gyzym | Entries tagged with little house on the crazy

Saturday brunch did not happen this weekend due to [various and assorted nonsense], so we did pizza dinner tonight instead. Why I always let myself believe they'll be less ridiculous later in the day, I just don't know.

Me: Ugh, this tomato sauce is killing me, I bit the inside of my cheek this morning.
My Mother: DON'T LOOK AT IT.
Me: What?
My Mother: The place you bit, don't look at it, or if you do look at it, don't be surprised if--
Me: Why would I look at it?
My Father: Who looks at that kind of thing? Do you look at it when you bite the inside of your mouth?
My Mother: Well, yeah, I mean, I can feel it, I can't help myself.
My Father: Never look inside your mouth. What are you, crazy?
Me: Okay, well, sometimes I think there's probably a good reason to--
My Father: No, no there's not, there is never a good reason to look inside your own mouth. It's like sushi--just go with it, do not look at what's inside. Unless you're you, I guess, because you're a freak and you like octopus--
Me: Octopus is delicious!
My Father: There are suckers on it.
My Mother: She can eat octopus if she wants.
My Father: We can't go by you, you look inside your own mouth! Only dentists should go there.
Me: Your intensity about this is kind of freaking me out, just so you know.
My Father: You should listen to your father, I know what I'm talking about, and--
Burrito: *BURP*
My Father: Don't burp at the dinner table, you know better than that.
Burrito: Seriously? You guys are talking about the insides of your mouths.
My Father: ....
Me: ....
My Mother: He's kind of got us there, guys.

And then, of course, there was the continuation of the Angry Bird madness after Burrito left the table:

My Mother: So, should I download it?
Me, referring to the conversation she interrupted: ...what, turkey tacos? How would you--
My Father: No, she means the birds.
Me: Oh my god, are we still on Angry Birds?
My Mother: It's all he's been talking about all day.
My Father: I got to the second part! In only a couple of days, that's good, right?
Me: I don't know, I stopped play it when I realized how much of my time it was eating.
My Father: The yellow ones explode when you hit them!
Me: You recognize that you sound like a four year old right now.
My Father: Fuck you, it took me like an hour to figure that out.
My Mother: So, should I download it?
My Father: YES
Me: NO
My Father: DON'T LISTEN TO HER IT'S AWESOME
Me: IT'S TOO LATE FOR HIM, SAVE YOURSELF
Burrito, from the other room: YOU GUYS, STOP YELLING, I'M TRYING TO WATCH A SHOW.

In conclusion, the 11 year old is the only mature adult out of all of us, and it's not even much of a surprise. The end!

A few days ago, my father got himself one of those iPads that aren't. Tablets, I think they're called? I could google it, but why. In any case, he made me come to his office and help him set it up, and we had the following conversation (obviously, I have subbed out Burro's real name for...er...Burro, as my father does not actually call us by the names I use in this journal):

My Father: Oh, and download that thing with the birds.
Me: What, Angry Birds?
My Father: Yeah, Burro's obsessed with it.
Me: You don't want me to download Angry Birds. It will eat your soul.
My Father: What is it? Isn't it like, a stupid game with birds?
Me: That's exactly what it is.
My Father: I'm not going to be sucked in by a bird game. I am a grown man.
Me: You don't understand what you're dealing with here. Also, I don't think people that fight with their eleven year old children about Oreo cookies get to call themselves grown--
My Father: DOWNLOAD THE BIRDS.
Me: Fine, but it's your funeral.

That was days ago. I mostly forgot about it. TONIGHT, AT 11 PM, WHILE I AM DRIVING HOME, HE CALLS ME.

