Lemonade, the right way

To fully enjoy an entire glass of lemonade, it is very important to keep the proper ice-to-lemonade ratio throughout the entire glass.

The first few sips of lemonade are the best, and the most special, because the lemonade concoction is not yet diluted by the melting ice. It is pure and fresh. Yet as the ice melts, the lemonade dilutes and soon becomes completely undrinkable.

Sometimes, you're lucky to get even a few good sips before you have to throw the whole thing out. Cup and all.

The cup is tainted. It is dead to you now.

The danger comes when the ice melts to where there are just a few remaining floaters. When this occurs, the lemonade is more water than . . . lemon. And all is lost.

However, I've found that if you use crushed ice and start with an ideal ice-to-lemonade ratio (1 part ice to 2 parts lemonade), then eat the ice as you drink the lemonade, you can enjoy the full glass of lemonade before it dilutes beyond drinkability.

Also, if you eat all of the ice as well as drink all of the lemonade, I'm pretty sure that counts as also drinking a glass of water. It's just disguised as ice in a glass of lemonade.

That makes it two adventures in one. And one of them is good for you.

Enjoy.

C.T.

Yard Therapy

Today, I planted things in my flower bed. It was very therapeutic.

I looked like this:


I don't have to wear the goggles anymore starting tomorrow.

But I might wear them anyway, just because they're awesome.

Like my flowerbeds.

C.T.

Why must EVERY day be productive?

I put the T.V. on one channel today and pretty much didn't change it, and I sat on the couch with my laptop all day. Like, pretty much didn't move.

If I hadn't at least done all of my laundry this morning, the only thing that would make this day less productive is if I hadn't even bothered to get out of bed.

Although, I've kept up my eye drop regimen today. I have to make sure my eyeball is healing properly. Really, that's a full-time job in and of itself.

And, I've eaten M&Ms. My stomach is still recovering from the Vicodin adventure from Monday. M&Ms seem to soothe it.

Actually, I'm pretty worn out from my busy day. I'd better take it easy this evening.

C.T.

I've had some visitors this afternoon.

The puppies came over to play. And stare out the back door.




I've also taught them how to drink out of a cup. Apparently.

And then, there was the frolicking.

In this scene, the puppies distract me with their cuteness, then make off with what I thought was a coaster from my coffee table, but what I ultimately learned was a package of Kleenex.





Then, the puppies frolicked some more, this time with more enthusiasm. And cuteness. And finally thinking better of stealing another kleenex from my coffee table.



They are hilarious. So much so that I sent them back home after entertaining me.

C.T.

I can't keep quiet any longer.

America, how did we get through another week of eliminations on American Idol only to keep BOTH Ramiele and Kristy Lee???

People, Kristy Lee should have gone home several weeks ago. Then last night she went and pulled the "go America" card and decided she was proud to be an American.

So, that bought her another week.

But at the least, the next option to go home this week should have obviously been Ramiele.

Which leads me to ask . . . WHY are BOTH of them still on the show for another week???

You must realize this means we have to listen to both of them attempt to sing again next week. This is not a good thing.

Please, I beg of you. Even if both of them come on stage next week dressed head to toe in red, white, and blue glitter and stripes, singing the Star Spangled Banner with a bald eagle wearing a flag resting lightly on their shoulders . . .

ONE of them MUST GO HOME.

I have spoken.

C.T.

Movie Recap: Love in the Time of Cholera

Being on vacation allows me lots of time to watch movies. I enjoy this.

I would now like to present a brief recap of a movie I watched recently. I will call it: Love in the (brief) Time of Cholera.

I love you.

I have cholera.

But I love you.

But I just married this other guy.

I will wait for you. For 53 years.

Ok, but I'm married. Go away.

I will sleep with 622 women while waiting for you.

My husband died. I am 900 years old.

I still love you. I waited 53 years for you. Let's run away together.

[Cut to old people doing it . . . . and . . . . SCENE.]

And now you don't have to watch it.

C.T.

