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Rum Tiddly Yum

Photo by Ivan Mani on Unsplash

The only Sailor Jerry, my favorite rum, available was in the gallon-sized bottle. We didn’t buy that one. We settled for Captain Morgan’s instead. We only wanted rum for some hot toddy drinks made from cinnamon tea and rum. 

I worry, sometimes, about alcohol consumption. My husband describes himself as an alcoholic. He is a whiskey man. I drink wine, as a rule, but these were exigent circumstances.

The weather forecast was for extreme cold over the weekend, with a windchill of minus 15 Fahrenheit (-26 Celsius). Our house, which was built 100 years ago and moved to this property from another in the 1970s, is drafty. We were going to be cold and we knew it. 

This morning, if you were to look closely at the windows in my kitchen you would see frost on the inside. On the pane and all around the window sill. My dish soap has turned to a thick, nearly frozen sludge. I could see my breath in my bedroom this morning despite the heater being on.

I should probably mention, we live in Texas. We aren’t from the East Coast of the United States or Canada or Siberia, where people are somewhat accustomed to these conditions. We do get extreme weather up here in the Panhandle. Extremely hot and extremely cold.

Rough map of Texas. Panhandle in dark gray.

This is the first extreme winter I have been solely in charge of feeding the animals. For 9 wonderful years it was my husband who braved the winter weather to go feed. He would suit up in his insulated coveralls with a hood and face mask and ginormous gloves. He has insulated boots he calls Mickey Mouse boots because they are so big. At first light, he would feed and break the ice in the stock tank. Then he would come inside and get ready for his day job.

I have not missed those days until this morning.

This morning I got dressed in 123, 567, 432 layers and went out to feed. We keep the feed in the garage, protected on all sides from wind and weather. Underneath all the layers and double gloved I didn’t feel all that cold. Until that is, I opened the back garage door.

The wind blasted me in the face with freezing snow. I considered turning back and getting warm inside but thought of the poor freezing goats, chickens, and turkeys. If I didn’t like it, they must be hating it.

I braved forward into the snow and wind, through the orchard, and back to the milk barn. I sprinkled the chicken and turkey feed over the ground, unable to call the chickens because the wind was snatching away my voice. The air was so bracing I had to cough. It felt like my face fell right off my head. I knew it didn’t because I could feel clear snot running from my nose and starting to freeze.

I made it to the milk barn and quickly fed the goats. On my way back through to the orchard I saw the turkeys in the working shoot (an area we have blocked off to medicate and castrate the sheep and goats), gave them a wave, and shouted, “I guess you’ll figure it out!”

Once back inside my face and figers started burning. I stripped off my gloves and made a beeline for our mini Keurig. I filled a mug 3/4 with water and set it to brew. I felt extremely grateful for the rum and poured a slug, more like a glug, on top of my coffee.

As I sit here sipping my second cup of coffee rum, at not quite 8:00 o’clock in the morning, I can’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t have bought the gallon of Sailor Jerry after all.

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Epiphany

Photo by Burak K on Pexels.com

I had a lightbulb moment yesterday.

You know, the kind of moment when you are doing something completely mundane and suddenly, out of the blue, a thought occurs to you.

If I hadn’t been washing dishes, if my hands hadn’t been full of suds, I would’ve slapped myself on the forehead. I did say, “DUH!” out loud for the dogs and cat to hear.

Recently I set a goal for myself: to do something, anything, creative every single day. Well, that’s not true. I set this goal 500 years ago, but recently I’ve started following through with it. I believe I am able to follow through due to an effective balance of medications and therapy. The medications are for depression, anxiety, allergies, diabetes, low vitamin D, and Hashimoto’s (hypothyroidism).

It is amazing to me how the right combination of the right medications at the right dosage can make such a huge difference. And the therapy. As much as I resist my therapist’s advice when I follow it my life is better.

I have been creative nearly every day this year (2021). There have been some gray days, but most days I write a little, I craft a little, I art a little.