Me: Hello?
My Father: THESE FUCKING BIRDS.
Me: Wha--oh my god, are you playing Angry Birds?
My Father: I don't want to talk about it.
Me: You called me.
My Father: Well, yeah, I need you to tell me how to beat 1-15.
Me: I...you...what? I'm driving, I don't remember which level that is off the top of my head--
My Father: It's the one with the birds and the wood and the glass!
Me: THEY ALL HAVE BIRDS AND WOOD AND GLASS, THAT IS THE WHOLE GAME.
My Father: I can't sleep until I win!!!
Me: I told you this would happen.
My Father: Fuck you!
Me: Fuck you!
My Father: OH, YES, YES, I GOT IT, NEVERMIND, GOODBYE.
Phone: *Disconnects*

NB: Jeopardy clue/Alex Trebek paraphrased from memory and possibly quite wrong, because I forget to write these things down in the wake of my fam being ridic. This was the basic gist of it, though.

PROOF THAT THIS MACRO, FOUND WHILE TUMBLIN', IS AN ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF MY FAMILY:

Jeopardy Clue: In certain circumstance, squirrels have been known to eat animals that fall into the family Leporidae, also known as these.
Burrito: Bears!
My Mother: Deer!
My Father: OTHER, SMALLER SQUIRRELS!
Me: ...rabbits.
Alex Trebek: Time's up. The correct answer was rabbits.
Me: Other, smaller squirrels? Really, Dad?
My Father: It is the great regret of my life that we didn't name you Matilda.

Life lessons for Burrito at weekly family brunch this morning (Burro is leaving town again tomorrow, we are having a lot of Together Time to prepare, god help me):

1.
Burrito: Any friend of mine is my best friend.
Burro: That's not really how it works, little dude.
My Father: That's like saying "Any dog I see is my dog!"
Me: No, it's--okay, well, it's possible to have more than one best friend--
Burro: Or 'bro,' I call them my bros--
Me: But if all your friends were your best friends, the words wouldn't mean anything, you know?
My Father: All trees eat beans! See? Nonsense.
Me: ...Don't really think you're clearing it up for him there, Dad.

2.
My Father: *Asshole comment I've forgotten*
My Mother: Wow, persnippity much?
Burrito: Don't call Dad snippity!
Burro: Ahahaha, no, man, persnippity.
My Father: Which I absolutely am.
Me: There's no denying it.
Burrito: Hmm, okay. What does persnippity mean?
My Mother: Well--
Burro: How do you--
Me: It's sort of like--
My Father: Dickish.
Everyone: !!!!!
My Father: What? He asked!

THESE PEOPLE, WHAT EVEN.

In other news, I am off to a movie this afternoon, but round two of the Inspiration Meme has ALREADY EXCEEDED MY WILDEST EXPECTATIONS, OH MY GOD. You guys gotta go check it out, and post post post those things you want to add. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS TOO MUCH AWESOME ♥ ♥ ♥!!!

Waiter: And our special tonight is a cut of wild boar, served with--
My Father: Wait, boar, like--what's his name, hangs out with the meerkat, tusks, with the song--
Me: You're thinking of Pumba.
Burro: What?
Burrito: Pumba, from the Lion King!
Burro: I thought he was an elephant.
My Mother: No, he was--an elephant? He was a boar, he was definitely a boar.
My Father: Right, so, are you serving Pumba? Is that what you're telling me?
Waiter: Uh, I don't think...it's specifically...Pumba...
My Father: Well, obviously, he is a cartoon character, don't be ridiculous.
Waiter ...
My Mother: I'm sorry about him.
Me: I think we're all sorry about him, really.
My Father: No, wait, you didn't answer my question, it's boar like Pumba, right?
Waiter: Uh. Yes?
My Father: Well, I can't eat that now that you've humanized it for me. I'd feel guilty. Do you have anything on the menu more Hakuna Matata friendly?
Waiter: I...recommend the trout?
Me: Seriously, we're really sorry, he's just like this.
My Father: Hey, but I bet I'm the first person to ask that question tonight, right?
Waiter: The first ever, sir. Rest assured.

ETA, via phonecall after false_alexis's comment:

Me: Dude, Pumba's a warthog.
My Father: SHIT, I WOULD HAVE ORDERED THE BOAR

This is a drive-by post; I will be back later to answer comments (oh my god I love you guys have I mentioned that recently) and probably to make a fjdsfjdshf post about last night's ep.