I'm too much of a wimp to get addicted to pain meds.

The problem with enjoying the pain meds yesterday when my eyeball was on fire is that my stomach pays for it today.

My day as a pain med addict is over.

And my eyeball isn't on fire anymore. I can see out of it, too.

All good things.

C.T.

Ow. Ow. Owwwwwww.

I went this morning for the "touch-up" surgery for my right eyeball. After the LASIK on both eyes, the right eye still needs a little help to get to 20/20.

They call it a "touch-up." I call it "torture."

You'd think it wouldn't be a big deal if it's just a touch-up. But this time there was a lot of scraping that was different than last time. And three doctors had told me that it would hurt worse than the first time.

It didn't hurt at all the first time, so I figured "more" would maybe be just a little pain here and there.

Not so much.

Consequently, I've been laying on my couch all day in a lot of pain. I'm sucking down Vicoden and fading in and out of sleep. And putting drops in like crazy.

Turns out my eye is all puffy and stuff. That didn't happen last time.

I'm actually smiling in this picture....


It's my right eye. Can you tell?

Hopefully it's better tomorrow. Because I might be out of Vicoden by then. And that would be really bad.

I don't want any more LASIK. I've had enough, I think.

C.T.

That's not my happy place, Nesquik.

The latest commercial for Nesquik says that one sip of Nesquik will send you to your happy place.

So is that guy's happy place really a cartoon hole in his floor? It wasn't there before the sip, so how does he even know that following that Nestle rabbit down the hole is a good idea? But now that he has some Nesquik in him, he thinks, "Wow, I want to go to my happy place. Good thing that hole in my floor just showed up because that's exactly what my happy place is."

Or is there some sort of hallucinogenic in Nesquik that makes you imagine a cartoon rabbit is beckoning you to follow him down a pretend hole in your floor?


And then whatever happens down there, the guy comes back with a Flava-Flav-sized "N" necklace around his neck. Again, implying that this is a souvenir from his happy place.

Is Nesquik also assuming we, as humans, are incapable of finding our own happy places without the help of their chocolatey drink?

I'm sorry, but as a homeowner, I would not appreciate a chocolate milk drink that opens a gaping hole in my floor which then puts a talking rabbit in my house.

I have enough trouble keeping non-talking squirrels out of my house as it is.

Maybe it's just that Flava Flav lives below everyone, and if you drink Nesquik you immediately fall through your floor to an ongoing party at his underworld lair.

No thank you, Nesquik Bunny. I don't need your help to find my happy place. Flava Flav's lair is not my happy place anyway.

I'll stick to water and regular hallucinogens. Like opium.

Or my inhaler.

C.T.

Flat Stanley visits The Tyrant

My cousin's son sent Flat Stanley to my parents and me. For those of you who are not familiar with Flat Stanley, small children take him on as a project at school. Flat Stanley goes on adventures where you take his picture, then you send the photos and the story of Stanley's adventures back for the kids to share at school.

Stanley likes to sight-see and whatnot. My parents took Flat Stanley to lots of fun places, including Texas Stadium.

Then Stanley and I spent some quality time together.

First, I put him to work in my yard, pulling weeds. A few of them were bigger than he is, but he didn't let that stand in his way.


Then, I sent Stanley up into my giant fig tree to make sure everything was in order in the tree.


After Stanley finished his work in my yard, I sent him to IKEA to find a few things for my patio.


Finally, after Stanley had finished all of his work, I let him join me to chill out on my fabulous summer-ready patio.


I'm glad Stanley came to visit me. He's a good worker.

Plus he's flat, so he really doesn't eat much.

C.T.

I finally ran out of doors.

I finally ran out of doors in my house to stain and/or paint.

I stained 8 doors, transforming them from old-lady-fab wood to not-so-old-lady reddish mahogany. Plus I did all of the trim/doorways.

Then I needed one more door to be white, so I painted it white. Not because I'm racist. But in my house, bathroom doors are white.

