Well, despite my best efforts at the last blog it was a miserable fucking failure. So I abandoned it. Will be updating weekly or bi-weekly at this point. I’m too involved in school right now to keep it up as much as I was The Crushing Butterflies. Unless anyone wants to write my essays and research papers? lol <3
For all of my readers:
I have permanently moved my blog to Blogger. The web address is: http://thecrushingbutterflies.blogspot.com/
Daily live youtube videos will also be posted there, but the link is private so you must visit the page in order to get the links for previous and brand new videos. You must also click “Yes” to accept the disclaimer for adult content that will be posted.
For those hedonistic stalkers on the forums I frequent. Bite me & obey the finger. All others, carry on.
It’s not strange for anyone that knows me that I love to cook. Anything. Even if I do not particularly care for it, I still don’t mind cooking it…unless it’s
fish or deer of course. Blech.
Three days ago it was reasonably cool for this area. Eighty degrees was, in fact, the high for the day. So, even though it’s not really the wintry weather that I am really used to, I felt like it was a day for “cold comfort food”. You know those chili, soup kind of days. Jeremy doesn’t really care for sweet stuff, but every once in a while. And since I love the smell of pastries cooking, I decided I’d make him some brownies. Sigh—they were from the box though. It’s kind of hard to bake pastries in a camper, but damn it I was determined.
With the brownies done and their sweet smell still permeating the air, I decided to cook some chicken and dumplins. I do not really know if this is the exact way you’re supposed to do them or not, but nevertheless, I do them my way and they still turn out awesome. I boiled four chicken breasts and tore them into pieces. And seeing how Freckles, is my wittle puppy dog she was right under my ass the whole time. “Bite, mommy, bite.” I know she thinks this.
—on a side note, I think everyone has though of this at least once in their lives. When you are not at home, your animals talk. Damn it, if you could just catch them!
Anyway, of course I’m going to share with the dog as I’m ripping up the chicken. Onto the soup part. Again, I’m not terribly sure if this is the ‘right’ way to make chicken and dumplins, but I’ve always done it this way. I put the chicken in some cream of chicken soup in a pot on the stove. I’m getting ready to do the dumplins. Now, I do have all of the ingredients to make the dumplins, flour, water, salt, etc. But I opt for the easier way. But before I get into details about dumplins, a short story:
One hot, summer day a lady asked her to pick up a few things and bring them by her house in a dangerous part of Baltimore City. The sweet old lady was wary but felt that she couldn’t say no, even though she was terrified of driving in the part of the city that often had shoot-outs and other drug violence. Anyway, the woman went on her way, picked up the groceries and proceeded to the lady’s house.
As she entered the lady’s neighborhood she noticed young hoodlums gathering on every street corner. Although she had no air conditioning in the car, she rolled the windows up tightly (as a safety precaution) and suffered in the 90+ degree heat.
She drove ahead until suddenly she heard a loud “POP!” and felt a jolt to the back of her head. She reached to feel the back of her head and came back with a wet oozing mess that she was sure was part of her brain! Knowing that she had been shot, the woman turned around and raced to a local hospital.
Somehow she made it to the emergency room and had the strength to walk right in. She told the attendant that she had been shot. Immediately she was rushed back to an exam room. Doctors whirled around and asked where she had been shot (since they saw no blood.) She said “my head,” and the doctors found a mass of the oozing white substance the woman had first noticed.
Upon inspection the doctors realized that the white substance wasn’t part of her brain but was instead a lump of biscuit dough (the kind in a can) that had exploded from the heat of her car!
Everyone has probably heard some variation of that story. Obviously, it’s not true. Just a stupid story, right?
Anyway, my point is coming, I swear.
