before, but it’s still nothing that a little Cover Girl can’t fix, amirite?

I was not right.

Off we go on our adventures. As the day progresses, I’m starting to notice more and more people are giving me the hairy eyeball. And I assume it’s because I’m white-trash yelling at attempting to help corral someone else’s children. But I’m from the South, y’all, where that’s not only acceptable, it’s EXPECTED.

So Our Miss Hoody is getting increasingly “wish a motherfucker would” and staring straight back at all these people. Rather belligerently, if I must admit, as she is wont to do.

But I digress.

I get home and I’m telling Dear Sweet Mama about the Day of Fun when she suddenly says, “What the fuck do you have on your head?”

I have no idea, but I figure I’ve somehow smeared dirt on myself at some point. But when I rub at it, it HURTS. And when I look in the mirror to check, the “little red mark” has transformed itself into a MASSIVE. FUCKING. BRUISE. Like a “bitch shoulda listened” After-School Special kind of bruise. It’s black and purple and swole up so big I can look up and SEE it.

Like it was BAD, y’all. This don’t even do it justice.

I immediately call up Zandor and proceed to read him the riot act for letting me walk around all day looking like that. His response?

“I thought you knew! I tried to mention it a couple of times, but you just blew it off, so I thought you KNEW!”

SPOILER ALERT: I DID NOT KNOW.

And I am I-FREAKIN’-RATE, y’all. I’m giving this poor soul down the fuckin’ road about how everybody kept lookin’ at me funny and how I was fixin’ to kick somebody’s ass, to which he replied:

“YOU? I spent the entire day waiting for a ‘roided-up pack of gym rats to decide to kick my ass because they thought I’d been beating on you!”

And Hooligans… If that had happened… I would have had NO. IDEA. WHY.

So anyway, love y’all, mean it. And never trust pressed powder,

HH

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“Player 3 Has Entered the Game!”

It has come to my attention that most of the stories I tell y’all are usually either “An Adventure with Dear Sweet Mama!” or just the usual “Guess what inappropriate shit Hoody did THIS time!” But as y’all know, there is yet ANOTHER member of the current Hoo Household… Dear Sweet Mama’s Concubine (The Concubine, for short). And today, TC takes center stage…

Friday morning, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, taking what felt like all the pills in all of Christendom (for those of you keeping score at home, it’s currently 12 in the morning, 8 at night, plus the additional pills I take throughout the day when Clothilde and her sisters get uppity (yes, I did name my 5 or so blood clots/clogs/whatever the hell they are, and no, it did not make them behave any better) But there may be good news on that front, keep y’all posted!).

So anyway, that’s when I hear DSM in the kitchen making a noise that can only be described as “pitchin’ a fit.” Like, the English language simply doesn’t have the appropriate sounds/letters to adequately write down the noise, but it’s pretty obvious it’s not a happy noise, ya know? Yeah, y’all know.

Being the dutiful daughter that I am (shut up), I go into the kitchen and I ask DSM, “Were you just in here pitchin’ a fit?” And that’s when she tells me:

THE CONCUBINE ALMOST DRANK A SCORPION.

Now, I’m fairly sure we don’t actually get scorpions in HMJNJ *, but I’m still understandably taken aback by this news. That’s when TC says no, it wasn’t a scorpion, it was — and I quote — “JUST an earwig.”

And DSM says nope, not no way, not no how, because she says she saw claws and it was waving a pointy tail around (this examination having taken place after the Concubine FELT IT IN HER MOUTH AND SPIT IT – and the mouthful of Co-Cola she’d been INTENDING to drink – into the sink, but before DSM insisted that the monstrous creature be washed down the drain to (hopefully) drown and die **).

So… Today I learned that what DSM & I thought an earwig was… was absolutely NOT what it actually is. See, growing up in the South, it gets real hot and humid. Which sometimes results in you getting weevils in your flour or your Bisquick or what-not. Dry goods, mainly (which is, yes, why even Southerners who have moved to cooler climes tend to keep their opened cereals and spaghettis and such in the fridge). But here’s the thing:

And while they are indeed super gross to find in your Cream O’ Wheat, they’re A) Usually much smaller than that, more like little black dots (the larvae, in case you didn’t want to ever eat again), and B) while gross to have in your mouth accidentally, still fairly innocuous. Not a burn-your-house-down, enter-witness-protection sort of bug scenario, just throw out that rice, you’ll be fine.

