There we were, standing in the kitchen, ready to get some rockin' new ink.
No,
it wasn't a tattoo party. (Side note: Seriously, don't get tattoos at
tattoo parties, unless the goal is to leave with a permanent doodle
marring your flesh, some psuedo-kanji proclaiming you a prostitute, or
hepatitis. Good ol' hepatitis.) We'd just returned home from a friend's
daughter's birthday party with goodie bags that included matching lady
bug temporary tattoos. Momentous. Occasion.
So, I helped her hop up to sit on the kitchen counter top. I
prepped the necessary tattooing supplies (wet rag? check!) and we
planned where to put them. Phoenix chose her right forearm. I did the
same. Twinsies. Word.
"Alright, Phoenix Greenbeanix", I said to her. "Are you prepared to get your super awesome ladybug tattoo?!"
She looked me square in the eyes.
"Mama", she said. "It's not a real tattoo. I'm not old enough to make that decision."
Fair enough, you tiny little rules-lawyer. Fair enough.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
The importance of the "L" sound.
Phoenix: "Mama, I'm a bird! I'm fapping! Fap, fap, fap, fap, fap! I'm a biiiiird!"
Me: *speechless*
Me: *speechless*
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
You want a what?
"Mumma, I need to eat a hedgehog. Is it time yet?"
Phoenix is certainly an eccentric child, but this was a new level of where-did-I-go-so-wrong. She wants to eat a hedgehog.
My four year old is a monster.
Worst is, she apparently assumes there's some sort of appropriate "Hedgehog Devour-Hour". It's exactly like Happy Hour, but entirely different in every possible way. Is it time yet, Mom? Time to feast on what just might be the cutest, and least edible, critters on Earth?
No, child. It is not time. Long live the Hedgehog! Viva la Hedgolution!
"Phoenix, we don't eat Hedgehogs. We love them. People keep them as pets, just like how we have puppies. Some people have them as pets. We don't eat pets."
So there she sits. Baffled.
"But they aren't like puppies!" she says. Now she's getting upset.
"They aren't pets. They're for eeeeating!"
I begin mentality tallying how much money I'll need to put her into therapy. I decide it'll be more affordable to go for the fashionable Hannibal Lecter face mask, but less effective in the long run.
She hops off of her seat and darts into the kitchen. She begins rummaging through the fridge. A moment later she comes running back into the living room holding something in her hands. I'm about to tell her to go back into the kitchen to close the fridge door when she thrusts her hands toward my face.
"This is not a good pet." she tells me indignantly.
I look at the stuffed quahog in her hands. Realization dawns. Quahog!
Not hedgehog.
"You're half right, Phoenix." I tell her. "A quahog would make a terrible pet."
Once our quahog lunch was over I showed her some pictures of hedgehogs. Her enthusiastic squealing (EEEEE, they are the adorablest! EEEEE!) reassured me that I can go ahead and toss the Hannibal mask back into storage.
At least, until she's a teenager...
Phoenix is certainly an eccentric child, but this was a new level of where-did-I-go-so-wrong. She wants to eat a hedgehog.
My four year old is a monster.
Worst is, she apparently assumes there's some sort of appropriate "Hedgehog Devour-Hour". It's exactly like Happy Hour, but entirely different in every possible way. Is it time yet, Mom? Time to feast on what just might be the cutest, and least edible, critters on Earth?
No, child. It is not time. Long live the Hedgehog! Viva la Hedgolution!
"Phoenix, we don't eat Hedgehogs. We love them. People keep them as pets, just like how we have puppies. Some people have them as pets. We don't eat pets."
So there she sits. Baffled.
"But they aren't like puppies!" she says. Now she's getting upset.
"They aren't pets. They're for eeeeating!"
I begin mentality tallying how much money I'll need to put her into therapy. I decide it'll be more affordable to go for the fashionable Hannibal Lecter face mask, but less effective in the long run.
She hops off of her seat and darts into the kitchen. She begins rummaging through the fridge. A moment later she comes running back into the living room holding something in her hands. I'm about to tell her to go back into the kitchen to close the fridge door when she thrusts her hands toward my face.
"This is not a good pet." she tells me indignantly.
I look at the stuffed quahog in her hands. Realization dawns. Quahog!
Not hedgehog.
"You're half right, Phoenix." I tell her. "A quahog would make a terrible pet."
Once our quahog lunch was over I showed her some pictures of hedgehogs. Her enthusiastic squealing (EEEEE, they are the adorablest! EEEEE!) reassured me that I can go ahead and toss the Hannibal mask back into storage.
At least, until she's a teenager...
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
A fate worse than death.
I've been writing up this list of things worse than walking into a fresh cloud of dog fart while battling morning sickness.
Things Worse Than Walking Into a Dog Fart While Battling Morning Sickness:
I have yet to come up with a single thing. French kissing a piranha almost made that list.
Almost.
1.
2.
3.
2.
3.
I have yet to come up with a single thing. French kissing a piranha almost made that list.
Almost.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
The Lament of the Old
The old folk, they tell me about how they used to run and play outside. "Don't come in until dinner is ready." They played, and imagined, and threw rocks, and accidentally hit baseballs into the crotchety neighbor's windows. They skinned their knees. They blew up toy soldiers. They made crowns out of flowers.