Yesterday, I sat at my art table, formerly known as our dining table, and glued some pieces of paper to a bottle. My hands got sticky and I went to the kitchen sink to wash them. Since I was already at the sink I decided to wash some dishes, too. While completing this mindless chore my thoughts wandered to my work in progress, a psychological suspense thriller, Don’t Go Outside!

The idea for the book came to me mid 2018. I didn’t start writing until 2020. I got a good start on it after being invited to a writing group. And then . . .

. . . I floundered. I stuttered to a stop. I ceased writing. Not in my head, though. I still write in my head almost constantly.

I have stayed the creativity course, even if it isn’t writing. I’ve been making decoupage wine bottles. they are pretty and great to use as vases or candle holders.

Decoupage wine bottle hand painted over cloth by author

I’ll be selling some at my local library with 1/2 the proceeds going to The Friends of The Library.

Bottle in progress at my art table (dining table)

Every day I either cut, rip, tear or glue little pieces of cloth or paper. Some days I consider finding and preparing the materials to be a major win. Some days I spend hours working on one bottle. Other days if I glue one or two squares I feel a sense of accomplishment.

materials for decoupage

1 of a set of 3 Christmas bottles on which I’m working.

As I washed and rinsed dishes and my mind wandered to character studies for the book, I lamented not actually writing anything down. A novel’s worth of words (around 80,000) seems overwhelming and daunting. But what if I wrote the way I decoupage? What if I wrote one or two senteces a day? It might take a long time to finish a draft, but not as long as not writing at all.

I’ll sit on this idea for a few more days. I hope to follow through. I need to set myself a goal and make a plan to put it into action. I guess I can do that here and now.

Goal: write one or two or more sentences every day for Don’t Go Outside!

Plan:

Step 1: begin February 1

Step 2: keep going

Step 3: DO IT

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

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The Gray Days

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Pexels.com

It’s the long days, the days that take forever to get started and even longer to end. 

The gray days, the days that are drab and drawn. 

The cold days. The I-feel-so-old days.

The days I can only just muster up enough energy to scold myself for being lazy. For being hazy. For being slow and glum and down and dumb.

It’s the sad days. The days my mother little around every corner waiting to pounce, waiting to announce all my flaws with her claws and her frowns.

It’s the bad days. The days the smell of merlot haunts my nose until the flavor fills my mouth much to soon, long before noon.

These are the days I remember depression. The days I am frozen. The days I can’t escape.

These are the gray days.

They come around too often.

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Running With the Wools

The Wools photo by Author

Back in 2013, I quit smoking. A year later I began running. Or shuffle hopping, as I like to call it.

I ran almost daily for nearly two years before work and life (and in the summer of 2016 cigarettes) got in the way.

In 2018, after being diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, I started lifting free weights. I really liked it, but somehow turned into a 12-year-old boy wanting to go heavier faster. I injured my rotator cuff.

Then, in 2019, I started having health issues. First skin cancer (surgically removed – I’m fine) and then weird and unexplained stomach issues and full-body aches.

I lost 25 pounds in just a few months. Everybody kept telling me how great I looked. I know it was a compliment but it didn’t feel like one. All the pain and misery every single day. I just felt horrible.

Those issues were resolved. It was a simple fix: stop taking medication that was prescribed prophylactically as part of the medical standard of care for women with T2D.

And then I put the weight back on. I’ve gained ten pounds since August.

Yikes!

So, once again I’m embarking upon a journey of fitness. I’ve been counting my steps and logging my food. Logging my water intake and monitoring my sleep. All thanks to my shiny new FitBit Inspire 2 (no affiliate links – just an early Christmas gift) I’m prompted to get up and move, take a walk, or drink some water. I’m prompted to meditate which, as it turns out, is not at all relaxing. I haven’t meditated, yet. I’ve been getting in some steps and some cardio. I haven’t actually exercised. I’ve been digging holes in the dried-up-home-made-pond in the orchard. Not real exercise.

Until today.

Today I ran (or shuffle hopped).

I was planning on walking through the sheep pasture up to the gate at the back of our property. Something came over me and I ran (shuffle hopped) instead.

