About MamaSara

I am the sperm that made it. Writer, dance floor addict, liberal leftist and (sometimes) hilarious.

Heel Thyself

Stilettos, pumps, platforms and “come penetrate me now” shoes. If you’ve ever had a flair for the feminine, then you’ve got one or a hundred of these babies lurking in your closet. Yet even though they look hot, one cannot negate the fact that many soles that don these instruments just don’t know how to maneuver in them. And if you can’t glide like a swan, then just leave the heels and do your back, and society, a favor.

There are more than a handful of fashion victims out there. I am always astounded by the sheer number of ladies who wear very high heels to work every day. I always thought that stilettos were only required if your office desk was, in fact, a pole or someone’s lap. Yet there are herds and herds of females that wear pointy devil shoes as part of their professional corporate attire.

The issue arises when those that don’t know how to walk in heels do so anyways. And there are many women who are completely unaware of what they look like. There are those that hunch forward, to try to avert the pressure on the ankles. The result is that they walk looking like they are about to charge you, kind of like a raging bull-ess. Then there are the femme fatales that allow their ankles to sway wildly while they try to resist gravity. Note to you ladies, the only things that should be swinging that much are the sexually adventurous folks out there.  And finally, there are the dames that insist on heels so uncomfortable that their faces are plastered with tears and grimaces akin to a birthing mother. These last set usually scuffle to the bathrooms for relief or just won’t get up at all.

If you look at the anatomy of the heel, it immediately becomes apparent that it was invented either by angry gay men or the Dark Lord himself. At least when they first made the scene, the heel had a little base to even out the impact on your poor feet, but as we can see today, fashion has diminished comfort to the point that some heels rest on atoms for support.

I used to wear heels before my disc. Months after my injury, I remember trying to wear a pair and as soon as that searing pain shot down the nerves of my leg, I kissed those babies good-bye and opted to rely instead on my big personality. However I do certainly understand the appeal, which is why I’m sharing a few tips for the height-addicted.

Tip number one: Keep your back straight. A great way to practice this is to walk around in the privacy of your own home and balance a book on your head. Once you can walk around swiftly without dropping the book, you are ready to take your strut to the general public.

Tip number two: your feet should always be parallel; not turned in nor out. If your feet don’t point straight ahead, not only do you look like you are being examined by a gynecologist while walking but you are also adding unnecessary tension to certain weak points, like your ankles.

Tip number three: start with smaller heels, or wedges. The wedge is my hero, it won’t hurt your back as much and you don’t have to worry about getting your heel stuck in sewage drain covers or ….

Tip number four: If you insist on wearing a pair when you go clubbing, sneak in a pair of foldable Scholl ballerinas in your bag. You’ll make your grand entrance, look astoundingly hot for the first few dances, then when everyone you’ve impressed has strapped on the booze goggles, you can enjoy the evening in the comfort of flats.

If you just can’t seem to manage any of these, keep the heels for turning on your lover in the safety and vicinity of the bedroom. You’ll still look hot with your legs in the air, and you can spare your spine and bones the pressure. Just make sure you don’t poke out his eye.



The Science of Stupid

It’s one thing to believe in Santa when you are young. It’s quite another to grow into a sound adult who shares serious “Santa spotted in Brazil” posts on Facebook based on some asinine source. Day in and day out, I am simply astounded by the sheer amount of bull manure that is shared on social media and defended as fact. Unfortunately, not only has news reporting become sullied by sensationalism and outright deceit, but science is having her day in the pit as well thanks to those who perpetuate false claims.

At school, we were taught the difference between fact and fiction. But more important now is the difference between fact and opinion. The world has become inundated with self-proclaimed experts that spew out garbage with throngs of drones just accepting whatever shit comes their way. Just because you’ve experienced something doesn’t give you the right to suddenly claim to be an expert and start spreading your ignorance around. If that were the case, I would attach ‘tequila connoisseur’ to my name on all official documents, and roam the earth sucking up agave liquor from all the finest venues. Yet just because I consume industrial amounts doesn’t mean I get to be interviewed about the atomic differences between brands.