BUT IN THE MEANTIME:

Me: Do you remember the Gator Golf commercial from when we were kids?
Burro: What the fuck is Gator Golf?
Me: *Sings the Gator Golf jingle*
Waiters in the Restaurant: *Side-eye me so hard I'm surprised nobody hurt themselves*
Burro: Nope, not ringing a bell.
Me: Seriously? This song's been stuck in my head for 17 years and you've got nothing?
Burro: Hahahahaha 17 years, your life blows.
Me: You're not helping.
Burro: You're beyond help.

THE GATOR GOLF COMMERCIAL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:

Guys. I ask you. I plead with you. Leave the scraps of terrible 90s commercials you remember in the comments. Link me to YouTube vids, embed shit, tell me how to access the mp3 files. THIS IS A CALL TO ARMS: I CANNOT TORTURE BURRO BY MYSELF, AND HE NEEDS TO BE TORTURED. For the sake of nostalgia. For the sake of my pride. For the sake of long-suffering older sisters everywhere.

ETA from the car on our way to spring Burrito from school:

Burro: Dude, I'm such a fucking bum right now, this hoodie isn't even clean.
Me: Yeah, man. My sweatshirt's clean, but my shoes totally don't match right now.
Burro: YOUR SHOES DON'T MATCH?!
Me: Yeah, what's the--oh my god, you asshole, I meant they don't match my outfit, they match EACH OTHER, what is wrong with you?
Burro: Don't look at me like that. You think I forgot how you used to dress in high school?

IF I DIDN'T LOVE HIM SO MUCH I'D HATE HIM, YOU GUYS. He must paaaaaaay.

Burro and my father on the topic of going down to the Q and watching March Madness basketball live and in person for twelve solid hours:

My Father: Too much basketball. Tooooo muchhhhh basketballllll.
Burro: All of my senses are tingling with basketball.
My Father: Touch, sight, taste--
Burro: Smell. I can smell the basketball.
My Father: All the other senses.
Me: You named them all except for hearing, guys.
Burro: Look, I have sixth and seventh senses I don't even know about, okay, and all of them are overwhelmed by basketball. My basketball sense had too much basketball.
My Father: I feel like I'm never going to say anything but basketball ever again.
Me: You seriously felt it necessary to spend your drive home telling me this? Right now? We're having breakfast together in like eight hours.
Burro: That is less time than we spent with the basketball. That's four hours less. Than basketball time.
Me: I told you guys it was crazy to spend the whole day down there.
My Father: Nobody knows the trouble we've seen.
Burro: Nobody knows the chicken wings we've eaten.
My Father: He meant our sorrow. Our chicken wing sorrow. Even the chicken wings tasted like basketball, oh god.
Burro: Hey, turn the radio up, I want to check the score on the Georgetown game.

ldfhsdjkfhsd;lflkfdfajslfjsdfj

No, really, he does. True story.

Also, oh my god, you guys, I'm sorry, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I know I'm spamming you today, but I just. I cannot believe this just happened, I cannot even believe this is my family, I swear to god I'll go a couple hours without posting anything after this, dsfhsdkjfd.

Right, okay, so before I tell this story, I have to explain something, lest you all think I am a terrible person: in my life, an extremely intimate family gathering is 20 people. Thanksgiving, when it's on the small side, usually hovers somewhere between 40 and 65, and that's just one branch of the, like, ridiculous empire that is my various and sundry relations. Once you get further out than like first cousins, things get complicated; people are ranked by a complex and deeply inexplicable system based on shit that happened 30 years ago and family politics and who isn't speaking to whom this week. I have third cousins I call uncle and aunts I've never met--there's a large category of folks to whom my only technical connection is "well, they're also Jewish and their grandmother was once friends with my grandmother," but who are more important to me than any number of actual blood relations. And the thing is that when you've got a network of people this big to contend with, everyone just falls under the umbrella of "well, they're family," which translates loosely to, "we are allowed to say bad shit about them, but no one else is, EVER."