It's so I know which rooms are bathrooms and which ones are not bathrooms.

I've also stained some carpet, and there are a few random fingerprints on some random walls here and there that didn't really need to be stained at all.

It never fails. I always get more paint or stain or whatever in more places than I really intend to paint or stain or whatever.

My classic Tyrant move is to carefully lay down plastic drop cloth to cover every possible molecule of floor or carpet that could catch a drip of paint. Then, in true Tyrant fashion, I step right in a drip of paint (or puddle, as the case may be) without realizing it, then I walk all over the house before I figure out what I've done.

It's genius.

I can say that I've become very, very good at cleanup after painting. It's amazing what all I can get paint out of. Sadly, my paint pants are the exception to this. They are like a mosaic of every painting project I've ever done in this house.

Of course, it never fails that several days after a paint project, I'll find another drip on a random wall, behind a door. Or perhaps on the ceiling.

You know, I get to dancing to my loud painting music, and you just never know where I might fling some paint.

You really shouldn't dance and paint at the same time.

C.T.

Two of my favorite things

I love pizza . . . and Jesus.

To commemorate my love of pizza and Jesus, I have created a new product line.


If you love pizza and Jesus, wear it.

C.T.

It's possible that I watch too much T.V.

Last night I dreamed that some of the Scrubs, plus one of the hotties from Heroes were all LOST with me on the island.

It seemed odd that the Hero couldn't rescue us, but at least Elliott and J.D. kept us entertained with a few rounds of Jiggly Ball and hide the cracker while Jack and Locke fought over if we were getting rescued or not.

It was odd. We started a game a Jiggly Ball that ended two days before we found the cracker . . . except we went looking for the cracker four days before we started that game of Jiggly Ball . . .

C.T.

Question:

What is wrong with Priscilla Presley?

Specifically, what is wrong with her face?

It's all weird. I don't get it.

C.T.

Hello, Bachelor from London. Let me play my clarinet for you.

I'm watching The Bachelor for the first time in several seasons and I'm a little sad that I'm watching it. True, it will give me more than enough fodder to make fun of a lot of ridiculous girls. And I have to say, I do enjoy the dude's British accent.

But quite frankly, delving back into The Bachelor might not be the best use of my valuable, rockstar time.

I don't even know where to start making fun of the girls on this season of the show.

Oh wait. Yes I do.

First of all, Crazy Clarinet Girl? As one who has played a clarinet, I have learned a very valuable lesson specifically involving the clarinet: you will never woo a man by playing a clarinet.

It's just not a cool thing to do. I mean, who goes to a party to meet a hottie and takes their clarinet with them anyway? That's ridiculous. It's no wonder you haven't found a man, yet. You travel with a clarinet to social settings.

Guitar-I-Wrote-a-Song-For-You-Girl? Seriously????

I'm Miss Earth New York and I Made My Own Crazy Dress with Bedazzlers Glued to my Head Girl? Really???

I Just Chewed a Chunk Out of This Beer Can Girl??? What???

Miss Cuss-A-Lot Porn Star Wannabe and I Put My Panties in Your Pocket and Then I Passed Out Girl? Are you kidding me with this????

In case anyone is wondering, I have just named myself Miss Earth My House. I recycled a bunch of stuff today. Tomorrow, I will make my own dress and glue some stuff to my head. Since that seems to be what comes with the title of Miss Earth.

Do I then have to recycle the stuff I glue to my head? I'm a little fuzzy on the rules.

C.T.

Update: I stand corrected. Clearly, using a clarinet to serenade a Brit works, and I should do this more often. Also, making my own dress and gluing beads to my head will, in fact, impress a man. Good thing I'm already working on that one.

Aaaah, the sounds of nature . . .

. . . in my house.

So, it's spring-ish. And I'm all involved in house projects.

Spring = house projects.

I've been staining doors and doorways in my hallway. And I'm not gonna lie, my house is pretty much more paint fumes than oxygen at this point. But since it's spring-ish, I can open the door and let the out-air in to the house to make the fumes go away.