Study has become a greatly abused word today. Reporters and people hide behind the title to make outrageous claims that are too absurd for words. How is it possible that there are still people that don’t know the difference between satire, blogs and science reports? For a very succinct and hilarious explanation of the problem, please watch this awesome video by one of my heroes; John Oliver (Here). Essentially, it boils down to the fact that research studies sometimes have misleading or catchy headlines that get completely blown out of proportion by traditional media.

And it’s not like science isn’t sexy enough on its own. Ever watched ‘How the Universe works’ or Morgan Freeman’s Through the Wormhole? That shit is literally so cool it hurts to understand.  The world around us is astounding, the way nature works on our planet and off it are simply beyond wonder. Do we really need to latch on to stupid claims about how smelling farts cures cancer? Or how the vibrational energy in my heart will soothe your throbbing hemorrhoids?

It’s one thing to want to believe, but it’s another to not only buy the lies but spread them as well. Sure, I would love to live in a world where instead of chemo all I had to do was sniff some butts to heal, but that’s not the way it works. If you are going to start defending a claim, please make sure it comes from a recognized scientific source, not a blog. When I was studying history in university, I remember one teacher constantly hammering us with “check your sources, check your sources, check your sources” over and over. This person needs to start a religion because there are bucket loads of morons that believe just about anything today.

If it seems like I’m coming off kinda mean, I’m not. There is a study that has actually honed down our Bullshit Receptivity Scale and how it relates to our intelligence. If you are in doubt that you may yourself be a victim of this, simply apply the scientific method to whatever you are in doubt of and you will be on your way. For example, let’s say my friend Jerome tells Cinderella “hey Cinderella, did you know that licking cows makes you lose weight?” Cinderella is excited, because who the fuck enjoys actual dieting? Cinderella goes to a farm, weighs herself, and then licks some cows. After a few of these sessions, she notices no change in her weight, however she has developed a fever. What does Cinderella conclude? That Jerome is an asshole.

Enough ignorance. Ignorance is at the root of all evil in our world today and we begin to change the universe by changing ourselves, and I don’t mean what you’re wearing, I mean from within. If you can search for porn on the internet, then you are capable of deciphering what’s fact from what’s drivel. Part of our definition as humans is that we have the intellectual capacity for critical thinking. If you don’t apply it, you might as well walk around with a bell around your neck, and a ‘beef’ stamp on your ass.


Stand by your SO(B)

Relationships are special. Relationships are cursed. About all I can say with certainty after my life experience is that they are a delicate balance of giving in, looking the other way and sticking to your guns, literally, as in sometimes you need to threaten people with physical violence or they just don’t get it. Yet despite the hierarchy and anatomy of different types of relationships, one thing that I absolutely detest are people that put their SO (Significant Other) down in public.

I often see people put up with shit in their lives, be it from their work, their kids, or that vindictive slut karma that doesn’t seem to always live up to her word. Yet despite the crap we are dealt with, the one instance where we shouldn’t bend over and smile is when we are being put down by people we love. Life hands out enough humiliation, like that time you were speaking to someone and accidentally threw up on their face, or that time you thought you were alone in an alley and farted Mozart’s 5th symphony, only to hear the crushing giggles of an invisible audience.

Yet humiliation from a loved one is more painful than sodomy with a palm tree. There are several reasons for this. The first is that your Significant Other is significant because you love, respect and admire them, so technically they are coming from a point of authority. It’s like your mom announcing in front of your science club that the only white coat you were going to get as an adult was in the loony bin as you were dropped way too many times on your head as an infant. Another reason is the surprise element, like when you are out hunting deer and as you are crouching in the bush, an excited-nearly-extinct rhino spots your behind and decides to finally try out interspecies mating. It hurts from both ends; mentally and physically.

Not only does it hurt when you are involved, but it is also quite shitty to witness. Even if you are not close to either party, watching someone be humiliated by their SO(B) is as uncomfortable as watching your parents go at it. It’s awkward, its ugly and you would rather be miles and miles away, hunting the last unicorn in some dimension. Sure, sometimes, we lose our tempers and explode and say things we regret, yet these instances should be few and far between. Others however, thrive and exist on berating the partners they hold dear, with complete disregard to the audience. The fact that these assholes are even allowed to procreate is beyond me; I only wish it were socially acceptable to interfere and say something to their ugly faces.