This leads to interactions like this one between me and my father before Passover last year (I have changed the name herein; I do not actually have even one cousin Ricky, let alone two...er, as far as I know):

Me: I'm going to order the brisket for Pesach.
My Father: Okay, but you gotta go to a different guy this year, we can't go to our guy anymore.
Me: What? Why?
My Father: Well, you know cousin Ricky?
Me: The one who works downtown?
My Father: No, the other one.
Me: There's another cousin Ricky?
My Father: Yeah, you've maybe never met him, he's--doesn't matter, look, the point is, his son and the brisket guy's son, they were supposed to start a business together, and this kid screwed Ricky's kid out of the deal, so we can't buy from his father anymore.
Me: ...
My Father: Don't look at me like that. It's family.

THE POINT OF THIS ENTIRE LONG WINDED TALE IS: IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT SOMETIMES I RUN INTO PEOPLE WHO ARE RELATED TO ME AND DON'T RECOGNIZE THEM. "Family" is a really broad term for me, okay? JUDGE ME NOT.

Anyway, I told you that story to tell you this story: ( Cut for ridiculous nonsense about my family take 37438942 )

DEAR EVERYONE: IF MY LIFE IS ACTUALLY A LARRY DAVID PRODUCED VERSION OF THE TRUMAN SHOW, PLEASE JUST TELL ME NOW. IT WOULD BE THE KIND THING TO DO, REALLY.

ETA: Okay, I have to go to dinner now, but somehow this turned into a giant thread about Arthur and Eames and Arthur's family, which you guys should TOTALLY ADD TO WHILE I'M GONE :D

Pupdate. The good news: she let me get close enough to take a picture this morning!!! Apologies for the shitty iPhone photo quality, but I wasn't about to break out a flash camera and scare her away again.

The bad news: that was this morning. I haven't seen her since I got back from work; I don't know if she's just out for a romp or gone for good, but I left some food out and we'll see if she comes back :( If she doesn't, I think I'm probably going to end up adopting a shelter puppy, because this has awakened a desire in me, I don't even. Animals need rescuing, and it's not that I didn't know that--I did! I do!--but I guess I'd just never...I don't know. /ramble

And, because people have been asking for it, a photo of Jerry, complete with the bone I had to give him to make him quit it with the live-action reenactment of this scene from Family Guy. I have no excuse for the shitty quality here, except that I didn't feel like going to get a proper camera and he wouldn't quit moving for anything.

ETA: OH WAIT I HAVE A BETTER PICTURE OF JERRY (kind of) IN MY PHOTOBUCKET, DUH. ( But it's gigantic, so it's under the cut. )

And now, for those of you who aren't reading this journal for today's edition of OMFG Jizz Loves Puppies!!!, here is a Danny/Steve fanmix. I did this one with like, blurbs and shit, but a) you needn't feel compelled to read them and b) if you're not into Hawaii 5-0, all of these songs are awesome in their own right, and you should feel free to listen/download anyway :D That fic I promised is done and beta'd, I just have to run through and do a final check, it'll be up at some point tonight.

Cut for extensive rambling, lyrics, and my patented inability to shut the fuck up about the goddamn Avett Brothers:

( The .zip file name is actually 'I Thought We Were Doing a Thing.' )

Pupdate: I have been chilling with the stray in my garage, staying low to the ground and chatting at her. She has gotten closer to me, but not all the way there yet. Baby steps, etc. She's adorable, you guys, thank you so much for your help, I'll keep you posted as things develop.

In other news: tomorrow I'm going to post a story that I'll have to come up with a better title for than "The one where it took me 7,000 motherfucking words to get to the scene I intended to write in the first place." It's done and everything! More or less, anyway. I just have to, you know, stuff and things at it. Polish, as it were. Make postability happen, what have you.