"Kids these days. Ugh. It's just the end of the world. The end of America!" they say.
"Kids these days. They just sit in front of their televisions or their laptops or their iMajiggers. They're soft. The schools spend so much time worrying about their precious self esteem that they don't bother to teach 'em. Everyone wins, everyone's special? They're fat and lazy. They don't know the value of hard work. They're spoiled. America is going down the tubes."
Oh, the lament of the Old.
So, I come bearing this tidbit of good news. Take heart! (Take pacemaker?) A time may come were we all press 8 for English, and when our children are too lardy to run the kickball bases without a 15 minute union break.
But that day is not today!
A time may come when Ronald McDonald is the write-in winner for the Presidency. A time may come when the leading injury in children in carpel tunnel syndrome from countless hours of button mashing on the latest video game. It may someday come to pass that it is considered a form of abuse to ban your 7 year old from Facebook.
But that day is not today!
A time may come when public the school systems limit outdoor recess time to a four second glimpse out the window. There may come a day when not one child in our country knows what it feels like to catch a pop fly in a well worn baseball mitt... until the wii comes out with an "Authentic Feel Baseball Mitt" attachment.
But that day is not today.
Of this, I am certain.
At this very moment Bae and Phoenix are leaping about the in backyard. They are armed with one shield, a plastic light saber, a felt centurion helmet, and what appears to be a glow-in-the-dark scythe. They've decimated entire ranks of Bad Guys. They've fought zombies. They've been firefighter, cops, and space pirates. They fought off powerful spells.
They're fighting for good, they're fighting for justice, and they are unknowingly fighting to preserve your Norman Rockwellian ideals of American children. They will fight to the end, or until dinner time when they're called back into the house.
They are stalwart defenders of the-
Oh, wait. And now, they are digging up worms in a surprisingly elaborate plan to catch a robin.
Rest easy, septuagenarians. There are still kids with scraped knees and intact innocence. There are still water balloons, cap guns, superheroes, and the integrity of children who know they're "it" when they've been tagged. Your world is still alive, hidden in the tall grass of my back yard. Your games are still being played. You laughs are still being laughed. Your childhood is still being lived by a new generation of bright-eyed kids. And your nation's future is safe in their dirty, worm-scooping hands.
"Kids these days. Ugh. It's just the end of the world. The end of America!" they say.
"Kids these days. They just sit in front of their televisions or their laptops or their iMajiggers. They're soft. The schools spend so much time worrying about their precious self esteem that they don't bother to teach 'em. Everyone wins, everyone's special? They're fat and lazy. They don't know the value of hard work. They're spoiled. America is going down the tubes."
Oh, the lament of the Old.
So, I come bearing this tidbit of good news. Take heart! (Take pacemaker?) A time may come were we all press 8 for English, and when our children are too lardy to run the kickball bases without a 15 minute union break.
But that day is not today!
A time may come when Ronald McDonald is the write-in winner for the Presidency. A time may come when the leading injury in children in carpel tunnel syndrome from countless hours of button mashing on the latest video game. It may someday come to pass that it is considered a form of abuse to ban your 7 year old from Facebook.
But that day is not today!
A time may come when public the school systems limit outdoor recess time to a four second glimpse out the window. There may come a day when not one child in our country knows what it feels like to catch a pop fly in a well worn baseball mitt... until the wii comes out with an "Authentic Feel Baseball Mitt" attachment.
But that day is not today.
Of this, I am certain.
At this very moment Bae and Phoenix are leaping about the in backyard. They are armed with one shield, a plastic light saber, a felt centurion helmet, and what appears to be a glow-in-the-dark scythe. They've decimated entire ranks of Bad Guys. They've fought zombies. They've been firefighter, cops, and space pirates. They fought off powerful spells.
They're fighting for good, they're fighting for justice, and they are unknowingly fighting to preserve your Norman Rockwellian ideals of American children. They will fight to the end, or until dinner time when they're called back into the house.
They are stalwart defenders of the-
Oh, wait. And now, they are digging up worms in a surprisingly elaborate plan to catch a robin.
Rest easy, septuagenarians. There are still kids with scraped knees and intact innocence. There are still water balloons, cap guns, superheroes, and the integrity of children who know they're "it" when they've been tagged. Your world is still alive, hidden in the tall grass of my back yard. Your games are still being played. You laughs are still being laughed. Your childhood is still being lived by a new generation of bright-eyed kids. And your nation's future is safe in their dirty, worm-scooping hands.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Not a baby goose. That other kind of Gosling.
Maybe I'm just too far to the right on the Kinsey Scale to appreciate this Ryan Gosling chap. Because I think he looks kind of like a dingus. But seeing all of those "Hey, girl." images was insightful, even if it did result in me repeatedly asking myself what women could possible see in this guy.
I mean hell, he doesn't even have a decent mustache.
There's a sadness in his eyes, leading me to believe
that this shot was taken moments after he realized
he'd never be half the man Tom Selleck is.
I mean hell, he doesn't even have a decent mustache.
There's a sadness in his eyes, leading me to believe
that this shot was taken moments after he realized
he'd never be half the man Tom Selleck is.
I'm pretty sure that I could grow a better mustache, honestly. Annnnyway. These "hey girl" posters read like a letter of desperation from an entire generation of straight women craving a man who:
1. has the ability to do things without being asked.