Unfortunately though, you can’t interfere in someone else’s business. Unless they are physically smashing their partner’s teeth out, you kind of have to sit the abuse out. It’s sad but in every instance when you try to step in to stand up for a friend, it will always backfire and you will suddenly be the focus of the problem. Their dysfunctional relationship will survive way past your friendship, and years down the line they will be on some deserted beach, sipping Bacardi and talking about how they almost broke up that time because of that asshole one time; you.

If you are, unfortunately, in love or living with someone like this, and the sex is too good or you are just too lazy to seek an alternative life partner, I suggest the following to help Karma on its way:

  • Spit in their morning coffee. It’s a nice discrete way to send them on their day.
  • Hack into their bank account and treat yourself every month to a spa or nice day out
  • Give the brake pads on their car a little nip. Only do this though if you feel like you are ready to maybe start looking for the next Mr./Mrs. Wrong to ruin your life.

It’s a sad fact of life, but there are people who put up with demeaning partners because of low self-esteem. You can sugar coat it all you want, but glazed abuse is just as sickening as the non-glazed version. It is a form of bullying, that will probably be picked up by the children and perpetuated for generations to come. Ultimately, relationships should be a support system. Your SO should be the one raising you up, not crumpling you down to a wilted flower. And while it may be hard to step out of the madness, you need to remind yourself that life hands out enough shit, so you really don’t need to put up with someone else’s. And remember, abuse isn’t funny, unless it’s physical and happening to the abuser.  relationsheep

My Music Tastes Better Than Yours

We have different tastes in everything; I like potatoes, you like rubbing your butt on pine trees, I shave my legs, you think growing a 70’s vagina on your face looks cool. Yet one difference that sometimes causes the bombs and machetes to come out is music. It’s quite common, when sharing music you love with others to act as if you made it yourself. And even though it should be a matter of taste, if someone you care for doesn’t reciprocate in kind to your melodic preferences, then it becomes personal.

Music is an artistic expression and as we all know, art is a fancy name for letting you get away with deviant behavior like painting a wall with your period under the guise of feminist defiance of modern shackles, or some shit like that. But of course, upon reflection, it goes much deeper, because if you think about it, music speaks to a very primal part of us. It doesn’t pertain to logic; you can’t argue me into liking a song.

We have base reactions to melodies and it is because our preferences are so primal and innate that we treat them as personal. For instance, I love Psy trance and while most of my friends prefer the slower booms of techno, I find it incredulous when I share a cerebral molesting track and they simply don’t see or appreciate the beauty of it. It is one thing when they say “I’m not really into psy”, but when they make personal remarks against my favorite producer/Dj, I feel like stabbing their eyes with a salad fork, but my doctor said that’s a no-no so I just innocently fantasize about it.

Scientists have been trying to find our link with music for a while now and while some studies are starting to delve into the mechanics, we are barely skimming the surface of what moves us. Some sources claim that we develop our taste in music from the ages of 10 to 20, and that these form the basis of what we will listen to for the rest of our lives. From a personal viewpoint though, I have experienced a very wide development in the genres and styles I enjoy that I find this explanation somewhat limiting.

Another study that recently flooded articles was a research done to show that your taste in music was linked to whether you were a systemic thinker or emphasizer. I completely disagree with this as I hated the songs on the emphasizer list and I loved the songs on the other list and I’m known to have a high level of empathy, especially for the morons that surround me. All jokes aside though, the people that did these studies seem completely oblivious to two important facts: first they are forgetting to factor in the substance of choice that normally accompanies the genre, and secondly they are ignoring the potential for change in humans.

Take me to a jazz bar where the crowds are liquored up, and I assure you a fight or two will break out eventually (Jazz was on the emphasizer list). However, venture to a psy festival where thousands of people are on psychedelics and stomping on the earth while connecting through sweat and smiles, and no fights of ego are recorded. I’m not saying you need to be on alcohol or psychedelics to enjoy the music, but to me they certainly play a role in what crowd they pull.