The sheep and llama decided to investigate. I think they thought I was crazy. Marilyn, the llama, is the guardian of the flock. She couldn’t figure out what I was doing. I wasn’t feeding them. I wasn’t petting them. I wasn’t threatening them. I was running away from them.

Pretty soon I heard thundering hoofbeats behind me. Marilyn was chasing me and only veered off when she got an arm’s length away. She’d wait until I got a bit ahead of her and chased after me again, with all the food little sheep following where they were led.

Llamas can actually run not just shuffle hop. They move in a loping gallop. Fast! A couple of times I worried she would crash into me. She never did, of course.

Some people spend a bunch of money to fly to Spain and go running with the bulls.

Me? I stay home and go running with the wools.

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I Can’t Wait to be an Empty Nester

And I feel guilty as Hell
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

28 days 17 hours 35 minutes and 26 seconds.

That is how many days until December 31. That is how many days until my youngest child turns 18. I can’t wait and I feel guilty as hell.

I long to be an empty nester.

I’m frustrated with my son, again. Seems like I’ve been more frustrated with him the last two years than in the entirety of his life before. We have definitely had rough patches. He has attempted suicide numerous times. He has cut his arm so many times it looks like a cheese grater. He has smoked pot, gotten drunk, and tripped on cough medicine. Each time, he has done these things he has gotten sick. Not with the pot. Pot just makes his depression worse.

We have a mental hospital an hour’s drive away. The first time he went, after some back and forth with the social worker, he asked to stay there. This happened only after I went mama bear on the social worker telling her she couldn’t force him to stay. Not with his parents right there. Not when he hadn’t come in an ambulance. It had been a week since he overdosed. 

He finally admitted he wanted to stay. We said ok, of course, if this is what you want. The social worker assured us (after I apologized) my son would get the help he needed as an inpatient. My husband and I were actually a little relieved. We hadn’t slept or eaten much in the preceding week. We thought we would be able to rest up and get strong enough to face the emotionally challenging times ahead. We were wrong.

Our son was home in two and a half days.

I learned this hospital is an acute care facility. Meaning they get people stable and get them out as quickly as possible. So, all of that fuss was really for nothing.

The fuss continued at home as I scrambled to get him state insurance, as I made appointment after appointment. Psychiatric doctors, psychiatric social workers, psychologists for him, psychologists for the family, psychologists for me. 

The meds prescribed were just beginning to work when he decided he would rather smoke pot and drink than take medication. Weed and alcohol have an immediate and unmistakable effect. Psychotropic medication can take four to six weeks to work. It is understandable to me that so many people want to feel better right now.

His psychiatrist told him she wouldn’t prescribe medication if he tested positive for illegal substances. We live in Texas. Everything is illegal here, except shooting someone on your own property. Knowing he was going to test dirty, he simply stopped taking his meds. When we found vodka and weed in his room, he ran away. 

He came home three weeks later.

We continued in this vein for months. More drug induced sickness. More suicide attempts. More hospitalizations.

Finally we got him into a long term facility. It was mostly a rehab tha also prescribed psychotropic meds. He felt he didn’t belong there, but stayed the entire month, and attended their groups and meetings. 

He seems to have turned a corner. He wants to feel better, and he acknowledges medication will help him. He is working with his psychiatris, his social worker, and his therapist. 

Now, instead of huge worries, I get to have regular mother of a teen worries. I’m grateful for that. Still, I am parenting a teen. A teen who uses all the laundry soap, who eats everything including food I bought specifically with a meal in mind. I know better than to do meal planning in this family. I can’t seem to break the habit.

Photo by 42 North on Pexels

He leaves hair in the shower drain and bums my cigarettes. He can’t seem to figure out his bedroom light switch also goes down. He sleeps most of the day away and wanders through the house at night eating. His bedroom is a smelly obstacle course of computer monitors and dirty clothes. He either isolates completely or won’t give me a moment’s reprieve. 

Normal teenager.

He is moving to Washington state to attend a computer college. It is a technical school. One of those for profit deals. I worry he won’t be able to transfer his credit if he wants to continue his education. 

