Turd In The Punchbowl

For My Friend Who Suffers From The Only Thing Worse Than Anal Charley Horses

2010-12-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

You know who you are friend. Take two of these and pray like hell your ass doesn't seize up like an unoiled engine.

Four short stories in all here my dear friends.

Dog Shit Man

My condo is in a small complex and I sit at the top of a horseshoe section in the back. My initiation into this little community was spear headed by my neighbor, Dog Shit Man. I don't think that's the name on his driver's license, but that’s what I call him.

Dog Shit Man is in his early 60s I would say. He has a slim build and thick head of light brown hair. Benny goes with him almost everywhere. Benny is mostly white with some black spots. He has a distinctly round, lumpy ass. The last time I scratched it, I noticed that there were a few hairless patches. Dog Shit Man’s wife introduces herself as Benny’s mom.

The first time I met Dog Shit Man, he was taking credit for a gift bag of dog shit that was leaning against the bottom of my screen door.

It was my second day at my new house and I was walking up to my front door after a very long move-in day previous. As I approach, I see a small, clear plastic bag leaning at the base of the screen door, neatly knotted at the top. I bent to pick up the bag, confident it was the shelf pegs for my bookcases. I thought perhaps the movers forgot them in the truck the day before and dropped them at the door. As soon as I had the bag in my hand, I noticed some condensation inside which seemed out of place for shelf pegs. Then small-scale horror as I realized -- it was a bag of dog shit! I quickly ditched the awful housewarming present in the garbage bag that was leaning to one side of the door and try to shake off the “what the fuck?!” of the moment.

I rushed to unlock the door, eager to get in and wash my hands, when I saw a middle-aged man come up the main walk. He was about to walk by me when he saw me looking at him. He smiled and said hello to me. I offered the same in return, but my intuition sparked. I sensed the mark of the tool in this man, so I asked, "Do you know, by chance, who put a bag of dog poo on my doorstep?" A beam of pride crosses his face and he quietly says, "Oh, that was me" I’m shocked.

Who actually admits that they skulked around the bushes looking for shit? If that were my hobby [read: freak fetish] I would be very private. Maybe have a poo shrine behind lock and key or something, but no sharing should be allowed. This man was proud of his handy work. He needed to be knocked down a peg.

I couldn’t resist, "I'm sorry, but I thought the tradition leaned more towards cookies." Crickets. Blank stare. Dog Shit Man then started rambling about the logic behind his thoughtful gift.

He tells me he saw my dog follow the movers out the front door and park one near the bushes yesterday afternoon. I’m already lost in a day dream imagining Dog Shit Man tip toeing behind my dog in the bushes, as she goes into her poo stance. He’s dressed as Sherlock Holmes, complete with monocle and he is poised with the little bag open to catch the pitch without smudging the sides of the bag. I snap out of it as he is warning me that we all have to be really careful about cleaning up after our dogs or we will get notes from the home owners’ association.

As time went on, I became more and more bitter about what a dick Dog Shit Man was to me that day. It really pissed me off that he couldn’t just let one slide for a new neighbor. To make myself feel better, I mess with him sometimes. When he tries to say hello and chat -- sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. I notice sometimes that he seems to be all twitchy when I walk by him because he doesn't know if I will return his wave or say hi when he does. A time or two he has seen me headed out somewhere dressed up and he has tried to compliment me. I tell him something like "I'm going to a funeral" in the hopes that I just made things super awkward for him. Of course, I never use his birth name. He will forever be known by his self-christened name Dog Shit Man, and I require the same of everyone else around me.

Benny has two furry siblings that like to hang out on the roof of my garage. They also like to shit in the strip of soft dirt that is running alongside the fence there. This particular type of crap doesn’t bother Dog Shit Man at all. I would even go so far as to say that he seems to prefer it since Benny is the only one allowed inside the house. I imagine one day I will find just the right gift bag [maybe something sequined] and reciprocate the gift that keeps on giving to my good neighbor Dog Shit Man.

Drowning Is Like Riding A Bike [feel free to disregard the title - just wanted to call it something]

When I was three, my brother got me to jump into my aunt and uncle’s pool by telling me I knew how to swim. I have only a flash of a memory of falling through the water and then wanting to breath but only seeing bubbles rising above my head. My aunt tells me that my older cousin pulled me out before the adults around the pool really knew what had happened. I remember standing in my underwear by my mother afterward. She dried me off as I cried.

A few years later, Sal taught me how to ride a bike. We lived with my maternal grandparent’s by then and they had a tangle of old bicycles on the side of the garage. All the kids and grandkids that came before us, seemed to have left one behind. I picked the bike that looked small enough for me to ride and we walked over to the church parking lot. Mine was a girls bike with a cracked glittery banana seat and handle bar tassels. The church lot was two houses over on the corner and usually empty during the week. We found it that way when we got there. Paved smooth in black asphalt, it had plenty of room and a cool ramp that came off of the back door of the building, and fed into the lot.

Sal explained how you have to peddle right away or you will fall over. That didn’t seem so hard. He looped around the lot while I stopped and started, trying to balance my momentum. Eventually I was able to follow him for short spurts before keening to one side and tipping myself over.

At dinner, I was eager to tell my grandparents about my big news: I was officially a bike rider. “Let’s wait until after dinner and you can tell your mom too” my grandmother suggested. I rushed through my food but each mouthful seemed to be replaced by another. Finally I had eaten enough that I could be excused from the table. I went straight to my mother’s room.

My brother and I shared a bedroom upstairs, but my mom stayed downstairs in a room off of the back of the kitchen. It was big enough for her hospital bed and all the supplies the night nurse needed. My mother had come to look so different. All of her hair was gone. My grandmother had knit her an array of colorful little caps to wear. My grandfather joked that they kept her brains warm, but I wished she still had her thick, dark hair. Her skin was different too, an undertone of sallowness muting her olive coloring, and the skin under her eyes had gotten so dark as to look like rings had been smudged on with costume paint.

I was triumphant when I got to my mother’s side. “I learned how to ride a bike today - Sal taught me” I announced, and climbed up on the foot of the bed to wait for my grandmother. “That’s great!” and she was smiling when she looked at me. My grandmother came in then with a plate for my mother. She fed it to her in little bits and listened as I recounted the afternoon. I told them how I learned to stay up while I peddled and how Sal was going to teach me to go faster and how to stop.

The next day Sal and I headed right back out to the church to pick up where we left off. That’s when he told me that bikes don’t have brakes. Tipping over or crashing in to something were the only ways to stop a speeding bike. The first day I hadn’t been going fast enough to need to know such things but now I would have to learn to be on the look out for a fitting crash spot when I wanted to get off my bike. I scanned the lot as I started riding . The perimeter fence was completely lined with rose bushes. I could either hit the side of the building or aim for the fence and let the roses break my fall.

My first crash-stop went pretty well. I had been riding around for quite a while and was ready to see if I could do it. My brother promised to watch so I gave it a go. I hit the bushes pretty much straight on and most of the front of the bike caught the limbs and thorns. It really wasn’t so bad.

Someone taught me how to measure out liquid morphine with a syringe and squirt it into a plastic cup with Rose’s lime juice, to make it more palatable. I liked the way the plunger forced the medicine out into the neon juice and filled it with little bubbles that would slowly rise and break on the surface. I felt very grown up and responsible, doing this chore. My mother would shoot down the mixture and wait for relief.

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to perfect my technique. I had it down to where I could almost always hit the bushes without hitting the fence and that would bounce me back a little, and that, for the most part, keep me from snagging in to the thorns.

We saw my grandfather turn down the street, coming home from work. I waved to him and he pulled over outside the lot and got out. “I know how to go fast and stop now” I called out from where I was riding. “That’s good! Show me.” he answered as he waved.

I started with a few figure eights and then went up and down the ramp a couple of times. As I glided back down into the lot I started to look for a grand finale crash-spot. I liked the corner across from the broad side of the building. I headed for it and tried to keep my front tire as straight as possible. I made contact at more of an angle than I realized and scraped my arm through some thorns before coming to a complete stop.

I was untangling myself when my grandfather was at my side, picking up my bike and asking me if I was okay. He looked alarmed. I told him I needed to keep practicing my stops, so I didn’t get so many thorns. This confused him so I explained what Sal had taught me. When I turned around to ask him to help me explain this to my grandfather, he was gone.

My grandfather brought me home, and left me in the kitchen where my grandmother sat me down at the kitchen table and cleaned my scrapes while he took Sal by the elbow and walked him outside. I could hear his stern words to my brother about how he should never have lied to me and allowed me to hurt myself.

That night my mother’s two youngest brothers came over for dinner and they brought their girlfriends. The kitchen was loud with all their talking and laughing. It was interesting to watch them. My dad came over after dinner. He wanted to see my mother. They sat alone in her room while my grandmother served dessert. I was standing in the kitchen when I heard my parents quiet voices. I leaned towards the door and heard my mother, “They’re having a party out there while I’m in here dying”

Sal didn’t get to ride bikes with me for a while. One day my grandfather walked me down to the church and showed me how to stop my bike by pressing backwards on the peddles.

Dear God, It’s Me, Daniella

I have a very primitive, fear based religion that really only flares to rapture when I think I am going to throw up or shit my pants. If my stomach turns or my guts lurch, I pray, I plead, I barter with a God I believe plots my humiliation. I promise I am going to turn things around, pay it forward, be a better person. I rethink all of my bad decisions, and vow to do better if I am granted any more time here on earth. You may think I am silly, but it has worked, most of the time. Close calls always bring me to a spiritual place and road trips sometimes turn into a test of faith.

I was dating a guy with a lake house. After we had been going out for a month or so, he had this very romantical proposition of taking me to his lake house for the weekend. We were going to sip wine, cook, stare at the lake. It sounded wonderful and I was looking forward to the weekend. The trip up was about three hours and we left in the late afternoon on a Saturday. I was watching the sunset out the car window as my guy drove. We were about an hour from the house when I suddenly felt a wave of swirling gurgle come on. My first prayer was meek, asking that this please just be a little gas. In exchange I would risk a stomach ache holding it in until I was perhaps sitting in front of the lake when an SBD could be blamed on a passing goose. A few minutes later another gurgle followed an achy tug in my stomach. Something bigger on the faith scale needed to happen.

Dear God, If you grant me exemption from crapping in this car, I will donate a dollar for every person I have wished scabies and cold sores upon when I am behind the wheel. I hope you will allow me to do that in installment payments. Please just let me hold this together. Thank you - Daniella.

I felt a reprieve after that. I started to relax and go back to enjoying the rest of our trip.

Suddenly I was gut punched from the left with an achy pain and a wave of heat went through my body leaving my forehead beaded with a little rim of sweat. My guts dropped and I realized then that there was a complete red alert in progress at my back door. It was go time.

Dear God! I am sorry about the Oprah rant. Only half of it was true, but that’s beside the point. I get that I need to be nicer to people. I am not going to lie about anything anymore either - nothing - from here on out. Also, last week is the absolute last time I am going to pretend like I’m not home when those Unicef kids ring the bell. I know that the seats in this truck are leather and therefore wouldn’t be impossible to get clean, but please don’t let me shit my pants in front of this guy. He’s really cute and I am trying to look normal this weekend. Thanks - and I love your hair! - Daniella.

God was having none of my shenanigans. I felt beyond redemption this time. “Is there a Starbucks or anything around here? I could really go for something to drink.” Five months later, a small strip of stores, complete with a Starbucks, appeared on the other side of the intersection. Three weeks after that, we got through the light and were parked outside of the door. I pulled off a pretty casual looking launch from the passenger side, and hobble run to the bathrooms in back.

Once inside, on a fresh toilet seat cover, I unraveled and waves of relief and gratitude washed over me. You really scared me that time God - I thought you were going to forsake me. Fighting back tears, I continued, Thank you so much for creating Starbucks, and toilets with black hole vortex flushing power, and toilet paper, and air venting systems, and radial muscles. I swear I will find a way to make this up to you. Seriously, you’re the best - Daniella

I looked at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. I didn’t look half bad for someone who almost just died on a toilet. Mopping my forehead with a wet paper towel, I was determined to pull myself together. It was time to saunter out there and look for my cute guy with the lake house. I planned to celebrate being saved with a grande two-pump no foam extra whip iced mocha bourbon. When I rounded the corner and got out to the counter, there he was, a little smirk crossed his face and his blue eyes glinted with mischief, “You had to poop, didn’t you?” Dammit. I hate when God’s sense of humor puts me in these predicaments. He makes me promise stuff to keep my pants clean and dignity intact, then puts me on the spot like this. I felt conflicted. Keep my promise to God or try to look semi cute and charming in front of my guy. The right thing to do was then clear in my mind. I felt grounded, unshakable. “What? Me? No, I was just, I was … well I had to pee and then I got distracted by some artwork back there. Neat stuff.”

Please overlook that one God. I got caught off guard. Last time - promise. I really mean it this time.

Folgers Makes Me Want To Date My Brother

There’s a Folgers coffee commercial where a brother comes home from a long absence spent in Africa and his sister answers the door. He makes a funny about having the wrong house because sister looks so grown up, and then they go into the kitchen. It’s very early in the morning when brother makes it home, and mom and dad are still upstairs asleep, so it’s just the two of them in the kitchen while the coffee is brewing. Brother hands sister a present wrapped with a bow on top. Sister plucks the bow from the top of the box and sticks it to brother’s shoulder and tells him, with a tender smile on her face, that he is her gift this year. Then time stands still for one intense moment, as brother and sister look into each other’s eyes. Before brother has a chance to take sister’s face in his hands and kiss her, their meddling parents barge in for the coffee and ruin the whole moment.

Folgers shines a brave light on an intriguing concept. Perhaps one really doesn’t have to look all that far for their soul mate. Maybe the people we are best matched for, are the other people our parents had to raise. Makes me wonder what it would be like to date my brother. Sal has a lot of the qualities I look for in a guy.

He’s one of the funniest people I know. We laugh together all the time. He tells great stories. and has perfect comedic timing when it comes to inserting movie lines into a conversation. It’s adds a level of humor you just don’t always get from independent thoughts.

He is taller than me, which I like. At six foot, I could even get away with heels and not have to worry about topping him. I think dating a shorter brother would be just plain awkward. The kissing alone. Aside from Snow White, (who, let’s face it, is just plain odd anyway) you really don’t ever see women bending over to kiss men.

My brother and I have quite a bit of social overlap. I find this to be a big advantage. All that awkward getting to know you stuff that one has to do for the friends and family of a new partner would be nonexistent for us. No disapproving in-laws to have to try and win over. Telling the story of how you met gets tired pretty quick too. We practically hate all the same family which makes things so much easier than separate shit lists.

Like most healthy couples, Sal and I have a lot in common lifestyle wise and we compliment each other. He has a bunch of horses and I have always thought maybe I would like to learn how to ride. I support his career goal of ranching and he thinks it’s great that I am pursuing writing. He knows how to fix stuff and I know how to cook.

Ultimately, I decided against going after Sal for what in hindsight ended up being a pretty obvious reason. In fact I felt foolish for pitching the whole thing to myself while glossing over the obvious reality all along. Sal lives three hours away. Neither one of us has ever put much faith in long distance relationships. It would never work. Back to the drawing board.

Twitter Turd

2010-08-14T14:38:00.001-07:00

I haven't posted in over three months. I feel shitty that I have left you, dear reader, high and dry all Summer. I hope you have missed me; I have missed you.

I am working my way back to your love, but in the meantime: do you twit? Twat? Tweet.

I've taken my shit to the Twitter world and I am hoping you will follow me there. Follow me, retweet me, I am a turd looking for some exposure.

Imagine how much less annoying I will be in 140 characters or less.

See you soon back here my friends!

Power Gem Activate!

2010-05-05T14:27:00.000-07:00

I just clicked on a blog and was totally surprised to see this as their top post for the day.

The subject matter and even more specifically, the color, reminded me of this one time after beauty camp.

Okay, not so much camp -- college.

I finished* a skin care program at a ... you know ... school of beauty about 5 years ago.

Anywho, two of my friends went in on this lavender, sparkly, multi-featured, sleek, racy sports car of a vibrator to help me "celebrate" my graduation from beauty college (there - I said it, happy?).

I thanked them profusely for the very thoughtful gift. After all, they sincerely did have my happiness in mind when they chose it. However, when they left, I threw it in the bottom of my sandal basket. I don't know exactly why, but it just didn't really interest me.

A year later, I went to dig through that basket and give a few things away, and there it was. Looking as shiny and new as the day I hucked it in there.

Sometimes my mind wanders and I daydream about who ended up with the brand new vibrator I donated to Goodwill.

Did an employee snag it before it even made it to the warehouse? Did a manager angrily confiscate it, while making an immediate beeline for the bathroom, muttering how awful people are with the things they will put in bags to the Goodwill? Or maybe it got a price tag and a prime spot in the electronics section, where someone down on their luck was slurking to the back hoping against all hope that Goodwill might have a new Power Gem for an affordable price. Amen.

*I hesitate to use "graduated" because mixing "graduated" and "beauty college" together in the same sentence is a real witch's brew of Mondo Loserdom

The Cure For Epilepsy

2010-04-14T18:00:00.000-07:00

If you do it right anyway.

Pull Ovah!

2010-04-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

[Via: Auto Insurance>

This is the way a pull over should go. Don't forget to smile.