The fact of the matter is that we are still novices in understanding what draws us to music but the beauty of it is that our tastes are as palpable as Middle Eastern politics. And you don’t have to like my taste in music, but say anything against it and prepare to part with an organ.

music tastes

One Day at a Time

It’s an age old adage, one that is constantly spewed out in rehab programs about taking it easy and facing the demons one day at a time. And while it’s a great proverb for fighting the urge to stab yourself with needles, or chase those bunny lines across a toilet seat, or drown your liver in embalming fluids, it becomes a problem when “one day at a time” is a prescription for surviving daily life, as opposed to enjoying it.

“Work work work work work,” as Rihanna so eloquently put it, gobbles up an obscene amount of our lives. Unfortunately, we have crafted and acquiesced to a world where we spend most of our days away from the ones we love, to work in boxes with people we don’t love as much. The majority of our hours and golden years are taxed by this irrational need to generate printed paper, so that we may indulge in a miniscule amount of leisure and relaxation, while supporting our lifecycles. Most of us acknowledge the senselessness and sheer idiocy of this formula, yet we are in too deep to step outside of the matrix and do anything about it.

Some people are lucky, they literally spring out of bed and can’t wait to punch in and do what they love. However for most of the humanoid population, the endeavor is not as titillating. We either love our work and hate the pythons we work with, or love our comrades and hate the asinine tasks we are paid for.

It’s a dangerous thing when you get to the point where you tell yourself “one day at a time” as in let me get through  this sewage pile, instead of “one day at a time” as in ‘I’m having so much fun please I don’t want this ride to end!’

Many of us have side dreams and projects; things we would love to do for ourselves that don’t entail wearing a tie or putting up with bad breath in meetings about how to generate money from pigeons. Yet it’s a really scary thing to take that step and leave the cushy security of a pay check to venture out into the corporate jungle on your own.

So when do you take the leap? When do you answer the suit yelling at you with a staplette right to their forehead? The sad reality is that many of us who try to step off the wheel never actually do, from fear of failure. However, if you are sure about your idea, if you are passionate about your dream, then not taking the risk will haunt you for the rest of your days. That being said, there are a few rational rules to follow before jumping into the abyss:

1) Plan your exit strategy: And I don’t mean a choreographed Black Swan dance to HR, I mean plan a date where you will leave in a calm and sophisticated manner that doesn’t involve peeing on your boss’s keyboard.

2) Start saving: You need to be prepared to live on a budget for a while. That means forgoing the facials, massages, and lush restaurants in place of rubbing your back against the wall and eating sardines.

3) Don’t burn bridges behind you: even if you loathe the people you worked for, telling your seniors that you hope they get raped by rabid bears is not the wisest way to end that relationship. You never know when these ties might be back to haunt you in life.

4) Research: to me, this is the most important aspect of all. Invest in a financial plan, get the knowledge from experts, and talk to your peers. Guarding an idea like Fort Knox will stifle you because you need feedback to evolve it into something really great.

5) And finally, have a plan B : I’m all for going the distance, but be prepared for the fact that the world is not ready for your goat-sex-toy-cushion idea and have a plan in place in case your dreams fizzle into naught. Remember that life is a hot mess of experiences, but it is ours to enjoy, and if you find yourself fantasizing about murder or suicide on a daily basis, then the time for change has come.


Mind Your Language

By night, I roam as an intrepid, creative writer/fun-loving Muppet. However, as soon as the sun rises, mild mannered Sara earns her buck as an English Copywriter in an advertising firm. Needless to say, the two have very different demands. And working as a copywriter in Abu Dhabi has even more constraints, since such a cosmopolitan city invariably puts you in touch with American and British English, and the differences between the two.

I was never one for rules. I like pushing the red button and coloring outside the lines. Grammar however is a stern, uncompromising prison guard, who punishes sexually deviant punctuation with stiff commandments. For example, I was taught in an American school and survived for most of my life without the semicolon; I didn’t find out till I worked with British people how vital the semicolon is to breathing (and paragraphs).

The spelling differences are also a pain in the ass. I’m sure the ‘re vs. er’ rule (fiber vs fibre, center vs centre, etc…) has some dyslexics hiding under their desks trying to chew their own digits off. And there’s the s/z thing (Americans write apologize, as opposed to the British apologise); give the letter Z a chance, it’s already at the end of the line and doesn’t get used enough in daily matters, unless you work at a zoo or have an imaginary friend called Zebra.