Tonight, however, I'm a little frightened. Because it sounds like right outside the door is the world's largest cicada. I mean, I haven't gone to the door to see it. But I'm pretty sure by the sound of it that the thing is at least the size of a small bear, or a large beaver. Perhaps a rodent of unusual size.

I mean, it's almost louder than my T.V. And then, it suddenly gets LOUDER than the T.V. for a few seconds. Then it gets quieter again.

I'm concerned about the LOUDER part because I feel like that's probably the warning signal that it is about to fly in here, land on my face, and proceed to eat my nose.

I do have the curtain drawn over the door. But I have a feeling the cicada is clinging to the other side of the curtain, so that when I close the door to go to bed and I have to bring the curtain inside, it will have a free ride into my house . . . where it can then proceed to land on my face in the middle of the night and eat my nose.

If I don't have a nose tomorrow, you all know what has happened.

Giant bear-like cicada.

C.T.

No matter what . . .

I'm a rockstar.

Even in pjs and slippers and without a shower.

Rockstar.

C.T.

Slap my arse and call me Susie.

The sun is out.

My tank tops and capris have made an appearance.

The yard is mowed.

My toenails are painted.

I've got my first ridiculous sunburn of the season.

It's spring, y'all.

Everything is better in the spring.

C.T.

Fashion Expert

No, not me. I am definitely not a fashion expert.

But I saw someone on T.V. today with the title "Fashion Expert."

Is that even possible? Are you truly an expert on what makes fashion, um . . . fashionable?

I mean, I could maybe see Fashion "Consultant", or Fashion "Advisor", or even Fashion "Monger."

But I don't really think there is such a job as Fashion "Expert." That would mean you are never wrong about fashion. Like, EVER.

Seriously, don't tell me you are fashion perfect even when you first wake up in the morning. Or, given any fashion emergency, and like, $5, that you could put together an expert fashion ensemble.

I mean, I'm really good at stuff in my yard. I paint stuff in my house pretty well. But I am neither a Yard Expert, nor a Painting Stuff Expert.

I also clean stuff pretty well. But I wouldn't say that I'm a Clean Expert.

I'm really, really funny. But even being pretty awesome at funny, I don't think I could legally call myself a Humor Expert. Could I?

I blog real good, too. Hmmmm. Now that I think about it, I think I am a Blog Expert.

You shall call me that from now on.

Now if I could just find a Fashion Expert to dress me, I might just be on my way to great things.

Fashionable-Humor-Cleaning-Yard-Painting Stuff-Blog Expert.

C.T.

They call it "stain" for a reason.

Painting things is a wonderfully therapeutic hobby of mine. I can take something, make it look entirely different, and when all is said and done, I can point to something that I did with a sense of accomplishment.

Don't think I don't walk around my house pointing at all of the stuff I've painted on a regular basis.

I do.

There are some beautiful things about painting stuff (other than having beautifully painted stuff):

• If I make a mistake, I can fix it. I haven't let anyone down. I haven't ruined everything around me, or anything more than what I'm working on. It's just me. I can paint over the mistake, or start over, or do whatever I want, really. The important thing to note about a mistake while I paint is that what I'm painting is not ruined. No need to get rid of it. Or sell the house and move. Or give up on it.

Sometimes my painting mistakes have led to some really cool stuff because I'm forced to come up with something creative to fix it, or I have to go a different direction completely. I've even sought help from others at times when I've painted myself into a proverbial corner and I needed someone with more experience to help me figure it out.

The finished product might not look like I thought it would when I pictured it before I started painting. And the process of finishing it might not have gone the way I originally planned, or be exactly like someone else would do it. But the process of working with it to make it work in the end is fantastic. And the finished product is usually something I'm very proud of. Hard work pays off.

• Painting also provides a lot of time for me to think and work through whatever is caught up in my head. I spend a lot of time in my head. I've discovered that I might as well paint something while I'm kicking around in there. Slow and steady painting is a great environment for my brain to think and clear. No distractions. Quiet, calm, and very, very fumey.