I've Got A lot On My Plate

2010-04-12T16:19:00.000-07:00

I like making time to cook. The more I do it, the more I wonder why I waited so long.

Don't get me wrong - I have cooked before, but not until just recently have I made such a study of food. Where does this come from? What's in season? Is that what I really want to eat? What I really crave? Can I make that myself?

I like it. I am reconnecting with myself in the process of getting to know my kitchen better.

I was hungry, so I made a plate.

Then I grabbed a beer, sat down, and nibbled, gnawed, scooped and savored.

It was tasty.

What's on my plate, you ask?

Fresh Ricotta - easy, inexpensive, relatively fast and absolutely delicious! Try it.

Tomato Relish - that's what I call it anyway. It's sort of just a jazzed up marinara that gets cooked down a little more than you would probably do for pasta. Any marinara sauce skeleton will work and then you can go crazy with what you add -- fresh herbs, mushrooms, fennel etc.

Chickpea dip - this is hummus-esque. It's my lazy way of getting some of those flavors without really having to follow a traditional recipe that would involve tahini. I threw canned chickpeas in the mini chopper with some parsley, olive oil (enough to move things around and get a cream consistency going) lemon juice and toasted sesame seeds (about a teaspoon or so) and salt. Blend to desired thickness and season additionally if needed after taste test.

Fresh veges are just that - I drizzled a little olive oil over them and scattered some salt and pepper on top of that.

Olives - I love em. I picked up these at the olive bar at my grocery store. Olive bars are my second favorite kind of bar actually. Lots of different varieties and you can mix and match to your heart's content.

So what's on your plate? Have you connected with your kitchen lately?

Jesus Christ Quiz Score Report

2010-04-11T14:20:00.000-07:00

Jesus fascinates me, so of course I am up for a quiz on Big J trivia.

Jesus Christ Quiz Score Report
Total number of Questions in JC Quiz : 14
Total number of Correct answers : 12
Your Score : 86% [Jesus Christ superstar scorer!]
Average Score for this quiz : 56%
Result : Pass [Yesssss!]
Number of People taking this quiz : 992
Number of People Passing this quiz : 748
Number of People failing this quiz : 244 [Jesus thinks these peeps are losers]
Maximum Score for this quiz : 100% [duh]

Let the record show that I scored 23% higher than the average and I am not even religious. That is awesome of me, and Jesus tells me so.

The link to the quiz is here

Your Tax Dollars At Work

2010-04-01T13:31:00.000-07:00

Seventy seven of our country's wild horses died after the Bureau of Land Management's last round up. An additional 39 late term foals were aborted as a result of mares being run for days over rocky terrain to the BLM's holding pens.

Most of the deaths occurred as a result of being run (read: chased by a low flying helicopter) to exhaustion, for days during this last winter. Many of the foals and yearlings were simply not strong enough to survive.

Is this okay? Do we care? Is it more important to clear this land of it's original horse herds so it can be reappointed as grazing area for cattle to feed you and other Americans?

This video talks more about the issue and shows some footage of the last roundup.

Do you want to tell the Secretary of the Department of the Interior, Ken Salazar, that he is doing a great job? Or perhaps you would rather tell him this movement against these horses is an epic fail?

Either way, a link his site is here.

Not coolio with this? Outraged perhaps? You aren't alone.

The Cloud Foundation has been looking out for our country's wild horses for a while now. I think they are an excellent place to start if you are feeling called to action. A link to their site is here.

Oh Grated Butter and Sports Bras, How You Liberate Thee!

2010-03-30T14:14:00.000-07:00

Necessity is the mother of invention, right? Well forgetfulness has to be the daddy then. Or maybe it's more of a bitter younger sib to invention, always trying to feed off of the limelight. Pain in the ass piggybacker that can't be disow-What? Oh yeah, anywho -- I digress....

Almost every time I set out to bake something, I forget to take out the butter to soften ahead of time. No matter how far in advance my baking is planned out, my reflex to pull the butter out of the fridge fails me.

Lamenting this to my step mom one day, she told me that she grates her butter into her recipes when she forgets to take it out in time to soften.

What is this genius idea of which you speak?! I don't have to wait or screw up the recipe? Sweet!

It works too, grates easier than cheese even and incorporates right into the recipe.

The rare occasions that I remember to warm my butter, seem to coincide with completely spacing on the fact that the eggs are supposed to be room temperature in most recipes too. Dammit!

The saving innovation for that, I came up with myself. I nestle the fridge chilly eggs into my bra. I do. Works like a charm. My boobs, like two hens brooding side by side in a nesting box, warm those bad boys right up. And in a fraction of the time it would take just leaving them out on the counter. If you have boobs, or know someone that does, I suggest you try it.

Sour cherry buttermilk cake ~ brought to you courtesy of grated butter and boob-warmed eggs. Don't judge me.

I've Got Baggage

2010-03-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

I hate the French, but how fabulous is the word "portmanteau"?!

I know there are several meanings, but I am just lovin on one in particular right now....

Will you please sit on my portmanteau so I can zip through the bulge in the middle where the body is bunched up?

Hey man, look alive - your portmanteau has already gone around for three dirt laps on the luggage carousel.

Aw fuck me running! - I am late for this flight, and the wheel just blew out on my portmanteau!

Luggage language is lovely my friends.

I saw this poem on another blog and am sharing it here........because it makes me want to work "portmanteau" into every sentence.

Portmanteau

It will clasp
itself shut
around the dark
compartment
we have stuffed
with our splurges-
I mean the shimmer,
the silver, the slivers
and trinkets.
I mean,
it will mantle
the hollow
core, cradle the cloaks
and cyborg novels,
the trash and slang
and Sunday brunches
over silent toast
we've smushed
inside and, I mean,
all we'll have to do
is lock it.
All we'll
have to do is lift it,
chuck it, really,
into the attic.
You'll love it-
it's humongous,
ginormous,
fantabulous-
I'd guesstimate there's space
for the unfinished bookcase,
the sorry motel with its sign
on the fritz,
the unloved afghan,
the unspoken insult,
your dumbfounded mother,
my collection of twizzle sticks,
the hamster
that died when
we left for a fortnight,
geometry, hassles, casseroles,
and under the false
bottom, a hidden
slot for all of 1986.
I mean, you'll barely
know it's there-
maybe at night a faint
clang or chortle
upstairs.
But that's the past
hinged shut,
clamped tight
beneath the attic eaves,
spread like wings
above our necessary
dreams.

~ by Gigi Thibodeau*

* You can find out more about the author here.

If I Die Before I Wake...

2010-03-28T16:33:00.000-07:00

Before last night I had never seen much of the television series House. I fell asleep to an episode and it must have creepy crawled into my subconscious because Hugh Laurie stole my after dark brain-show and became my boyfriend for the night.

I'm not going to lie: He did a stellar job in his role as my lovah. When I woke up, I still had the doctor on my mind. So imagine my delight when I channel surfed this morning and saw that there was a House marathon going. I get to spend my Sunday morning with the guy from last night? Sweet!

Well, here's the thing, love fuzzyed my brain a bit, and I sort of forgot that I am a ginormous hypochondriac. Even without the help of graphic, hospital/medical themed television shows, I diagnose myself with about thirty rare/incurable diseases a day. Catching part of the marathon didn't just amp my love, it pushed my hypochondria right off the charts!

Below is an abbreviated list of my current health concerns as a result of spending a little too much time with my new boyfriend while he is working:

* So far I have Legionnaires disease, Listeria, multiple allergic reactions, nonspecific brain inflammation, and Syphilitic neuropathy.

* I am going to have a seizure at any moment - I just know it. [They almost always have at least one seizure per episode]

* No fluids for me - have to hold off on going onesy for as long as I can, because I am probably going to pee blood due to a kidney blowing out.

* On that note, one of my eyes could very well launch from it's socket due to cranial pressure. That would be followed by blood shooting everywhere, by the way.

* Lots of vomiting is probably on the horizon as I decline. [They throw a lot of surprise puking in these episodes.] And if you don't know how I feel about that, then you didn't read this post.

* Another good reason to stay out of the bathroom as long as I can is that I don't want to go in there and have my scrotum burst open and spurt blood all over a doctor. [It could happen -- trust me]

* My throat is tightening just thinking about the emergency tracheotomy I am going to need. Exacto-knife to the throat - yikeys!

I know I ask too much, but I think I am going to need you to pray for me - again. Also, please send lots of cookie baskets when I am in the hospital. Once my throat and scrotum heal a little, the yummies will really help to bolster my spirit and speed my recovery. Thank you.

Fritter

2010-03-26T10:54:00.000-07:00

Remember George Costanza's angst ridden cry of "Serenity now!"? Well, I've got my own version: "Sicily now!". Every time I hear about another tool cheating the system, or another sue-happy jackass, I get that much closer to fleeing to a foreign land. I'm outtie. I will go back from whence my oily haired ancestors came. When I have my little secluded island villa (complete with hot Sicilian houseboy), you are cordially invited to visit anytime....well most of you anyway.

If you are one of the aforementioned Jackasses or tools, then all bets are off.

What in the french toast is a Fritter? Click here.

A Comfy Couch To Hump

2010-03-24T15:34:00.000-07:00

I stole this off of Facebook and the caption read, "Inseparable"

The dog in the background of this photo belongs to my brother. Her name is Kona. The dog in the foreground is named Hef, and he belongs to my brother's girlfriend.

Kona was given to Sal as a puppy, and when she got to be around a year old I asked my brother what was up in the hizay* since Hef isn't neutered. He told me there was no prob Bob, because Hef only humps the couch cushions.

I am not making this up. That's is what he told me when I asked him a few months ago.

How cute are puppies? Soooooooo cute!

Guess who decided on a little more variety after humping that couch for a while?

Nine puppies later I wonder if my brother still thinks Hef only gets a case of the humps when he sees large pieces of furniture.

Good times.

*And by "hizay" I meant that I had seen this commercial enough times to know that we are all good on puppies in this country, so fix that shit!**

**And by "fix that shit!" I meant: Everyone thinks their dog is special. There are approximately 9 million companion animals put to sleep in this country every year, and they are no less special than the one you chose to feed. You merely got attached to that one. Your dog ain't that special, so you know....fix that shit!

If my brother finds out about this post, I am going to be in big trouble. Pray for me.

Vegetarians Are Stoopid

2010-03-22T15:00:00.000-07:00

And so are Environmentalists

Irony

2010-03-22T11:03:00.000-07:00

I love irony. Do you love irony? I'm totally into it.

Take for example one of my neighbors. He needed a strip of my property to run a power line out to his detached garage. I agreed to allow the encroachment if he would agree to go the legal route and get an easement drawn up and recorded. He didn't want to muddle his project's efficiency with these sorts of things and would yell, threaten, and try to steamroll me instead.

His big talking point to anyone who would listen was the loss of the use of his garage. Without power, that is how he saw it. And while I didn't believe his garage was a tear-down merely because he was too big of a candy ass to open the roll up door manually (on a temporary basis), I did sympathize with the inconvenience of it. I thought that was remarkable on my part, considering I was his definition of evil.

He really tested my sympathy too. We went back and forth for almost a year with me insisting on trifles like licensed/insured contractors, permits from the city, and recorded easements before I would grant him use of my land. He suggested I let him in with no notice to do a permit free 3-inch deep trench where he could just direct bury some line (that means right in the dirt) and be done.

We finally ended up seeing eye to eye when he realized he wasn't going to be able to fit his shoe in my ass, and I think maybe someone might have helped him pull his head out of his own as well.

The permits, contractors, and easements magically appeared, and the project was completed without a hitch. His garage has had power for just about three months now.

That's not so ironic is it, but can you see where this is going?

And wait for it.........he doesn't use his garage. He doesn't use the fucking thing.

I haven't seen the door in use one time since power was restored. What I do see is him pulling his car up to the front of his garage door and leaving it there, partially blocking the main driveway to other garages.

In fact, if I was a good photographer, I could take an artsy shot of his car and the No Parking - Will Be Towed sign because the proximity would allow for it.

So that right there my friends is a little bit of layered irony -- and well...venting.

Good times.

Torn In The Time Of Cholera

2010-03-19T11:52:00.001-07:00

Did you watch it? Even just the trailer is yummy, right? I told you! Now go Netflix it and savor the whole thing - you can thank me later.

I saw Love In The Time Of Cholera when it came to DVD, and it completely captured me.

The cinematography was breathtaking (sorry to be a drama queen, but it was), the soundtrack was awesome, it had great actors. The plot and character development completely drew me in, and made me never wanted the story to end.

Triumphs, tragedy, love, heartbreak, sex, life. What can I tell you, it was simply fabulous.

I mean come on now party people, it was based on a novel written by a Nobel Prize winning author; of course it was going to be phenomenal, right?!

It got the shittiest of shit reviews. I was hard-pressed to find anyone who had anything good to say about it.

"... Newell and Harwood completely missed the mark with this one, turning a complex love story into a superficial period film with no heart or heat." ~ Viewer - DVD Review

"If you've seen Gone With the Wind, you've seen what Love in the Time of Cholera isn't." ~ Kyle Smith, New York Post

And this one scared me the most...

"Listless, poorly scripted, badly acted and displaying an unforgivable misinterpretation of its source material, Cholera is easily one of the worst adaptations of a great book ever mounted." ~ Anonymous

That last review there strikes a special brand of fear in my heart because I have been waiting to read the book for over a year now. That is a common practice of mine when it comes to my dessert books.

Dessert books are the extra special I Just Know I am Going To Love You books. I come across them in a variety of ways. Many times it is as a result of loving one or more books an author has done previous. Sometimes, it is from reviews and/or recommendations. And every once in a while a movie will make me want to jump on the book (it is usually the other way around). No matter how I find them, as soon as I identify a dessert book, I have the damnedest time cracking them open. I try to tuck them away like fine china or linens you never use.

How bad would that suck though to get mowed down by a bread truck one day, and leave this earth never having given yourself a chance to savor all of your dessert books? Lameski.

Anywho, I digress...

I just stumbled on the movie reviews yesterday when in an effort to prime my courage to finally start the book, I went back and watched the theatrical trailer for the film. I was shocked to encounter so much discontent in the time of Cholera, and now I am also horribly torn.

What if the reviewers are right?! I don't want to fall out of love with the film as a result of having read the book. On the other hand, I don't want to put down the book and feel like all this time I have set aside a not so tasty dessert(I have a 100% "loved it!" success rate thus far on my dessert books, by the way).

I am praying I have enough unconditional love in my heart to forgive any possible stumbles the movie makes on translating the book, and that the book treads softly on that place in my heart, and does not force me to fall out of love with the film.

Pray for me - seriously.

I Don't Want Mine - I Want Yours

2010-03-18T10:05:00.000-07:00

Oh, I am so very nauseated from reading whiny articles written by mostly women, lamenting that in the wake of January's earthquake, they haven't had any lucky snapping up Haitian children for adoption.

One woman wrote a post that her child needs her now, but all the red tape in Haiti was going to make it impossible for her to adopt from there anytime soon. Her child. When did a Haitian orphan become her child? Asinine.

Like I was saying, they are all pretty much along this same vein, so I won't bore you with every subtle nuance of whining style I came across. That will also wipe out the risk of me whining about the whining. I would much rather think of myself as sweeping and angry, than weak and whiny.

When I am not staving of the heaves, I do have questions about all of this.

Why are these Americans so obsessed with adopting an orphan from another country, when they are children right here in the US that could use loving parents and a secure home?

The foster care system alone includes over 100,000 children up for adoption in this country. Are those kids less abandoned? Do they suffer less from that loss, and the system they are thrust into so young? Are these women making a judgment that moving through the system to legal adulthood here is "good enough" while Haiti's system isn't? Or is it more romantic, and higher up on the Personal Jesus scale to run to an impoverished nation for your little bundle of charity?

Kids these days

Who knows, but they are annoying the hell out of me. When all the children here have what they need to thrive, then I say we look abroad to reach out.

On that note, I sometimes wish I didn't suck at relationships so badly. I have ovarian moments where I muse about finding a partner and adopting a child. In these visions, I co-parent with someone healthy and raise a child who is kind, generous, bright, and filled with drive to give back to his or her world.

These moments usually coincide with wine and cheese, and abruptly end when I remember that I am the only important person I know. Oh well.

Happy Birthday Ruth!

2010-03-17T12:33:00.001-07:00

Ruth's parent's had to flee the country today. I like to think it doesn't have anything to do with the anniversary of her birth, but you know...it's a huge coincidence.

Ruth is my cousin and she is two years younger than I am. As a child, I only got to see her occasionally, during my visit to the grandparents we shared, one weekend a month. When that weekend would come, one of the first things I would do is hop on the eggy yellow rotary phone in their kitchen and call Ruth. That wheel of fun fortune couldn't slide back and forth fast enough over those numbers as I dialed. When she got on the phone, I didn't understand much of what she had to say, but we always made sure we were clear on when we were going to get together.

We had a lot of fun.

One day complete good fortune struck while we were hanging out at our grandmother's house. Mamanonie was going to take us to Toys R Us to pick out an outfit for each of our Cabbage Patch Kids. Oh, big day! We hopped into SPOSA (my grandfather got her personalized plates for her 80s Oldsmobile) and headed over to the store. The actual shopping is pretty fuzzy in my memory now. I only recall Ruth's small voice as we waited in line, "Grandma, I don't feel good" Then she passed the fuck out! Just went down cold, executing a perfect drunken sailor backwards fall into my grandmother's arms.

