Cauliflower Everything 


Okay maybe I’m being a little dramatic here.  I know I’m about to date myself when I say…

I remember when cauliflower was just a vegetable.   Over the past 15 years I’ve watched it spread its little veggie wings and grow to become great things…

Like mashed potato substitute 

Cauliflower rice

Cauliflower pizza crust

Cauliflower bagels

Cauliflower Mac and cheese and no I do not mean the yummy kind that I make that has both pasta and cauliflower. This kind has the cauliflower dethroning and dare I say pretending to be pasta.  Dems fighting words.  

And yesterday I saw a recipe pop up for cauliflower hummus.

Ok healthy people.  I’ve watched take a delicious vegetable and turn it into a mockery of its former self.   So here’s my list of demands.

I want a cauliflower floor wax

I want a cauliflower bra

I want a cauliflower hair wreath so I can then balance a bowl of ranch haloed by candles on my head and be called a crispy Santa Lucia and the sporting part of this concept is running the gauntlet of fire if someone wants to dip said crudités in the ranch dressing.  I like to keep things interesting

I want a cauliflower credit card so we can all eat our debt 

I want cauliflower shaped fireworks at 4th of July

I want cauliflower dog collars and matching leashes

Cauliflower wreaths for doorways

Cauliflower caramel

There should be no bounds. 


Playing Grab Ass With Ms. Goose

My father is in adult daycare.  There are clients there from every  spectrum of the elderly.  There are the geriatric patients who still have the heart and mind of someone 50 years their junior but the balance of a drunken preschooler.  There are those who have been in accidents and need constant supervision and therapy.   Some just enjoy the company and stimulation and lastly there are those who are well into the throes of dementia.   My father falls into this last group.  He’s been manageable (hate that term) thus far but now in he past two months there has been what can only described as severe slippage.  

My mother and I speak often.  We see each other often and we are on the phone multiple times a day. She called me last week to inform me that my father had been accosted.  His pristine reputation had been sullied.  Someone played grab ass with him.  

My father, in his prime, was the master of the timing of a joke.  He could veer up to bawdy and then side step it gracefully with a smile that denoted just how wicked he could get.  When he hopscotched into flat out dirty no one did it better.  Even now there is a spark in his eye when he’s having a good day that is akin to the sun coming out.  It reminds me of who he really is.

In spite of all of this,  he now turns into a Scottish spinster, sputtering with the appropriate level of austerity and outrage about his virtue.  My mom went to pick him up and they went to the closet to play seven minutes in heaven…I’m kidding; they grabbed his backpack and coat.  Yes.  He has his own backpack.  It’s adorable.  And tiny little Alzheimer’s patient snaked her hand into the closet and grabbed my father by the belt, undies, and the back of his jeans and spat out the irate inquiry, “You’re not leaving me here all alone are you Walter?”

He spun and said through gritted teeth “I am not Walter and this is my wife of 48 years and I do not want you grabbing me!”  One of the nurses on the staff came up to diffuse the situation and said to Ms. Goose, “No honey.  This is JB.  This isn’t Walter.  Walter will be here later to get you.”  Ms. Goose then replied….

Wait for it…..



You really can’t make this shit up. And I’m a writer.  

I see how he tries to hide his bad days.  On Sunday he prowled through my house like he was looking for something.  We were due to go to a party and he was simply not having a good day.  About three times a week he demands to know the marriage deets from my mother.   God love her, she has to pull out their wedding album and marriage certificate.  She has to pull out utility bills and bank statements.   Like a lot of Alzheimer’s patients, he fixates and there are moments we just don’t know which JB he is.  Is he the JB who served in the Navy and hasn’t met my mother yet?  Is he still in school?  Is he a young man starting his family?  Is he the rough and tumble fireman who smokes and drinks and swears and dotes in his family and makes excuses every Sunday that he’s sick so he can get out of going to church?  Or has he forgotten all of this?  It depends on the day and sometimes even the minute we’re dealing with at any given moment.  You’ve just got to roll with it.  It’s nice to know all these years later he wants a marriage and not a fling.  He proposed to her a few months ago.  Pretty cute!