His birth mother lives in Seattle. He will be living with her to save on housing expenses. This terrifies me. She is an alcoholic and a meth user. I worry how my son will get his medication. His mother isn’t known for her ability to follow through with paperwork.

My oldest daughter also lives in Washington. Near Seattle. I’m hoping they can spend time getting to know one another on equal footing. She is almost twice his age at 32. 

I have all of these worries. But if I’m honest with myself, I am counting the seconds to his 18th birthday. I can’t wait to be an empty nester.

28 days, 16 hours, 36 minutes, 23 seconds.

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Ever Wonder Where Writers Get Their Material?

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

Sometimes it seems we get our material from dreams, current events, or from the whisps of our imagination.

I get mine from all of the above. I don’t scan newspaper headlines, or write every dream. (I do still remember one dream I think would make a good book – a reporter revisites the site where she was held after being abducted as a child.) Mostly, an idea just plops into my brain fully formed. I can almost see it as if it were a film.

There was the idea I had for a stop action film using dollar store barbies. I still think it would be a great one. Most people whom I’ve told the idea do not share my sense of humor. I never made that film, but I did write the script. It was wonderful. The story line is completely politically incorrect. It makes fun of bulimia. It makes fun of the British Royals. It makes fun of Barbie. Of course I called them Betty.

That script is a post for another time.

The ideas I’ve detailed above are some of the extraordinary ideas that’ve hit my brain fully formed. They don’t detail the drudgery, the scut, the boring old hard work of making an idea come to life. My more mundane ideas come from more mundane sources. Journal entries. Boring journal entries like this one:

I feel like I had more to write about before I stopped working. This is ridiculous. I never wrote about work. I think it is because the days blend together and it is hard to recognize one day from the rest. This is probably why I’ve had so much trouble remembering to take my meds. That and the livingroom are the warmest. I’ve moved my meds to the table next to my recliner in the living room. My morning meds. I don’t seem to have as hard a time taking my evening meds, although I do sometimes forget. It is like I have just started taking medication or something.

I’m not sure how these journal entries will help Don’t Go Outside! Other than maybe as inner dialogue. I think I’d like to have a scene maybe refilling her pill planner and listing all the drugs, what they are for, whether or not she thinks they work, and why she keeps taking them if they don’t.

You know you are poor when you cash out just 15 bucks. I am just a few dollars away from cashing out on Inbox. Prolific lets you cash out at 5 bucks. I try to wait until I hit 30, but when the need arises…We need laundry soap.

Anyway, this is my journal entry for today…

Like I said. Boring. But I did get a scene out of it. Books are basically a series of scene that are interconnected to make sense and form a story. I tend to have a very general, very light sketch of storyline in my head. And then I write scenes and character profiles.

Eventually, the hope is, I have a complete story or script or novel.

Here’s hopoing.

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11.21.2020 Journal Entry

11.21.2020

Here is what I know. 

I need to write every single day, no matter what. It helps me stay grounded.

Writing daily, no matter the subject helps to ground me. It helps bring my hyperarousal, my tuning into each and every little thing happening in the world around me, down to the page for at least as long as I’m writing.

Here is what I don’t know.

Does typing count as writing or does it have to be by hand? That’s a silly thing to say: hand writing. When I’m typing, I’m using my hands.

In a moment of vulnerability on Thursday, during a video therapy session, I asked through a mouthful of tears, “It has been 52 years. How can I still be traumatized?” Her response was, “Because it’s been 52 years.”

She explained my trauma has been like bricks piling up one atop the other. I haven’t dealt with them one at a time. Couldn’t deal with them because it started when I was an infant. And it continues.

A muscular woman in a sport's bra is punched in the face with a boxing glove
Photo by Musa Ortau00e7 on Pexels.com

There’s a saying. “The hits keep coming.”

In my life, I’ve had no chance to heal from a hit before the next one landed. Sometimes physically! Mostly emotionally, but the result is I am battered and broken, and whenever life raises its hand to say hello, I flinch.

I don’t trust anything. I don’t trust anyone. I hate feeling dependent on anyone. 

I hate loving. 

It is easier for me to say, “Love is a decision, not an emotion. Hormones are the emotion.” 

