Quantum Crush Grinder

Quantum Crush is a posh herb and spice grinder line that belongs in every kitchen. Superbly designed and engineered to perfection. It's also ON SALE RIGHT NOW!!  #grindwithstyle #QuantumCrush

The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar and other tales of my first garden.

I am a garden virgin. This spring I decided to pop my cherry (tomato) and grow a garden. Opening day of this season's farmers market I picked up 5-6 tomato plants of different sizes and varieties. Then my darling Rey came home in the following weeks with an apple tree, a peach tree, a fig tree (fig leaves are MASSIVE!), a very nice healthy grape vine with a tiny green bunch of grapes. I called them grapettes. Then I found a henna plant, and thought A: WTF is a beautiful henna plant doing at my local Lowes? and B. I need this now. 

Here is a shot of most of the "garden" when we first set it up. 

I have never been able to keep so much as a cactus alive, and living in the desert, that is pretty ridiculous. So my plan of action was to line the different greenery against the walkway to the house. It has nice filtered sunlight and I had to walk by them everyday, several times a day. It worked! I watered the lucky little suckers! The tomato plants were massive, reaching out and slapping me as I came in and out with groceries/children/trash/animals/life. We secured them to posts and sticks, I brought out some green thread (don't judge me, flying my the seat of my pants here) and kind of lassoed them away from the walkway. Clearly (after reading this) I need to find a different spot on the porch for them, I am now aware of their existence enough to not want them to die. Thanks blogging, you are super helpful.

Ok- enough about the tomatoes. Let's talk grapes. I totally loved the grape plant. See here, right behind Jack doing a little fishing.

The grapettes turned into two grown-up grape bunches and they were purple and ripe and beautiful. We just let them hang a few 
more days to see if they would get a little bigger. 

Then DUM DUM DUMMMMMMM...

The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar. Actually THREE caterpillars. Big, fat, juicy, full, satisfied caterpillars. They ate EVERY LEAF. Every beautiful leaf, gone! I know this is small potatoes to any seasoned gardener, but I was devastated. Violated. Picked clean by an adorable beloved children's character. They didn't bother with the grapes (thanks, assholes) so we sat with Jack in our lap and ate every one, staring at our ransacked grapevine. They were amazingly good, sweet and juicy.

So, I am in the process of figuring out what if anything I can do to save it, how to deter the caterpillars without killing them (they are so damn cute, argh!) and figuring out how to better optimized my first little garden. Any suggestions? 

Till next time...

Em

The Beauty Battle

by Emily Horne

I woke up one morning and found out that I'm old

My feet are tired and my bones are cold

I've got grey hairs growing in the shape of a tiara

My boobs are migrating south to Guadalajara.

My wrinkles are multiplying

My eyebrows stopped complying,

When wave goodbye to my mates

My arm fat reverberates

So here's what I need to fix this disaster

gorilla glue, duct tape, bondo and plaster

Shape-wear, hair dye, primer, and Spanx

Tweezers, and white strips, and Tom Hanks.

I don't really need him, but I love him dearly

I'll try to stay focused because I mean this sincerely

A ton of work goes into being so foxy

It takes dedication, persistence and epoxy

I knows it's nature's big grand plan,

But I'm not about to give up, man!

I'll hike 'em up and squeeze it in

I'll exfoliate and paint my skin

I'll glue on some hair and shave the others

It's crazy! I know! And if cause if I had my druthers

Hairy pits & saggy tits would all the rage

A woman's body tells a story, an epic tale of age.

Poem: Ugly Feet

 
Ugly Feet
by Emily Horne 2/1/2013

Hello my name is Emily, and I have ugly feet.

But I just flop them out there, screw being discreet.

Hideous! Deformed! Misshapen and battered!

Anything short of 'mutant' and I'm flattered.

First off, they’re HUGE. Like big ol' pink flippers.

Size 10 ½ wide, if I use the big clippers.

My second toe (Lucy) is as long as a lighter

With Lucy and Biggin's, I'm a prizewinning toe fighter

I can pinch you so hard it'll make you bruise

You'll beg me to stop and to put on some shoes

I digress, apologize, I'm not here to boast

I'll tell you what has my podiatrist engrossed.

These bunions, you see, these big protruding bones?

They aren't warts, or growths, or look like Davy Jones...

It just happens to be the way my tootsies are shaped

They don't look half bad when they’re sanded and scraped

A few coats of good polish, bright red- if you please

and a cute pair of sandals to let in the breeze

Maybe I should hide them, just put them away...

But not one solitary fuck was given this day.

Poetry: Dirty Socks

Dirty Socks

by Emily Horne  1/24/13

In my little world, I am in charge of clean socks.

You'll wash them yourself? To that I say bollox!

Huffing and puffing and blowing my house in.

Not a clean sock in sight, let's get out the violin.

Ok, I'll wash some, although the sock is arbitrary

I mean, I've washed 'em it before, it's not revolutionary

But, I've gone nuts, gone mad and about to shave a mohawk

But it's got so little to do with your dirty fucking sock.

I'm real, and I'm smart and I'm undeniably clever

I embrace each adventure and encourage endeavor.

I have more to give than I can even withhold

If I let it all out, it would grow tenfold.

But I don’t, 'cause I can't, 'cause there is dirt in my grout

and the kids need a bath and we are out of sauerkraut.

This damn laundry (along with your socks),

is 3 feet high and is unwilling to stop

Dishes, and dinner and the run-of-the-mill

Excuse me, sorry, do you have a sleeping pill?