I proceed with my recipe. I boiled about 5 cups of chicken broth for the dumplins. I make dumplins with biscuits. I get them out of the fridge sit them on the counter and stare at them methodically, wishing I could open them with my mind. But I know I can’t and this moment has to come. I mean you can’t have chicken and dumplins without dumplins, right? I slowly peel off the wrapping. I close my eyes hold it as far away from me as I can. I always squeal like a little girl and jump, and my heart beats fast, and I have a massive meltdown when I open biscuits. This happens even if I have to hit them on the counter to get them open. I don’t know why. Is it the pop? Do I think some little gremlin is going to jump out of that damn can or what? I just don’t know. All I know is that beyond my fear of the dark, fear of spiders, I have a fear of canned biscuits. Sadly, out of those, I fear biscuits the most. And if Jeremy had been here at the time, I would’ve made him open them.
I need therapy.
I can remember when I was younger having these steps at my mom’s house. Well, it’s not as if they’ve disappeared. They’re still there. Anyway, you get my point. There were steps. I’m fairly certain at one time I actually counted these steps, obviously now that number eludes my brain. There were also quite a few steps on the inside of the house going from the basement to the upstairs where we actually lived.
I’m pretty sure that at some time my mom’s house was an apartment. Because I know downstairs in the basement there was a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living area, etc. It’d been awesome if I got to live down there, but my brothers got to move down there instead. And I got to be watched like a hawk upstairs. Evvvven though I never did ANYTHING wrong. No, really…I swear I didn’t. Okay maybe a couple of times, but nothing that was a big deal.
Anyway, the stairs to the basement had this black and blood red shag carpet on them. Oh how I do love shag carpet. I can remember when no one was home and I was going to be nosy in my brothers’ room it’d eventually turn dark I would be down there so long. To this day, I admit I’m afraid of the dark. I don’t know what I’m waiting on to attack me, but hey, nothing’s impossible right? Anyway, I would haul ass up those steps when it got dark. Surely I’d missed a couple.
The outside steps were obviously concrete. That’s pretty self explanitory.
My brother, Jason—the one who’s actually my blood related brother, once told me something as we stood at the top of the steps going down towards the basement. “You can fly.” He said. (Do you remember telling me that you little shithead?) Anyway, apparently my 8 year old frail little self could fly and being the kinda gullible person I was, I say hey why not? So here I go, I jump over the first 4 steps and hit the landing. I didn’t float. Wth? He said, “No, you have to do it from there.” Now there was about 15 steps I was about to get to fly over. I was super excited. So, once again, JUMP!!!!. Needless to say, Peter Pan I wasn’t.
A few weeks later he told me I was Wonder Woman standing outside atop the concrete steps. This time I was onto him though! I knew Wonder Woman had to turn in circles and as I did this, I remember thinking, “I’m gonna flyyy, I’m gonna flyyyy.” And again—nothing. Smack, smack, smack. Each and every step I didn’t jump over, I hit.
My point you ask?
Well, I just went outside. **ahem** Carrying clothes to be washed and getting them ready to put in the truck. I gather my clothes, put them in the basket, pick up the basket, open the door, shoo Freckles to get back, and down the steps I go. Except I missed the freaking steps, the clothes go up in the air like some sort of crazy ass looney tunes cartoon and I faceplant into the dirt.
Remember all of those times you told me I could fly brother??!?!?! Well—now you know why I laughed at you when you did this to your foot. And why I laughed even harder when you had to stay on those crutches for months ;) I hope you walk with a limp you turd. xx
Now, I am pretty sure I do not suffer from any type of ‘disorder’, other than being mildly crazy. But in todays society who isn’t a little nuts?
I have an early childhood memory that I thought may need some addressing, since the other night the situation arose again and I fought internally on how to handle it. Now, when I was younger I’d never do this in front of people. Actually, as an adult I’d never do it either. I suppose I’d have to be at least somewhat comfortable and know that there’d be no sort of judgement made against me.
Jeremy and I came back from the dollar general. We had to get some stuff for him. Flourescent orange and yellow work shirts, deoderant. He says he needs those particular shirts, because he won’t have to wear a safety vest at work that makes him hot. Enter the deoderant. Got it for the obvious reasons.
Anyway we get back and I start putting away all of the items we bought. I pull out the buy one get one free Degree sport and separate the two and put one in the cabinet. And here is where my dilemma started. I opened the remaining stick of deodorant and sniffed it. I like things that smell good, obviously, who doesn’t? Anyway, this particular deodorant is that gel stuff. Not the sloppy stuff that comes up through the holes and stings your armpits, but just a solid gel piece. All kinds of sorted memories flooded my mind like hurricane knocking over a boat.