And this is true. Of any relationship. Including romantic and spousal relationships, but also parent-child, and close friendships. Hormones flood our brains and release chemicals that make us feel good. When we feel good, we want to maintain that feeling. So we decide to continue the relationship. Emotions are out of our control, dependent primarily on hormones.

Decisions are within our control. That means MY control. And I must have control no matter what.

Because I don’t trust.

I don’t trust my own emotions. I don’t trust other people’s emotions. I don’t trust their decisions (or mine). Minds change. Life is inherently unreliable.

Children need consistency to thrive. They need a trusted adult. I never trusted my adults. Obviously, I don’t remember my infancy. I do have memories beginning around age 2. I remember an earthquake that happened while my parents were still together. They divorced when I was 2 ½.

I was raised with extreme inconsistency. 

I remember Mom sitting me down and making “NEW RULES.” The rules were always new. They always went up on the refrigerator. The rules would be enforced for a day or two, but then she would stop paying attention until weeks, or months, later when suddenly I would be punished for breaking the rules. I can’t remember when this started, but I remember specific instances starting around 4 years through 9 years. When I was 9, Mom remarried and we moved to Germany. She had a baby and another baby. My brothers are sixteen months apart. She had her hands full and our relationship took on a new dynamic.

My brothers are much healthier than I am. I think they had at least one trusted adult, and Mom never interacted with them the way she interacts with me. She was never physically violent with them. She never seemed embarrassed by them or had extreme anger toward them. They had a very different childhood to mine.

As a teen, I used drugs and alcohol to survive my emotions. I still use alcohol and really miss the drugs. Not so much the high or the lifestyle, but the escape from my constant awareness, my hypervigilance. These days I rely on chocolate and red wine to do the trick.

I plan to write every morning. The laptop typing will have to do. I may mine some gold to use in Don’t Go Outside! My work in progress. Meanwhile, I’m leaving you with another glimpse inside my life.

I Used to Want Grandkids

JuJuB

But this doeling goat kid has changed my mind.

She’s adorable and I love her. But I’m exhausted!

She lost both ears and one leg to frostbite. Her frostbitten leg atrophied and we thought that would be that. After enough time in the house that we, her vets and I, figured she would live and she went outside with her mama and grandma goats.

I still went out to give her a bottle 3x a day. One of her feedings was straight from her mama. I had to have JJ, her mama goat, on the milk stanchion with her head locked in the headstall and JuJuB on my lap, guiding her mouth directly to the teat.

Neither goat had the instinct to do it on their own. JuJuB was fully convinced I was her mama and was so accustomed to a plastic nipple it took a bit of doing for her to figure out the real thing. JJ had no idea she was feeding her baby. She lost the mothering instinct when I pulled both of her kids off her and brought them inside.

I like to think she would have cared for them if it hadn’t been so cold. We’ll have to wait another season or two to find out.

Her leg came off at the red line. The dried, twisty parts of her ears fell off and healed before she went outside to live.

Three or four days after she was outside with the big goats, I went out to feed her and to milk JJ. When I was finished I gave JuJuB a quick cuddle on my lap. After I put her down, I noticed some wetness on my hand. With a sinking feeling, I thought I had put my hand in some chicken shit. I put my hand to my nose with trepidation. Chicken shit STINKS!

There wasn’t much of an odor, so it wasn’t chicken shit. I kept finding damp spots all over my legs. I finally realized it was blood.

I pulled JuJuB gently out from under the hay rack where she had gone to hide. Poor baby! Her hind leg was quite literally hanging on by a thread.

I carried her back inside and felt grateful for my laziness and procrastination. The giant dog kennel we use as a lamb and kid nursery was still set up. I put down a clean towel and gently laid her down.

I called the vet. They asked me to wrap her leg as best I could, keep her comfortable, and get to the office as soon as possible.

My husband wouldn’t come home until 8pm. I made an appointment for first thing the next morning.

I gave JuJuB some low dose aspirin in her bottle after wrapping her poor little leg and making her as comfortable as possible. She didn’t seem to be experiencing much discomfort, but with goats it can be hard to tell.