Next thing I know, I've got $20.00 shoved into my hand and my g-ma is dragging Ruth out of the store. She came to in the parking lot.

The story gets even better: Ruth didn't die (it turns out that low blood sugar is a bitch to little kids trying to buy doll clothes) and we got to go to Jack In The Box drive-through on the way home! This was huge. Mamanonie being a big believer in cooking at home, made overpriced fast food stops pretty much unheard of.
New stuff from Toys R Us, Ruth not dying, and fast food. It was a very good day.

We are quite a bit older now, but we still have retained our magic, and she has turned out to be so much more than a younger cousin with a propensity for the low blood sugar faints.

She is funny - we laugh together a lot. She makes fun of the 82 year old woman that lives inside of me, and I mock her body dysmorphia. When we aren't picking on each other, we team up to mock whoever we deem appropriate at the time, and look out - we're good at it!

Some of our fave targets are the special needs peeps in our own family (he's not really a Special, but dwelling on that part lowers the fun factor by a ton so go along with us and suspend disbelief for a while).

She is interesting - we chat up a storm about food, books, and the latest entertainment news. I didn't know about half of the Hollywood deaths last year until Ruth caught me up. This lack of up-to-the-minute breaking entertainment news knowledge on my part horrifies her, so I try to keep more current these days by following not one, but three trashy pop culture blogs. It's the least I can do to keep us fresh and poppin.

Ruth is also our resident event coordinator - she is fab when it comes to making sure we all get to enjoy our family instead of talking about getting together and then running in fifty different directions when it comes to planning (it's like she has JLo from Wedding Planner living in her head).

She is a fabulous friend too. I say that because she has like 700 of them. And not Facebook friends, or voices in her head friends either. She has droves of real people that love her companionship, and they can't all be crazy. She's my friend as well.

The world is a prettier, more creative place with Ruth in it. She is a very talented artist. Without her, we would be missing a vibrant color in not just the art, but the people palette too.

So happy birthday to Ruth! Big loves to you on your special day (don't pay attention to your rents)!!

This isn't Ruth and I, but I wish it was. Being the older of us means I would have to be The Poker, but I don't care. It would have been worth it to have that story in our repertoire. You never know, maybe someday the fates will align and we will get an opportunity to do a cover of this classic shot (Photo courtesy of Awkward Family Photos .com)

Author's note: This post is Ruth approved. She offered up the highest compliment upon reading it yesterday. She said she would like it to be used as her obituary. Thanks Ruth. If anyone else would like an obit from me, please direct your requests to the email on the sidebar. Thanks.

The Romans Gave The Irish Their Holiday

2010-03-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

I suck at history very much badly. I can't seem to retain the information. I am a semi-curious soul though so I do still attempt to know a little something about what went on before I got here; even though it isn't all that important, since you know, it happened before I got here.

Anywho, on a whim I did a little reading this morning about Saint Patrick, and came across this:

"Saint Patrick, The Apostle of Ireland, was born at what is now Kilpatrick, near Dumbarton, in Scotland, in the year 387; died at Saul, Downpatrick, Ireland, 17 March, 493. At the time of his birth it was known at Briton and ruled by Rome. His parents were Calphurnius and Conchessa. The language of the time was latin and his given name was Patricus. His father belonged to a Roman family of high rank and held the office of decurio in Briton."

Ohhhh snap! He was Roman! What was I just saying last week? I swear, it's pretty much shaking down to us being responsible for about 97% of the good in this world. You are welcome Ireland! Call us if you need anything else.

Happy Saint Patricus Day everyone! Celebrate with Eddie Murphy - a man with genuine appreciation for the awesomeness of our people.

They Keep Working Your Booty Even After You're Done Working Your Booty Call

2010-03-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

White shorts really are the wisest wardrobe choice the morning after a booty call.

I just came across this ad in a magazine and I got all excited; I just have to share. This is special people.

Angry Lesbians have been fighting for womens' rights for decades, and we are finally getting somewhere. Finally! How long have we waited for this day?!

This new penis equality era in advertising when we will be seen and addressed as something more than sex objects. We're here people! We. Are. Finally. Here.

Now, back to the ad above. I know the small print is too small to read, but the magic of the message is within, so here it is for you:

EasyTone uses balance pods in the shoes to create natural instability, much like walking on a sandy beach, which encourages toning through increased muscle activation in 3 key areas of the leg.

The best part is that EasyTone works while you walk the dog, walk down the aisle, country line dance, chase after a bus, do the walk of shame...actually, when doesn't EasyTone work?

Did you catch the magic? Feel the hearts and stars? In case you need a hint, the fun is encased in the "do the walk of shame" part.

Wikipedia defines TWOS as, "The walk of shame refers to a phenomenon in which a person must walk past strangers or peers alone for an embarrassing reason before reaching a place of privacy. Most commonly[citation needed], it occurs the morning after a night out at a bar, dance club, or party. People undertaking the walk of shame are understood to have spent the night at the house, apartment, or dorm of a sexual partner (or perceived sexual partner), particularly a one night stand. The topic is often of the subject of college newspaper commentary."

Urban Dictionary simplifies the term a bit: "n. The course walked home after a night of boozing and fucking that ends in a booty call. One usually wears the clothes they went out in."

Isn't that awesome? No more appeals to our desperation. No more preying on our endless need to be forever considered beautiful. No, no, no. We aren't just seen as sex objects anymore. We can be whores too!

Wait a second...we were whores and sex objects before - godammit!!

Sorry Angry Lesbians. I called an early victory and I was mistaken. I think you won this one for us somewhere around 4000 BCE.

So please disregard this post. Much like the ad people at Reebok, it turns out I am full of shit.

Author's Note: Reebok doesn't appear to make an EasyTone shoe for men. Skechers makes a shoe for men similar to the EasyTone, but nowhere in their ads that I could access online did I see any verbiage about how dudes could stick their dicks in a chick, and then trot home the next morning, building their gluts all the way home.

Just Who Do You Think I am?

2010-03-15T10:12:00.000-07:00

I ask that (even though I am not really asking) because everyone has a different opinion about us. No surprise there, I know. It's when these viewpoints are become shitty ones, or not linked to the reality of we you are, that they get interesting.

Take for example an opinion one of my aunt's has had for a while now. On the average of about once a quarter, she loves to blurt out, "Oh, you're so bossy!" It has never been said in reaction to anything I have done, but yet I can tell in the way she expresses herself about it that she entirely believes what she is saying. That is her reality.

This particular opinion is deemed shitty by me because I do not want to be considered bossy. As a matter of fact, I am tempted to come to my own Anti-Stalin defense by pointing out that she is the only person who has ever said this, and by telling you a bajillion stories of my being the very opposite of bossy (like the time my hair stylist was burning my scalp with the blow dryer and I winced through it instead of speaking up because I considered anything else to be telling her how to do her job, which would be bossy). However, the point of this post is not for you to outclick convinced I am not bossy.

So what is my point then, right?

Well here's the jam man: once I stopped being defensive about what she thought, that is to say, I dropped the knee jerk reaction to label her opinion as "shitty", it got interesting.

With defenses down one time, I asked her why she thought I was bossy. And then I waited. She told me I was bossy because all Italian women are. All of them.

So okay, some aunt who sees you on holidays stereo-stamped you bossy in context perhaps with her Italian experiences. Not a far fetched thing, right? I mean, how well could she know you over a bustling table of food and conversation twice a year?

Well actually, I sort of anticipated she would know me a little bit better. You see, she raised me for several years when I was a teenager. I see her nowadays on a weekly basis. So it is actually a total curiousity to me that she doesn't know me all that well at all.

It also reminds me that she is not alone.

I had been hanging out with one of my guy friends regularly for at least a year when he made a comment that revealed he thought I was college educated. He just assumed it he said. Really? We have been hanging out all this time, talking about everything under the sun and you just filled in the blanks like that? I didn't take offense, I found it fascinating in a way that he had just sketched in whatever went along with his evolving image of who I am for him.

There's a lot of other examples I could provide you, but who cares?

The truth is what you make it. Your truth is what you believe. That's the interesting, hilarious, shitty, fascinating, terrifying reality folks.

And you probably knew that, but I am still learning.

A Plague Upon Our Lasagna

2010-03-10T09:23:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I like to switch away from all the down-hearted shit I watch on television, and take in something uplifting. Have a good laugh, bring a little light in.

It was one of these times when I stumbled on to a documentary about the plague. Perfect. The Black Death was getting pretty black at this point in the show, and daily death tolls were being discussed. Most areas of Europe were losing several hundred people a day at the height of the epidemic in their villages. One historian popped on the screen to talk about the mass graves in Italy that were born out of the necessity to bury all of these people.

It was said that the Italians were constructing their mass graves much like a lasagna. No shit - that's what he said. My interest was piqued. So apparently they would put in a layer of people, and then a layer of dirt. Follow that with some ricotta, then another layer of people, another layer of dirt, and so on.

This got me thinking about a couple of things.

First off, nicely done Italians. The modern day lasagna design really is an ideal medieval mass grave layout. Just add that to all of the other things we have given the world. Among the vast list is the Renaissance, Fabio, liposuction, Bagpipes, and the barometer.

This new knowledge also begs a pretty big big question: Which came first, the lasagna or the mass grave?

Did some poor Greaseball serf survive the plague, have flashbacks about the mass graves, and then translate that experience into a tasty pasta cheese and tomato dish? Or was the lasagna already in existence and someone was pulled from the kitchen to help bury the dead and in the heat of the moment, thought ahead and implemented the old May You Rest In Peace Mass Grave Lasagna design?

Who knows, and I am not going to research it. My people have already done enough for you.

You can thank me later. Right now, I've got to get a lasagna in the dir...er - I mean oven.

I Got Nothin

2010-02-21T10:51:00.000-08:00

Sorry folks -- lately I just seem to keep smacking into the Nothing To Talk About wall. I don't even have anything to share about having nothing to share. Weird huh.

Not So Great

2010-02-21T05:19:00.000-08:00

"Being a piece of shit and then occasionally doing something that's good and true, it's a much easier place to be." Amen Kenny, amen.

2010-02-08T19:26:00.001-08:00

All faces resemble each other, yet how easily we see in each uniqueness, individuality, an identity. How deeply we value these differences. The ocean is a whole, but it has countless waves, every one different from all the others; it has currents, each unique, ever-changing; the bottom is a landscape all its own, different everywhere; similarly the shoreline. The atmosphere is whole, but its currents have unique signatures, even though they are just wind. Life on earth is a whole, yet it expresses itself in unique time-bound bodies, microscopic or visible plant or animal, extinct or living. So there can be no one place to be. There can be no one way to be, no one way to practice, no one way to learn, no one way to love, no one way to grow or to heal, no one way to live, no one way to feel, no one thing to know or to be known. The particulars count.

~ Wherever You Go There You Are (p. 230)

That up there is some deep shit my friends. It's a passage in my current read and it totally resonated with me. It's like the universe is giving me permission to be whatever kind of nutball freak job I need to be - sweet!

PCP

2010-02-05T12:39:00.000-08:00

It's not nearly as bad for you as they say, my version anyway.

Parsnip Carrot and Potato Soup

Soup
2 large carrots
2 large parsnips
1 large potato
1 smallish onion
3-4 cups of low sodium chicken stock
salt/pepper

Garnish
sliced bread
dill
sour cream
shredded cheddar cheese
nonfat plain yogurt

While you are preheating your oven to 425 degrees, peel the vegetables. I think peeling the potato is definitely optional. Personally, I liked the texture of the skin on in the soup, but your meal won't suffer if your tater goes skinless.

Slice all your veges roughly the same size so they will cook evenly but don't make a big deal out of it because they are headed for the blender after roasting.

Then you want to show them the love with a generous oiling and some salt and pepper. Salting preferences tend to be very personal - like thongs and religion - you just know what works for you. I will only offer that you definitely want flavorful PCPs (and onion) when you are done roasting because they are the star of your soup show, so taste them when you pull them out of the oven if you are unsure about the salting.

Once you are done seasoning, spread everything out on a sheet pan in a single layer and roast until fork tender. I roasted mine for about 20 minutes. If you have cut your veges into smaller pieces, you will probably need to shorten that time.

Give everything a few minutes to cool off and then slice into smaller pieces for easy blending. If you have an immersion blender you can throw everything into a pot with the chicken stock and puree. If not, simply do that step in a regular blender and then pour into a soup pot to heat.

Once your PCP is nice and warm, you are ready to roll with garnishes baby! It's like liquid taco bar........except not really...but sorta.

Toasted bread can be cubed into perfect croutons to add some crunch. I like a sprinkle of dill and dollop of sour cream action with my PCP. Shredded cheddar is also yum because it adds a sharp to the sweet. Non fat yogurt is also really good for tang and creaminess. I stirred in a half of an individual serving of plain yogurt when I was heating my soup.

Want to go spicy? Try some curry! Allergic to vegetarian meals? Throw some bacon on that roasting pan before it goes in the oven and then crumble a slice or two on top.

This is your PCP people -- the sky's the limit -- be creative! And enjoy!

Curiosity

2010-02-05T12:05:00.000-08:00

may have killed the cat; more likely

the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.

Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

~ By Alastair Reid

If the last fifty four seconds don't crack you up, then I fear for your funny bone.

Saint Francis Soup Kitchen

2010-02-01T13:43:00.000-08:00

I just got back from Saint Francis Soup Kitchen and I am all spunkified from my visit! I wish I could have taken you with me, or at least remembered my camera.

Today was delivery day for the first monthly installment of Guerrilla Goodies (check here if I am confusing you).

SFSK has been serving the hungry for over 25 years. Each day a hearty meal of soup, salad, bread, coffee and milk are served to over 180 people at noon. The Kitchen is one place where those in need will find a kind welcome, food, and an opportunity to rest in safety.

This month we had four different kinds of sweet treats to share and the Director of the kitchen, Richard Crowe, seemed very happy to accept our goodies. In fact he asked me to thank the ladies for him, and everyone at the kitchen.

"Thanks for all the lovely desserts ladies!" ~Richard (Scroll down and see if you think Mr. Crowe had a hand in choosing the paint color for the dining hall)

Richard offered me a little tour and we walked through the small crowded kitchen. It looked like a combination of regular staff and volunteers were working away. The kitchen emptied into the dining hall - what a lovely space [insert no camera on hand remorse here]!

Beautiful high ceilings with walls painted a rich, warm yellow. Every table had a little vase with a flower in it, and the room was filled with light from the wall of windows.

The only picture of the dining hall that I could find online. It really doesn't do it justice. I will have to remember my camera next time.

I think our tasty treats might add a little more light to that room. This month we had two different kinds of cookies - chocolate chip and sweet potato spice cookies. We also had a yummalicious lemon cake and a big batch of brownies.

A quick picture of our sweet treats before I hopped in the car to deliver them. This is just a sampling actually as we had a couple of containers of each. It made for a very nice overflowing bag to share - thanks ladies!

On my way out of the kitchen, I got a treat too. A man with Jesus-esque hair and a little bit of a lazy eye gave me a rapid fire, Rainman cadence blessing. From what I could gather about the risings, the savings and the graces, I think it was a bible passage.

It was actually very sweet and I appreciated him taking the time to try and save me. I might play the lotto this week before the magical powers wear off.

Before you know it, we will be all set to do it again. I am already looking forward to it!

For it is in giving that we receive.
~ St. Francis of Assisi

I think Francis may have been on to something...

Anger Management

2010-01-30T14:09:00.000-08:00

I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd
forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.
A man answered, saying "Hello."

I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn
Carter?"

Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right blankety blank number!" and the phone was slammed down on me.

I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked
down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.

After hanging up with her, I decided to call the wrong number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're a jackass!" and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word 'jackass' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.

Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell,
"You're a jackass!" It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic jackass calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi, this is John Smith from the telephone company. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?"

He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're a jackass!" and hung up.

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first jackass (I had his number on speed dial), I thought that I'd better call the BMW jackass, too. I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"
He said, "Yes, it is.." I asked, "Can you tell me where I can see it?"
He said, "Yes, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd , in Fairfax .
It's a yellow rambler, and the car's parked right out in front."
I asked, "What's your name?" He said, "My name is Don Hansen."
I asked, "When's a good time to catch you, Don?"
He said, "I'm home every evening after five."

I said, "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"
He said, "Yes?"
I said, "Don, you're a jackass!"

Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two jackasses to call.

Then I came up with an idea.
I called Jackass #1.
He said, "Hello."
I said, "You're a jackass!"
(But I didn't hang up.)

He asked, "Are you still there?"
I said, "Yeah."
He screamed, "Stop calling me!"
I said, "Make me."
He asked, "Who are you?"

I said, "My name is Don Hansen."
He said, "Yeah? Where do you live?"
I said, "Asshole, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd , in Fairfax , a yellow rambler, I have a black Beamer parked in front."

He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don.
And you had better start saying your prayers."
I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, jackass," and hung up.

Then I called Jackass No. 2.
He said, "Hello?"
I said, "Hello, jackass ."
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..."
I said, "You'll what?"
He exclaimed, "I'll kick your tail,"
I answered, "Well, jackass, here's your chance.

I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Oaktree Blvd , in Fairfax , and that my gay lover was on his way over to kill me. Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Oaktree Blvd in Fairfax .

I quickly got into my car and headed over to Fairfax I got there just in time to watch two jackasses beating the devil out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead news helicopter and surrounded by a news crew.