With that said, I confess the following:
I, Melissa Jean Hinton, USED to **like to**, lick deodorant.
Now, it couldn’t be womens brand. It couldn’t be that white chalky crap. It had to be the solid gel.
After, I pull apart the deodorant’s we bought, after I opened and sniffed it, that’s right. With Jeremy sitting right there and me standing right in front of him I say, “I wonder if…” LICK. Of course, he gives me the wtf look. And I then say, “Nope, must have to be the Right Guard brand.”
Did y’all know that Right Guard deodorant shocks your tongue?
All I can really say about all of this is at least I can be comfortable around Jeremy.
Ahhh, yet another adventure outside of the four walls of the camper.
This afternoon led me to the hardware store. Why you ask? For screws, not just any screws…the kind that will get my task done.
I go to the hardware store, wander around for a bit. It’s not like I’ve not ever been to a hardware store, but sometimes wandering around places like these can give you some spark of an ingenious idea, right? Listen to some mindblowing music as I’m walking around the store, because that’s how I roll. I figure if I can’t dance everywhere I go, I’ll at least play the music. Waltzing down the isles I get my hairbrained idea to get more than screws. Pay for my stuff and leave.
I’m still dancing in my mind driving the 2.5 miles back from the hardware store and probably speeding. Damn road construction. Just on a side note I’d like to say if the construction zone is there and you are only allowed to go 25 mph in what’s normally a 55 mph speed zone, and no one’s working—why not let folks go the normal speed limit? Besides, the way I figure it speed limits are merely suggestions. And if you get pulled over, you ask??? Well, you better pray you’re a woman and it’s a man that’s pulling you over and if it’s a woman pulling you over, cry. Then, make something up from there. I can say, I’ve been pulled over probably 50 times, and have had 1 ticket. ;) It truly does work.
Anyway, back to my point. I finally made it home, after obeying the speed limit (to my recollection). And the ONLY reason I obeyed the speed limit is because I was off in never-never land thinking about the project I was about to do. I bring my crap inside and lay it on the floor. Get sidetracked by cutting Freckles’ fingernails (she’s been scratching the crap out of everybody with her yippies.) I stand up, unpack my stuff, open the cabinet door that’s above the sink. This is the site of my project. I turn around to get the screwdriver, that I strategically put on top of the refrigerator weeks ago. I can’t keep up with anything. Such a forgetful girl. But before I turn around to get the screwdriver, “BARK”, goes the dog and I turn as swift as I can and SMACK, head against cabinet. Damn it.
Feel of my head for a second and scream a few cuss words, one of them being my favorite word (not to worry, no children or elderly around), turn back around, take a few steps, get screwdriver.
This wood on the cabinet is pretty hard and I’m a pansy ass with no upper body strength anymore. So, after trying a few times I can’t get the screws in. Ahhhh—-Jeremy has left his Makita here. For you tool handicapped folks a Makita is the BEST drill that has ever been made. In fact, I picked this one out. Because not only did it have a super awesome drill with it, it has an impact. You know those things they take off the lugnuts off a car with? Yeah, one of those—not as big though.
Raise head up, turn around SMACK. That m*********** cabinet! ffs.
Get the Makita bag down and OF COURSE it’s empty. So, now I have to muster up the strength to push these freaking screws in the cabinet. I get more screws out of the the baggy, obviously I misplaced the one I was holding onto. And I push it in to make a dent in the wood so I can screw it in easier. Hand slips sideways, screwdriver slips sideways, and screw goes down. Luckily I’ve smartly, yet inadvertently left a coffee cup in the sink that saves the screw. After fumbling around for a while I finally get one screw in. And of course, the same sideways screwdriver incident happens over and over and over again with the next screw.