2. knows how to build/make things.
3. is good to children and animals.
4. listens.
5. is clean and well dressed.
6. is complimentary and romantic.
Hey, guess what, Normal Man. You're in luck! You, too, can attain meme-worthy status. It's easy! Just do things, make stuff, care, listen, bathe, and take your attempts at romance beyond poking your lover in the back with your erection while she's trying to sleep.
So what the gist of this Hey Girl meme is saying is that a man should be self-reliant, capable, compassionate, respectful, and romantic if he wants to represent himself as a good dating selection?! Shocking.
Yet, taking a look at My Very Worst Date, OKCupid, some of the men I know, I realize I should start teaching a class or something. The class material would be so simple to compile. It's all just common sense. The title, on the other hand, could be tricky.
Maybe:
"How to Be More Like Ryan Gosling: Refrain From Referencing Your Boner In Pick-Up Lines, and Other Useful Dating Tips"
or
"How to Be More Like Ryan Gosling: Building Bookshelves, Making Dinner, and Actually Getting Laid (Without Paying For It!)"
or
"The Gosling Technique: Self-Reliance and its Aphrodisiac Effect on Women"
or
"Hey Girl is Not Your Maid, Not Your Mommy: The Gosling Transformation"
Hmm, what do you think?
1. has the ability to do things without being asked.
2. knows how to build/make things.
3. is good to children and animals.
4. listens.
5. is clean and well dressed.
6. is complimentary and romantic.
Hey, guess what, Normal Man. You're in luck! You, too, can attain meme-worthy status. It's easy! Just do things, make stuff, care, listen, bathe, and take your attempts at romance beyond poking your lover in the back with your erection while she's trying to sleep.
So what the gist of this Hey Girl meme is saying is that a man should be self-reliant, capable, compassionate, respectful, and romantic if he wants to represent himself as a good dating selection?! Shocking.
Yet, taking a look at My Very Worst Date, OKCupid, some of the men I know, I realize I should start teaching a class or something. The class material would be so simple to compile. It's all just common sense. The title, on the other hand, could be tricky.
Maybe:
"How to Be More Like Ryan Gosling: Refrain From Referencing Your Boner In Pick-Up Lines, and Other Useful Dating Tips"
or
"How to Be More Like Ryan Gosling: Building Bookshelves, Making Dinner, and Actually Getting Laid (Without Paying For It!)"
or
"The Gosling Technique: Self-Reliance and its Aphrodisiac Effect on Women"
or
"Hey Girl is Not Your Maid, Not Your Mommy: The Gosling Transformation"
Hmm, what do you think?
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Parenting Tip
When you really want your children to take a nap, make important plans that you're looking forward to. Without fail, they'll be in a deep sleep for no apparent reason right when you need them to get situated so you can get going.
Need them to wake up in a jiffy? Plan instead to have a long hot uninterrupted bath, or a few minutes to share with a glass of wine and a book. Better yet, plan on some sexytime. The second you're up for gettin' down, they'll burst from the depths of their slumber completely unprovoked.
Foolproof.
Need them to wake up in a jiffy? Plan instead to have a long hot uninterrupted bath, or a few minutes to share with a glass of wine and a book. Better yet, plan on some sexytime. The second you're up for gettin' down, they'll burst from the depths of their slumber completely unprovoked.
Foolproof.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Get down. Get funky.
Sometimes I clean my house while loudly singing songs from Disney's Mulan soundtrack.
Now is about to be one of those times.
Now is about to be one of those times.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Emergency
I'm having a pretty serious crisis of identity right about now.
I pride myself on being a minimalist. I like small, simple, straightforward, non-name brand, repurposed, hand crafted, all natural, homegrown, and so on and so on. I might legally change my middle name to "Frugal". I thrift shop, consign, and bargain hunt. Where some boast about how expensive and luxurious their latest purchases are, I instead excitedly boast about my new sweater that I scored for $0.73, a dazzling hippie skirt for $2.50, or my homemade laundry detergent that saves $0.14 per load. I make broke look good, make healthy very affordable, and make ritzy and glam look chintzy and tawdry. I pinch pennies like old ladies pinch fat babies' cheeks, which is to say lovingly.
And yet here I am. Possessed.
I need more socks. More Sock Dreams socks.
Sweet mother of Pete, am I about to purchase something for full price?! SOMEONE HOLD ME BACK!
I pride myself on being a minimalist. I like small, simple, straightforward, non-name brand, repurposed, hand crafted, all natural, homegrown, and so on and so on. I might legally change my middle name to "Frugal". I thrift shop, consign, and bargain hunt. Where some boast about how expensive and luxurious their latest purchases are, I instead excitedly boast about my new sweater that I scored for $0.73, a dazzling hippie skirt for $2.50, or my homemade laundry detergent that saves $0.14 per load. I make broke look good, make healthy very affordable, and make ritzy and glam look chintzy and tawdry. I pinch pennies like old ladies pinch fat babies' cheeks, which is to say lovingly.
And yet here I am. Possessed.
I need more socks. More Sock Dreams socks.
Sweet mother of Pete, am I about to purchase something for full price?! SOMEONE HOLD ME BACK!
Monday, February 27, 2012
Omnomnivore, Part 1
Who wouldn't love a hot date?