NOW I feel much better.

Anger Management really works!

Author behind depiction of this totally well adjusted way to deal with people and telephones is unknown.

Six Word Memoirs - Daniella Style

2010-01-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Do you remember back in this post when I promised to do some of my own SWMs? Well I came up with a few for your consideration.

My she dog has many balls.

No hate, but not exceeding eight.

Doughnut, you had me at 'sprinkle'.

I never saw that salsiccia coming.

Think. Over think. Speak. Awkward. Repeat.

My life supposed to be punchline?

Fat chicken still has skinny face.

Shoebox by the sea, lucky me!

Drinking problem. I missed another round?

Orange scented olives. God loves me.

Want to see world without travel.

Rats way bigger than cats - drats!

You're a big ass. Thank you.

Your ass is big. Thank you.

You Can Keep The Puppy Dog Tails

2010-01-26T09:50:00.000-08:00

I like snails. Water snails. Seriously. I have them in a couple of rooms in my house. I don't know exactly what it is about them but I have had many over the years and would have even more if I felt like cleaning all the bowls.

My very first snail was Babbalucci. A gold Mystery snail I got the year I was married (don't say it with diamonds, say it with water snails). He lived for many years and grew from the gumball I got at the aquarium store to the golfball he was in his golden mystery years.

Santo moved into my bedroom about six months ago. A rich yellow like Babbalucci, he is in his gumball era right now too. He's a good eater, respects the house rules of not sliming out of his bowl and breaking his snail ass on the dresser below. He also has a great sense of humor - he loves to wing out his peen when my room gets dark so when you flip on the light, everyone gets to do that awkward laugh for having walked in on him during private time. He always gets a "Whoa tiger! Let's roll that bad boy up and put it away!" out of me every time. I know, I know, he's a total crack up.

Pepino was a little chocolate brown nugget that lived out in the living room, but he died last week. I am not sure what happened to him, (actually I am pretty sure he killed himself after the Jersey Shore marathon, it's just that suicide is a hard thing to come to grips with)but he wasn't with us for long.

The two in the photo are shacked up in his old bowl. I just got them. Unlike other snails, Mystery snails aren't trannies, so you have to have a boy and a girl -- and they have to be in love to hump out some baby snail eggs. Keep your fingers crossed, this is potentially the first honeymoon snail suite we've had.

Now I am learning there are jade colored mystery snails, so I may just have to get another bowl going...

Toss It In And Get It Over With Already!

2010-01-25T13:04:00.000-08:00

I think I am going to throw it in. Give up. I know we aren't supposed to do that, but I am just so damned tired.

Tired of being completely mortified every time I ask for money. Sick to death of looking at inventory in my garage that I have no money to ship. Cringing every time I take money out of my savings to pay down corporate debt.

I still marvel at the corporation part. That's right party people: I started a corporation. I still remember my delighted shock when the IRS loved me enough to approve my 54 page exemption application. I know, who would have thought?! OAP will be three years old next month.

The upcoming deadline to renew the website (and corresponding expense that goes with it) has compelled me to really stop and look at the state of my corporation. It's a sorry state, truth be told. I so believed in what OAP was set up to do that I always had this fantasy that the funding would follow based on their sheer rightness of what we were doing.

It was perfect in my mind. Almost everything went directly towards our mission. We didn't pay salaries, office or storage rent, nothing. We bought our supplies, paid our shipping, carried our insurance and did our basics for exposure like modest printing costs and the price of the website.

I thought I was upholding an ideal that I always wished more charities could run on. Now I am so tired I don't even give a damn.

I didn't ask for enough help or enough money and I ended up running both myself and OAP's potential, right into the ground.

I keep thinking I am wrong for being done. You aren't supposed to ever give up, right? I am letting people down because I don't fund raise better. I should try harder. I should wait it out and somehow everything will get itself back on track.

Oh but live and learn Daniella! Failure is such a great teacher! Next time you are going to know so much more! Yeah, whatthefuckever.

I should have learned more this time.

All Other Tropical Storms Must Bow Before The Nino

2010-01-20T10:21:00.000-08:00

I just read an article about how this week's group of storms in California is moving through in a "classic El Nino pattern". So for those of you who don't know what that means......El Nino...is Spanish for...The Nino.

Taking A Sit

2010-01-18T16:06:00.000-08:00

Ask Anne - that's a real meditation term. When you settle yourself in and meditate, you are taking a sit.

Or maybe you just got done taking a real satisfying sit. It's been one of those days, and you really feel like you have to take a sit. Your pants fit better after that last si....alright, maybe I am taking it a bit too far, but you get my drift.

I have wanted to try a regular meditation practice for a long time now, but apparently the road to anti-zen is paved with good intentions, because I never got around to it. Then a couple of weeks ago Anne and I were discussing a group she meditates with once a week. She enjoys it and on the days in between their meetings they are broken into texting groups where you text someone to tell them you did your daily meditation. If you miss more than one day in a week, you get booted out of the group. Tossed from the herd. Ostracized to a prison colony.

My heart sang at the potential for social humiliation, so I got Anne to initiate me into her group.

I try to concentrate on my breath. I try to become aware of my whole body. I do my best to allow my thoughts to pass through without judgment. All the good shit.

So here are a few of the things that went through my head while I was supposed to be using my third eye to Zen it up:

"I'm not doing this right."

"Another day and I am still not doing this right."

"That donut upside down cake on Serious Eats looks absolutely fabuloso."

"I'm not doing this right."

"My hands are cold."

"I hope I moved enough of the dirt they didn't repack enough in the yard to keep it from flooding with all these storms that are coming."

"When is the alarm going to go off - it's been three hours already."

"What's up pain in my knee - ow!"

"I want to move my desk"

"I was with so-and-so when I bought that desk -- ewww!"

"I want wall to wall built-in bookcases."

"There's no way I am doing this right."

"I wish I had a long hallway where my two big bookcases could go at the end."

"What should I have for dinner?"

"Why do I still feel like my stomach is trying to digest rocks?"

"Alarm is broken. I swear I am going to open my eyes."

Doesn't look like I got anything close to mediation done, right?

"The monkey mind jumps from thought to thought like a monkey jumps from tree to tree. Rather than existing in the present moment, the monkey mind focuses on one thought after another, and these thoughts distract us from existing in the present, which is one of the goals of yoga."

I will be at it again tomorrow.

Hummers

2010-01-17T09:49:00.001-08:00

All the 18-34 year old males just outclicked when they saw that picture. Sorry boys - no videos here, just a little bird talk.

I am not a huge fan of the nickname, but they used it repeatedly during the program about Hummingbird's last night. It was an installment of the PBS series Nature, and it was so interesting!

Fun Facts

There are over 350 different species of Hummingbirds.
Hummers are the smallest* warm blooded animal on the planet, and can only be found in the Americas.
They lay eggs that are about the size of Tic Tacs. Well actually, that's what Tic Tacs are - you've been macking on Hummingbird embryos all this time. Nice going.
There are actual Hummingbird banders out there who have documented some birds to be as old as 12!
Hummers are the original hover craft. They're ability to move their wings in a figure 8 pattern and hover has given them mad flying skills, including flying backwards and upside down. Take that Aflac duck - you fucking show off!
They're cute as hell.
Hummers know sweet is an anytime treat. They believe this whole Diabetes thing is a government created/funded way to torture all of us, and I believe them. Think about government cheese people.

You absolutely must check out the magic in your air and see this program!

* I like the irony that Hummers are the smallest warm blooded creatures, and most of the people who drive Hummers are the biggest douchebags.

You're Probably Going To Hate Me For This...

2010-01-15T13:07:00.000-08:00

...but what the fuck are we doing giving $100 million in aid to Haiti?!

I'm sorry but it's ridiculous. You are probably already convinced I am Pat Robertson's evil twin, but maybe you could just let me have a chance to tell you why I think we are being lame: Our country is in a fucking shambles and we are jumping up to bleed out a little more! That's why. Thanks for letting me get that out.

Let's refresh on the current state of our grand old union, shall we? And I will throw the net wide and keep things as general and positive as possible. The current lowhighlights include:

Unemployment rates the highest they have been in decades

Complete healthcare crisis/meltdown

Complete banking crisis/meltdown

National Debt at an all time high

Many small businesses and homeowners struggling to stay afloat

For all intents and purposes, our debt to China means they pretty much own us

Eighth year of US military action in the Middle East

Do you wonder where we just happened to have $100 mil lying around with everything that is going on? Do you ask yourself why our government hasn't made sure that it's own citizens don't suffer? Doesn't it sound at all silly to you folks?!

It does to me.

America has become that lame-ass twenty something guy that is in the hottest car (balloon lease payments), blinging the most tricked out phone (massive security deposit on it), buying the whole club a round in his Armani suit (charged it yo!), before he goes home to sleep in his twin bed (the one his parents got him when he stopped using diapers) back at mom's and pay all the minimums on his secured credit cards.

Whoo! I know I am waving my asshole flag really high here, but I am going to take a shot at redemption here. I am not advocating in the least bit that we ignore the horrific damage and loss the people of Haiti are suffering. I wholeheartedly believe there is something we can and should be doing to help. Of course it is only right and just to honor their need, and do our part. We just make our part way too much of a starring role; and at a time when we literally can't really afford to do so.

We need to learn our limit before that last round goes out for a toast, and we are face down on the floor, getting that Armani all stanky before we can even get it paid off. Which brings me to another thought - who would pick us up off that floor?

Now I have seen like .08 of an episode of that So You Think You're Smarter Than A 5th Grader so I know we as a nation suck at geography...but do we suck to the point where we think we constitute 90% of the countries on this planet? Europe can't help a Haitian out? Is Dubai too strapped from making snow all summer for their indoor ski resort, to send a little food and water?

And maybe they are pitching in - I don't know. Researching facts gets in the way of my anger and sweeping generalizations, so I avoid it like a hooker dodges churches. I am just using them to soften the blow of my very unpopular opinion anyway.

Now that I have bitched about the problem, believe it or not, my lame opinion includes some solution too.

Let Americans decide how much aid goes to Haiti.

In just two days of mass exposure on television, Facebook, Myspace and Twitter, we have donated over $5 million dollars to Haitian relief through the American Red Cross alone, and that number continues to grow. And that is just via their texting option. I am sure many more have mailed in checks and donated on the web.

Many celebrities have also pledged very generous donations to the cause as well.

There are also several not-for-profit organizations that are set up for exactly this sort of need.

Don't believe me? Here's just a tickle of what is out there:

Doctors Without Borders

Partners in Health

International Rescue Committee

International Medical Corps

CARE

American Refugee Committee

Yele Haiti

Save The Children

When I went to get these links, I noticed that several sites are already posting their thanks for the overwhelming amount of support they are receiving for their efforts, so obviously we are pitching in. Doing our part to help a global neighbor in need. Just as it should be.

Don't hate me for having opinions, hate me because deep down inside I am arrogant enough to believe my opinions are important enough to be blog worthy.

PS ~ I love you....and I donated to an org for Haitian aid.

Tummy Monster Force Field Failure

2010-01-14T09:18:00.001-08:00

I am one of those people that lives in fear of puking. So much so that me and my body have been in a successful 15 year no urping pact. Fifteen years. My fear and apprehension at the prospect of it actually seemed to create an anti-tummy monster force field that kept me safe for a really long time.

Even prior to the pact, I didn't urp very often. The first time I recall, I was only about three or four. I was in my grandparent's den one evening, looking super cute in my pink footy jammies. My grandmother had made strawberry milkshakes. One minute I am looking like a cuddly little piglet sucking down the pink yummyness in my glass, the next minute my grandmother is rushing me into the bathroom. I looked like one of those garden statue cherubs that arcs water into the basin below. Luckily, I made it all look damn cute in those jams.

This was taken a year or two before my water feature performance in the bathroom. By then, I am assuming I was wearing my brother's hand me down pink footy pajamas. What?

Even though I remember every time I was forced to reacquaint myself with something I had previously swallowed, I won't recount. Suffice to say everything changed on Tuesday night. Just before midnight my body went towards the light, the light at the bottom of my stomach.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think my body meant to fail me and wipe out our decade and a half run. The stomach flu is sort of a non-negotiable - it's happening.

I tried to pretend it wasn't happening though. I started out with my nightly routine and put myself to bed. That wasn't working, so I got up and cleaned my kitchen. Symptoms quickly progressed and left me hanging out in the bathroom, so I shaved my legs. You know, all the things you do to avoid being labeled "hairy" and "dirty" by the paramedics who rescue you half-dead off your bathroom floor.

And then it happened. While not at all pleasant, it wasn't nearly as awful as I thought it was going to be. I was also surprised at how much better I felt afterwards. Thankfully, the wave of green moved through quickly. And while I don't at all aspire to Pukey Pukerton status, I do have to own that all the times I dreaded it over the last fifteen years were probably more uncomfortable than what actually happened in my bathroom, after I shaved my legs on Tuesday night.

I also didn't end up having to call 9-1-1, and I could see my clean kitchen from the bed yesterday while I sucked down ice chips.

Now once the fever and achy chills pass me by, I will be back to my old....well...something.

Chiquita Bonita Cheezits

2010-01-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

The Mexicans don't have a cracker, and I don't mean Larry the Cable Guy's comedy tour hasn't come to Tijuana yet. They know their way around a tortilla like nobody's business, but in their rich and flavorful Con Queso culture, how can you completely void out the cracker? Answer: You can't. It's disturbing and unacceptable.

I have decided to help. Really roll up my poncho flaps, tip back my somebrero, and remedy this problem la raza has.

I give you the Chiquita Bonita Cheezit. Named for the lovely lady who received the maiden batch, they are the offically unofficial cracker of la raza. You can muchas gracias me later amigos.

The original inspiration was a food basket I was putting together to give as a secret Santa gift. The finale present had to be homemade, and I knew my SS giftee's fave cocktail is a margarita. I decided to deconstruct some of the flavors of a margarita for the basket. On my quest for yummies in that theme, I decided on a cheese straw recipe that I thought would lend itself pretty well to some traditional Mexican spices, like cumin and chili.

The recipe is pretty simple and only took me a few minutes to put together. Once I had the dough made (and chilled briefly), I simply rolled it out nice and thin and then rectangled it off with a pizza cutter. Making smaller rectangles after that, then three pokes to each with a small fork, and a nudge onto the baking sheet is all that was left to do.

(I don't think I have to remind you that I take awful photos...)

Too hip to be square

They brown up (not a Mexican joke, haters) nice and flaky and in just enough time for you to get a pitcher of Margaritas together. Fiesta time (or siesta time, depending on how many of those Ritas you are going to be downing)!

The mustard and cheddar team up for a really nice little sharpness to the flavor, while the chipotle adds just enough heat to remind you that you've gone south of the border baby!

Try them. You will never go back to boring old Cheezits again.

Just add queso - bonita!

Chiquita Bonita Cheezits TM
adapted from the Lottie + Doof blog's Cheese Straw recipe

* 1 2/3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
* 1 tablespoon of yellow mustard
* 1 teaspoon kosher salt
* 1/4 teaspoon chipotle chili powder (or more, to taste)
* 1/4 teaspoon cumin
* 1/2 pound extra-sharp Cheddar cheese, coarsely grated (2 1/2 cups)
* 1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
* 2 tablespoons water

Sift the flour, cumin, salt and chipotle chili powder into a medium bowl. Using an electric mixer, beat the cheese, mustard, and butter on low speed until well blended. Gradually beat in the flour until completely incorporated. Add the water and beat for 1 minute.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead 5 times. On a large sheet of wax paper, roll the dough into a 12-by-9-inch rectangle. Slide the dough onto a cookie sheet and refrigerate until chilled, about 15 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 400°. Cut the dough in half crosswise, then cut it into 1 1/2 -by- 1/2 -inch strips (this doesn't have to be perfect). Take a small fork and poke tops of each 2 or 3 times.

Transfer the strips to 2 cookie sheets. Bake 1 sheet at a time for about 10-12 minutes, or until the CBC's are golden brown (especially on the bottom) and crisp. Let cool slightly, then transfer to a rack to cool completely.

Like A Guerrilla Rebel Force

2010-01-06T13:55:00.000-08:00

Last week I picked up a magazine and read an article about a project called Global Colors - lurv it!

Founded by a philanthropist hottie man named Barton Brooks who "thought it would be better to go out and try to make a difference, rather than complain about things that weren't being done."

Guerrilla Aid

Their mission is to aid in the development of grassroots campaigns using local ingenuity and resources to accomplish very specific goals. Their projects are geared towards creating immediate change - while teaching individuals, families, and travelers how to do the same in their own back yard or across the globe.

This Barton Brooks knows how to take it to the streets (all over the world!) and get shit done - lurv it!

Can't make it to Batwa this week and too booked up for Senegal all of next? That's okay -- there is an off-shoot of GC called Guerrilla Aid. That's right, an opportunity to pay it forward right here in your own backyard. There are 52 weeks this year to change the world and you can be a part of it!

Brooks says:

Guerrilla Aid isn't about me and this expedition - it's about everyone just doing something to help someone else... Call it random acts of kindness, a project, or call it volunteerism, but just go and do it!

I'd love to hear stories about what "Guerrilla Aid" you are doing at home... Send me an email or video and I'll post it on the website to help give other people ideas of what they can do at home.. For example if you're a hairdresser - you could donate every Friday from 3-5 for free haircuts... It's as easy as that...