Good times.

Sometimes, I need a LOT of painting therapy. Fortunately, I have a lot of doors in my house that I've been meaning to stain. Nine, to be exact.

"Stain" is such a negative sounding word. It implies a black mark, something that isn't wanted, something to remove, a blemish. A mistake. Funny that to stain a door means to change it for the better.

Today, I intentionally stained two of my 9 doors. I'll keep staining tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Until they are all stained.

Not mistaken. Not blemished. Not wrong. Not ruined.

Stained.

In the end, my doors will be better, even with the drips that I didn't catch before they dried, or the mistakes of wrong brush strokes. They'll have character. They won't be perfect, but I probably won't throw them out and go doorless. And I probably won't quit painting because my doors weren't mistake-free.

Today while I was staining, I kicked the thought around in my head that I'm really thankful for the people in my life who do not give up on me when I make a mistake. Friends and family who draw me in closer, back me up, support me, pick me up, even when I screw up.

We learn through our mistakes. We grow. We know better.

Hopefully, we don't learn to grow afraid of making more mistakes.

Of course, all of that could be the paint fumes talking. Why is that asian clown baby waving at me over there?

C.T.

P.S. I think I got more stain on myself than on the doors. It really does stain, y'all.

Whatever might be right or wrong in your world . . .

. . . you can never go wrong with Beetlejuice.


I'm just sayin'.

C.T.

I'm not proud.

Today I voted for someone whose name rhymes with Schmillary Blinton in the Texas primary.

In this day and age when the quest to choose the next president of our country has come down to which one wouldn't be the worst possible situation for the next four years, I have chosen to get involved in Tactic Voting.

By strategically voting Democratic in the Texas primary, I've joined the ranks of Texans who are not voting to secure a Republican nominee (since that has pretty much already been decided).

But rather, we have voted with the strategy to cause as much chaos within the Democratic party by intentionally voting for someone we do NOT want to win the presidential election, but who would be the more viable option to run against in the end.

When using your vote for evil could actually be for the greater good down the road, these are interesting times, my friends.

C.T.

I'm just not that in to you.

I don't know what it is about me - my friendly face, my constant smile, my inviting appearance - that makes total strangers think that I want to carry on conversations with them. But, it happens a lot.

FYI, my face is not friendly, I rarely smile, and I never appear inviting.

Today I spent about three or so hours at the LASIK office for my eyeball stuff and this one random lady kept talking to me. You might be there for three hours, but during that three hours you sit in a small waiting room about 5-10 differentt times while you wait for them to call your name for the next eyeball test that takes about 15 seconds.

Seriously, you wait for about two and half hours for a total of about 15 minutes worth of eyeball tests.

Not being in the greatest of moods today anyway, I was doing my best not to get talked to. Mostly because I picked up on this woman about two minutes after I got to the first waiting room when I realized she was now best friends with a woman she'd just met that day in the waiting room.

I didn't want to be her next best friend in the next waiting room.

So in all of the subsequent waiting rooms, I tried all of my best "leave me alone" tricks.

• I played with my phone.
• I stared intently at CNN election coverage that was playing on the T.V.
• I caught up on Days of Our Lives, which was playing on the other T.V.
• I called my office to check in.
• I NEVER made eye contact with anyone.

That last one is the most important thing when communicating that I'm just not that in to you.

But despite all of my best efforts, this woman started talking to me. About my shoes, about my eyeball experience so far, about her eyeball experience so far (which started in November of 2006, by the way - so there was a lot to tell me about), about each test they did on her eyeballs after each and every test . . .

She was very sweet. But, I'm just not really there to talk about my eyeballs. Or to hear about anyone else's eyeballs.

Unless you are one of the doctors looking at my eyeballs. Then we can talk about my eyeballs.

I usually run into one of these talkers every time I'm trapped there for a few hours. It's nothing personal.

I'm just not that in to you.

C.T.