I would say, "close your eyes and imagine the sexy date I'm describing," but you're reading my blog and eyeparts are pretty necessary for that. So instead, continue reading but pretend that you're closing your eyes and imagining this jive.
Eyes fake-closed? Good. No peeking.
Here goes!
"Jazzy, swanky music plays in the background of a sumptuously appointed restaurant . Behold, your date is already waiting at the table. Smooth, sweet, and appealing. Obviously healthy, Mediterranean, rich. Exotic and slightly -hmm what's the word- spicy. Hot. Tantalizing. All yours. And stuffed full of goat cheese."
Somewhere, a record scratches with a "vrrrrrpt!". No, I'm not starting a segment on match making, or Mediterranean lovers with a fancy for goat cheese. (yet...)
Instead, I'm getting you ready for today's recipe of mouthwatering deliciousness.
I call it The Hot Date!
The Hot Date is a wonderfully flavorful, healthy, downright decadent little number. It's lightening fast, super easy, and positively posh. A date, stuffed with goat cheese, topped with walnut, sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with honey, is then baked, and moments later devoured.
Impress your guests, your actual date, and your own tastebuds. Here's how:
To make 10 Hot Dates you'll need:
10 dates, dried and pitted
2-ish tablespoons of goat cheese
handful of walnuts, shelled and chopped
cinnamon
honey or agave nectar if desired
Here's how you do it:
Like so!
Wish your date was a Vegan Date? Awesome! Toss some extra walnuts in a food processor with a bit of olive oil and a hint of salt until they're minced or smooth, texture's up to you. Use this mixture in place of the goat cheese. Don't have a food processor? No problem! Just chop the walnuts as finely as you can. Stuff the dates. Then, arrange them side by side on your baking pan, and drizzle a bit of olive oil over the lot, followed by a light sprinkling of salt. Drizzle your Date with agave nectar instead of honey. High fives, all around.
So you've got left over ingredients, and want to try something a bit different? Add a few chopped dates, walnuts, goat cheese, and honey mustard dressing (I use Newman's Own Light Honey Mustard dressing) over a bed of baby spinach or romaine.
Happy nomming, Omnomnivores!
I would say, "close your eyes and imagine the sexy date I'm describing," but you're reading my blog and eyeparts are pretty necessary for that. So instead, continue reading but pretend that you're closing your eyes and imagining this jive.
Eyes fake-closed? Good. No peeking.
Here goes!
"Jazzy, swanky music plays in the background of a sumptuously appointed restaurant . Behold, your date is already waiting at the table. Smooth, sweet, and appealing. Obviously healthy, Mediterranean, rich. Exotic and slightly -hmm what's the word- spicy. Hot. Tantalizing. All yours. And stuffed full of goat cheese."
Somewhere, a record scratches with a "vrrrrrpt!". No, I'm not starting a segment on match making, or Mediterranean lovers with a fancy for goat cheese. (yet...)
Instead, I'm getting you ready for today's recipe of mouthwatering deliciousness.
I call it The Hot Date!
The Hot Date is a wonderfully flavorful, healthy, downright decadent little number. It's lightening fast, super easy, and positively posh. A date, stuffed with goat cheese, topped with walnut, sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with honey, is then baked, and moments later devoured.
Impress your guests, your actual date, and your own tastebuds. Here's how:
To make 10 Hot Dates you'll need:
10 dates, dried and pitted
2-ish tablespoons of goat cheese
handful of walnuts, shelled and chopped
cinnamon
honey or agave nectar if desired
Here's how you do it:
- Assemble your delicious ingredients, as well as a knife, a cutting board, and a baking pan.
- Wash your hands well.
- Preheat your oven to 350.
- Get pumped. Woo!
- Slice a small sliver from the date, the long way.
Like so!
- Do this for every date. This will open the dates up so they can be stuffed.
- Eating the little sliver is practically required by law. So get to it!
- Next, using your clean fingers or your knife, stuff the dates with as much or as little goat cheese as you'd like. I'm a huge fan of goat cheese, so my method pretty much involves trying to bend reality to my will by stuffing an impossible amount of goat cheese into the wee dates.
- Top with walnuts.
- Sprinkle with cinnamon.
- Drizzle with honey or agave, if desired. This isn't necessary, as the dates are superbly sweet, but it does add a certain je ne sais quoi.
- Stare at them. You did this. You created such a culinary masterpiece. In about 4 minutes. Yes, you're that awesome.
- Put them into the oven.
- Contemplate setting a timer.
- Refuse to set a timer! You are a culinary arteeest. You are a food-crafting god among men. No, you and your creations need no timers. They'll be ready in about 5 minutes. You'll wing it.
- Touchdown dance across the kitchen. This is a pretty important part of the whole cooking processes.
- As the glow of well earned self-congratulation fades, consider the gravity of the situation. Here you are, creating a homemade, delicious, healthy snack or breakfast, with real ingredients. There are folks out there who at this very minute are waiting in drive-thru lines for their next meals. Waiting for items that have been plasticized, synthesized, and hydrogenated into a mockery of food. They are not touchdown dancing in their kitchens. Think on this for a minute. Good work, you.
- Amble over to the oven, open the door, and peer in to see your Hot Dates. If the goat cheese looks soft and melty, or if you see some sizzling happening, go ahead and pull them out.