Now c'mon send me some examples of what you think Guerrilla Aid is for you!

Well I know I for sure want to make BB proud, so I am already on my way to brainstorming ways I can help out.

Starting the year on a sweet note, myself and a few lovely ladies in my family are going to bake once a month and donate it to a local soup kitchen. There will be more to come and I look forward to sharing it with you all.

Now it's your turn; what have you got up those spirit of helping sleeves?

Note: If Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year's didn't provide you with enough of a retail therapy fix, how about one of Global Colors wish bead bracelets? Minimum donation to receive one is minimal. It may not be your birthday, but prepared to make a wish just the same! - Check it yo!

Evolution

2010-01-05T10:57:00.000-08:00

Exboyfriend's face hidden to protect anonymity; it was a bad breakup.

Thirty five years, seventeen hours, and twenty one minutes of it right there for you to see. It wasn't even that difficult to tell you the truth.

You can ask yourself where you went wrong, but it would most probably just make you feel crappy about yourself. The simple truth is that some people are just genetically engineered by a God who plays favorites, to be superior. That's the reality people.

Did You See The Size Of That Yule Log?!

2009-12-24T08:32:00.000-08:00

This was originally posted last December, but you should read it because it was the last time I was funny. Take a look back and have a joyous Noelle!

There are so many reasons I love this photo, that I am going to have to make a little list here to cover them all.

1. Okay, let's start at the start: Flashing is just classic! Kudos to all who can go out there and get bare. You really can't go wrong. Any reaction is going to be the right one. Mission Accomplished. Every time. We salute you.

2. Check out Mom on the right. Awesome Reflexes. Looks like she just did an insta-swoop move to not only lean the child away from said yule log, [think Robin Williams stand up here when he is impersonating Adam cautioning Eve on the occasion of the first erection, "Stand back, we don't know how big this thing is going to get!"] but she also got those eyes covered damn quick too. I have heard of ovarian acts of heroism from mothers, but this one is stellar. Good job Mom! No therapy necessary in the future for little Billy on that one. Whew!

3. Now let's move to the left. These two make me both sad and furious at the same time. Shame be upon them for their reaction to this special moment. Seriously, what the hell party people?! Two adults. One flasher. This guy just gave you the gift of spontaneity and you are blowing it [Poor choice of words perhaps; let's not blow anything.] And finally, let me just dust off my feminist hat here and slap it on...Homeslice is not actually covering her eyes for her is he?! Oh no he deh-ent! That's a bunch of crap. Let me underscore my point with a quote from the great Pretty Woman, "I say who, I say when, I say who!" Get your damn hands off her eyes! Street berries and dangle should always be in the safe viewing zone. Relax buddy, it ain't like she paid for it.

4. Center stage is that kid on the bike who looks like he is late for an audition of A Christmas Carol with that red hair, hat, and wreath or whatever slung over his shoulder. He is going to have a great story to tell the Greater Metro Gay Men's Choir when he gets there!

I am going to start praying to Santa today that this season be as blessed as this for me and all those I love.

Happy Holidays Everyone!

That's One Kick-ass Compliment!

2009-12-23T13:12:00.000-08:00

Racism Is Always Unacceptable...

2009-12-03T13:29:00.000-08:00

Stereotyping though? That's coolio. Have at it.

Let's start with the stoopid dolt of a road crew dude. Of course he has to be Caucasian. Why, you ask? Because that is the only group of people who are racist. Everyone knows this.

That pretty much explains why Betty Crocker back there is yucking it up at his antics. When she isn't throwing burritos at Mexicans, or making weave jokes to the Black women in the office, she is laughing her ass off at just how funny Eber is.

Really now, isn't he funny? Such a comedic innovator. Who would have ever thought to mock eye shape. Very sharp, that guy.

And then we have our Miss Oppressed right there, front and center. A chop stick using, rice eating Asian. Nice. You can tell they are serious about championing her plight by the sheer in-your-face way in which they undermined the whole scenario with the stereotyping.

Lame.

If employees really need posters like this one in the workplace, to guide them about what is an act of racism, and what isn't, then perhaps Obama doesn't need to work on that 10.2% unemployment rate as much as we thought.

It may just be Darwinian office weeding at it's best.

Fritter

2009-12-02T19:28:00.000-08:00

I wish I had a lime green glittered out, street-legal bumper car. How sweet would that be?! Low but not slow baby!

Can you ask for that kind of stuff for Chanukah? If so, I'm in!

Bless Mahself!

2009-12-01T10:38:00.000-08:00

Even though I am not longer a practicing Catholic, I was raised pretty devoutly and some of the traditions I still like.

One of them is the little dainty finger dip you take in the holiest of holy water on your way in and out of the church. Then you make the sign of the cross with those newly Holy Spirit empowered finger tips, touching yourself right there in church! Oh blessed be!

Do other Christians do this? Being Catholic is far superior as you all know, so no time was ever wasted studying other "faiths".

Anywho, I haven't done this little ritual in years, because as I mentioned, I....ugh...well...am not really a Catholic anymore [insert Catholic guilt here].

Well all of that is going to change! Well, not really. I am still headed to hell for not being in church every week and sucking down communion wafers, but I can bless myself at home now!

One for every room in the house - OCCD, here I come!

These are from Italy! Hand painted! Aren't they beautiful?! In fact, but not really, I read in a real fake article somewhere that Jesus wanted to be Italian, but his dad told him he had to be a Joo. You know the rest of that story. Rough stuff. I wonder if he had a stylist when he got here though, because he looks pretty Italian.

Now, I need to find holy water....

For complete product information, please click here

Xerox Is Doing The Heavy Thanks Lifting For You

2009-11-25T10:04:00.000-08:00

Xerox is extending this awesome way for all of us to thank the troops again this holiday season! Simply pick out a card, add a greeting, and they do the rest by printing your card and sending it to a deployed service member. How coolio is that?! And is there any better time to reach out than the eve of our national day of Thanks? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

As I sit here musing about how many people across our great land yack every Turkey Day from not pushing away from the dinner plate soon enough, I want to take this opportunity to wish you all a very happy and safe Thanksgiving!

I'll let you go now, so you can hop on the Xerox site and thank a brave Soldier serving over this holiday season.

Bourbon: Not just a breakfast drink anymore

2009-11-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

I am having so much fun using bourbon in the kitchen! I follow a bunch of different food blogs, and bourbon just seems to be popping up more and more in their recipes.

Bourbon, like Bruce Springsteen and Velveeta, is made in the USA. Named for the Bourbon county region of Kentucky, this amber colored love is made primarily of corn and has been around since the 1700s.

You might remember the Bad-ass Bourbon Banana bread I made a few weeks ago...well there's more!

How about Bourbon Cranberry sauce? If that doesn't float your Thanksgiving gravy boat, I don't rightly know what will! And you don't have to wait for Turkey day or even turkey to enjoy this dish. I am going to be serving it as an appetizer this weekend, spooned over a brick of cream cheese with mini toasts on the side. Oh yeah - you know that is going to be all about the yum!

Need a helping hand this Thanksgiving to get through another one of Aunt Myrtle's agonizing old folk's home bingo tourney blow-by-blows? How about bliss-buzzing out while she drones with a nice fat wedge of Bourbon Pumpkin Cheesecake?

"But Daniella" you say, "what in the french toast am I going to do for the rest of the year when my bourbon hankering is-a-ragin? My friend, you will wait for the summer sun to kiss those peaches, and then you will commence the making of Bourbon Peach Hand Pies

Perhaps you have signed a contractual agreement with the devil to be on Atkins for the next 10 years, so you are trembling in fear by now that all of this carby bourbon fun is going to pass you by. Well, it is, and you should be crapping meatballs over that travesty! Everyone knows that cutting out carbohydrates entirely is the first level of hell. I am sad for you. However, you can ease some of your misery by adding some vitamin bourbon to your beef with this recipe for Beef Tenderloin with Bourbon.

I think bourbon might just be one of my new heroes!

Up Yours!

2009-11-18T14:44:00.000-08:00

I have had ringing ears and mild dizzyness for about 10 years now. Usually more pronounced on my right side, chronic nasal drip [that is an equally sufficient description of my personality for my Match.com profile too, by the way] my Eustachian tubes swell up and trap fluid, causing on the ear canal chaos. It's as fun as it sounds.

Now all the rage is for Neti pots. The Ayurvedic idea behind the Neti is that regular saline irrigation of the nasal passages is the key to new cars, fur coats, mad cash, and taco flavored kisses. Sometimes it doesn't do all that and you just end up with less allergy and sinus symptoms.

I figured even without the taco flavored kisses, I could still use calmer booger troughs, so I bought one a couple of days ago.

I have two day of happy Neti-ing under my nose and I am really getting into it. It's a pretty simple routine. You want mildly warm, not nasty water [ie, if your tap shoots out chlorinated chemical soup -- go bottled]. Most of the pots seem to call for about 1/4 of a teaspoon of noniodized table salt. Mix those two up, and you are ready to Neti!

It's quite the efficient apparatus, if I do say so myself. The shape of the spout creates a nice little seal in your standard issue nostril, and just moves the warm saline water right on through. For shoving something up your nose, you really do walk away feeling pretty refreshed.

If you don't thumbs up yourself while doing it, like the guy in the photo, you for sure won't be getting the mad cash and fur - just so you know.

Your Dirty Lies Are Starving My Dog!

2009-11-13T13:04:00.000-08:00

I've got some liars in my life. Now don't get me wrong, I know we all lie - myself included. None of us are really exempt from those occasional "oh, I wish I could but I have to wash my hair and get a liver transplant that day" moments.

I am talking more about the giant, chronic, drama queen, ass-face liar. They use their lies more than they tell the truth. In fact, their tale spinning is second nature to them and they pretty much believe they are hiding well behind the camouflage of it.

I got a call recently from a pretty accomplished liar I know. As soon as I answer the phone my ear is under attack as the rapid-fire Armageddon victim story unfolds. One horrific occurrence after another has allegedly befallen this poor person.

It goes something like this:

"Okay, you're never going to believe this...I was superglued to the toilet by Somali pirates in the wee hours of the morning. They left me there in my own bathroom for dead! In my last-ditch effort to save myself, I managed to bite down on the toilet roll hanger bar and tear my butt cheeks from the toilet.

Once the massive bleeding subsided a little, I went outside to throw the toilet seat away (everyone knows that ass skin sticks like a mothersmucker to those seats, so I didn't doubt this part of the story) and I was attacked by a troop of ground squirrels. I guess they had been waiting for me on the side of the house, because as soon as I rounded the corner, they launched right at me! Before I could do anything, they had me face down and wrist cuffed with one of those zip ties. Then they sodomized me with a Star Wars toy light Saber they claim they found in the neighbor's recycling bin. They weren't gentle. And If you have ever heard a ground squirrel snicker....it was evil.

They left me face down ass in the air, but were kind enough to chew through the zip tie before they took off. I managed to get to my feet. I staggered back in the house and my cell phone was beeping with a voice mail. Apparently I had missed a call during my anal invasion. It was my boss. I got fired. Apparently he didn't believe me yesterday when I called in and tried to explain to him that I was having trouble getting to work because this chimp had chewed off my thumbs in the 7/11 parking lot the night before. Have you ever tried to start your car without your thumbs?! I was only asking for a little time to get transplants, but I guess he didn't want to deal with me. People with disabilities are so often discriminated against, ya know?

Anyway, as soon as I hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. When I answered it, some ski-masked punk threw a flaming bag of dog shit into the house, and it slid right across the hardwood into the living room. I limp-scurried my sore ass over to it to stomp out the flames, and I fishtailed in dog shit, fell, and broke my right hip. The fire spread and I only managed to save myself - the house and all of my worldly possessions inside, are gone.

When I got to the hospital the doctor examined me before the hip x-ray. Bad news -- they found this giant mole under my left nut that they think is malignant Melanoma. So I am probably going to die which is why I am canceling our plans at the last minute like this. Sorry."

Yeah, you're right -- I don't believe you.

I did however get pretty distracted by the whole pile of bullshit slung at me over the phone lines. So distracted in fact, that I forgot I was in the middle of feeding The Ru when I answered the phone. I didn't remember this for three hours after the call ended. Three whole hours. My dog could have died of starvation. There is no better reason than that to always abide by the Honesty Is Always The Best Policy rule.

The truth would have taken a fraction of the time.

It goes something like this:

"Hi there - I'm a fucking tool. I am calling to cancel last minute on our plans for today. I don't have a good reason, I just don't like planning. Flaking teaches everyone not to engage in scheduling things with me in the future. Sorry. And I say sorry because I know that is just one of those things I am supposed to say. I don't actually give a shit or I wouldn't be such a tool in the first place."

So much easier, right? And I would have had the brain power to feed my poor pooch afterward.

"Doll" Dungeon

2009-11-12T13:13:00.000-08:00

Adults do creepy shit to kids all the time. It's a horrible, heartbreaking, damaging reality. I have lived through some of it.

That's right, I come to you now as an adult who carries a very traumatized little kid inside. But then again, by now you have probably already guessed this Crazytown 'n down action ain't coming from a well-adjusted place.

Like any other trauma survivor, often times different things will spark flashbacks of my original horror. These snippets of the past are rough my friends. They strike almost as much dread in my heart as the time I dreamt that aliens stole all of the planet's dougnuts. Yeah, that scary.

And you never know when they are going to strike, these flashbacks. One got me out of the blue just a couple of days ago.

I was checking out this design blog, when I unwittingly scrolled down into a picture that took me right back to a dark place in my childhood.I was five all over again. Lying as still as I could in my narrow little metal framed twin bed. Trying not to twitch and call their attention to me. All of them there surrounding the perimeter of the room. Surrounding me. So many eyes fixed upon me in that dark room. Always watching. Never blinking. Waiting. Always.

My maternal grandmother was my torturer. Unlike the picture shown here where the little freaks are nailed to the wall, she had her miniature porcelain minions in eight foot tall glass cases around the room. It was at her hand I was forced to endure the night with them.

Would they break the glass and stab me in the neck with a spork stolen from the kitchen junk drawer? If I accidentally fell asleep, was I going to wake to their little cold dead hands wrapped around my neck? Or maybe they were just going to start whispering horrible things to me like, "You will never get a chance to ride Papa's go-kart" or "You are too retarded to use an etch-a-sketch" until I went insane?

Night after night, I would focus on my survival. Each dawn bringing another chance to get out of this nightmare alive. Just needed to make it through one more night.

Eventually I was able to escape that hell, and after decades of therapy as an adult, I became strong enough to confront my g-ma. I did this on the one condition that they stayed in the other room. She claims that she had no idea that the "Doll Room" (nice syrupy sweet name right? They always try to sugar coat their shit.) as she called it, would be scary for me to sleep in.

Of course this was an outright lie. How could she not know? After all, she had been the one to hand pick all of them. You could tell they were chosen specifically for their powers of fear and intimidation. And she was the one to line them up into battalion formation in their glass barracks once they enlisted with her. Oh, she knew.

I didn't really expect her to own up to the abuse anyway. In fact, she had the nerve to laugh off my confrontation. In the end, all she would say is that she loved me and that she thought I considered it a real treat to spend the night in the Doll Room. When I mentioned other victims such as my brother and other cousins close in age, she just dismissed me again, stating that she was sure they had enjoyed staying in her Dungeon Room as well (I call it like it is people.) as I was the only one complaining about it.

I wasn't complaining anyway - I was speaking out. If finding my voice about this issue helps even one other child out there, then all of my work to get better has not been in vain.

This is some sick shit people! If you know of an adult who is making a poor defenseless child sleep with tiny replicas of dead babies, or "dolls" as the abuser will often call them -- speak out!

We can't just stand by and allow this to keep happening. The next generation is depending on us.

11/11

2009-11-11T08:15:00.001-08:00

It's Veteran's Day -- "happy" doesn't sound quite right to put with those words. I think these are much better:

“It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press. It is the soldier not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag.”
~ Rev. Denis Edward O’Brien from the US Marine Corps

Thank you to all of the brave men and women, past and present, who have answered the call and served our nation.

The Corps Is 234! (that rhymes party people)

2009-11-10T14:52:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday to the United States Marine Corps! Oorah! I don't think two hundred and thirty four has ever looked more stellar!

Since learning more about the Marines after starting OAP, I will admit I have had a little bit of a crush. The discipline, the rugged Leatherneckedness, the uniform, it just all works for me. I have also had the honor to get to know a few Marines OAP reached out to during their deployments, and they were each and every one some pretty special people.

What's that, you want to know more? Well, let's start at the start, shall we?

Brief Wikipedian History Lesson:The United States Marine Corps (USMC) is a branch of the United States armed forces responsible for providing force projection from the sea, using the mobility of the United States Navy to rapidly deliver combined-arms task forces. It is one of seven uniformed services of the United States. In the civilian leadership structure of the United States military, the Marine Corps is a component of the Department of the Navy, often working closely with U.S. naval forces for training, transportation and logistic purposes; however, in the military leadership structure the Marine Corps is a separate branch.

Captain Samuel Nicholas formed two battalions of Continental Marines on 10 November 1775 in Philadelphia as naval infantry. Since then, the mission of Marine Corps has evolved with changing military doctrine and American foreign policy. The Marine Corps served in every American armed conflict and attained prominence in the 20th century when its theories and practices of amphibious warfare proved prescient and ultimately formed the cornerstone of the Pacific campaign of World War II. By the mid-20th century, the Marine Corps had become the dominant theorist and practitioner of amphibious warfare. Its ability to respond rapidly to regional crises gives it a strong role in the implementation and execution of American foreign policy.