Apart from the grammar and spelling, common or slang expressions are another source of mass confusion and delirium for me. I’ve met a few Scottish and Irish folks and I swear to a higher power, I don’t think these people are speaking English. We know the same alphabet, but that’s as far as it goes. The first time I heard “what’s the crack big girl?” I thought the guy was calling me fat and in need of some grade A uppers.

In another incident, I heard/saw ‘smeg off’ for the first time, and I thought the moron was calling me Meg and giving me a dancing peace sign. Smeg off doesn’t make any sense. I don’t even think the internet knows what it means. The only interesting things about this funny sounding word is that it might have been invented to curse on TV and get past censorship and the second being that, well, we all know two fingers are more fun than one.

Moving on, I once uttered lunch box in an office packed with Brits and faced sniggers and jeers. Apparently in the tea sipping UK, it refers to a man’s dressed genitals. Why lunch? Probably because they can only have sex in the day, I assume many are too drunk to fornicate at night.

Bollocks is another common and abrasive one. According to Your dictionary, it literally means testicles. I was shocked to learn this, especially as I always thought it sounded so much like buttocks that it would have surely been ass or cheek related. Nonetheless, the idea of saying “balls” as a retort carries its own merit. “Hey Sara, how was your day?” “Balls.” And this got me thinking, can you ever use ‘bullock’? Does any situation ever warrant a Lance Armstrong bullock? I wonder.

The American system isn’t without its faults; I’m just used to it hence less thrown off by it. However if we look at history, the Americans are completely to blame for this mess seeing as they were the ones who decided to change the language, just as they did with the metric system. The solution? Emoticons. Yup, luckily, it seems our race is de-evolving and relying more and more on images to express thoughts and feelings, so in the end, the smiley face may save us all.  😀grammar

Chasing the Dragon

I’ve gone through my fair share of addictions in life, as many humans have. And having survived some pretty nasty afflictions, and even though I am in a much healthier state of mind and body, my current obsession is also fraught with peril. For those of you out there who run regularly, I’m sure you’ve nurtured injuries thanks to taking stupid or reckless decisions about how much to push yourselves.

I started running 2 years ago. I was a smoker, overweight and terribly out of shape; walking up a flight of steps felt like it could send me into a coma. However after running for a few weeks, the sheer rate of my improvement lured me into a sordid affair with my outdoor trails that soon surpassed my addiction to smoking on the couch while flirting with hot chicks (I’m talking about actual fried chickens here).

And of course, there’s that runner’s high. It’s an actual high, they’re not kidding folks, it’s like MDMA and heroin had a baby in your brain, and it’s free! Who the hell needs waiting on some dingy street corner to score when you can literally run away from your dealer and get an absolutely all-encompassing body high that feels like an extended skin orgasm? I’ve literally had moments of bliss while running that were so intense that I would close my eyes and make extremely weird noises that would scare pedestrians away; I’m sure I looked like I was possessed and running away from Satan, but I was really deep in the throes of mad nirvana.

Yet, as good as it is for you, there is an insanity tied to running. I first noticed it when I went to a race, where I was participating in the 10 k and there was also a 21 k going on. In the parking lot, I could just tell who the half-marathon runners were from looking at them. It wasn’t just their physique; they came in all sorts of sizes and shapes. They had a look about them, like they were out for the hunt, the chase, the kill. These maniacs meant business. Somewhere on their trail was the elusive dragon, and they were going to catch up with it, grab it, and skin the essence out of it while they molested it. And the longer the distances, the crazier the looks.

As great as the benefits of running are, and as great as the high is, the downside is that you will face many a moment when you shouldn’t run, but the kick in your legs will push you to do something stupid. I have done several stupid things in my running escapades. One was deciding to go for a little 6 k run after I had a slipped disk. My physiotherapist told me to wait a few months. When she said months I silently cursed her first born and assumed she meant days, seeing as she was Asian and probably struggled with the language. Needless to say, it took me 6 months to get back to my running regimen after that excursion. I was fine during the actual run itself, but the minute I stopped, I felt the muscles in my back grip around my spine like they were trying to claw some sense back into me.