BUT… THEY’RE NOT EARWIGS.

HO. LEE. SHIT., y’all. That motherfucker right there, with the claws and the stinger-lookin’ tail, and all… I can’t be havin’ with that. As DSM said, fuckin’ thing looked like the critter they put in Chekov’s ear in “Wrath of Khan!”

OH, HELP ME, LORD. The Concubine had THAT in her mouth, however briefly? Yeah, that’s a HAAAAYULL NAH. Although I must say she handled it much better than DSM and I did…

DSM and I were standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging each other and swaying while low-key wailing until TC was like, “What is wrong with you two? I’m the one that almost ate it!” Which only made us wail louder.

Now, TC maintains the evil thing must have been in the straw she took out of the dish drainer (yeah, we use the reusable metal straws, we’re green and shit), while DSM says it was far too large to have been in the straw and therefore must have been on top of the actual can of Co-Cola and fallen in when it was opened. My own personal theory is that it was somehow already IN the can, in which case we should sue the ass off somebody.

All I know is, this shit never happened back when we were still using plastic straws THAT YOU COULD AT LEAST SOMEWHAT SEE THROUGH. Plus, this is yet another reason I don’t drink directly from cans.

This and Hanta virus, of course.

Love y’all, check yo’ straws,

HH

But wait, we got footnotes again, Hooligans!

Footnote the First (*): While I am MOSTLY sure HMJNJ doesn’t have a scorpion problem, NO ONE ON TEH INTERWEBZH WILL DEFINITIVELY TELL ME WHETHER WE DO OR NOT. Not Fish and Wildlife (and I know a guy who’s a frickin’ Ranger (or at least was studying to be one, I have been known to derail careers in federal service). Sub-footnote, he was pretty fine years ago, wonder how he’s doin’? Yes, I am legitimately awful), not Pest Removal Companies, no one. UN-SETT-LING.

Footnote the Second (**): Them girls washed the devil bug down the drain “in the hopes it would drown.” Hm. Okay. How do I say this??? Oh, yeah. ARE WE SURE IT CAN’T SWIM? “Cause I’ll tell you what, those weird blind cave crickets (aka “shrimpets” because they had terrifyingly long antenna) we used to get in WBGV sure as hell could swim, as could every single silverfish-type thing I’ve ever personally encountered. Which just leads to you flushing one down the tub drain and then it SWIMMING BACK UP AT YOU WHILE YOU’RE NEKKID. And it’s PISSED now.

If y’all need me, I’ll prolly be on the porch wearing nothing but a towel and screaming.

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Where Y’all From?

I was reminded today at the bitch-don’t-be-crazy doctor that a very large majority of Yankees A) Don’t fuckin’ listen and/or B) Didn’t take geography in school. Or even study States and Capitals and shit.

I mean, that’s the only explanation I can think of that makes any sense anyhow. Like today at the doctor, she was looking over all my forms and she says, “Oh, you’re from Charleston? I LOVE Charleston, I used to work in Myrtle Beach!”

Ummm, good for you? But that’s not really germane…. Oh. OH. You got the wrong Charleston, ma’am. You’re thinking of fancy-touristy-rich-white-people Charleston, the one with the Citadel and the Battery and palmetto fans and shit. I’m from the other one, Charleston, West Virginia.

“Oh, you’re from Virginia (no, still wrong), did you live near Richmond?”

Uh, like I was nearer to Richmond then than I am now, so I guess… sorta? But seriously, no, that’s REGULAR Virginia, I am from WEST Virginia. It’s a whole ‘nother state, we had a war about it, maybe you’ve heard of it?

At which point she just kinda muttered something about the mountains being beautiful and trailed off. And this shit happens ALL. THE. TIME, y’all. Catching a flight home? There’s a way-better-than-average chance your luggage will be going to Fancy Charleston while you your own self will be arriving at the Yeager Airport Gas N’ Sip in OTHER Charleston.