This is the part of the poem where I make it okay

to eat the shit sandwich and spirit away

But I can't, so I wont, so at the end of this ditty

Your socks are still dirty, and I have no fucking pity.

Poetry: Bella Franchesca Divine

Bella Franchesca Divine

by Emily Horne 1/21/13

For Bella Franchesca Divine
Being Bowlegged's just fine
A pigeon-toed beauty
A cross-eyed cutie

Just don't ask her to walk a straight line

See, my Bella Franchesca

She often reminded me of Tesla

the whirlwind of energy she created

when she prowled around and eventually mated

Oh, wait, did I forget to disclose?

That Bella is my cat, and she has 24 toes.

But hold on to your hats, folks, this one's a doozy

My Bella, my cat, is one helluva floozy.

A polydact, six toes on each paw

Hemmingway's cats- they shared the same flaw

I'm betting his cats weren’t quite so salacious

I have a bad feeling her hoohah is... hmmm... spacious?

Okay, maybe that's a bit mean

I mean, I don't want to be obscene

Honestly I have to say I'm impressed.

I mean, you'd think she'd be depressed.

Extra toes, bow-legged and cross eyed?

Appearance withstanding she pounces with pride.

The moral of this twisted kitty tale

Your fugly can be right off the Richter scale

Just take a note from Bella Franchesca Divine

Shake whatcha mamma gave you

and you'll be one sexy feline.

Poem: Dear Johnny

(I wrote this in 2005, in a twist about Bush... clearly) 

Dear Johnny,

Why didn't the devil consult with me

Before laying the golden fiddle at Johnny's feet?

Devils in the house of the sun that sunk

And Johnny can't get up that kind of funk

I know the real Johnny would agree

Still the man in black, but now he's free

Cash? Who's that? Johnny Ritter they said!

They didn't even know that country was dead.

Oh hell, oh well, they'll never learn

Cowboys are gone and it's Dubya's turn

That chicken's in the bread pan, he's pickin' out dough,

He's done more damage then we'll ever know

Two more Johnny's come to mind

Kerry & Edwards- they walked the line

But no match to the man with crude oil

And if you lose, the devil gets your soul

He won, we lost- but I'm gonna start singin'

To the Devil's music and it's liberal swingin'

Mr. Cash knew then and you'll know now

You applaud the Devil while Johnny takes a bow.

Poetry: Hot Dog Man

Hot Dog Man
by: Emily Horne

My stand is portable, affordable and neat
Sits on the southwest corner of 42nd Street
Can't beat my delicious, nutritious, expandable frank
My dogs are divine! Now, take that to the bank!

One twenty-five for a dog loaded or bare
Mini-meals readied with caution and care
Merciful and kind, my dogs nourish the broke
Fuels children and seniors and cold 'n drunk folk

I've served sages and I've served nuts
My clients range from brilliant to putz
Usually I keep the screwballs away
But now and again I have a crappy, no-good day

Like the time two thugs took off with my cart
They rammed it right into the Super Mart
Weenies went flying and relish SPLAT!
Stunned I saw my dogs were eaten by cats

Two weeks down, my new stand revamped and nice
Maybe those thugs wanted red beans and rice
But dogs are my passion and my life’s big scheme
So buy a hot dog and support someone's dream.

Poetry: Mystic Minute

Mystic Minute

Into the Mystic playin’ on the stereo

10,000 cigarettes and dirty brown amber ale

Turning heads she struts clip clomp, clip clomp

She thumps through unedited and bare

Defying gravity her body held tight

As she straddled the ladder-back

And stared with eyes that begged

But her face said ‘I got this, game over’

Oh- he was weak and this, his chance

But to be eager is to be desperate

So he continued to dry his pints

With each glass he bought courage

He could smell her and he remembered

September and her hair

She sat there like a lion

And he wanted her to pounce

But she wouldn’t- no, not yet

And there in that sweaty palmed

Heart-pounding silence with his

Head cocked and ears perked

He wouldn’t speak- no, not yet

And her lips pursed and so much

Tension, electronic juggling

In that moment, I live eternal

Poetry: Nero-ICU

About my Dad in the Nero-ICU: a (slam) poem

by Emily Horne on Monday, November 7, 2011 at 10:01am ·

Wake up
wake up
wake up
daddy
MASSIVE BRAIN BLEED
surgery
ventilator
brain waves
tracheotomy
insulin
wake up
wake up
INFECTION
fever
wide spectrum antibiotics- (just like on House)
open your eyes
open your eyes
seizures
SEIZURES
in the brain
Verced
blood pressure
pressure
pressure
pressure
21 days
“he wont wake up”
“he might wake up”
“he will wake up”
WAKE THE FUCK UP
no sedatives
just him
no movement
eyes reactive
good stats
his stats
I read his stats like they are part of a long conversation that we are having. A long overdue conversation not in a grocery store or in passing on the streets, and I have always had hope, incredible hope. Hope we would be together and go fishing again and tell stories again and eat uni with a quail egg again. I hoped for so long...then...
CRITICAL BRAIN INJURY
and I hoped some more
open your eyes
move your foot
squeeze my hand
and I wonder...
how did it happen?
why did it happen?
the merry band of coulda woulda shoulda's come dancing in.
I hate this hospital chair
it is supposed to fold out into a bed
it has massive cracks when you lay on it
the cracks let in the cold air
of the Nero ICU

and daddy
my daddo
laying there
still
breathing in rhythm
asleep?
dreaming?
Out on an adventure and it is a cruel joke that we are screaming at his body.
Lonely.
So
Lonely.
Day 24.
wake up
wake up daddy.