Then yesterday there was a sand storm here in sunny Abu Dhabi. The air was thick with dust and grime. I fought with my hubby who didn’t want me to go, I was set on doing an hour and a half and after 30 minutes, he forced me back into my cage. This morning I woke up wheezing and coughing. For the last 8 hours, I have been continually coughing up like what seems like an ozone layer, along with a few stretches of sandy beach. I feel utterly terrible and now I won’t be able to run for a few days, till my lungs heal. I could run on a treadmill, but I always feel like an inmate when I have to work out indoors. And I hate running for kilometers watching my panting reflection in the glass and getting absolutely nowhere!

For now, I am stuck behind the window, like a punished dog, watching the dust thicken in the air, watching the dragon peeking at me from behind the clouds. I won’t be able to go out today, probably not for the next 3 days, but sooner or later, I’ll be back myself, to the hunt, to the trail, chasing those scales that turn me inside out.  running

Mass Fishing

Ok I’m not actually talking about the horrible over fishing we are doing, I am referring to another kind of hook that I frequently find myself chained to. I’m talking about mass tagging. The name might sound harmless and possibly fun, but in reality this is a cheap ploy at advertising that invades privacy and steps on the accepted bounds of friendship.

When it comes to mass activities, the only ones I’m ok with are hallucinations and races, although preferably not at the same time. Mass tagging is that lovely phenomenon where someone you know or possibly love on Facebook decides that you and 127 other idiots need to be notified about something.

The post could be about anything but it is usually some form of promotional gimmick or “insight”; they are hosting an event, they were inspired to create art at 4am, they finally found that alphabetically-named spot that has been taunting men for forever. So they share their glorious news on social media but in order to make sure that you absolutely pay attention to it, they tag you and other victims in the post. So now, this thing appears on your wall, and you start getting insane notifications by the nano-second that keep your device vibrating in your ass. The problem is that all of this is happening when you are in a meeting with a very important client. Your phone vibrates in your ass. You fidget. Your boss glares at you. The client glares at you. More vibrations, more glares. You want to take out your phone and call this mass tagging asshole and threaten to lay his rectum on an airport runway with heavy incoming traffic, but all you can do for now is grit your teeth. It’s too late, while you were plotting said moron’s demise, the client has stormed out, your boss has fired you, and you will now have to move back into your parent’s house. All because someone in your friends list has mass tagged you.

I absolutely hate being mass tagged on FB. If you are promoting a night, a set, a book, or your body parts, the best you can do is private message me. Don’t hook me in with every alphabetically ordered name in your list. I don’t mass tag people every time I write a blog, the most I would do is PM someone or stand over them with a baseball bat until they read, liked or commented on it.

And let me differentiate, if you are tagging 4 or 5 friends for a funny video or insight, that’s absolutely fine, but when you start chaining me with people I don’t even know, I have a right to get angry. If you get to mass tag me, then I get to slap stickers of my brand on your face every time I see you in public.

It’s enough that we are submerged with ads in our modern lives. Pretty soon, we are going to be forced to sit through commercials before we have access to toilet paper in the bathroom. Talk about being caught with your pants down. My point is that we have enough ads. Mass tagging to me is another form of advertising and I sincerely resent having to deal with that from friends on social media. If you can’t leave your social media network for social non-promotional activities, then the only technology you should have access to are electric toothbrushes and super-sized dildos.

mass fag

Cooking ain’t so hot

(Dedicated to my Tetas)

It’s a widely accepted fact that cooking is a dying art. Many of us might have grown up with the women in the family always preparing rich traditional meals, however as adults we are neglecting this tradition. The only spreads I prepare are Excel-based. Time is the obvious culprit; with full time demanding jobs, many of us barely have time to shave our legs, let alone stuff vine leaves. Yet even when some of us attempt to reach out to this piece of our heritage, it ends in a toxic fiasco. Does cooking require special genetic talent or are we evolving into kitchen repellant creatures?