- If you have patience enough to even bother, plate them up, take a cell phone picture, and send it to everyone you know.
- Finally, enjoy!
Wish your date was a Vegan Date? Awesome! Toss some extra walnuts in a food processor with a bit of olive oil and a hint of salt until they're minced or smooth, texture's up to you. Use this mixture in place of the goat cheese. Don't have a food processor? No problem! Just chop the walnuts as finely as you can. Stuff the dates. Then, arrange them side by side on your baking pan, and drizzle a bit of olive oil over the lot, followed by a light sprinkling of salt. Drizzle your Date with agave nectar instead of honey. High fives, all around.
So you've got left over ingredients, and want to try something a bit different? Add a few chopped dates, walnuts, goat cheese, and honey mustard dressing (I use Newman's Own Light Honey Mustard dressing) over a bed of baby spinach or romaine.
Happy nomming, Omnomnivores!
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
I am the President of the Procrasti Nation.
Hey guys.
I've got a metric eff-ton of awesome recipes that I've been trying out and tasting. I've even remembered to take some blurry and off center photos of some of them! Now, I've got to upload said photos and write out the recipes. Then you can gallivant into your kitchens with gusto and stride out with pride and something homemade and delicious.
But it's nice out. Which means instead of taking time to adequately update my bl- no seriously, guys, there are birds chirping. Oh, right. Like I was saying, instead of updating my blog I've been going out on bike rides and such.
If you're a New Englander, then you probably understand just how desperate things can get around February and March. Suddenly 50 degrees and not-pouring-or-hailing-or-"thundersnow"-ing is just THE.BEST.DAY.EVER.
So, I'm hoping to update for real tonight. After the sun has set. And is no longer beckoning to me with the prospects of an hour outside without frostbite.
Somebody hold me to that.
I've got a metric eff-ton of awesome recipes that I've been trying out and tasting. I've even remembered to take some blurry and off center photos of some of them! Now, I've got to upload said photos and write out the recipes. Then you can gallivant into your kitchens with gusto and stride out with pride and something homemade and delicious.
But it's nice out. Which means instead of taking time to adequately update my bl- no seriously, guys, there are birds chirping. Oh, right. Like I was saying, instead of updating my blog I've been going out on bike rides and such.
If you're a New Englander, then you probably understand just how desperate things can get around February and March. Suddenly 50 degrees and not-pouring-or-hailing-or-"thundersnow"-ing is just THE.BEST.DAY.EVER.
So, I'm hoping to update for real tonight. After the sun has set. And is no longer beckoning to me with the prospects of an hour outside without frostbite.
Somebody hold me to that.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Omnommables
So, I'm thinking I'm going to put in a weekly test cooking/baking/kitchening segment into my blog. It'll involve how-to pictures, step by step instructions, and a review at the end letting you know if the test recipe was great, atrocious, or somewhere in between.
Since I'm currently not eating meat the recipes will be vegetarian or vegan. Also I'll be attempting to make things that are budget friendly (as I tend to be wiiiicked cheap), kid friendly (as I am outnumbered by the little savages), and easy to prepare.
I've been futzing with some recipes already, so I'll be adding those soon. They include veggie tofu "egg" scramble, kale-tofu-berry-banana-green tea smoothie, and a sweet potato-banana-berry-yogurt drink, vegan homemade instant oatmeal mix, kale chips, savory roasted goat cheese and walnut stuffed dates, and "eggless, nogless eggnog".
I'm always open to new test-kitchen ideas. Come up with a recipe suggestion that I feature and love and I'll name it after you and credit you in my blog of course.
So stay tuned for tasty jive. And ranting. But that's unavoidable.
Since I'm currently not eating meat the recipes will be vegetarian or vegan. Also I'll be attempting to make things that are budget friendly (as I tend to be wiiiicked cheap), kid friendly (as I am outnumbered by the little savages), and easy to prepare.
I've been futzing with some recipes already, so I'll be adding those soon. They include veggie tofu "egg" scramble, kale-tofu-berry-banana-green tea smoothie, and a sweet potato-banana-berry-yogurt drink, vegan homemade instant oatmeal mix, kale chips, savory roasted goat cheese and walnut stuffed dates, and "eggless, nogless eggnog".
I'm always open to new test-kitchen ideas. Come up with a recipe suggestion that I feature and love and I'll name it after you and credit you in my blog of course.
So stay tuned for tasty jive. And ranting. But that's unavoidable.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
On Cosmo
I hate Cosmo.
Actual hate.
And I'll tell you why. Largely because it's my blog, and so I get to rant about whatever, so yep.
We ladies have got 3 sexually penetrable orifices. Men have four limbs, 4.5 limbs if we're counting the penis. Granted, there are some gents who range more in the 4.05 range. But let's just pick a good middle ground imaginary but point-conveying number. How about 4.33? Cause "it's not the size that counts", which is exactly what we'll say until a few hours after a messy breakup, in which case -truth's out- we were laughing inwardly the entire time. That moaning sound? That was just from the effort it took to keep said laugh on the inside. BUT I digress.
SO, the maximum combination of limb and orifice? 13. Yep. And the estimated number of years humans have been making the two-backed beast? Wikipedia says 200,000 years. Surely we have come up with every combination and position for said combination by now. Right?
