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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.

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.