The United States Marine Corps includes just over 203,000 (as of October 2009) active duty Marines and just under 40,000 reserve Marines. It is the smallest of the United States' armed forces in the Department of Defense (the United States Coast Guard is smaller, about one-fifth the size of the Marine Corps, but is under the Department of Homeland Security). The Marine Corps is nonetheless larger than the entire armed forces of many significant military powers; for example, it is larger than the active duty Israel Defense Forces or the whole of the British Army.

The Marine Corps is highly cost-effective. The cost per Marine is $20,000 less than the cost of a serviceman from the other services, and the entire force can be used for both hybrid and major combat operations, that is, the Marines cover the entire Three Block War.

I love military uniforms. The elegance and pageantry of them is not only inspiring but also a rather traditionally feminine trait of such a traditionally masculine field.

Remember earlier in the post how I mentioned getting to know a few Marines personally? Well one of my favorite memories on that subject is about Gunnery Sergeant Moncibais. He was only with us for a month or two when I put out an email to him and few others requesting a group Marine photo to gift to a very special donor we have who is a retired Marine. He literally rallied the troops and organized this this wonderful photo!

Boy did we have one happy Marine birthday boy when he received this framed photo with a note from GySgt. Moncibais. I have heard that this gift ended up in a place of honor in the middle of his "Marine Wall"

He and his Marines went out of their way [even made the nifty birthday sign, yo!] to do this when all along we were supposed to be helping them. A perfect example of a Marine's discipline of service.

And a colorful people too, those marines are. Their vernacular is one of my faves. Some of my favorite Marine sayings, or as I like to refer to them, truisms:

Semper Fidelis (Latin, meaning Always Faithful)
Marine Sniper -- Visualize World Peace
USMC IS Part Of The Navy -- The Men's Department
Pain Is Weakness Leaving The Body
Heaven Won't Take Us and Hell Is Afraid We'll Take Over
Death smiles at everyone. The Marines smile back.

Speaking of colorful, there have been a few memorable quotes about the Marines throughout history:

"Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they made a difference. The Marines don't have that problem." -Ronald Reagan

"I come in peace, I didn't bring artillery. But I am pleading with you with tears in my eyes: If you fuck with me, I'll kill you all." -Marine General James Mattis, to Iraqi tribal leaders

"I want you boys to hurry up and whip these Germans so we can get out to the Pacific to kick the s**t out of the purple-pissing Japanese, before the Godda**ed MARINES get all the credit!" -Lt General George Patton, US Army 1945

Books about the Marines I have really enjoyed:

Jarhead by Anthony Swofford

Shooter: The Autobiography Of The Top-Ranked Marine Sniper by Sgt. Jack Coughlin and Capt Casey Kuhlman

Making the Corps by Thomas Ricks

Are you one of those "movies are better than books" people? Fine then...

A Few Good Men - if you have never heard of it then I am speechless, and quite frankly, disappointed.

Jarhead - based on the book by the same name. Very well done account of one Marine's experience during the Gulf War. Added bonus -- it stars the yummy Jake Gyllenhaal and Jamie Foxx

Making the Corps - documentary series done by the Discovery channel that takes you from the disorientatingly dark parking lot bus drop off at Parris Island Recruit Depot to graduation day. There is a serious amount of ass-kicking training in between.

I will wrap it up here. I hope this posts inspires you to learn more about our military. Where would we be without all they do for our nation?!

Happy Birthday to corps - all you guys and gals out there who have done so much to protect and serve us all! Oorah!

M O W

2009-11-09T10:24:00.000-08:00

You know that stoopid (I like to spell it that way) saying "food is love"? Well, I think I have just caught myself spoon-handed trying to love up on people with stuff from my kitchen.

I do it because it makes me feel good. Big surprise that their is a personal payoff in my motivations huh. Luckily, this particular loverly thing usually makes other people feel good too (big sigh of relief from everyone who endured my crank calling and pantsing phases). And it's fun. If I only had me, myself, and I with which to share all the things I want to cook, we would be wasting some serious amounts of food. That doesn't go over too well in my psyche.

So out of all these things, my mini-scale Meals On Wheels was born.

Last week I made these.

Next up on the roster before Turkey day hits, are these.

I don't just bake mind you; and good thing because I am fairly craptacular when it comes to all things flour, eggs and butter. Most cookies I can pull off while steering clear of complete disaster though. They also tend to be pretty MOW friendly for traveling.

MOW menu dinner items extend to things like a completely cooked pasta dinner with homemade sauce and spicy Italian sausages to a friend. Or Salmon Wellington with a side of rice and breaded zucchini spears.

Pretty soon here I want to add rice and tomato sauce to my Sicilian meatball recipe and stuff it in bell peppers. Will be leaving two of those on someone's porch like abandoned twins at the back door of a church. Just heat and eat! - The peppers of course, not the twins in my analogy. NOT advocating that you warm children in your oven and then eat them. I want to be clear about that because the government is watching me. I already have to wear a special helmet to block out the GAMA rays they have aimed at me. I don't want to have to tin foil my windows too.

Anywho, feeling a little hungry over here. Not sure what to eat... NOT those twins - I know that much! Okay -- we are clear on that then. Good.

An Evening In Small Bites

2009-11-04T15:09:00.000-08:00

A friend came over for dinner last night and I didn't want to be distracted by the chaos I can sometimes impose on myself in the kitchen. The last minute little detail things always seem to catch up to me, well...at the last minute. Then I find myself scrambling around trying to juggle several dishes and get hot yummy food on the table, not crap burnt food all while feigning attention to the conversation.

I also currently don't have any kitchen chairs. It's a long furniture swapping story that involves my brother - and my kitchen chairs.

So in planning a little menu for my very special friend, I took all of these things into consideration and came up with a coffee table appetizer picnic of sorts. My master plan would not only cover the "yummy food" base, it would also give me a chance to prep most of the plates ahead of time, to lounge on the couch munching and chatting.

I mean seriously, I should probably be ashamed to even post these pics. The excitement over talking about the food has blurred my sense of dignity and decency I tell you! So, keeping in mind that I am a craptacular photographer,(oddly enough my skills and magic don't get any better after a glass of Chardonnay and the food being seriously picked over) let's take a photo food journey from last night, shall we? Alrighty, let's get started....

In the bottom right corner there is a sneak peek at Peppers Agrodolce. The literal translation being sour/sweet, Agrodolce is a Sicilian method of reducing sweet and sour elements in cooking. Traditionally this is a combination of vinegar and sugar. It's believed that the Arabs originally introduced this cuisine style to Sicilians.

This was a new recipe for me actually. I was able to cook it ahead of time and serve it chilled. The little balancing act the sweet and sour do on bell peppers and onion is pretty damn tasty. I think Agrodolce will have to go on my repeat hit list.

Next up, above that is the postively decrepit little remains of the cheese board yummyness. I just sliced some Fontina cheese and a Mozzarella/Prosciutto log and paired it with some pepperoncini and sea salt pita chips. Amongst the dwindling carnage is a representative of each though.

Beyond that you will see a blue fish head deadpanning just out of reach of full photo recognition. That my friends was some of the tastiest smoked salmon I have had in a while. Smoky and fresh smelling, very tender - I could have made a meal of just that platter once I got started on it. I simply flaked it off of the main piece I bought, sprinkled it with some cracked black pepper, flanked it with some lemon wedges and bread cubes, and set out a little cream cheese along side of it.

On the right in the white oblong platter is what I like to call our little ballish baker's dozen. The top half of the platter is Arancini. Another Sicilian treat, Arancini were the original invention born of the necessity to use up left over risotto. There are many variations on the recipe, but you are basically talking about a rice ball covered in breadcrumbs that has a little chuck of Fontina cheese nestled in the middle. You then fry these bad boys and sit back and pop them in your bocca. Tasty, tasty!

After telling you all of that, let me say that I did not make these Arancini. I found them at the store and was pleasantly surprised at how good they were. Since I don't understand the concept of leftover risotto, nor do I like to get my hands egged and breadcrumbed, I will gladly buy these again.

Sharing the platter are Sicilian mini meatballs. I Frankensteined these myself a few months ago by blending three different recipes I liked for different elements they contained. I have made them twice now and I am pretty happy with them.

Last but not least are the butternut squash ravioli in that greenish/gray plate there. My stepmom made the ravs and I had a couple dozen of them in the freezer. I looked up a brown butter Sage sauce to go with them. It had a great blend of Fall spices to compliment the squash. The richness of the butter went so well with the warmth and sweet of the rav filling - absolutely fabuloso!

Oops - I almost forgot the olives! See that little green bowl with the varied color bumps peeking out at you back there? Those are orange scented greek olives. They were super simple but so worth the extra step. I simply took a container of prepared Greek olive medley, drained them, zested the orange over them, added half the juice and a splash of olive oil. You will get the most out of this trip to flavor town if you do this to your olives the day before you plan to enjoy them and then pop them in the fridge. The next day be sure and set them out at least an hour before you serve. Orange you glad I remembered to tell you all of that?....Sorry.

My food coma flooded my senses towards the end of the evening and I didn't even remember to take a picture of our dessert. I made a Bourbon Banana bread, cubed it, and then kissed the bottom half of each piece in semi-sweet chocolate. Always nice to end the evening with a little kiss, right?

Recipes, anyone?

For Peppers Agrodolce from the Julia Child of Sicily (Eleonora Consoli) you can click here

There are quite a few recipes for Arancini. Here is one to get you started.

Click here for the Maple Sage butter sauce I used on the ravs.

Below is my recipe for the Sicilian mini meatballs (neck bolts not included)

Meatballs are a universal dish, but are more popular in some areas than others. In Italy, for example, they're more common in the south than the north. These grilled meatballs are a delicious Sicilian specialty. To serve 6, you'll need:
Prep Time: 30 minutes
Cook Time: 20 minutes
Ingredients:

* 2 1/4 pounds (1 k) ground pork or veal
* 5 ounces (125 g) ground pecorino, ideally the Sicilian variety that's made with peppercorns
* 1 cup bread crumbs, soaked 3 minutes in milk and the excess squeezed out (it should be loose and in small pieces)
* 3 eggs
* 2 tablespoons minced parsley
* 1 clove garlic, minced
* 1 teaspoon allspice
* pinch of crushed red pepper
* Salt and freshly ground pepper
* Currants
* Optional: grated lemon zest, or lemon or orange juice
* Optional: ricotta

Preparation:
In a large bowl, combine all the ingredients except for the currants and breadcrumbs. Squeeze out excess milk from the soaking bread (it should be loose and in small pieces) then add it to the meat mixture and mix everything with your hands to combine. Then form slightly flattened meatballs, roll into mini balls - 1 1/2 inches across - placing one or two currants in the center of each. Arrange on a nonstick cookie sheet. Bake at 400 degree F for 10 to 12 minutes or until firm and lightly golden.

The Bourbon Banana bread is from the Smitten Kitchen blog and you can get that recipe here (chocolate kiss dip not included -- that's a Daniellaland original variation right there folks!)

I hope you enjoyed the trip around my coffee table!

Yellow Ribbon Lightning Bolt

2009-11-02T15:02:00.000-08:00

I try not to get too obnoxious about supporting our troops on this blog. If you have read my madness for a while, or go back over postings, you will not see a lot on here about OAP.

Sure, I have had my moments but if you were inside my head and knew how much I thought about it in contrast to posting about it, you would think I was downright disciplined!

I try not to make people uncomfortable. As the saying goes, war is hell and I have found that trying to talk to people about it isn't always much better.

You aren't going to find many people in social settings that want to sip their cocktail while you tell them about John, who spent a freezing winter in a tent with 7 other dudes in the middle of Iraq because they didn't have housing units for them. How all we could afford to send them at the time was coco packets, coffee and eight goody treats bags, but they loved it. When you launch into Capt Ellis' story too about his isolated base on a dangerous border area where everyone wanted to creep out of the mountains and kill them. They were just looking for condiments and salt to dress up their MRE rations. Or Tom, who upon finding out about our waitlist thanked us for the email, and asked if anyone could just write to him once in a while. He he lost friends. More important to him than snacks and toiletries was a link to the outside world that didn't involve the war and his role in it while stationed in Afghanistan. Yeah, just call me Captain Buzzkill.

So I try to temper my shiz. Afterall, there is a fine line between a passionate person and a fanatical freak. ASPCA and PETA. Small town pastor and Jim and Tammy Bakker.

So I am telling you all of that in order to negate it all by making this post about the troops. Hello, self-contradiction my old friend. Have a seat; I have a story to tell you.

This morning I sat down at the computer with a piping hot cowboy size mug of this new-to-me brand of Stash tea (it's a mix of Green and White teas -- it was pretty decent) to get my voyeur Facebook Devil Machine fix. While creeping along the news feed, I came across this video.

The washer was rattling away behind me when I hit play but I like to get the full Youtube experience, so I turned up the volume on the video. The music starts and off we go. As far as troop support videos of the last five or so years go, this one is pretty upbeat. It's a nice little social experiment/outreach effort. People look happy. It is uplifting. Was even filmed on a sunny day. There's smiles and hugs and high fives even. Nice. These are not always common to the military support world.

Anywho, in the middle of all the dryer noise, video music, and yellow ribbon rainbows in my heart, I didn't realize that my cell phone rang. I picked it up and listened to the voicemail. It was from a corporate contact I hadn't heard from in over a year. She was calling to verify that none of my company info had changed because her regional manager was organizing several of their store locations to donate items to OAP.

How tripper-roo is that?! Of course it wouldn't even take that big of a skeptic to say it was all just a coincidence. And perhaps they are correct. What the wouldn't know is that for months now I have been feeling sorry for OAP. I have been feeling blown out and tanked on moral over OAP. No one loves OAP. I haven't done enough for OAP. Maybe it is time to just hang it up. Apologize and go home. Failure.

Then this. Maybe the troop support gods are trying to tell me something. As one friend put it when I reached out for feedback, "Give that gal a call girlfriend - I think the universe is saying your work's not done yet!" My brother was perhaps a little more...er....blunt when he offered, "You are an idiot if you let OAP go - call her"

Okay, I will make the call. I'm dialing with absolute gratitude for both an encouraging sign post on the path, and the opportunity to serve.

Am I Supposed To Push?

2009-10-27T09:50:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling all blocked up party people. Not in an "eat more fiber" kind of way, but upstairs. Mental Constipation. It has happened to me before.

When this sort of thing sets in, my first inclination is always one of cooperation. I will just shut the hell up until I have something good to say. Who knows how long that could take though! In fact, you wouldn't have to really be a master debater (Don't you love how those two words bring you right up to the edge there? Don't worry though - you didn't say it.) to assert that I have never had anything all that good to say, so why seize up now?

So let me drivel here a bit.....

I got to see Anne for the first time in way too long. We have a history of suffering dead people together, for some reason. She is fabulous though, and we both had on the same shoes which I thought was also fabulous.

Anne got caught in the middle of this three girl pileup. Back then, we used to wear same patterned skirts. We worked up to the shoes.

I made some Pizzelle - Italian for "Star", these cookies are pretty popular in my family. It is a pretty simple batter-dough that is usually anise flavored. I was too busy screwing my batch up royally to snap any photos, so this is a star body double from the Sur La Table website.

I am bummed that the weather outside is not even a little bit frightful. I am craving some cold temps, some rain. All I am getting is breezy five day forecasts with highs in the 70s. Who knew Al Gore's global warming induced Armageddon was going to be so Springy?!

I am almost finished with Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell. She is an awesome writer! I recommend picking up anything she has written and taking it for a spin. She makes me wish I could go back to school and have all my history books rewritten by her. It might end up being a bit of an eclectic mix of material, but it definitely would have grabbed my interest and stuck in my brain better.

I met Stella this weekend. If she were any cuter, my head probably would have exploded all over her and blood spattered all of her cute little liver spots. Don't you love the little swatch of brown she has on the left side of her top lip? She even has freckles on her nose. I know, I know -- she's crazy cute.

Well friends, I promise I am going to do my best to get flowing again. Even though I haven't opened my church yet, I still treasure my precious followers. Every time I see someone new on the list, I get a pretty big, possibly semi-maniacal smile on my face. Thanks for stopping by, and being so patient. Hang in there and I will pull it together soon.

Six Word Memoirs

2009-10-19T09:01:00.000-07:00

I am loving the library lately. I just recently discovered that I can request books online from the main catalog and the kind folks at the library will deliver them to the branch I specify. No running around the city looking for the one copy of the latest read I want to read. I just wait a few days and book fairies leave them where I want them. Ummm -- yea!!!

This has allowed me to make a sizeable dent of late into my reading list without pulling a second mortgage just to pay off Amazon.com charges.

Anywho, one of those books is Not Quite What I was Planning, Six Word Memoirs By Writers Famous And Obscure. SMITH Magazine launched an online campaign back in 2006 for just what their title specifies: Six word Memoirs.

I love the whole idea. I think the Vanity Fair review of the book sums it up perfectly by stating that it "will thrill minimalists and inspire maximalists" As someone who often over words (and over thinks), I really like the notion of being tied down by six little words - like, "Come on, spit it out already!"

Genius, fun idea right?! So I thought I would share a few with you.