We went to Carrabba’s for my father-in-law’s birthday, like any good Polish family (husbands-not mine) should.  There was enough food floating around that long table to feed a town.  We had plates of appetizers, two of which I know perfectly well are favorites of JB’s; one being shrimp scampi.  He made the blech face that he used to scold me for.  Full blechage.   

Except, you know, a 78 year old man.  

Two minutes later he sweetly said as he pointed to the shrimp dish, “I didn’t get any of those.  They look good.”  I heaped them on to his plate as he happily munched away, beaming at me that I was the nice girl who gave him food.  Except I’m not a girl.  I’m a woman taking care of her Dad.  It’s amazing how our perception of aging applies to everyone but us.  I still refer to men and women I went to school with as boys and girls.  Pretty sure they’d punch me if they heard it but there you have it….boys and girls. 

Sorry couldn’t help it.  This shit was getting heavy. 

I’m still his little girl and he’s still my Daddy and therein lies the rub. When your parent is failing or even less hearty than what they once were we have to go through what I refer to as a time warp (in a complete opposite sense of Rocky Horror).  I’m not a girl.  He’s no longer the strongest man in the world.   My mother isn’t omnipotent and my daughter is now an adult.  Time…you cruel cruel bitch.  Yesterday I was twenty.  Yesterday he was strong.  Yesterday my mother was the energizer bunny.  

Having said that, sans bitterness, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.  Maybe Walter can get his own ass grabbed.  



One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish

I’m a sucker.  I’ll admit it.  I am a complete wimpy ass sap when it comes to my daughter and my grandson.

I tend to put other people’s happiness above my own; but the payoff is writing about almost everything I see.   My daughter loves owning aquariums.  I love visiting aquariums.  The reason I love visiting them and not owning them is because fish are stupid and dirty.  My stronger sentiment that they are delicious with wine and lemon and meant to be eaten and my desire to own or understand one disengages when I see how gross their tanks are. Therefore, unless a Roomba can clean the tank then frankly I’m not interested.  They don’t even fetch or cuddle or hold interesting conversations about my unnatural attachment to converse sneakers or why I will argue that Combat Rock is still one of my favorite albums or why Kevin Kline is the funniest person on the planet.  Fish, to me, are uninteresting unless Mr. Kline is sucking one down in my second favorite movie.


About ten months ago, Mei Mei talked me into getting a fish tank.  She’s slick..that little turd is.  Crafty..wily…

She’d been blathering on that “we” should get a fish tank.  “We” found them so soothing and relaxing.  “We” would emotionally benefit from said addition to the house as watching fish swim is very soothing.  I sat pondering if watching paint dry was equally as soothing since it provided the same level of excitement and was given the same withering stare my mother used to give me when I was being sassy in my youth.  Oh goody I grew up only to discover that I raised my mother.  One day when I’m an inappropriate senior, living under her roof because I’m old and feeble, I’m pretty sure she’ll ground me for trying to sneak out through the window to rave with the other old biddys.  I tried a different but equally discouraging tactic.  I  asked if “we” were paying for this or would the bill squarely arrive on “my” American Express.  “She” was not amused.  I compromised (it could happen) and said “we” could get a beta fish and if “we” did well with that then “we” could further discuss the notion of a fish tank but for now “I” would like a scotch in order to mull over how much longer “we” were going to carry on the charade that “we” were unanimous in this decision. 

We were out shopping about two months later and she pitted the Wee Baby Child against me, coaching him to look sad and unfulfilled in life.  In retrospect, I’m willing to bet they worked on this tactic since the initial “we” discussion.  He was clearly coached.  It worked.  We went to Petsmart which conveniently was only two doors down from where we were shopping.  

Hmm…interesting…because that wasn’t planned or anything.  

There we purchased Leo, the fighting fish.  He was quite pretty, predominainantly red with vivid streaks of blue.  He was put on the dresser in WBC’s room and all was well.  Every morning WBC would waken him by greeting him with kissy noises and every night he would “tuck” Leo in by telling him to dream good fishy dreams (a slight variation to his nightly tuck in from me…sleep well, dream good baby dreams).  Every day before he would leave for daycare he would instruct Leo to make good choices, primarily because this is what he hears me tell Hellhound on a daily basis as I boogie out to work.  Two things became quite evident. 