When I was young, my grandma would prepare glorious feasts of Lebanese wonders. Kids are not discerning when it comes to ingredients and I enjoyed many rich dishes that I would not have swallowed willingly had I known what they were. Things like cow tongue and sheep intestine stuffed with rice and meat. Of course I grew up and eventually found out, and after a few suicide attempts, I vowed to stay away from these dishes. Now that I’m older though, a tribal part of me wants to learn these recipes and not let the tradition die with me.

First let me differentiate between different kinds of kitchen work. By cooking, I don’t mean microwaving, adding water, or boiling carbs. If pressing a button was cooking, then you could claim to be a chef every time you rode the elevator. If heating water was cooking, then you could essentially claim that taking a shower was cooking up a storm. All the above are what I call ‘cooking-lite’.

When I say cooking, I mean real, onions-stabbing-your-eyes-till-they-bleed, peeling-meat-off-bone, stuffing-rice-in-animal-cavity-holes-cooking. When you’re done with real cooking, the kitchen needs a hazmat team and a priest. When you’re done with cooking-lite, it’s a “honey could you please wash that pot? I’m too tired from boiling water.”

I don’t mean to sound so aggressive, and I’m not angry at people that cook light, I cook light. I’m just insanely perplexed and envious of these put together women who can prepare complex dishes from my grandma’s era without looking like they were assaulted by rabid bats. These people can prepare 3 or 4 course meals and exit the kitchen with all their limbs intact, whereas I would probably leave said task with a singed eyebrow, an amputated finger, and possibly a zucchini up my ass. To add insult to injury, when you ask these humanoids about how they cook, they always snicker “oh cooking is easy”.

The other day I was making vegetable soup. Easy, right? I gathered the squash, pumpkin, carrots and potatoes on the table. It took me about 20 minutes to chop and peel those. Then I lightly fried an onion before dumping everything in with water and a vegetable broth cube. After simmering on low heat for about an hour, the dish was ready to be pureed. But then my inner idiot whispered “why don’t you add some chili? It will give it a real kick.” Of course I didn’t consult a source and improvised; I threw in a small spoonful of fresh hot chili. I might as well have dipped Satan’s asshole in it, because as I delightfully discovered 20 minutes later, after I had finished blending the life out of it, was that it was entirely inedible. Even my husband, who brushes his teeth with habanero chilies, took one bite and looked like he got smacked in the face by a Nigerian…spatula.

So after nearly two hours, I had to throw out what should have been a simple and straightforward dish. I was obviously missing that gene that allowed me to improvise in the kitchen. Moving on from improvising, I decided to follow a recipe to the tee. The dish: Musakhan. Something you need to know about cooking whole chickens: when you boil them, they sometimes fart in the water. I was alone at home when the first bubble escaped one of the corpses’ underside and I have to admit, I was gripped by terror thinking that it would suddenly come to life and do to me what I had done to it. You won’t find any mention of this in any cook book.

Another thing that illustrates my point: On the recipe it says “pull the meat”. Three little words, so clean and well defined. In reality, pulling the meat off the bones was a horrific experience. I felt like that asshole from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There were chicken bits all over the place and the most disturbing part was pulling meat off the chicken’s ass. I wondered for a few minutes if we actually eat this. I was about to call a friend and ask, but I didn’t feel right saying “hey, when you pull the meat off a chicken, do you do the ass as well? Do we eat chicken ass?”

On the website, it said this dish would take 1.5 hours. In my kitchen, it took 5. Sure, it tasted amazing when it was done, and we struggled to stretch it for 2 meals as it was glorious, but once it was consumed, I was left feeling kind of drained at the daunting task of preparing it again.

Never trust a cook that says “Cooking is easy”. Doing calculus while drunk is easy. If they don’t walk you through it step by molecular step, they are hiding something. They probably made a pact with the devil, or have an army of midget sous-chefs hiding under the sink. I’m not saying cooking is impossible, just prepare yourself for emotional and physical scars that will outlast any dish you prepare.



Requiem for Bug

As I rose at 630
To run while it was early
I whizzed past many a bush
For u see, I was in quite a rush
I neared the end of my trail
Going certainly faster than a snail
I was almost near the end
There was just one more little bend
As I ran past that spot
A bug smacked into my face with a splot
So while many of u were hitting snooze
A bug died having sex with my nooose 😊
morning run