The next morning I drove the 36 miles to the vet’s in a blowing snow. Visibility was poor. White knuckling the steering wheel, I went as fast as I safely could – about 65 to 70 miles per hour. JuJuB was in a small crate behind me crying the whole way.

The vets took off her bandage and shaved a bit of her leg hair. I was both worried about the cost of an amputation, and detetmined to find a way to pay for it. I was worried about this sweet little baby. We had put her twin brother down just a few weeks before when he sloughed off his foot.

Ivar and JuJuB were born on Valentine’s day. And let me tell you! They both stole my heart. When were put Ivar down, I felt like JuJuB was my consolation prize. I loved her for both of them.

It turns out the break was clean. There was no need to amputate further. The vet snipped through the thread of skin holding together the two parts of her leg. Removing the dead from the living.

They bandaged her up, gave me a bunch of supplies, antibiotics, and pain meds and sent me home. “She needs to stay inside for the next ten to twelve days if possible. Change her bandage every other day and watch for signs of infection. Text or call if you have any questions.”

Home after the trip to the vet. The bandage job they did looks much nicer than mine ever could.

This was one week ago today.

She’s got 5 more days inside and I’m about to lose my mind. She is so happy and healthy and full of piss and vinegar. She doesn’t want to stay calm and heal.

I wrap her little bandage in a sandwich bag to keep it dry and let her race through the pasture at break neck speeds, playing with the dog and the big goats alike.

She has no idea she is missing a leg. She leaps and twists. She runs up to the wall of the house, springs off in a twisting leap and races across the front yard and tries to do the same to my leg.

She head butts the dog and chases him around.

Joy, the Nanny goat watches JJ, JuJuB, and Tui chase and play.

When she is in her crate she still jumps and hops around, digging at the plastic tray, chewing on the bars, and shouting for me if I leave the room. She is loud as fuck!

She gets a bottle every 3 to 4 hours. She gets taken outside every hour and a half. She gets cuddles every couple of hours before she gets too wiggly and is put back in the kennel. I change out her towels every day. Washing and drying the same 4 towels. She just wads them up and throws then in the corner.

I barely have time to eat, shower, write, or art. Let alone cook or clean. I’ve had to write this in spurts (forgive me if I lose track, ramble, repeat myself, and get things in the wrong order).

JuJuB, Tui, and me

I’m a mess. My house is s mess. I’m sure it was the same when each of my children were born. But my memory has selectively filtered out all the exhaustion and frustration and only remembered the cuddles and laughter.

If this little goat kid is any indication, you can go ahead and keep those grandkids. Maybe, visit once a year. Better yet, let me visit them and leave your house a mess!

I’m exhausted, I smell funny, and grandma needs a drink!

Let’s Talk About Meal Kits

SunBasket Logo

Back when Meal Kits like Blue Apron and Hello Fresh first gained in popularity, though I desperately wanted to sign up, I couldn’t. They wouldn’t deliver to me.

Neither would those farm fresh box companies.

I don’t know if Blue Apron or Hello Fresh have expanded their delivery parameters in the last 10 years. I’ve been turned off from even trying.

I discovered SunBasket a few months ago and lo, and behold they do deliver to me.

We are going into the second year of social distancing and lockdown. Texas never really locked down to begin with. Some places never required masks. My husband was considered an essential worker, so he was never homebound. But we haven’t been going to the big city.

Amarillo is an hour away and was a hot spot for covid. I haven’t gone to the eye doctor, the endocrinologist, or the dermatologist despite having Type2 Diabetes and a history of skin cancer. I haven’t left our small town for any reason since The beginning of 2020.

I miss dining on foods we can’t get here in tiny town. We can’t get them at the local grocery store. I can’t order them from Amazon.

Then blood tests shows my ldl cholesterol to be too high and my calcium is high as well. The high calcium prompted a battery of other tests, including a mammogram and an ob/gyn appointment.

The mammogram had to happen in Amarillo last week. It was the first time we’ve eaten in a restaurant in forever. We paid $120.00 for two meals with no leftovers.