One- I am probably not the greatest role model

Two – He truly loved this fish. 

Long story short….Leo started failing.  He lost his color; fading to a muddled brownish pink instead of the vibrant flame red he’d been when we first brought him home.  He wouldn’t eat and started losing his top fin.  I became attached.  To a dying fish.  Because I’m an idiot. Or as my mother likes to euphemistically say…the eternal champion of underdogs and lame ducks…errrr….fish.  Mei Mei bought a bigger tank and nursed this fish back to health with what could only be categorized as a Herculean effort.  She changed the water, cleaned the tank, upgraded the filter; she practically hand fed this little guy gently explaining to WBC exactly what she was doing and why to try and help Leo feel better.  In this process of scrambling to find the right tank, the right filter, the right everything to save this silly little fish that the small man loved so much, he broke down at the store.  He sobbed that Leo was dying and I would think that he wasn’t taking care of him and it was his “responsumbitty” and he didn’t do it and that’s why Leo was so sick…….

$200 later, we had a fish tank for downstairs too in addition to the new tank for Leo just to prove how much I knew he had tried to care for his very own first pet.  The five dollar fish had become an investment.  Leo recovered.  He never grew back his top fin but eagerly swam towards us when we walked near his tank.  It turns out the tank size advised to us was only compatible if we were raising some sort of brine shrimp – you know, becuase they’re a popular pet and all…

So instead of living 50 years like he was supposed to, Leo made it another 6 weeks.

Considering how hard we tried to save Leo, WBC took it pretty well.  He’s a tough kid.  He quietly asked if we could get another fish.  So we bought a blue one this time.  Have you ever seen someone so angry that they look like they may eat a small child for kicks?  That’s what this fish looks like.  Never has there been a more pissed off fish.  It’s like Roz from Monsters Inc has been reincarnated in fish form.  He will CUT YOU….

It’s like he knows I’d prefer him sauteed and he can’t compete with Leo.

Want to know what his name is?

 Happy.  WBC named him Happy.  Dark humor clearly is genetic.  

Rageballs and Ribbits

Otherwise known as “when your inner toddler runs shit”

Last week at work I had a day that I was so hangry today that I would have tripped a toddler with a happy meal.  Yes to steal and consume in front of them….I never said I was nice.

On this same day, my four year old grandson informed his mother he was so mad at her that he was going to turn her into a frog.

The next day it was pouring rain.  It was cold and bleak and I was in a veritable fog the entire day.  My shining moment was my neighbor walking their dog.  We call this particular dog a meatball on legs.  It’s a sphere.  It took a good 50 seconds for the dog to cross the street I was driving on and three attempts to clear the curb and all the while the owner was basically pantomiming the action the dog was attempting.  This may not seem like a big deal to you, but if you had legs that barely allowed belly clearance of cement low born objects…

Just sayin’.

The day after that my grandson was watching Scooby Doo.  I know many people think that Daphne is the tramp of the show but I (notsosecretly) harbor a vendetta against Velma.  First off, how many times can that idiot lose her damn glasses.  Secondly, at least Daphne wears tights under that short little excuse of a dress (hello purple and green said no one ever…except Daphne).  Velma on the other hand wears those slut 90-tastic Catholic school girl gone wrong socks and a skirt so short I’m pretty sure they used it in the Basic Instinct vag scene until they realized Velma’s hooha was sub par compared to Sharon Stone’s hooha.

Also last week I decided that I am in fact a fat fuck and need to go to the gym and before anyone comes at me with some bullshit that I have low self esteem and shouldn’t be so self deprecating…shush.  Have you seen the cover photos of this blog?  I ain’t suffering kid!  My self esteem is fine and so is my mirror and sense of perception.  I’m a fat fuck.  I need a treadmill.  I’ll register higher on the hottie scale in about 4 months but until then, I’m a sphere and I need to get my fat ass in shape or at the very least find my waistline again.  My back is better after a year and a half of babying it and it’s time to get back to business.