(Seriously, y’all, the last time I was there they had 2 gates. TWO. And one of them was just a door to the outside where you then WALKED ACROSS THE DAMN TARMAC TO YOUR PLANE.)

But it could be worse. Dear Sweet Mama once had an honest-to-God FEDERAL EMPLOYEE tell her that her Social Security claim was delayed because she had put down “WV” on some of the forms. Like previous employers and addresses and what-not. And DSM said, “Yeah, and?” Only to be told, “Well, that’s NOT A REAL STATE, you should have just put down Virginia,” in this super-condescending bless-your-heart-you-poor-stupid-hick kind of tone.

EXCUSE ME?

You don’t seem to know that the 35th state in the Union EVEN EXISTS, but somehow we’re the stupid hicks? I’m fairly sure all American public schools make you label a map with the states’ names at the very least. And if I remember correctly, we had to do this one project in grade school where we made a binder with a page for each state with info like the capital, state motto, bird, flower, etc. (and this was before the internet, so it was quite the pain in the ass). Point being, if my “stupid hick” schools did that, what were the kids in the Yankee schools doing? Learning how drunk you can be before they won’t let you on the subway? Calculating the exact point at which “spaghetti sauce” should more accurately be called “gravy?” I know it wasn’t classes on manners and etiquette, because SHEE-YUT, y’all.

But strangely enough, they all seem to know which Virginia I’m from when we do some ignorant shit. Won’t catch Regular Virginia letting somebody run for governor from jail.

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This Ain’t My Fault…

So, today is Primary Election Day in Help Me Jesus New Jersey (HMJNJ, patent pending), and if you wanna split hairs about it, probably our household didn’t NEED to vote, everybody on the Democratic side of the ticket appeared to be an incumbent. Which makes today more of a loading screen for Republican Mortal Kombat (“CHOOSE YOUR FIGHTER”) than anything us Democrats need to be worried about.

And DSM, the Concubine, and I are all yellow dog Democrats (i.e., we’d sooner vote for an old yellow dog (pronounced “yaller dawg”) than a Republican and come to think about it, prolly the Concubine don’t actually know that’s what she is), so this was more of just an opportunity to drive on up to the polling place with our Biden bumper sticker than anything really important.

But it did get me thinking about something that’s been worrying me for a bit, mostly because Senator Joe Manchin (D-WV) has been pissing me right the fuck off lately. I mean, COME ON, man(chin). And no, that link will not take you to any sort of official Senatey-type website, it’ll take you to something much, much better.

And not for nothin’… I was right, amirite?

Because SHIT, y’all. This motherfucker rightchere. I KNOW YOU, SON! I know your family. I DID THE FUNKY CHICKEN WITH YOU AT YOUR GUBERNATORIAL INAUGURATION BALL. Or as DSM puts it, “I knew your uncle very well, when he was still holding state office FROM PRISON, and even he would want you to stop this bullshit.”

‘Cause it’s just EMBARRASSING, y’all. DSM and I live in HMJNJ now, and we get a lot of “So, where are you from?” every time we talk in public. And when we say, “Wes’BYGAWD Virginny,” people make that inward-hissing kind of noise like when you see a bad sunburn. Senator Manchin, YOU ARE MAKING US LOOK BAD.

SO HERE’S MY THEORY

If you live in a place long enough that you identify as being “from” there (like, not on your birth certificate or whatever, DSM was actually physically born at Fort Bragg, North Cackalacky, then lived in fuckin’ GERMANY for a bit, but the majority of her growin’-up-titude happened in WBGV, so that’s where she’s FROM).

Fuck, I ain’t tryna explain. Southerners get it. *

Suffice it to say, if you’re FROM a place, and then you move somewhere else… I feel like you should still get to vote in your hometown.

Hear me out. You still vote where you currently live, of course you do, that’s the shit that affects you currently. I’m just sayin’, ESPECIALLY for my Southern brothers and sisters… Y’all still gonna get judged by what the lawmakers from your home state do, so SHOULDN’T YOU HAVE A SAY?