So tell me, Internetz, how is it that every single time I'm in line at the grocery store there's some underfed, scantily clad, mouth breathing woman staring at me from the cover of a Cosmopolitan magazine, promising to share "25 dirty new sex secrets that will drive him wild". Reeeeally? Every month Cosmo concocts some "new" tidbits that we've somehow overlooked for eons?
I made the mistake of Google searching "mouth breathing woman" without Safe Search on.
This was image #6.
I am completely serious.
Initially, I thought "Wow! What genius minds have they devoted to such mundane things? Surely any human capable of discovering that many previously undiscovered secrets about such a well explored topic must be a real analytical mastermind. Or a tantric sex buddha or something. Tantralytical! How is that not a word yet?
However, my suspicion was aroused (pun intended) by the fact that this information was from the same tome of wisdom that boasted that eyeliner was this season's beauty secret. Hey, Cosmo. Maybe secret means something different to you, but ever since the ancient Egyptians, the cat's been out of the bag on that one. (You don't even know how hard I worked to restrain myself from saying "The Bast is out of the bag". Egypt? Cats? Oh sacrilege, you're fun in any pantheon.)
So I decided to scope out some of these relations revelations.
I'll spare you the agony and paraphrase them.
These secrets included gems like:
Lick his penis. He's into that.
Don't be smelly.
Look like you're having fun.
Let him put it in you.
Have boobies.
While having boobies, try bouncing a lot.
Put a finger in his ass while going down on-
WHOA, whoa, whoa. Hang on a second. Cosmo, whatterya tryin' do to me here?
Isn't that the kind of thing we should, ya know, awkwardly talk about at some point after bringing it up in what might be the least expected of segues? I guess I'm a prude for thinking that digital penetration should involve some kind of consent or something. Silly me. But I'm pretty sure if the roles were reversed, and that were attempted without some kind of discourse first, there'd be a squeak followed by the unmistakable sound of my anus never forgiving you ever. And also punching.
Maybe that same issue should have had an article about cleverly concealing fist-shaped forehead bruises. In fact, maybe it did. I wouldn't know. I was too busy stuffing it back onto the rack, disappointed.
Actual hate.
And I'll tell you why. Largely because it's my blog, and so I get to rant about whatever, so yep.
We ladies have got 3 sexually penetrable orifices. Men have four limbs, 4.5 limbs if we're counting the penis. Granted, there are some gents who range more in the 4.05 range. But let's just pick a good middle ground imaginary but point-conveying number. How about 4.33? Cause "it's not the size that counts", which is exactly what we'll say until a few hours after a messy breakup, in which case -truth's out- we were laughing inwardly the entire time. That moaning sound? That was just from the effort it took to keep said laugh on the inside. BUT I digress.
SO, the maximum combination of limb and orifice? 13. Yep. And the estimated number of years humans have been making the two-backed beast? Wikipedia says 200,000 years. Surely we have come up with every combination and position for said combination by now. Right?
So tell me, Internetz, how is it that every single time I'm in line at the grocery store there's some underfed, scantily clad, mouth breathing woman staring at me from the cover of a Cosmopolitan magazine, promising to share "25 dirty new sex secrets that will drive him wild". Reeeeally? Every month Cosmo concocts some "new" tidbits that we've somehow overlooked for eons?
I made the mistake of Google searching "mouth breathing woman" without Safe Search on.
This was image #6.
I am completely serious.
Initially, I thought "Wow! What genius minds have they devoted to such mundane things? Surely any human capable of discovering that many previously undiscovered secrets about such a well explored topic must be a real analytical mastermind. Or a tantric sex buddha or something. Tantralytical! How is that not a word yet?
However, my suspicion was aroused (pun intended) by the fact that this information was from the same tome of wisdom that boasted that eyeliner was this season's beauty secret. Hey, Cosmo. Maybe secret means something different to you, but ever since the ancient Egyptians, the cat's been out of the bag on that one. (You don't even know how hard I worked to restrain myself from saying "The Bast is out of the bag". Egypt? Cats? Oh sacrilege, you're fun in any pantheon.)
So I decided to scope out some of these relations revelations.
I'll spare you the agony and paraphrase them.
These secrets included gems like:
Lick his penis. He's into that.
Don't be smelly.
Look like you're having fun.
Let him put it in you.
Have boobies.
While having boobies, try bouncing a lot.
Put a finger in his ass while going down on-
WHOA, whoa, whoa. Hang on a second. Cosmo, whatterya tryin' do to me here?
Isn't that the kind of thing we should, ya know, awkwardly talk about at some point after bringing it up in what might be the least expected of segues? I guess I'm a prude for thinking that digital penetration should involve some kind of consent or something. Silly me. But I'm pretty sure if the roles were reversed, and that were attempted without some kind of discourse first, there'd be a squeak followed by the unmistakable sound of my anus never forgiving you ever. And also punching.
Maybe that same issue should have had an article about cleverly concealing fist-shaped forehead bruises. In fact, maybe it did. I wouldn't know. I was too busy stuffing it back onto the rack, disappointed.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Speaking of muumuus
I've come to the conclusion that my husband like fat girls. He denies this. But I, Dear Watson and also Dear Internetz, have evidence.