The high cholesterol is an ongoing thing and I’ve been bound and determined to feed us healthier foods. I can’t stress enough that we live in a food desert. Though healthy food is sometimes (rarely) available here, the quality is very poor. And I don’t think anybody knows what organic means!

As I said above, I discovered SunBasket a few months ago. They have incredibly healthy options for their meal kits including gluten free, plant based, carb conscious, diabetes friendly, paleo, pescadarian, and mediterranean diets.

Better yet, they have a market where you can buy fresh, high quality, organic ingredients, snacks, and beverages.

They are set up so you can get a delivery every week, or skip weeks when you want. I’m set up for every 4 weeks.

Here comes the best part.

You get better than restaurant meal options, organic and fresh for far less than you would pay at a regular restaurant cooked right in your own home. The instructions are clear and easy to follow and if you aren’t into cooking, they have “fresh and ready” meals for you to warm up. And though SunBasket is a little more expensive than the others, their variety, the market, the fantastic customer service are all worth it.

This week’s meals. There are many more to choose from!

I just ordered five meals from them. I have a discount of $40.00. So I am paying around $80 bucks for 5 meals serving two people and there will very likely be leftovers. Even without the discount, I’ll be spending the same amount I spent the other day at a restaurant for 2 meals, and my meal was over salted.

My billing, payment, and discount history

If you look closely above you’ll see the discount for March 1 exactly matches the bill for February 15. This is the great customer service I was talking about.

The unexpected extreme cold weather in Texas prohibited a timely delivery of our meals. So they credited me the entire amount. The box eventually arrived and the only unusable ingredients were some of the organic greens.

And the even better part is the sms texting customer service. They respond immediately. No bothersome phone calls. No waiting for emails.

Someone from the company also follows their Twitter feed pretty closely.

All this is to say, of you are thinking about a meal kit delivery service you really can’t go wrong with SunBasket.

I am not an affiliate, but if you use my referral link, we will both get $40.00 off.

Click this link and get $40 off your first order.


https://sunbasket.com/invite/Jonica3692823?utm_source=email_android&utm_medium=useremail&utm_campaign=referafriend

Totally Random True Story Memories

Photo by Josh Sorenson from Pexels

I was just remembering the time I fucked a drummer and he gave me crabs. And when I was hanging out with him in the loft of a huge, empty  warehouse where after hours parties were held, the cops raided the joint and I got put in the back of an honest-to-goodnesd paddy wagon.

I had to throw my bag down to the cops before I could climb down the ladder from the loft. When I got down, a plainclothes detective thrust a polaroid photo in my face and asked if I was the woman depicted in it. The woman, who looked nothing like me, was in the process of being fist fucked. All I could see was the heavily tattooed forearm of the guy I assume was the real target of the raid.

I was told to sit in a chair with my hands zip tied behind my back. I asked if I could go pee. I really did have to go. The answer was NO.

A little while later I asked again. The uniformed, male cop (they were all male except the woman who searched my purse but I don’t remember her after that) finally took pity on me. For some reason I told him I was pregnant. He waited to know why, if I was pregnant (I wasn’t), I was hanging about in an afterhours party warehouse. I was honest. I told him, “because I’m fucking the drummer.”

I never got to go pee.

I was carted off to the local Hollywood cop shop where I gave them my real name and address.

When they asked if I used drugs I got all wide-eyed. I told them I had tried drugs in high school (true), but didn’t even smoke pot (true). When they asked if I knew anyone who did drugs I got wider-eyed and mentioned, ” Well my dad smokes a little pot.” Before they could ask another questing I sputtered, Ohh my God! Is my dad going to get in trouble?”

This whole thing was, to me, an obvious act but I was having fun doing it. True I tried drugs in highschool. Tried ’em and liked ’em and was, at that time (the 1990s) still using them. True, I didn’t smoke pot. Mainly because there was harder stuff available for the taking. Why bother with pot when there’s heroin to be had? True, my dad smoked pot, but the cups didn’t seem to interested in weed.

They took my picture and photocopied my driver license and released me into the wild.

A couple days later I discovered the crabs.

True story.