I’m just sayin’, maybe a half or even a quarter vote via absentee ballot. Just so I never again have to hear that sunburn hiss sound because my home state is once again actin’ a fool.

And Senator Manchin? Stop that shit, I KNOW you was raised better.

Love y’all, mean it,

HH

*For all y’all who actually followed the footnotes – I’m from Wes’BYGAWD Virginny. Yes, if you wanna get historical and shit, a state that only exists because it became part of the Union during The Late Unpleasantness. But what Yankees don’t realize, is that WE DIDN’T CHOOSE THAT SHIT. Fuckin’ lawmakers did. “Oh, shit, Virginia’s seceding? Holy fuck, doesn’t the western part of Virginia have ALL THE FUCKIN’ COAL?” Yes, yes we did. Especially the part I’m from, Southern WBGV. And so the Union basically STOLE us from Regular Virginia. As in, I actually had ancestors who went to war for the country THEY LIVED IN… only to come home A) defeated and B) LIVING IN A DIFFERENT COUNTRY. And y’all wonder why we drink, shee-yut.

But all this does somewhat explain why down South, I’m considered a Southerner. Up here? Not so much. “You’re from West Virginia? That’s the GOOD Virginia! Welcome, friend! You’re probably somewhat backward, but WELCOME!” Nah, hate to say this, but FUCK. THAT. Slavery? Nope, we weren’t down for that, we were fuckin’. DEAD. ASS. POOR. We were our own “field <word you can’t say>.” But what we were down for was “leave us the fuck alone and let us do us, ain’t we supposed to be all states’ rights and shit?”

And as G-Unc-8-Generations or so Devil Anse would say… “Are you tetched, girl? They don’t care about you.”

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“You Keep Using That Word…”

Say it with me now, “Princess Bride” nerds…

“… I do not think it means what you think it means.”

At the moment, the word being bandied about incorrectly is “unconstitutional.” Now, as y’all may recall, I currently live in Help Me Jesus NJ (HMJNJ) and our governor opened us up quite a bit and relaxed our mask mandate the Friday before Memorial Day, presumably to encourage tourism (and then it rained and was COLD and shitty as all get out, like Mother Nature herself was like, “Are y’all fuckin’ suicidal? STAY THE FUCK INSIDE!”).

And this shit has to happen riiiiight as I was starting to get okay with leaving the house…

So anyhoo, now it seems like every third jackass in the WalMart is;

  • A) No longer wearing a mask;
  • B) Saying loudly and repeatedly that the fact that they ever had to wear a mask is unconstitutional (it’s not);
  • And C) (and this is the biggest problem as I see it) Somehow pissed right the fuck off that anyone else is wearing a mask.

The FUCK?

Leaving aside the fact that there is not WORD. ONE. in the Original U.S. Constitution about wearing fucking facemasks. You know why? Here’s a hint: there’s nothing about computers or cell phones or TV or electricity, either. Because, like fuckin’ surgical masks, THAT SHIT DIDN’T EXIST THEN. The Founding Fathers didn’t know from surgical masks – hell, they barely knew from SURGERY that wasn’t just sawing bits off until you either got better or died. And any of the rest of that shit would get you burned at the stake for being a Time Witch (that link will take you to one of the funniest motherfuckers it has been my sorry pleasure to ever come across, give him and his boys (one of whom of the three is super cute, I ain’t saying which one, but prolly they know, ya know?) some love. But given the vagaries of teh Interwebz and my own worthless Amishness, it may not be the exact clip in which he says “Time Witch.” But I ain’t gonna steal an amazingly good phrase without giving credit, so there ’tis. Also, I do apologize for making sure y’all get nothing at all done for the rest of the day).

Plus, girl, I ain’t lyin’. Them boys are funny, but also dayum. Jesus take the wheel. And while He’s drivin’, you boys come sit on Mama’s lap, know’dI’msayin,’?

But while saying that requiring masks is somehow unconstitutional is well and truly stupid, it pales in comparison to the pants-shittingly aneurysm-inducing idiocy that is getting pissed off that someone else is wearing one. I say again:

The FUUUUUCK?