Astonishingly, I did not arrive at this conclusion by connecting point A to point B and thinking, "Welp, I'm a girl. I'm fat. He likes me. Ergo, he likes fat girls. " No. It was a bit more convoluted than that.
In the past 6-ish years, I've had five kids. (Don't worry, I'm not a Duggar. I was a surrogate.) Yep, 5 kids, and probably about 5,000 chocolate bars, but whatever, I'm blaming the kids. :) As a result of the "kids" I've gained about a squillion pounds. Fortunately, during the brief not-pregnant stints I've managed to lose about half a squillion pounds! Unfortunately, that leaves me with another half-squillion to go.
On the bright side, I've lost about 15lbs over the past 2 months. Yay, not being a whale!*
I've been pretty pumped about it, too.
So Valentine's Day happens. At first I tell my husband "Please, don't buy me chocolate. I've been doing pretty well with the anti-whale plan." But naturally, in a moment of weakness, I call his cell phone while he's on his way home from work to let him know that he could pick up "just a little bit".
In he strolls, victoriously carrying a delicious Lindt chocolate bar.
Oh yea, and an ENTIRE BOX of caramel cashew chocolate turtles.
Yes, the evidence speaks for itself.
*Note: I hold no prejudice against sea life. Except for Angler Fish. No seriously, eff those guys.
Astonishingly, I did not arrive at this conclusion by connecting point A to point B and thinking, "Welp, I'm a girl. I'm fat. He likes me. Ergo, he likes fat girls. " No. It was a bit more convoluted than that.
In the past 6-ish years, I've had five kids. (Don't worry, I'm not a Duggar. I was a surrogate.) Yep, 5 kids, and probably about 5,000 chocolate bars, but whatever, I'm blaming the kids. :) As a result of the "kids" I've gained about a squillion pounds. Fortunately, during the brief not-pregnant stints I've managed to lose about half a squillion pounds! Unfortunately, that leaves me with another half-squillion to go.
On the bright side, I've lost about 15lbs over the past 2 months. Yay, not being a whale!*
I've been pretty pumped about it, too.
So Valentine's Day happens. At first I tell my husband "Please, don't buy me chocolate. I've been doing pretty well with the anti-whale plan." But naturally, in a moment of weakness, I call his cell phone while he's on his way home from work to let him know that he could pick up "just a little bit".
In he strolls, victoriously carrying a delicious Lindt chocolate bar.
Oh yea, and an ENTIRE BOX of caramel cashew chocolate turtles.
Yes, the evidence speaks for itself.
*Note: I hold no prejudice against sea life. Except for Angler Fish. No seriously, eff those guys.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
At least I didn't say "circus tent"...
So I belated realized that the garment worn by the very obese is called a "muumuu".
Now I'm wondering how many times I've offended someone by typing "moomoo".
Now I'm wondering how many times I've offended someone by typing "moomoo".
Monday, February 13, 2012
Spring, cookie vacuums, and misquoted Yoda
I am looking forward to spring.
Actually I'm WAY PAST looking forward, and have entered the territory of ecstatically, eagerly, impatiently awaiting the spring. Bike rides, farmer's market, this wicked rockin' organic farm stand a few miles from my house, starting school again in May with a hardcore combined class of Organic and Inorganic Chemistry, sunshine, fresh air, open windows!!!
Speaking of open windows, the other day it was about 45 degrees out. Now, when we're coming out of summer and into fall and it gets to be around 60ish degrees, I'm all "Sweet jayzuz, it's freezing!" but coming out of winter and into spring it hits 40 degrees and I'm ready to run ass-naked through my neighborhood throwing rose petals and singing at the top of my lungs. I had the windows open, a knee skirt on, bare feet, and all was right with the world. For a few minutes, anyway... since shortly thereafter it was 15 degrees out and hailing.
Now if only the weather would stop effing around and just decide to limit it ONE season per week, that'd be fabulous. It's been vacillating between 60's and 20's. Oh, New England. Our "mother nature" has multiple personality disorder. 'Course, that whole multiple personality thing really puts the kibosh on my not-actually-happening-but-totally-wish-it-did naked frolicking. That, and the fact that running braless would be awesome for about .6 seconds, and then would result in an extended stay in the ER, and probably a concussion.
Actually I'm WAY PAST looking forward, and have entered the territory of ecstatically, eagerly, impatiently awaiting the spring. Bike rides, farmer's market, this wicked rockin' organic farm stand a few miles from my house, starting school again in May with a hardcore combined class of Organic and Inorganic Chemistry, sunshine, fresh air, open windows!!!
Speaking of open windows, the other day it was about 45 degrees out. Now, when we're coming out of summer and into fall and it gets to be around 60ish degrees, I'm all "Sweet jayzuz, it's freezing!" but coming out of winter and into spring it hits 40 degrees and I'm ready to run ass-naked through my neighborhood throwing rose petals and singing at the top of my lungs. I had the windows open, a knee skirt on, bare feet, and all was right with the world. For a few minutes, anyway... since shortly thereafter it was 15 degrees out and hailing.