Until then, you get the story of that time my father thought the possum was a raccoon, and further scenes from Steve and Danny's house, this time with title! Because everything is words and nothing hurts, or something. I don't know, guys, it's two in the morning, thoughts are hard.

That Time My Father Thought The Possum Was A Raccoon:

My Father: There's a dead raccoon hanging by its tail in the garage!!!
Fourteen Year Old Me: Um. That seems unlikely.
My Father: Go see for yourself!
Fourteen Year Old Me: *sees for herself*
My Father: I told you.
Fourteen Year Old Me: Dad. What...do you think raccoons look like?
My Father: ...is it not a raccoon?
Fourteen Year Old Me: No, it's not a raccoon. It is an opossum. And it's not dead. It's playing possum.

He also labored for years under the belief that pigeons were, in fact, "grey city seagulls." I can't necessarily fault him for that, though, because they do kind of act alike.

Danny/Steve Nonsense:

( dodging your fit fueled artillery )

So, there's a stray dog living in my garage.

I found her this afternoon, though I'm pretty sure she was in there yesterday--I heard noises like something was moving around when I left for work, but assumed it was a raccoon or something. No idea what breed she is, although she looks like she's at least part Weimaraner, and just, augh. I don't think she's more than a few months old, no collar, obviously terrified, and I don't have any idea what to do. I'd like to bring her inside and give her a bath, but I have no way of knowing if she's been given shots or dewormed or anything, and I don't want to get Jerry sick. I'd love to take her to the vet and check for a microchip, get her checked to make sure she's safe to bring in the house, but if I get too close to her she spooks and runs. I've been bringing out food and water for her, left a blanket out there, and she trusts me more now than she did this morning--lets me get closer than she did when I first found her--but I don't want to push her and frighten her more, or push her and end up getting bitten out of fear. I called the Humane Society, but they aren't going to be able to send anyone out today and aren't sure about tomorrow, and anyway the thought of her in a pound makes me feel sick to my stomach. It's not that cold here, for once, and there's plenty of warmth and shelter in the garage, so her, you know, freezing to death overnight isn't a concern. I'm gonna keep checking on her and bringing her food, and I guess we'll see what happens.

If anyone on my flist has any experience with strays and rescue dogs, and can offer any tips, suggestions, pointers, anything, please for the love of god sing out. I'm flying blind here, and I'd hugely appreciate the help.

(Of course, then there's my father, who can always be counted upon to up the ridiculousness quotient of any situation:

My Father: Are you sure it's not a fox?
Me: Am I sure it's not a...yes, I'm sure she's not a fox, why would she be a fox?
My Father: You said she has pointy ears.
Me: Lots of dogs have pointy ears!
My Father: Well, so do foxes.
Me: ...
My Father: I'm just saying!
Me: ...
My Father: This is like that time when I thought the possum was a raccoon, isn't it.

This man is my flesh and blood, folks. No, I don't know either.)

So, I think I've mentioned before that I have a big black labradoodle named Jerry Garcia. If you did not know that....now you do? In any case, he is the best dog in the history of dogs and I love him more than is strictly reasonably, make no mistake. The things I would do for that animal are staggering; he is the sweetest ever and so adorable and crazy, which is why we get on so well. My family being what they are, if he hadn't been crazy, I would never have known what to do with him.

But. But.

Okay, the thing is, the writer's block question on LJ's main page tonight is "If your pet were a person, what occupation would they choose?" I would have done the thing where I embed it or whatever, but I am Bad At The Internet, and I feel no need to develop the skill of doing this, since I've never wanted to answer one before and probably never will again. I didn't even intend to answer this one, actually, except that I saw it right before I went to take him out, and for whatever reason I turned it over in my mind while we were outside.

Right, I thought to myself, Jerry's likes and dislikes. I immediately discounted the basics, as to my knowledge there is no job in the real world that consists of eating, sleeping, and making comforting whuffing noises every couple of minutes; if I am wrong about that, please inform me and pass the application along. So I started going through the other things Jerry likes to do, and I came to a shocking conclusion.