Seriously, though: What the actual fuck. How in any kind of sensible mindset does my decision to wear any particular thing affect you one goddamn iota? I mean, not y’all, when I say “you” in this context I mean these dumb sonsabitches giving me the stinkeye in the checkout line. There’s gonna be a fistfight, lemme tell y’all. And I won’t (prolly won’t) START it, but rest assured I WILL FINISH IT.

But seriously, it’s not like my own personal mask of choice has any kind of logo or pictures or anything on it that somebody (who was stupid) could possibly find offensive. I wear plain disposable blue surgical masks. Are you offended by the color blue? Jesus, first grade must have suuuuucked for you!

And it’s not even one of those “Did you bring enough gum for the rest of the class?” sorts of bullshit (like when Evil-Not-Really-My-Landlady said I couldn’t put up them bamboo-lookin’ outdoor blinds on my own damn porch because “everyone else doesn’t have them”). But I actually DO have enough masks to give anybody one who wants one. I HAVE AAAAAALLL THE PACKS OF GUM. Yeah, it’s Fruit Stripe, yeah, the flavor lasts less than 4 seconds, but I GAVE YOU GUM, so shut up.

But it’s more like these people have suddenly decided they ain’t gonna eat chicken no more for whatever bullshit reason, but instead of just, I dunno, NOT EATING CHICKEN, they’ve done burned down the KFC. So wait now… they’re seriously that butt-hurt about masks and/or chicken that ALL THE REST OF US CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS EITHER??? The fuck you say.

In all honesty, if we’re gonna be following all signs to the literal letter… Teck-nick-lly speaking, the signs at the 7-11 have always said that I only got to have on a shirt and shoes to get service (that’s what she said, amirite?). But heeeeey, guess what? These stupid anti-masker anti-vaxxer dipshits ain’t rollin’ up to get a month-old taquito with they bits out in front of God and everybody. So we can only assume that they do realize that gettin’ your dick out at the convenience store simply isn’t DONE. Ain’t fittin’, just ain’t fittin’.

So, just because the signs no longer say you have to wear a mask to come inside… that don’t mean I can’t. What most of the signs here in HMJNJ say is “fully-vaccinated people do not have to wear masks, but unvaccinated or partially-vaccinated people should.” HOW IS THAT HURTING YOU, KAREN?

I mean, sheeeyut, let’s be real: these dipshits who are all wannafightaboutit over me wearing a mask when they aren’t WERE NEVER GONNA GET THE SHOT ANYWAY. These are the assholes who think getting a vaccine will put a tracking chip in your brain that will turn your children gay. And that’s my concern: You’re asking me to expect these assholes to be honest about their vaccination status? THEY. FUCKING. WON’T. So, here’s a thought: You MAGA dipshits (spoiler: y’all LOST) can do you, I’mma do me. Or as Dear Sweet Mama put it so succinctly: “I hope all them dumb motherfuckers die.”

And that there’s the main problem. Of course, we don’t actually hope them stupid assholes ACTUALLY die… (I mean, shit, yeah, we do low-key kinda hope that, but that thought ain’t very Christian (and neither are we), so we’re trying to work on it). But I cannot say I won’t be a LEETLE bit amused if these idiots kickstart another mutation/surge situation and end up in the hospital.

BUT HERE’S THE MAIN THING ABOUT THAT:

The problem is… It won’t stop with them. Their irrational behavior WILL actually affect my own personal health and/or that of the people I care about.

And I shouldn’t have to die because other people are stupid.

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The Road So Far

So… Y’all ‘member how I told y’all awhile ago that I was gonna get back to blogging and tellin’ y’all how to live and shit? And some of y’all (love you, bluzdude), have noticed how I. Ain’t. Actually. Done. That?

Well, here’s why. Or at least partially why. Or somewhat why, fuck it, I don’t know anymore, it is what it is.

TIME FOR A RECAP!

Previously on HoodyHoo

Good news, Hooligans! Hoody has finally found a Fiance who may actually work out this time!

Spoiler Alert: He’s fuckin’ dead.