Some SWMs I really like

I thought I was someone else. ~ Tysa Goodrich

Anything's possible with an extension cord. ~ billySIRR

I hope to outlive my regrets. ~ Bob Logan

Life was but a dream, merrily. ~ Paul W. Morris

Fight. like. hell. for. the. living. ~ Susie Bright

The shit invariably hits the fan. ~ Ashleea Nielson

You are all in my imagination. ~ Becky Weinberg

Hope my obituary spells "debonair" correctly. ~ Gregg Easterbrook

Woke up, fell down, exited sideways. ~ Jim Clupper

Mistook streetlight for the moon. Climbed. ~ Zack Wentz

When all else fails, start running. ~ Dean Karnazes

Like an angel. The fallen kind. ~ Rick Bragg

I inhale battles. I exhale victories. ~ William Heath

SWMs that made me LOL

The psychic said I'd be richer. ~ Elizabeth Bernstein

Bad brakes discovered at high speed. ~ Paul Schultz

All night phone calls complete me. ~ Harry Manning

Slightly psychotic, in a good way. ~ Patricia Neelty

Hillbilly does right by his teeth. ~ Jason Snyder

Mom, Dad have dementia. Got gun? ~ Carol Belding

Asked and answered, Asshole, next question ~ Joe Lockhart

Shot my penis in photo booth. ~ Jeffrey Zeldman

Dad wore leather pants in Reno. ~ John Falk

Let me in, you narrative whore. ~ C. McClosky

Some celebs find their inner SWM

Brought it to a boil, often. ~ Mario Batali

Danced in Fields of Infinite Possibilities. ~ Deepak Chopra

Soul'd out so I could prophet. ~ Gotham Chopra [Deepak's son]

Was big boy, now little man. ~ Chris Cooper

Secret of life: marry an Italian. ~ Nora Ephron

Well, I thought it was funny. ~ Stephen Colbert

SWMs that took the words right out of my mouth

I am trying, in every regard ~ Lionel Shriver

Anything possible - but I was tired. ~ Cheryl Family

I recognize red flags faster now. ~ Barbara Burri

Happiness is a warm Salami sandwich ~ Stanley Bing

Can't read all the time. Bummer. ~ Rina Bander

It's pretty high. You go first. ~ Alan Eagle

She read too much...into everything. ~ Jessica Reed

I always took the joke too far. ~ Thomas Hamill

Tried not believing everything I thought. ~ Beth Linas

I told you I was crazy. ~ Michaline Babich

GIANT Law Breaker of a SWM!

Fact checker by day, liar by night. ~ Andy Young

I love it, but how in the hell did a seven word memoir get in the six word?! Logic to hell right there! I love the irony of that particular one being the rebel memoir.

I heart this concept so much that I think I will have to post again soon with some Daniellaland SWM originals. In the meantime, I think you should ask yourself: One life. Six words. What's yours?

I would love to hear the answer you get back!

Photo courtesy of Leo Reynolds as posted on Flickr. Click here for link.

Signs

2009-10-18T07:46:00.000-07:00

She never completely believed in them. She wanted to I suppose, but after all, how could you ever be sure? She craved concrete, clinged to tangible; the consummate fact checker. Signs were such subtle bastards and she just couldn't get behind that whole way of thinking - most of the time.

Tonight the thought of receiving a sign hadn't even dawned on her. Her only awareness as she rang the doorbell and waited out on the expansive dark porch was that of utmost gratitude that she had had a couple of glasses of wine before arriving.

A kind face greeted her with a smile at the door as she introduced herself. "Is this a bad time?" she asked the woman, who assured her, "No, come in. He's just sleeping"

She found him in the dimly lit master bedroom, in a hospital bed that had been rolled into the same spot his wife's bed used to be, when she was alive. Asleep he was, his mouth open in an O of mock surprise that stood out in contrast to the rest of his emotionless features. His breath came in quiet, efficient little exhales.

She was grateful for the veil of privacy his slumber provided. She hadn't known what to say to him for years and nothing had come to her now either as she stood by the side of the bed. Instead of searching for failing words, she simply tucked her hand around his and marveled at the warmth. What an amazing amount of heat for a dying body to generate! As she rubbed her hand along his forearm she noticed his skin, sallow and smooth like the ivory paper of Chinese lanterns that adorned twilight garden parties.

She heard the woman enter the room behind her and come around the bed, facing her. "You know he is ready - he's 91" Yes, she knew but what to say? What to do? There was no way to tie up their loose ends now. Neither of them had bridged that gap and now the time for such things had passed.

The woman gently roused him and asked if he wanted water. He half swallowed the small spoonfuls as they touched his lips, without opening his eyes. She continued to cradle his hand in hers as she watched the gentle way in which the woman dabbed his mouth after each sip.

Then it came - the sign that is. His hand, still in hers, started to tremble slightly with the intent of his action. Slowly he brought the top of her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss upon it.

There it was -- for all the markers along the path she never saw or chose not to believe in, she snatched this one up. She needed this. She wanted this. No questions asked, no moment lost on skepticism, she was taking it.

Off the hook with this small, tender gesture of deference and affection. There was nothing left to do. No need to say a word. She brought his hand to her mouth then, softly returning.

All was well now, the sign that was borne in with a kiss. Gratitude.

Fritter

2009-10-16T13:05:00.001-07:00

Last night I pooped. In a Psych ward. Twice. Awkward.

Would have been even more awkward if they hadn't had that little toilet in the broom closet to the left of the TV. The one with the door that opens right out into the community visiting area. Good times.

What in the french toast is a Fritter? Click here

Moldrid's Bologna Has A Middle Name - It's Guilt

2009-10-14T14:56:00.000-07:00

I have this friend; her name is Moldrid. Whenever people tell Moldrid that she is a nice person, she always tells them they are wrong. "Oh, no no no" she insists, "I'm not all that nice." Don't we all do this? Poked in the ribs by modesty, humility, propriety -- whatever, we will be first to argue against our virtue right off the bat.

My friend Mol though, she goes another step further, in her head anyway. When on the receiving end of this particular compliment, she inwardly squirms as she becomes even more aware of how many "nice" things she does out of guilt.

She flashes on all of the times in the past she has put up with requests she had no real desire to accommodate, but did so anyway because she felt she should. Often times, she ends up trying spread generosity with others out of what is essentially a place of depletion from over doing in general. I have even seen her put up with barely decent behavior from some people in her life, while giving them 110% in return.

By now, you must be wondering why she is like this. Why wouldn't she just learn how to say no once in a while, fortify boundaries, and cut the cord on the jerks?

Well, according to Mol, guilt fuels her to continue in this manner. She would actually rather torture herself by overextending to please others, than to risk looking "not nice". Imagine that. She chooses the fatigue, frustration, pressure, and discomfort of throwing boundaries and self-care to the wind, over enduring that terrible sniggly little worm of an emotion: guilt.

You know sometimes I think she confuses feeling guilty with connecting with her conscience. She will be faced with something that goes against her grain at that moment, for whatever reason, and with a desire to say no comes a wave of guilt. I think that guilt kicks her Should Drive into gear and then she is off and running again, doing too much, being too nice.

So now you are probably wondering what in the french toast she is going to do about it. Hell if I know! I don't have these sorts of issues. My reward for being so solid is that I get to sit back and judge good people like Mol whose tragic downfall is that no matter what the motivation, they are out spreading some nice in this big ole world. Yeah, they probably should [There's that word again. I will have to be sure and tell Mol she absolutely should go easier on herself - that ought to do the trick.] find more balance but they are still way ahead in the Karma game than people like ChickenLover.

Multiplicity

2009-10-13T17:34:00.000-07:00

Cheesy shit just makes me moist sometimes. I saw this today on the devil machine that is Facebook. Make sure you have your sequence glove and your speakers on before you play it. The last minute or so is especially Moon Walk worthy so be ready. All the same guy, by the way -- video magic. Neat.

A little Journey anyone? Another musical trompe l'oeil from the same guy; only cloned himself 5 times this go around though.

Happy Birthday Chef Padre!

2009-10-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

Thinking that I was going to start a separate blog, all about my adventures with food, I wrote this earlier in the year as the maiden post. Since then, I have come to believe (humbly, I might add) that Daniellaland is at it's best when it incorporates everything that goes through my head, which of course is going to include a lot of foody thoughts.

Today is my father's birthday, (you know you are taking your Italian heritage seriously when you have the fetal forethought to make sure you pop out on Columbus day!) and I thought this post would be a perfect way to celebrate the occasion at Daniellaland.

I hope you agree......and HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Sal!

I come from a Big League lineup of incredible Italian-Sicilian cooks. However, my father Sal, is my earliest and most lasting culinary influence. His love of food and cooking was passed down to me from a very early age (please note that I deliberately made no claim to inheriting his actual cooking skills!)

Believing that a good meal and a warm clean bed ensured that all would be well, feeding us was how my father showed his love.

Food was a big part of our day. I think perhaps I was the only child to hit the books every morning in class with a full breakfast in my tummy. I'm talking anything from pancakes and waffles, to eggs and bacon with toast. At the very least, we would have a bowl of hot cereal with warm milk. It is the most important meal of the day after all!

I remember many Sunday afternoons starting with my Dad bringing us home from church and then getting dinner started. Throughout the rest of the day, he would slowly build all the flavors for dishes like Chicken Cacciatore, Pasta sauce or Chile Verde and then we would get to feast on them that evening.

I cannot compete with any of the wonderful chefs in my family, but I was regularly recruited in my dad's kitchen to be Sous Chef #1. He would show me how different ingredients should be handled and prepared; with my fondest memory being Breaking Down A Whole Chicken 101. I specialized in cleaning and prepping all of the produce that would go in our salads. I also knew how to make my dad's occasional cocktail that he would sip while making our dinner. (Please don't panic! I am not writing this from an Al-Anon lockdown clinic or anything.)

Food was a large part of our family celebrations as well. Holidays and birthdays were always centered around our meals, and boy were they incredible!

I owe my lack of a finicky palate to my Dad too. When it is time to shed some pounds, I am not always thrilled about this, but overall I owe him big time! He exposed us to a variety of foods and flavors from the very start, and it has made me the food adventurer I am today. By the time I was 7 or 8, orange salad, beef tongue, roasted peppers, olives, calamari salad, and mustard greens were all foods I loved and would regularly enjoy.

In his early 70s now, my dad continues to cook. His new passion is creating menus for his friends and then getting together and cooking for them. I have been to a couple of these gatherings, and they are wonderful! He cooks, we eat, and everyone is happy.

So, thanks Dad! Infusing me with that same love for food has served me well, and I continue to explore new pathways with it. Much love to you for feeding me all those years, but most of all I am forever indebted to you for sharing such a wonderful piece of yourself with me. Moooaahhh!

One Of Those Girls

2009-10-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

The other night an ex and I got into a "why did it end?" discussion [read: fact finding mission on my part] and a whole bunch of unfun stuff was revealed. Among it was his statement, "Well I am totally fine with it, but I have never dated a big girl before."

So okay with it that he apparently just thought he would throw that little known fact in as an irrelevant aside to this convo. Riiiigggghhhhtt.

And knowing what we know about but's (not mine in this instance) that used in a statement like this they negate everything that comes before them, my ex had basically just informed me that one of the reasons we broke up is because he thinks I'm fat!

Nice. And I told you all that to tell you this: I am one of those girls. One of those women that actually heard that statement and took it in and espoused it as a personal negative thing about myself -- I actually cared!

Why? So he thinks I am fat -- whateves. There are a lot of fish in the sea. It is just so flopsweat stereotypical and boring to feel bad about that. With all there is going on in this world and my life, I actually wasted time feeling bad about myself based on that statement.

Even as I write this I am staving off the urge to defend myself to you fair reader; convince you I am not all that big of a Big Girl. What am I -- fucking 15 again?!

Borrowing my flatterer who thinks I'm fatterer Plump Vision lenses, I found a pretty close approximation of myself at People Of Walmart this morning.

Pink is my fave color, and I do endorse the delightful irony of Chunks and diet soda...

So alright Prince Charming, I admit it: The Big Girl thing got to me. And what is in even poorer taste than your comment is my dignifying it by caring....and blogging about it....damn you damn ego!

So from here on out, I am throwing the shame out of my game. I will bask in all of my gargantuan glory.

One of my baby pics....

This is me skinny dipping earlier this summer.

Outdoor events are nice...metal chairs.....not so much. I have special needs.

I excelled in my Tops Optional Martial Arts class over the summer.

Alright, alright - let's get serious. How fat am I? This is me at the computer blogging away.

They call me the Sex Panther for a reason. Click here to get a full view of my massiveness

** Ooo, semi-creepy meaningless yet telling crystal ball psychic occurance: Just as I was getting ready to hit "Publish Post", an email alert popped up at the bottom of my screen. The subject line reading, "Care what people think about you?" That is quite the coincidence, but as I have more than proven, I don't care what anyone thinks about me.

Free Magic Wands

2009-10-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

This morning a friend sent me a "How are you?" email with this picture embedded. I love it! Free magic wands -- are you kidding me?!

It made me want to run in my room and dig out my white tights, pink tutu, and matching pink sequence belly shirt, but then I remembered I only have a black wig, shoehorn and feather boa in there. Not sure that goes as well, but maybe...

Anywho, the real question here is what to do with my magic wand!

Hmmm.....

No need to wait for the magic of Advil now - definitely going to wand myself in the head and get rid of this headache.

I would also like to wand wave a special chemical-free hot tub into creation that is the perfect temperature when you are in it and then as soon as you step out of it you are perfectly dry. Don't judge -- I hate standing there getting cold while I dry off and then having to deal with my wet hair and chloriney skin.

And even though it is thoroughly enchanting to know that my little shoebox sits on a previous strawberry field, I would like to wand my way back over to the other side of the mountain -- I'm over you highway 17 -- you heard me!

Eternal Youth for The Ru for sure -- gotta have that. I figure if I can remind her all the time that I have the power to put her to sleep, I might as well balance that fun with the wand magic of eternal youth. Who wouldn't want to live with me forever?!

Lots of cash baby! (Come on, you knew that was coming. When has there ever been a fantasy question/wishlist response that hasn't worked in our supposed root of all evil -- Cashish?!)

How about you? What wonderment would you wand up for yourself?

Bracing For Tooshoomes With Waves Of Lemon

2009-09-30T07:11:00.000-07:00

It's a scientific fact that I am sure we all know by now: California has some of the harshest weather on the planet. Yesterday was a slap in the face reminder. It was cold. And windy. The apocalyptic 20 degree temperature drop from one day to the next called for full blizzard mode to be strictly enforced. What the hell happened anyway? It was clear and 78 degrees the day before and now the clouds are knitted over the sun, and I am having to dig out a sweater and close my window?! What in the French toast is going on?! If this atmospheric disaster could come on so quickly, what else could be on the horizon?!

Tooshoome* - that's what. Don't believe me? The news article is right here. Advisory slapped on the state of California. Things had a slim to unlikely chance of getting ugly and I was bracing for it. I missed a watery grave by only miles of Pacific Ocean people! Miles.

Needless to say, after such a close call, I needed a meal to thaw me out and sooth my soul. Soup was the only the way to go.

I made this and let the sunshine come on in.

Egg-Lemon Soup
Adapted from Food Network online recipes

1/2 cup Pastina or Orzo
6 cups low sodium chicken broth
olive oil
1 small yellow onion
6 tablespoons of lemon juice
2 eggs (and two additional yolks)
zest of one lemon (optional)
cooked, shredded chicken (optional)

In pot, warm olive oil and saute chopped onion over medium heat until soft, but now brown . Add chicken broth, half the lemon juice, Pastina or Orzo, and let cook - stirring occasionally. Beat 2 eggs, 2 yolks and 3 tablespoons lemon juice; whisk in a little hot broth, then stir the mixture into the soup. Cook over low heat until thick. Salt and pepper to taste.

This is stunt soup that I had to borrow because I couldn't find my camera last night and I know how you people are about the whole "eating first with the eyes" thing. I can assure mine looked this mmm, mmm good as well.

Notes (because I can never leave well enough alone): I think there is plenty of latitudes to be taken with the lemony goodness for this recipe. Personally, I can't really get enough of lemon, so I ended up adding almost twice what the recipe called for and thought is was about right. I also made the addition to the recipe of the zest and I added that when I threw in the Orzo. If you are not looking for huge lemony flavor, I would simply leave it out.

Don't have any small pasta on hand? Rice would work just as well.

I added some cooked chicken to make it heartier, but the soup itself thickens quite nicely on it's own from the egg and makes for a fairly substantial meal, so go with your preference on adding meat.

Also, I am a fan of floating in vegetables to these sorts of dishes. I diced up some green beans for a mild crunch and cooked them for the last few minutes I had the soup on the heat. I think something like spinach or kale would have been perfect in there too.

The sun is out, the wind has died down, and the Tooshoome advisory lifted. It's going to be a good day. I fixed everything with one fabulous bowl of soup.

*I am aware of the lesser known spelling for Tooshoome of "Tsunami" but after you have spent a tense night in 2005 under warning on the island of Oahu with your family, and your cousin selflessly volunteers to spend the night on the beach promising, "I'll wait here and if I see anything I will just yell Tooshoome! Tooshoome! so you guys can save yourselves", you just don't go back.

Mr. Freeland, Can I Get Extra Credit For Pulling This Number Out Of My Ass?