Jerry likes to overreact. He likes to assume that things which are not threats--passersby, the plow, his own reflection--are in fact the harbingers of doom, come to kill us all. He likes to find things he knows better than to chew on and chew on them anyway; he likes to bark and bark and bark and bark until oh my god, Jer, I get it, for fuck's sake, Jesus Christ. He likes to arbitrarily decide that people he doesn't know--and sometimes people he does know--are in fact TERRIBLE KILLERS WAITING TO MURDER US IN THE NIGHT. The things I say to him most often are (and

angelgazing, who has sat through many a phone conversation with me while I was taking him out, can attest to this) "Jerry, you are a lunatic," and "Oh my god, Jer, seriously, calm down, calm down, what is wrong with you?" He has been known, on occasion, to eat his own shit.

Guys. You guys. I think if my dog was a person, he would be Glenn Beck.

I'm going to try to sleep now, but this knowledge weighs on me. He's looking at me like he knows what's been said here, Livejournal. He's looking at me like he knows.

So, I was writing this whole other post, and then I was like, wait, this isn't what I want to be doing. What dooooo I want to be doing? OH, I KNOW: laughing hysterically at stupid shit on the internet!

And then I thought maybe I wasn't alone in that goal, so here is: a conversation had with my father during a round of penalty Jeopardy, a link to me making a fool of myself, and approximately a million macros. MY WIT, YOU GUYS, IT IS SO DEEPLY, DEEPLY WITTY.

Jeopardy Clue: [Blah blah blah I don't remember blah] comes in pulmonary and cardiac varieties--
Me: Edema!
My Father: Ahahahahhaha.
Me: What are you laughing about? Edemas aren't funny.
My Father: No, I know, I just...
Me: You just what?
My father: Funky col edema!

IN OTHER NEWS:

( This is more macros than anyone needs. )

I've switched my layout and my default icon again--even though the icon on this post isn't the default one, gdi--because ~I'm so changeable~ or whatever. But I'm pretty damn sure I'll be sticking with this layout for awhile; I've coveted it forever, but have been looking for the right background image to tweak it with. I've got some more tweaks to do (like figuring out how to make that bar at the bottom green instead of black, and actually how to get rid of a lot of the black because it's too harsh with the lighter background, ffffff), but, yes. New layout! Hooray.

You guys should really all just probably expect that my journal's going to look different every time you come back to the main page, but I swear to god I'm going to try to commit to this one, ugh.

The icon thing is because I discovered that

tulabula exists, and actually bought myself an icon package in my sudden crazy need to have them all. And also because, as much as I loved those shoes, there's only so long you can look at the same pair of shoes before it starts to drive you mad, you know? Especially if they're a pair of shoes that you made into your icon because you DESPERATELY WANT THEM and then you looked everywhere and couldn't find a pair that was close enough and looking at the icon was just a bitter bitter reminder of the shoes you could not have...*cough* I mean, I'm not crazy. Um.

Moving on, I am actually here now to tell you the bijillipede story I mentioned the other day, which I don't think I've told y'all yet, because ~~I'm taking a break from writing before my brain oozes out my ears~~ it is amusing.

SO: my family makes up names for things that:

a) no one else on the planet need a name for
b) other people do need a name for, but somehow are without one anyway, or
c) already have names attached to them, but INFERIOR NAMES THAT DO NOT DO SAID THING JUSTICE.

The bijillipede thing falls into category C; a bijillipede is, in actual fact, a bug. And, to be honest with you, I don't know the real name of the bug--people around here call them silverfish, but the internet is showing me photos of an insect I don't mean when I google that, so I'm not sure. I tried to search for a picture to identify it, and then made terrible horrified faces at my computer at the results and had to stop, because "grey wall climbing bug legs" does not actually yield you very pretty results.