But last week, everything irritated me…

Self important bloated weenies irritated me

My husband irritated me

My period irritated me

Cleansing fads irritated me

The local post office irritated me

My lack of ability to commit to an eyebrow waxing appointment irritated me

My waistline irritated me

My husband bloats up like a toad when he’s trying to make a point.  I’m the asshole with the pin that usually pops balloons, and inflated egos.  I generally croak at him when he exhibits (ribbits) this behavior but last week was not a shining example of Shannon at her most ladylike.  I think I threw his socks at his head.  Allegedly.

So what does one do when they are having a bad week which in fact is happening for no other reason than I was just bitchy.  I felt bad about myself; I felt old and tired and chubby and I was mad because of being old and tired and chubby.  It occurred to me that life was so much easier when I didn’t have to rein my emotions in and adult 24/7.

Today I drove an hour and a half each way for a birthday party for my father in law.  Bless his heart, he is 85 and looks and acts about 55.  Mr. Magilla drove my parents and I drove Mei Mei and Wee Baby Child.  The kiddo hit the wall at a certain point.  He was so good; through the whole meal, the whole drive down, the whole…three stop lights on the way home before he hit the point of no return.  The meltdown ensued which insured that driving home in pouring rain with every moron driver in New Jersey being accounted for on the Parkway would be the fun part of the trip home.  We finally managed to help him pull his shit together by putting on 80’s music (thank you satellite radio).  Men at Work to be specific.  This inspired a dance party in my truck.

He was kicking the back of her seat.  Mei Mei asked him to stop and he raspberried her.  It was brief, direct and assertive.

It occurred to me….

How awesome would it be if we could let our inner toddler run the show?  We all have one; that little selfish snotbag who secretly wants to lie to their children and say there are no Oreos left even as the chocolate crummy dust coats our lips.


Deli counter.

You order a pound of turkey.  We live in the modern world in which we are aware of the perils of processed food and insecticides.  We are responsible and health conscious.  Yes! The man behind the counter calls your number.  You ask about MSG and nitrates and reiterate that you would like a pound, thinly sliced, of the healthiest and closest to organic turkey they have.  They cut the first slice and hold it up for your inspection.  It’s too thick.  What do you do?  Do you ask for a little thinner?

Fuck no – toddler is running this show.

You throw yourself on the floor and proceed to kick your way in a circle around the shopping cart because your turkey is too thick.



Customer Request

Adultypants, could you wire $150,000 to Mr. and Mrs. SUCHNSUCH?  They’re closing on their house.

I’m eating a sammich.

It’ll just take a second.

But I’m eating a sammich…..lip quivers….tears fall…..snot bubbles form and burst as Adultypants throws their head back and starts to sob incoherently that they just want to do what they want to do FOREVER……..ALONE.


Traffic Court

You were caught doing 40 in a 25.  You’re facing a ticket and all you can think about is your pretty new dress.  It would be even prettier if you could twirl.  And twirl.  Let’s get out of the these clunky wooden benches.  And go to the front of the room and spin and spin and spin and giggle and spin.

Contempt of court?  But I’m a pretty pretty princess!  And I’m spinning.  You can’t do that.  No givebacks.  I’m rubber, you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off of me….

I think we all need toddler time in a padded room so we can’t hurt ourselves.

This goes double for menopausal women.  They need hour long regularly scheduled blocks complete with wine and cheese afterwards, especially the first time they find one of those chin hairs that seeminly sprout up in the span of an hour that are so stiff they could pick a lock.

As adults, when did we lose our ability to play?  Toddlers have got this all right and we’re the dumb ones.

I want cartoon time.  I want jammies with feet attached and a blanket that I can legitimately carry around sans judgement.  I want the wonderment of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk.  I want to cry some days until I get all this pent up bullshit out of my system and then hard core build a Lincoln Log city and thus be magically cured of stress.

And while as adults we may laugh at the antics of toddlers and all of their bratty, batty glory….here’s my final query.

Who sleeps better at night?

The little pint sized savages who let it all out?  Or the adults who keep it all in?