Okay, so this format isn’t really working for this particular situation. But, yes, I met someone close on to five years ago who I honest to Jeebus thought was THE ONE. And we were together, living together (with his parents, this is Jersey, no one can afford to live alone), planning to get married when we had any kind of goddamn money, then the Quarantine hit and we were waiting for that to be over, basically living in each other’s pockets for literal years.

Shit, life is actually hilarious. I got interrupted writing the post I knew I had to write but absolutely DID. NOT. WANT. TO… By the motherfucking hospital calling to ask who they should charge for Fiance’s “final expenses.” Well, it ain’t me, bitch, it ain’t his daddy, it’s the motherfucking state. He had Broke-Folk Insurance like everybody else, go look that shit up.

Back to our original premise. I met someone, we started dating, we moved in together, life progresses as it does tend to do. Our plans to get married officially got sidetracked by the fucking YEAR in which no one could have nice things, but the plan was to do the deed when Quarantine was over.

And then, at the beginning of this March… He died.

He was one of those people who truly believed that going to the doctor means you’ll get bad news and die. So, he ditched every appointment I made for him whenever he’d mention any kind of symptom — and COVID restrictions meant I COULDN’T GO WITH HIM to make sure he told anybody what was going on. So, by the time his father and I basically dragged his ass to the ER… It was too late.

He was dead in less than three days.

Which, at the time, I thought was the worst possible thing that could ever happen.

BUT I WAS FUCKING WRONG.

First, most of his so-called “friends” — who I had thought were my friends as well — turned on me like rabid badgers. To the point where Dear Sweet Mama almost had to kick some asses at the goddamn memorial service. The shit they were saying was THAT. FUCKED. UP. Not to my face, oh, no, never you think it. A huge bunch of fucking coward pussies says what? Exactly.

But they managed to get their bullshit widespread enough behind my back (remember, fucking cowards say what?) that DSM heard it and was set to put a HURTIN’ on those motherfuckers.

But we got CLASS, y’all.

So, long story shorter (yeah, it could be even longer than this): All the fucking stress set the goddamn pancreas off and I ended up back in the hospital a few days after the memorial. At which point Fiance’s Father flipped out, thinking he’d have to watch another “child” die, and I had to move back in with DSM and the Concubine.

Then, about a month after we lost Fiance, my Poor Ol’ Dad died. Which fucked my head up even more than it already was, even though POD had been so sick for so many years that I’d been somewhat preparing for that news. But you know how people always say “it’s a blessing” when really sick people die? I’m here to tell y’all — it may be a blessing FOR THEM… But it still sucks all the ass for us left here on Hellscape Deathworld.

So… FUCK.THAT.SHIT.

I’d been preparing for that news… WITH THE UNDERSTANDING THAT FIANCE WOULD BE THERE TO HELP ME THROUGH IT. Now? I’m jumping into a hot LZ KNOWING I ain’t got shit for chutes. And it ain’t the heights that kill ya, my babies. It’s the depths.

But I still love all y’all. We’re gonna get through this.

HH

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“All You Can Eat” Chicken & Rice

I was gonna have the hook from “Without Me” start playing whenever you opened this post, but 1) Autoplay is super annoying and should have died with MySpace, and 2) Do you have any IDEA how many lawyers Eminem has???

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls (not that this blog is even CLOSE to anything below a PG-13!) — Hoody’s back. Long-time readers will remember that Hoody’s internal organs have been, shall we say… less than cooperative in the past. Well, unfortunately, that really hasn’t changed all that much. I’m down a gallbladder, and that HAS helped somewhat, but the ol’ pancreas still thinks it’s the law in this here town, and sometimes it’s right. But every cloud has a silver lining — at least I can eat, well, FOOD now! And the “panc-attack” days have brought us a great recipe.

I call it “All You Can Eat” Chicken and Rice. Now, usually, “All You Can Eat” would mean you’re getting your grub on at the Calabash Buffet for $29.95, never-ending fried seafood until the paramedics have to roll you out. But this recipe is for the days when plain chicken and rice is literally ALL you are able to eat.