Suffice to say: a bijillipede is a long skinny silver-grey bug that scuttles along walls. It is so named because it has a bajillion legs.

I HATE THESE LITTLE FUCKERS, YOU GUYS. I HATE THEM MORE THAN BEES, I HATE THEM MORE THAN SPIDERS, I HATE THEM MORE THAN ANYTHING. Nothing should have that many legs, nothing, it is terrible, it is wrong, it fills me with a deep and arcane terror, and the way they move...their little bodies just...oh god, I can't even think about it, aughhhhh.

I hate them, and I also didn't know they weren't...actually called bijillipedes...until I was, I swear to god, sixteen years old and at a house party with my friends. Here's how that went (names of characters are in relation to what these folks were to me at the time, not what they are now):

Bijillipede: *Scuttles along wall*
Me: *Shrieks* (look, okay, I am normally tough, I am, I really am, BUT THESE LITTLE BASTARDS FREAK ME OUT)
Boyfriend: What? What is it? Are you okay?
Me: It's a BIJILLIPEDE!!
Entire Party: ...Sorry, what?
Me: That, right there! Don't you see it! The bijillipede.
Best Friend: Oh, we see it, alright.
Boyfriend: What did you call it?
Me: A bijillipede! That's what they're called!
Best Friend: Noooo, no it's not.
Me: Come on, yes it is. You know, because they've got...a bajillion...legs...oh god, bijillipede isn't a real word, is it.
Boyfriend: *Helpless laughter*
Best Friend: *Helpless laughter*
Entire Party: *Laughter that probably could have been helped*
Bijillipede: *Exits stage left*

My parents maintain that this incident is my fault; Burro and I (he went through the same experience shortly thereafter) maintain that it is theirs. "You knew bijillipede wasn't a real thing!" my father said, when I told him. "....didn't you?"

No, no, I didn't. So teach your children well, you guys, lest they embarrass themselves at parties.

HERE IS A THING I HAVE NOT YET TOLD YOU GUYS: I have been to Hawaii before! And now I'm going to talk about it, kind of, ish. Sadly, this post is not about:

a) How beautiful it was
b) How wasted that trip was on my 15 year old self (I had a bit of a stick up my ass at fifteen, if by 'a bit of a stick up my ass' you mean 'an inability to take out my headphones and reign in my overwhelming teenaged bitchiness for five minutes')
c) SERIOUSLY SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL OH MY GOD
d) How ridiculously lucky I was to have the experience or
e) All of the totally amazing things I got to do there.

I could talk about all of those things--at length, oh man, fucking Maui, so incredible--but this is a post about chasing dragons.

Food dragons.

So, right, I'm pretty sure the term 'food dragons' is one of those that my family just made up (remind me to tell you guys the bijillipede story one of these days), so I will explain. There are certain things that you eat, okay, that are so good they stick with you, and you remember them fondly--everyone has these things. Normally, you just cook/order these dishes again, and have them another time. But sometimes, for whatever reason--location, restaurant goes out of business, ingredient stops being available, what have you--the item in question is no longer available.

Then it becomes a food dragon, and you are, officially, chasing it.

I have a couple of major food dragons. There was this place we went to for lunch sometimes when I was a little kid that sold the best French fries in the world, for example, and all other French fries still pale in comparison; there's a bar in my college town that sells this cucumber vodka that I long for on a regular basis.

But my greatest food dragon--the one I am forever chasing--is ahi poke.

So poke, right, is a traditional Hawaiian dish, that can be made with many different kinds of fish (everything from ahi to octopus, dfdsfhdskf SO MUCH FISH OH MY GOD *SALIVATES*). Ahi poke is the most common form of it nowadays, and it is...you guys, okay, it is the freshest most delicious raw yellowfin tuna in this world, chunked and covered in this like. This fucking sauce, oh, Christ, the sauce, that somehow manages to be salty and a little bit spicy and, look, AHI POKE IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS.

