After my last post, my mom said to me, "Johanna, you're getting a reputation as a real alcoholic." I pondered on her words as I sipped my morning coffee and Kahlua, and decided that my next post would have nothing to do with alcohol. Instead, I'm going to write about something I'm less talented at: cooking.
    I frequent Pinterest easily more than I frequent books, the gym, and showering combined; I can often be found pinning things related to reading, exercise, and personal hygiene. Like any good middle class female, I also have a board dedicated to foods that I will never get around to ever cooking ever in my life ever. Not because I don't like eating--the only thing I might do more than Pinteresting is eating--but because I'm terrible at recipes. They are always at either end of the spectrum of directions, either being far too specific or dangerously vague. Either way, I take them waaaaaaaaaaay too seriously. I will, and have, tossed an entire batch of ingredients because I accidentally put in 1/3 cup of something instead of 1/4. And if anywhere in the recipe it says, "Put in as much blah as you see fit," I physically run away from the cookbook.
    I'm the kind of person who is terrible at cooking because, for things like cooking, cleaning, exercise, make-up, and dating, I for some reason grew up thinking that there was an exactly right way to do them that I missed out on learning, so now I always assume that I'm doing something wrong, and I don't really do any of them with any amount of success. Furthermore, I can't eyeball measurements, I have no concept of how much time is passing without an exact timer, and portion control is a myth perpetrated by big business to sell organs to children on the black market. Cooking and I are not buddies, but I sure like what cooking produces. You could say that I'm a parasite on the food industry.
    One other trend amongst Pinterest recipes is the fucking cheerful god damn perkiness in every stupid dumb description. "This is a yummy snack your kids will just adore--and it's good for them, and for the family! I take one bite of this yummy yumminess and sunshine spills right out of my ladyhole!" Listen, ma'am (it's usually a ma'am), I like to think that you wouldn't have posted the recipe if it tasted like the inside of a monkey's taint. And don't tell me to "Enjoy!" or "Eat up!" at the end, because, duh.
    "Oh, wait, I'm supposed to eat this now? Oh, wow. This just gets better and better!" said absolutely no one after cooking something. "Good thing they included that step in the recipe, huh?" said absolutely no one's best friend.
    So here is my first attempt at posting my own recipe that is straightforwardly not bullshitting you, and will ironically have everything that I hate about recipes poured into one. Except for the cheerfulness.
    Today, I will be making a smoothie. I drink smoothies a lot, because it feels like I'm doing something healthy while sitting on the couch watching season two of 30 Rock in its entirety for the eight hundredth time. And, to quell the worries of my darling mother, I will punish myself for any mention of alcohol by taking a shot of whiskey. This may seem more like incentive than punishment, but know that I am not very good at taking shots. At all. Getting them to stay down at all is some form of black magic, and not performed without really unattractive sounds and facial expressions. Also, I don't want to step on Hannah Hart's wonderfully drunken toes, so I'm really going to be on my best behavior today.
    Admire now, dear reader, the specificity and integrity with which I create a culinary masterpiece.

Oh man, what a great start. Look at those ingredients, hot damn. Move over, Bobby Flay--wait, where's the milk? Crap. All right, imagine that milk is also there. These are the pieces of my breakfast that I haven't eaten yet, so gimme a damn break.

My mom has a Ninja blender. It comforts me when I remember that I'm still living with my parents. You don't necessarily need a Ninja blender for this recipe, because any blender will do, I guess. I didn't realize that I needed a Ninja blender till I had one. This thing is the tits.

Remove your banana lovingly from it's natural banana wrapper and cut it (the banana, not the peel) into small chunks, then place chunks inside the blender...is what I would say if I was an asshole. Put the banana in the blender. If I have to specify that you peel it first, then please proceed to also put your face in the blender so you can forever wear your stupidity like a mask to warn others to not trust you with an open flame or sharp objects.

I don't have to cut my banana into small chunks because my Ninja does that for me. Moving on.

Add the milk. I don't care what kind; there's usually skim milk in this house which is healthier, but 2% is more delicious and I imagine will, in turn, make the smoothie more delicious. Today, we have 1%. This is apparently a household of inconsistencies.

Why a half cup? Because after some trial and error of making this smoothie, I found that when the milk goes up to a certain spot in the blender, it makes everything nice and smoothie-ish. One day I picked up the half-cup from where we keep the measuring cups and poured milk into it and, would you look at that, it reached basically the same spot in the blender cup. So really, I want to say, "Fill it to, like, there. Ish. How much is it? It's more than none and less than a gallon. Just make the damn smoothie."

I first made this with chocolate peanut butter, and holy mother of crap was it tasty. Sometimes when I have regular peanut butter, I'll put in a squirt of chocolate syrup. I didn't promise a healthy recipe, you health nerds.

Is it all in there? Did I miss anything? No? Good. Blend it up, biotch. Make sure that people in your house are either sleeping or watching a quiet, dramatic scene in a movie to maximize your annoyance levels. What's the point of cooking if nobody knows you're doing it?

Keep in mind, I like my smoothies like I like my [insert sex organ here, which is what she said]: really, really thick. It's more filling and I like the texture (also what she said). Let me be the first to tell you that I am the only person I've ever met to actually like this smoothie. If you like your smoothies not so thick, then I might suggest adding more milk, or less oats. Or finding another god damn recipe, you picky bitch.