But never fear, y’all know me. I ain’t never had a relationship I couldn’t fuck up (yet – more on that in a later post), and I ain’t never seen a recipe I couldn’t make taste at least moderately good, if not downright slap-yo’-mama tasty. So here tis’:

“All You Can Eat” Chicken & Rice”

You will need:

  • 1 large can of chicken in water (10 or 12 oz., depending on brand)
  • Approximately 6 cups cooked rice (I do mine in the rice cooker using 3 of the rice-cooker scoops. By the way, this isn’t a sponsored post or anything, but my rice cooker is my new favorite appliance and has paid for itself in less than 3 weeks. Seriously, if you don’t have one, GET YOU A RICE COOKER IMMEDIATELY. You won’t regret it, and I can promise you I’ll be bringing you more tales of rice cooker experimentation — some good, some horribly, horribly bad).
  • Butter, salt, and pepper (these are optional and entirely dependent on your own taste and/or current ability to digest such things)

That’s it.

Directions:

  • Scoop the cooked rice into a large mixing bowl. In this particular case, size really DOES matter. Don’t try to use a medium bowl, you’ll regret it when it comes time to stir.
  • Drain the chicken “juice” onto the rice and stir in with a fork. DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP. This is what gives you that creamy texture. Without it, you get rice with chicken in it, not chicken and rice.
  • Dump the drained chicken onto a cutting board and chop. You’re basically letting the chicken fall apart along its natural grain into small, coarse pieces that will mix easily with the rice.
  • Mix the chopped chicken into the rice. Using your fork, mix until you can’t get a bite of rice without chicken or a bite of chicken without rice.
  • Microwave (covered) for 1 to 2 minutes to blend flavors.

Voila! You’ve just made Hoody Hoo’s (Soon to be) World Famous “All You Can Eat” Chicken & Rice. This recipe makes about 7 servings for me and stores easily in the fridge (just cover the bowl with plastic wrap). I just scoop some into a bowl, heat it up in the microwave for about a minute, and dig in.

Now, if I’m having a particularly bad internal organs day, I’ll eat this plain. If I’m feeling a bit more adventurous, I’ll add salt and pepper. On “normal” days, I’ll get all fancy and melt in a pat of butter on each serving.

On a personal note – sorry to have been away so long, Hooligans. It’s been a tough few years, but things are starting to get back on track (I hope!). I’ll try to stop in from time to time with my usual recipe — snark and sass in equal measures — along with the occasional REAL recipe as I explore the wild, wonderful world of actually being able to eat.

Love y’all, mean it!

HH

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Filed under I Rule You, Panc-Attack, Slap Yo' Mama, Uncategorized

State of the Yunyun

Forgive me for the delay, but I had to take a minute to get my mind right after this year’s State of the Union. I mean, DAYUM.

When he started off by jumping in with his warm-up before he was actually introduced, that’s when we knew this was not gonna go well. I get you, bro – you neither like nor respect Speaker Pelosi. But facts is facts, and tradition states she was supposed to introduce you. Jumping the gun like that is like Parliament opening without Black Rod. It’s not DONE. Traditions are important, much like the rule of law and fitness for the office to which one has been elected. But I digress…

So, we all know we have a Union, and it’s yuge. The yugest. The absolute yugest Yunyun the world has ever seen. How best do we celebrate our achievements over the past year and look forward to our future?

Hmm. Probably not by mocking dead heroes and insulting a fellow lawmaker (and an entire culture) even BEFORE the event began. Probably not by consistently lying like a yard-sale rug and smarmily smarming at a group of your COLLEAGUES for applauding without your permission (“You weren’t supposed to do that.”). Yeah, we know you prefer that women show their appreciation in other ways.

We most DEFINITELY don’t showcase our best of the best by going on and on and on about your “boarder” wall until your archenemy had to stop the angry grumbling her own self. Which she did like a BOSS.

But you know, it’s okay. She’s not your real mom.

I’m sure he thinks his long, rambling, dear-god-please-stop-talking hostage situation of a speech was really – you guessed it – yuge. But statistics show that, like many other things belonging to the current President, his was still shorter than Bill Clinton’s. And smaller than Obama’s.

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Filed under Reality Bites, The Idiot Box, THE MAN, Uncategorized, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

Who’s Your People?