Now if only the weather would stop effing around and just decide to limit it ONE season per week, that'd be fabulous. It's been vacillating between 60's and 20's. Oh, New England. Our "mother nature" has multiple personality disorder. 'Course, that whole multiple personality thing really puts the kibosh on my not-actually-happening-but-totally-wish-it-did naked frolicking. That, and the fact that running braless would be awesome for about .6 seconds, and then would result in an extended stay in the ER, and probably a concussion.
Here's a pie chart I made! The percentage of people who will believe that I ended up in the ER
as a result of an "ass naked frolic session" are displayed in bright green. Yea, exactly.
as a result of an "ass naked frolic session" are displayed in bright green. Yea, exactly.
The kidlings are good. Weird. Wacky. Cute. And sometimes fresh. I told Phoenix the other day that she could have a cookie, but that if she was rude to me afterward I'd vacuum the cookie out of her belly. Of course, if such a vacuum actually existed I'd have solved the problem of American obesity, while simultaneously creating the problem of a worldwide cookie shortage. And since the mere thought of a cookie drought is enough to send a stab of panic right through the fiber of my being, I'll refrain from patenting any such device. At any rate, my parenting methods are questionable, but at the very least they keep me amused.
Bae is doing well in school and this weekend we're going to a "Jedi Training" birthday party. His friend from school is turning six and "needs the help of other younglings to further his Jedi training." Yup. I'm excited to go to a 6 year old's birthday party. My social life really needs to be reconsidered. But I'll consider it later, since I'm busy mastering the art of wrapping my hair in Leia buns.
I'd say I was trying. But there is only do or do not. There is no try.
Bae is doing well in school and this weekend we're going to a "Jedi Training" birthday party. His friend from school is turning six and "needs the help of other younglings to further his Jedi training." Yup. I'm excited to go to a 6 year old's birthday party. My social life really needs to be reconsidered. But I'll consider it later, since I'm busy mastering the art of wrapping my hair in Leia buns.
I'd say I was trying. But there is only do or do not. There is no try.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Storytellers
A very excellent friend of mine has been encouraging me to tell stories for about as long as I've known her. (Little known fact: I rarely shut up.) Recently she sent me a link to a storytelling show, like a slam poetry open mic night but with less rhythm required! I squee'd with excitement at the notion of being able to tell my tale and flail about before a crowd who gathered specifically to hear what folk like me have to say.
But there's a problem.
I don't tell stories.
Now, that isn't to say that I don't have anything to tell! But I tend to think of storytellers as these sorcerers of settings, czars of character creation, magicians of metaphor and what have you. These wizards can pull fully formed stories from their memories at will and cast them like beautiful spells at their target audience.
Gandalf: He's about the tell the shit out of it.
I'm less like a wizard and more like a dam. A terribly ineffective dam.
I try to hold back, really I do, but I'm just full to brimming with the least appropriate things to say. I just spew out what I'm thinking. I don't organize it, I don't "paint a picture", and I wander off into other topics, often getting lost in my own rant. But I just can't help myself.
I can reign myself in here. I can rant about something completely absurd (like my phobia that I'm actually retarded and no one is telling me) and then select all and push delete (don't worry, you didn't want to be subjected to that rant) and reorganize my thoughts. But I can't do that on stage. And that's only part of the problem.
I have a million tales. Not quite stories, no. But a metric asston of half sentence and plot twists. Sometimes my life is absurd! It makes exceptional jabberfodder. But what do I tell? How do I tell it? How do I choose one or two little clusters of who I am and what I've done and display them out of context? I assume a storyteller would know this sort of thing.
Life is short. One of these days I'm going to be dead and I'm not going to have the chance to ramble incessantly at a crowd of horrified onlookers. Maybe I could stand there, look at the people, and know what to say. Maybe I could just walk out there, open my mouth and release the floodgates. Which sounds like a metaphor for "projectile vomit" which would be a wicked bummer. But it'd make for one hell of a story later.
But there's a problem.
I don't tell stories.
Now, that isn't to say that I don't have anything to tell! But I tend to think of storytellers as these sorcerers of settings, czars of character creation, magicians of metaphor and what have you. These wizards can pull fully formed stories from their memories at will and cast them like beautiful spells at their target audience.
Gandalf: He's about the tell the shit out of it.I'm less like a wizard and more like a dam. A terribly ineffective dam.
I try to hold back, really I do, but I'm just full to brimming with the least appropriate things to say. I just spew out what I'm thinking. I don't organize it, I don't "paint a picture", and I wander off into other topics, often getting lost in my own rant. But I just can't help myself.
I can reign myself in here. I can rant about something completely absurd (like my phobia that I'm actually retarded and no one is telling me) and then select all and push delete (don't worry, you didn't want to be subjected to that rant) and reorganize my thoughts. But I can't do that on stage. And that's only part of the problem.
I have a million tales. Not quite stories, no. But a metric asston of half sentence and plot twists. Sometimes my life is absurd! It makes exceptional jabberfodder. But what do I tell? How do I tell it? How do I choose one or two little clusters of who I am and what I've done and display them out of context? I assume a storyteller would know this sort of thing.
Life is short. One of these days I'm going to be dead and I'm not going to have the chance to ramble incessantly at a crowd of horrified onlookers. Maybe I could stand there, look at the people, and know what to say. Maybe I could just walk out there, open my mouth and release the floodgates. Which sounds like a metaphor for "projectile vomit" which would be a wicked bummer. But it'd make for one hell of a story later.
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