The first day we were in Hawaii, I ordered it, because the words "raw yellowfin tuna" have been my siren song since I was old enough to know what they meant. And then I literally ate nothing but ahi poke for, seriously, the rest of the trip. You can buy it in the grocery store, okay, I ordered it at every single meal, I ate so much of it that my father was like, "One of these days I am going to turn around and you are going to ACTUALLY BE A TUNA."

I rolled my eyes, because me being 15 wasn't pleasant for anyone, and ate another piece of fish.

But here's what happened, you guys: ahi poke ruined me for all other tuna. I can't eat seared ahi, because even when I order it rare (the words "No, seriously, as raw as you will give it to me, preferably still swimming" have been uttered by me at many a restaurant) it is not rare enough. I can't eat tuna sashimi, because it is never as fresh, and it is never coated in that sauce. I can't make it myself, because every time I have tried it is inferior. I can't eat ahi poke made here in Cleveland--I've found it on menus a couple of times--because it just does not taste right.

Ahi poke is a food dragon to such a degree that I have to actively avoid thinking about it, because it makes me want to do crazy things like spend all my money on a plane ticket to Maui and eat nothing but it for the rest of my days. And by and large, I have shaken my thoughts of it.

BUT HAWAII FIVE-0 IS MAKING IT DIFFICULT. And so mostly this post exists to say: I love this show, I do, I really do, but every time they mention food I think WAAAAAAH AHI POKE FDJHSFHDSKF, and it is making it hard to concentrate.

In conclusion: there will be a new H50 fic up later today, and probably more this week, but I'm weeping on the inside, you guys. Weeping for my lost food dragon, forever ahead of me in the mire of inferior foodstuffs I choke down on a regular basis.

I know. My life is deeply tragic. I'm sad for me too.

1. GUYS, YOU DID SO WELL ON THE MUSIC MEME! The only one you didn't get was Lonesome Day by Bruce Springsteen, which, you know, DANNY WOULD BE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU, but I forgive you :D

2. I may...or may not...be writing the duckling thing. Er. I blame

hermette, as should everyone else.

3. Phase One of Plan Seduce My Hot Coworker will be going into effect over wine and...probably more wine...this afternoon at the company party. That is, assuming he, you know, comes to the company party--it has occurred to me that not everyone feels the way I do about free alcohol provided in-office at 4:30 in the afternoon.

Of course, if he doesn't share my feelings on free alcohol before 5PM, we're probably not compatible anyway :D

4. I am using this post to air out some of my more random tags, because I rarely have cause to use them, for, um, reasons that should be obvious. It's probably best that you just ignore them.

5. To brighten your days, ganked from

flynn_boyant:

Happy Friday, guys ♥

DEAR EVERYONE:

I know there are several of you in need of a good laugh lately, and you are in luck, because after the afternoon I've had, I feel compelled to tell the tale of Possibly The Most Ridiculously Hilarious Thing My Family Has Ever Done. And it has some pretty steep competition--there was The Time We Convinced A Hapless Floridian Waiter We Were Drew Carey's Next Door Neighbors, and who could forget The Time My Father Paid Me Twenty Dollars To Take A Bite of a Raw Turnip In The Middle of The Grocery Store And Then Insist To Random Strangers That It Was The Best Apple I'd Ever Had, and then of course The Time My Then-Six-Year-Old Brother Introduced Himself To His New Camp Counselor As Kipper Millennium Von Trapp. But I honestly...I think this one takes the cake.

However, none of it will make any sense of you have not seen the "More Cowbell" SNL sketch. Also, if you have not seen the "More Cowbell" SNL sketch, YOU ARE MISSING OUT ON ONE OF LIFE'S GREATEST JOYS. Thus:

More Cowbell! - watch more funny videos

( I'VE GOT A FEVER, YOU GUYS, LET US DISCUSS THE CURE )

In conclusion, my family is crazy, awesome, and crazy awesome, and now I am off to take my very happy baby brother (who knows not of the cowbell sketch and is just thrilled to add to his drum set) to a delicious dinner :D