Good gods, I thought we were done with this months ago, but apparently not…

Allow me to begin by saying, I am 100% not here to pull a “Leave Britney ALONE!” for Elizabeth Warren.

I’m here because it’s making me fucking INSANE to see how an angry, insecure man’s racist taunts and white-supremacist-dog-whistling have led to my entire country using “Who’s your people?” as a formula for deciding someone’s worth.

FYI: In the South, we ask, “Who’s your people?” upon meeting new folks as a way of finding out more about someone’s family (like I guess rich Yankees in period dramas say they’re “Lucas Calloway, of the Boston Calloways”). “Who’s your people?” tells me where you’re from, who your parents/siblings/cousins are, and whether or not our families are related and/or have at some point insulted one another.

Full disclosure: My family identifies as being “of Native American descent,” NOT “Native American.” We do not claim, nor would we be registry-eligible for, membership in any tribal organization. It ain’t about trying to claim any sort of government benefit or hiring accommodation or what-have-you. All we are doing is acknowledging that some of our ancestors were already living in this country before the other ones showed up on boats.

And that’s a GOOD. THING.

Knowing where you come from is GOOD. Learning about history is GOOD. Acknowledging the struggles your forebears faced can only make you stronger when it comes to dealing with your own.

That’s why it breaks my heart to see Elizabeth Warren getting beat down not only by the MAGA-hat-wearing ventriloquist dummies doing the tomahawk chop, but also by the very people those idiots are attacking – the Native/Indigenous community itself.

She took and publicized that DNA test to rebuke a man who publicly shamed her for admitting to having (horror of horrors) mixed heritage (A man who, lest we forget, promised to make a charitable contribution in return for said results… Still waiting on that, aren’t we?). To make matters worse, that same angry, insecure man repeatedly referenced her claiming of Native ancestry to insult and defame ALL Indigenous peoples. Seriously, referring to ANY woman as “Pocahontas” is EXTREMELY problematic for anyone whose knowledge of history extends beyond “Colors of the Wind,” but holding a press event with Navajo Code-Talkers in front of a portrait of Presidential Bromance-in-Chief ANDREW TRAIL-OF-TEARS JACKSON??? Come on, folks.

Elizabeth Warren did what anyone would do when publicly challenged – she stepped up. She said, “Oh, yeah, bruh? I see your racist ranting, and I raise you a positive DNA test.” Did the test prove she’s a full-blooded Cherokee (or Delaware, or anyone)? No. Did it even prove her family has a registry-eligible claim to any tribe’s membership? Nope. What it proved was that what she said was true: Elizabeth Warren’s ancestry, at some point, includes people of Native American origin.

And that’s all she ever claimed. Reports that Harvard, etc. listed her as a “Native American professor” are THEM saying it. Presumably for their own reasons, such as “it looks more diverse and cool to have a “Native American” listed on the faculty. Elizabeth’s Nana was something, right?” As far as boxes she’s checked on forms throughout her life, I myself often check “Native American or Pacific Islander” (or simply “Other”) on government forms because A) I’m proud to be a product of a not-entirely-white background and B) I’m an asshole who likes to fuck up The Man’s statistics.

Seriously, y’all. The Man spends enough time breaking us down and setting up divisions to make us focus on fighting each other instead of uniting against a common cause (which is The Man). A woman who references her non-Caucasian ancestry as an introduction to how her family has dealt with hardship is not the enemy here. A man who uses that non-whiteness as a platform from which to spew racist hate and vitriol? CLEARLY is.

Elizabeth Warren saying that her granny told her that HER granny was Cherokee isn’t the problem. Donald Trump using that statement as a jumping off point to mock not just her, but the entire Native American culture? That’s the problem. Stay focused, my sisters and brothers. No matter how high an SPF you personally might need.

And as for you, Mr. President?

Where’s that check?

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Filed under THE MAN, Weep for Humanity, WTF???

Every Day Is a Winding Road

I know it’s been ages, but life is a highway and I’m seeing the road signs that say I should come back here…

I miss all y’all, and let’s face it: I got shit to say.

Thoughts?

Love, HH

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