I have this smoothie for breakfast any morning that I actually have the ingredients for it. I'd drink it later in the day, too, but it doesn't mix well with alcohol, so there isn't much point--oh, GOD DAMMIT.

Still haven't had breakfast yet. Wish me luck.

**DISCLAIMER** This post was written many years before JK Rowlings dangerous and toxic muses on the the transgender community. Mme. Johanna is staunchly pro-LGBTQ+ and therefore presently finds JK to be someone who managed to write a fantastic series of books while having a soul made of wet turds. An impressive feat.

    Let me begin by saying that I am an obsessive Harry Potter fan. I saw all eight films in theaters multiple times, went to my fair share of midnight book releases, and have attended no fewer than three different Harry Potter parties over the years.

    So with that cleared up, I'd like to outline the reasons why, were I a witch, I would never ever in a million god damn grindylow lifetimes send my son or daughter to Hogwarts.
    "You call yourself a fan?!" You HP fans might be screaming. ("Who gives a crap? And what in fuck's name is a grindylow?" the rest of you may be wondering.) Allow me to explain.

April is National Poetry Month, and I would be shamed if I didn't write a poem. Basically, I got sick of seeing ads and articles promoting National Poetry Month and saying, "Oh, shit. I still haven't written a poem for April." I finally forced myself to sit down for fifteen minutes and write a poem. I caved to the pressure, dear readers. I have wielded.

The month of April once again arrives,
And begs from Language Conquerors a poem.
Before the month of Aphrodite dies,
We must example la vie de Bohème.
And so, we dust off iambs, rhymes, and verses,
Arranging till they satisfy the heart.
Again, again, again, thus be our curses--
To speak for love and loss, thus is our part
To play; to separate the soul, as sleuths
Separate the bloodshed and the clues.
We gentle soldiers verbalize the truth
Muddled hearts might hear for healing’s use.

For if I can't promote my soulful scrawl,
Then what’s the point of writing it at all?

Guys will make your heart sing,
Then they’ll leave you high and dry.
Girls will leave you also--
But at least they’ll tell you why.

            ~August 20th, 2012

January
Pt. I:

    “The bastards. The insufferable, low-life—shithead bastards!”
    Eliza was pacing the room, back and forth and back again near the window, too upset to sit still. Eric knew it’d be a while before she was calm and seated. News of a malicious murder on television didn’t have an effect on her; they oftentimes became plot inspirations for the novellas and graphic novels that paid her bills. Nothing would be written about crimes against her family unless she could solve them first.
    She suddenly stopped and faced her brother. “Any suspects?”
    Eric had been sitting in silence for so long that he needed to clear his throat to speak.
    “They’ve arrested Dave.”
    Her eyebrows knotted together. “Dave? David Westfore—you think he robbed your house?”
    “You heard him at the bar the other night,” Eric said. “He’s been after me for weeks.”
    Eliza smiled and resumed her pacing, the clicking of her black-leather pumps offsetting the sound of the clock on the wall. “And here I thought he was all talk.”
    Eliza was chewing the inside of her lip as she walked, an absentminded thinking habit of hers. Eric watched her with his head craned uncomfortably upwards, both because his current state of depression had him slouching severely in his chair, and because Eliza had always been much taller than him, ever since his disappointing puberty growth spurt had failed to catch up to her.
    She looked at her brother again, her pendulumic movement gradually slowing down. “Did David confess?”
    Eric shook his head.
    “So they haven’t located the—”
    “No.”
    She paused. “I guess it makes sense. He’s one of the only people who knows how important it is, and how much it’s worth. Never trust a pawnshop worker, I guess Dad was right to say.”
    Eliza slowed to another stop and watched Eric’s chin sink to his chest. She paused again. Then she walked cautiously over to him and hesitated by his side. He was still, waiting, curious as to what she would do. Eliza was not one to mistake for a “people person”; her shoulder was never one to cry on, and it was a very rare and special man to ever find a comforting embrace in her arms. That did not mean she couldn’t recognize its value.
    She withdrew her hand from where it had been clasped in the other behind her back and, after a third pause, placed it on her brother’s shoulder.
    Eric lifted his head to look at her. She smiled. “It’ll be all right,” she said.
    He nodded, his dismal gaze returning to his lap. She gave his shoulder a squeeze, then planted a quick kiss on the top of his head. “The guest room is all set up for you. Will the detectives still be there in the morning, over at your place?”
    “Yeah, probably…” He let out an irritated sigh and ran his hands over his face. “Dammit, they probably will be. Messing the place up, touching all my stuff…”
    “Well, my apartment is your apartment, little brother,” she said. “I’m going to sleep. I want to stop by in the morning, before they ruin all of the evidence.”
    “No, Eliza, please. Don’t—”
    But she was already down the hall. “Goodnight!”
    Eric sighed again before he went into the kitchen for a beer. While her spirit was never one to be hired by the many rules of the legal system, Eliza Hedges always happened to find herself amidst any local crimes. Like a second job, only one that she didn’t get paid for. Her passion for her family was equaled only by her eye for seemingly hidden clues. It was what kept her useful, kept her sane. Seeing what others didn’t kept her busy. It made her different, and gave her direction.
    As Eric cracked open his beer and brought the bottle to his lips, he wondered if anyone would know who he was without sharing her last name. It was for this reason he hoped, partially as a joke and partially as petty selfishness, that she would never get married.