Needless to say, I finally finished my project. And am dying of thirst. I fix myself some sweet tea. Yeahhhh you read that right sweet tea! I put it on the counter and put the tea jug back in the fridge. I turn around and just about that time, the excitement that Freckles must’ve had from having her nails cut must’ve kicked in because she took a flying leap towards the sink from the couch and knocked my tea into the air. The cup did a somersault over her, getting the couch, her, the wall, and the roof wet. AND NOW she gets to have, yet another bath, EVEN though I just gave her one yesterday. And ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL of this was just for one simple project!!!
At least it’s done—see pic below. ;) Hope everyone’s having a fan-freaking-tastic day ;) xx
Just a followup to this picture….I never buy papertowels.
This is probably one of the most important posts I’ve ever posted since I’ve been posting on here. (often wondered how many times I could say post in one sentence.) It’s an epiphany, a revelation, a manifestation, a proclamation!
Went to the gas station a while ago. Being one for details I’ll let y’all know what happened.
I put Freckles in the truck and get started down the road. Pull up to the Shell station. Yeah, THAT one. The one that employs the girls that I do not like. Anyway, get out, go in, go to the ATM. Wait in line. Patiently, errrr passive aggressively, tap my toes as I wait. “Oh excuse me, I’m just taking my time. I’m so sorry.” To which my reply is, “Eh, no problem.” (insert forced smile) Hey, it was only 6am at the time, it’s 703 at present time. Shuffling along, I press my hurt fingers on the options (I bit my fingernails to near bleeding). As I wait for the ATM slowly process and connect with an inferior dial-up, I see a girl at the counter. About 100 lbs soaking wet, probably around 4’9″, shorts that could probably fit Freckles (and they were so short I wouldn’t even put her in them), and black backwards hat that read, “F*** off”. Of course the lettering wasn’t asteriked out. And I started thinking, still waiting for the damn slow ATM (ddeeeet—deeet–beep–beeep—krrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)
My thoughts were these: What a classy lassy wearing that hat. She looked all of 18, 19 who knows. You know how todays “bitch’n stylin” is. She could’ve been 12. What a classy girl to be wearing that hat in public. Of course, everyone is entitled to free speech and all that jazz. And yes F is my favorite of all cuss words. However, I do not say it, display it, type it (for the most part), around the following people: Parents, elderly, children, public in general. Basically I have to be pretty comfortable saying it around you and I wouldn’t say it unless I hear you say it, oh say at least 3 times in front of me. That then gives me the go ahead.
I withdraw my money and my receipt for the slow ATM and get in the truck. Pet Freckles. Watch the girl get back in the car with what appeared to be a group of 100 lb fetal gangbangers.
On the way back, being the overanalyzer I am, I decided to find some reason to make out of this backward wearing hat girl.
The word “f***”…Let’s get all up in there and analyze that.
Back in the 1600’s the word was put on people’s doors. Scholars suspect the word was meant to be put on there to let suitors and kingsman know that these people were married and were trying to produce children.
Fair enough. Harmless word really. Alright…moving on.
Well now that could mean several things. Absent, canceled, inoperative, unavailable, on vacation, lost, vanished, not here.
And with that analyzation and justification I have concluded the following:
Her hat, that said, “F*** off” simply meant she was unavailable for marriage or mating. Which then leads me to my final analysis: I applaud the young child for wearing her hat. She’s virginal and remaining abstinent and perhaps she’s trying to convert the gangbangers. How sacchariferous of her. That means sweet y’all. I just had to put in a big word there because I needed to stress the importance of the situation. And I think the girl is an example to other kids on how the words, “F*** off” can really have an impact on your peers.
Or perhaps she’s just a skanky little tramp that needed her mom and/or dad to beat her ass a little more often.
This is my first post on a blog in 10 years. I feel so dirty. So liberated. So—-nah that’s all bs.
It really has been 10 years since I first blogged anything. I’m pretty sure that last blog was all depressing and dark and lame and stupid and booooring. For folks that aren’t aware of who Jeremy, Freckles, and myself are. You may have a looksie at the pics so when I refer to them you won’t think Freckles is my boyfriend <3 and Jeremy is the dog. Who would name their child Freckles anyway right? You know, other than some half deranged celebrity. We’re no celebrities, we’re just regular folks.