2009-09-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

From NBC Bayarea.com

Man Sues Bank of America for $1.7 Billion Trillion
Demands an extra $200,164,000 for "miscellaneous fees"
By EDWARD J. CARR

One can only imagine Dalton Chiscolm brought his pinkie finger to his mouth when he said he was suing Bank of America for "1,784 billion, trillion dollars."

Infuriated with Bank of America’s customer service, Dalton Chiscolm decided to do what every other red-blooded American in his situation would do: He sued them.

How much did he sue them for?

Try $1,784 billion trillion, according to Reuters. That’s the number 1,784 followed by 18 zeros. It’s also more money than the world’s 2008 gross domestic product, which was comprised of a measly $60 trillion (that’s six followed by 13 zeroes). To top it off, he also wants an additional $200,164,000 for "miscellaneous fees."

Chiscolm decided he was entitled to the money after he received inconsistent information regarding his bank accounts from “a Spanish woman” during numerous calls to Bank of America’s headquarters in New York City.

District Judge Denny Chin gave his two cents in a written order released Sept. 24.

“The claim is incomprehensible,” he wrote.

Chin previously had the honor of sentencing Ponzi-schemer Bernie Madoff to 150 years in prison.

Chin gave Chiscolm until Oct. 23 to explain why his case shouldn’t be dismissed.

Honestly folks, I am really not planning to rip on Mr. Chiscolm for this silliness. Why you ask? Well, let's start with coming up with that number. 1.7 Billion Trillion. At first, you're thinking it's a fake. The numerical equivalent to those words that just miss the dictionary target like Fabuloso, Romantical, and Weinis. But it's not. Apparently when you put 18 zeros behind something it's because that shit is real - and coming for ya!

Bank of America is a deserving target too. I can vouch for this after 15+ years of their tyranny. They suck. Officially.

They suck so bad there is already a graphic out there to prove it!

I didn't know that Spanish women were the diabolical force behind the B of A reign of terror, but as his claim states, they are pretty inconsistent. Every ATM has a different posting deadline so if you don't check each machine, your deposit may not post the same business day. They also have more fees for their craptacular service than Carter's got liver pills*, and those seem to change quite a bit. They have shaken me down $4.95 at a time for a while now.

I just hope that when the case is settled and Mr. Chiscolm gets his 1.7 Billion Trillion Babillion that he throws a giant ice cream party or buys me a fur coat.

*Even though I am not 107, I have used the Carter's got liver pills saying for years. And I too thought it was some little know fact about the ex president Jimmy Carter. Desultor cleared up that little mystery, but I am not sure how I feel about it - was really attached to Jimmy as an integral part of the pep behind the saying.

Bummer I Can't Get A Boner

2009-09-27T13:07:00.000-07:00

I have Boner Envy. I think it started a couple of years ago when I was relating to my cousin how good looking the new dentist was in the dental group where I get my cleanings. When I told her he was much too handsome for me to sit comfortably while he put his fingers in my mouth, she responded, "Why? Were you having trouble hiding your boner?" We both totally cracked up at this, but in that moment I felt a slight tug, not in my pants, but my heart. It was disappointment that boners don't apply to me.

Now let's not misunderstand each other: I am not talking Penis Envy here. I love Miss Puss and she loves me. We're good.

There is just something I love about the comedy of a boner. I suppose it's possibly not all that funny to those who get actual boners, but I feel cheated out of comic potential by being left out of the boner loop.

So now I try to force my way in to the club from time to time. The other day I interrupted my brother on the phone to declare "I've got a boner" and started laughing. All I got on the other end was a few seconds of silence followed by "Sick - shut up Daniella"

I tried it again with a male friend and got a big laugh -- Uh-oh! Now my behavior has just been positively reinforced -- look out!

Oh...wait wait, hang on a second..........oh...oh - yep.......I think I've got a boner. Buuaahahahaha! Come on, you have to admit that's hilarious. Well at least pretty damn funny. A little funny?......Right?

Oh nice! Freakin Kim Kardashian is stealing my comedy now to try and further her celebrity!

Wanna see one of my fave boners? Click here and then click on the red shorts

Fritter

2009-09-25T12:04:00.000-07:00

Today's Fritter is hosted by Justin's dad because he just sings to my soul. I am sure he will be making a few guest Fritters actually so that I can share more of his gems of wisdom.

Background on Justin, as related by Justin: I'm 29. I live with my 73-year-old dad. He is awesome. I just write down shit that he says

Yes he is awesome Justin, yes he is.

"I'm sitting in one of those TGI Friday's places, and everyone looks like they want to shove a shotgun in their mouth."

And because I know you are now having a raving craving for just one more...

"Your brother brought his baby over this morning. He told me it could stand. It couldn't stand for shit. Just sat there. Big let down."

Home Alone

2009-09-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, everything was very proper. I was primarily raised by my father, and God love him, he was a man of order. Would have been stellar in the military.

Everything had it's place. The house was too packed with organization to be cluttered. There was a day preordained by the universe for laundry, housecleaning, and mowing the yard. Dishes were cleaned and put away after dinner. Period.

You didn't hit the sheets without first taking a shower, and you didn't run around on Saturday mornings without your bathrobe on over your pajamas. You never went without slippers. Ever.

Beds were always made as soon as you woke. Books were packed tightly on their shelves because they're special, shirts hung in the closet with all of their collars facing the same way, and toilet lids stayed down when not in use so that they won't slam in the event of an earthquake and crack the bowl. Exclusively.

I'm not joking.

So here's the deal and I doubt anyone is going to be surprised: Now that I am an adult on my own, I have spun out in a lot of ways, and don't exactly run my household the way my father ran his.

The highlights of the mayhem and debauchery I regularly partake in over here at my Animal House are:

I haven't made my own bed in about 5 years. I occasionally smooth. I usually just delight at the disheveledness of it all as I fluff my pillow and flop into bed each night.

I still hang up my clothes in the closet, but nowhere near the perfection my father mandated is present in there these days. If I roll the door shut though, who cares?

I have books stacked up everywhere. I ran out of shelf space a long time ago.

I resist bathrobes as if wearing one would turn me into one of the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal.

This is what happened the last time I tried putting one on.

The only time you will find the toilet lid down at my house is when I have either just added bleach to the bowl, or somethin yellow and I am lettin it mellow.

I stick my fingers in everything in the fridge. My dad lives about 40 miles away and I still have yet to double dip into my own damn food without looking over my shoulder nervously as if I am about to be totally busted.

I've even tried shape shifting into a cat to get away with it!

Occasional dirty dishes overnight in the sink have yet to negatively impact my sleep or the sun's ability to rise - over here at least. Who knows, maybe my dad is plunged in to 24 hours hours of night every time I pull that shit.

So did anything my dad teach me stick? Absolutely.

Generally, I like things clean. It makes me feel calm and ordered, just how Dad feels too I bet.

I may not make the bed, but the sheets have to be clean.

I may not have a shelf space for every book but that doesn't mean they aren't like children to me, and again, one of the ways God shows his love for us.

Ooo...Ahh...so pretty.

I also still shower and I love wearing slippers - so there!

Yo Quiero Cinco Libros!

2009-09-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

Remember what I said about free books being one of the ways God show's his love for us? I wasn't kidding, and to prove it, another giveaway is getting started at Bookfoolery and Babble.

Check it - ole? I mean, okay?!

Sympathizing With The Enemy

2009-09-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

I hate when the doorbell rings - positively loathe it in fact. That jarring surprise of fake bell tone echoing through my front room, making the dog bark like we are under a complete enemy siege, (whatever that looks like in dog terms - gang of cats in full Transformers gear perhaps?) just irritates the hell out of me.

So imagine how fab I was feeling yesterday afternoon when the tale my novel was weaving was abruptly cut off by two (two!) rings of my doorbell before I could even walk across my front room to answer it. Yeah, good times.

I opened the door on two little boys and a woman. The woman did the talking. She explained to me through intermittent bark-fire from lil Ruthy that she was a neighbor who lived behind me, her yard in fact being the one that borders my garage and the parking spot adjacent to it where my car can be found. I guess her boys just graduated from the Annie Oakley School and managed to miss their target on the fence and put a bb through the small space between two fence boards, and straight through the back window of my car. Yeah, good times.

One boy was slightly taller and chunkier than the other one. He was the first to pipe up, throwing his comrade under the bus by volunteering, "he was shy about coming over here" as he pointed to his right. I took my gaze to his brother and said, "I would be too" as I remembered the time my brother went to bed at 4:00 in the afternoon after we lobbed an asteroid sized dirt clod into the neighbor's pool while trying to hit rats in the Cypress trees on the shared fence line. Sal thought crime and punishment found no one in bed. Surely if he skipped dinner and hid under the sheets, no one would think of him when the mud sludge at the bottom of the pool was discovered. Yeah, good times.

And so my friends, this is where my grated nerve reaction to ringing doorbells, and icy reception to random neighbors breaking my stuff, started to melt away.

Of course he was feeling shy about coming over. I didn't mean to break anything! Who knows what scary adult lives in that house. Are they going to yell at me?!

No yelling. I found myself saying stupid forgiveness-esque shit like "accidents happen" and "thank you guys for being so honest about this".

Then my two new foes and I chatted it up a bit even laughing over the irony of how impossible their wipe-out my window shot would have been if they were actually trying to get that bb through the small space between those boards.

There was good news as well. Not only did mom leave her contact information and a promise to reimburse my repair costs, she informed me that I lived on a strawberry field - or rather the concrete slab hosting my abode was laid on land that used to be strawberry fields. A little history lesson she gleaned from another neighbor who was farming these rows of berries that went all the way to the sea apparently, back in 1948. Yeah, good times.

As they started to make their way back down the front walk, eventually everyone got around to petting lil Ruthy, and agreeing that she indeed looked like a Ruth.

The forgiveness-esque shit must have still been working it's good Juju on me, because I wasn't in the least irritated to sit down at the computer and start getting quotes on replacement windows. Let's hope that extends to today's project of cleaning up all the broken window glass and taping/plasticing the hole in my car. Yeah, good times.

The Dispassionate Observer

2009-09-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

I'm exhausted today. My overgrown Amazon of a yard really didn't care though. It still beckoned to me to get my ass out there and straighten things up before a surveyor takes some measurements out there tomorrow.

While I toiled and reflected on how I am the only person on the planet who has ever had to do a little manual labor while tired, I noticed some stuff.

I saw two dragonflies taking part in a little bit of Mile High club action. Their airborne bliss was a thing to behold. Who makes sure to keep a good look out and not fly into a tree during such things? Or is it that unlike us, they can fly into a tree without injury. How cool would that be, by the way...

These are stand-ins to protect identities. I think someone might have had a dragon at home waiting for them, if you know what I mean. Awkward.

When I had cut and filled my yard waste container, I spotted a giant spider sitting on the rim. It was black with gold stripes down it's back and had a body the size of a 25 cent gumball. I would have taken a picture of it, but once I saw it the only thought I had in my head was "mindless killing must commence!" and I grabbed a rather large rock. Sorry PETA, but I doubt you were going to help me if that damn thing had bit me and I went into anaphylactic shock and died in my yard, leaving my dog to watch me rot from the other side of the screen door. See, that in turn would be traumatizing dog cruelty, so be glad of my ninja-esque command decision to ice the giant spider.

The Ru happy that I am not dead.

Then I went out to my garage to put a few things away, and I was again reminded of the mass turd grave that has been gaining bodies along the fence line where my car is parked. This area is not part of my yard, so I don't know who is making all of the drop-offs. My guess would be that it is the same useless cat that slides down my windshield all the time, and runs across my roof at 4a.m. Good times. Anyway, as I scooped turds into a bag, the irony of this much shit getting under DS Man's radar really hit me. He sniffed out two little logs from my pooch that were in a small thicket of bushes, and had them gift wrapped on my doorstep in no time. How did he miss all of this sitting on the dirt strip out here in the open? Perhaps he was out of his gift bags and ribbon?

Stunt poo, but make it real and multiple it out by 50 logs or so, and you're smelling what I was scooping. Fucking cats.......or perhaps small hippies.....hadn't thought of that.

That was my little snippet of Nature's Majesty for today.

Still

2009-09-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

5:34 a.m. That's over six hours, he thought as he was trying to recall what time he had gone to bed. The room was still as he laid back. The stillness had in fact taken on it's own energy. A low buzzing of sorts, as if bees inhabited the walls in order to lend a muted harmony to the silence.

He hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time in over a month, and none of them were peaceful. Each night, funerals. One after another he would arrive at, and eulogize from a pulpit to the mourners. He would almost always wake from these dreams standing on top of his covers, his neck bent and his head tilted against the ceiling as if he were listening to something from the other side.

Now under the covers, his rested body disquieted his mind.

Maybe he's gone. The thought bolted through him. The old man had been sleeping so much that the last time he visited him, he dozed right there in the middle of their conversation. This was terrifying! Always sleeping, no appetite -- how long?! And how would be ever find peace with that void? Now the thought nagged at him, maybe I slept without any funerals because he is gone.

***

The old man hummed inside from their activity. Like an eardrum, his whole body felt like thin film, reverberating with the energy of them. Was there always this much to do? This much to talk about? As they whirled around him cooking and laughing and assuming wide-legged half-stoops to shadow toddling babies on Bambi legs, he struggled to remember what was so important when he had their forever movement.

His heart remembered. The doctor said it beat too fast - twice as fast as it should. Embedded in the muscle fibers, the energy of all those memories retained. With every beat it rebirthed a piece of the past. Electrical glimpses of the mosaic pulsed through him. His heart's energy made him tired.

He was past the struggle with sleep. His days now were mostly blanketed in a groggy haze. This transition was it's own work, and sleep was the landscape at this stage of the journey.

He was not gone, though he did wonder how long his heart was going to be able to beat for two.

We Can Do More Than Remember

2009-09-11T13:47:00.000-07:00

Capt Walsh took this photo in Ghazni, Afghanistan and shared it with us

"Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation." ~ Robert F. Kennedy

We can do more than remember.

That is what I posted as my status update today on that devil machine known as Facebook. And to tell you the truth, I was irritated and frustrated when I did it. I am sick to death of people using 9/11 as a day to just sit there and say "I remember" or "I was sad" or "We can't forget".

What is the point of remembering anyway? If you aren't going to attach anything to it, than what is the point? Without honor, and action what does remembering really accomplish?

The plaintive sentiments about how emotional you were that day strike me as a waste too. Sorry, I know I am really flying the A-hole flag today, but I just don't get it. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with having the emotion, it just seems that as a nation we sit on our laurels with it. Slip off the hook for the next 12 months by telling ourselves, and each other, that "sad" is enough.

It's not. That's right -- I am judging you fair nation and I am saying it is absolutely not enough.

The struggle continues. Maybe it's not happening in your backyard, but it is happening. Taking place this very moment in front lines overseas, soup kitchens down the street, and individual lives across each state.

Want to honor the tragedy of September 11th 2001? Want to remember what we lost by giving? Start by looking around and reaching out.

"But I Shaved My Balls For You!"

2009-09-09T09:17:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I find myself in moments that are so perfectly encapsulated by the accompanying verbiage that the phrasing becomes a theme label for future situations.

Years ago I helped a friend move and she had one of those round, wicker chairs with the futon style pad inside. When we got to the front door, we realized we were going to have to tip the chair onto it's side to get it in, but that would also dump the futon pad out. In that moment, I don't remember if the sun shone a little brighter, or if the birds twatted a little more tweetier, but I do know that our minds melded and full ESPN kicked in. When she looked at me and said, "Let's just move the actual ton (as in futon) first then" I needed no further clarification. We moved in sync to grab the pad at the same time and take it in; coming back for the frame after. The actual ton. To this day, when the occasion calls for discerning one thing away from it's other parts, "the actual ton" becomes our short-hand verbiage to communicate that. Neat.

When building the OAP website, my friend Vince and I spent hours sitting shoulder to shoulder in his room working on the details. Every time he would upload something to the server, my anticipation to see the end result on the larger of the two monitors would have me looking more eager than a virgin at a whorehouse. Sometimes, he would forget to refresh the screen for me, and a new term was coined. "Dude, you forgot to hook up the doll"* was all I offered on one such occasion and Big V knew what I meant! Originally stemming from the movie Weird Science, we both remembered the scene surrounding that line and from then on, we could throw that out to each other any time a piece of information was missing in our conversation, or a step was left out when doing something together. Neat.

Another time a boyfriend decided to straddle the toilet backwards and shave his balls with his little electric trimmer. As the hairs softly floated down to the water below, he fantasized of all the attention his twig and berries were going to be on the receiving end of once he showed me his handy work.

At the unveiling, it was lost on me. It looked fine, but did nothing for my libido or attraction to him. Remember, I had not requested this manscaping in the first place, nor had I even voiced a preference for smooth berries. But hey, to each his own, right? He must have been in to the idea or he wouldn't have chosen to do it.

That is sort of where I left it and went back to my book. He had a little more trouble. As I walked away, all I heard him yelling from the end of the hall was, "But I shaved my balls for you!"

No you didn't. You shaved those bad boys for yourself. And in that comical moment, another sophistication to my vocabulary came in to being.

When I try to convince other people that something that is potentially mutually beneficial was really just selflessly done for them "But I shaved my balls for you!" always gets the job done. Neat.

I encourage you to form your own special language with the people around you. Contrary to popular belief, (and possibly decency - but don't let crap like that get in the way) ball shaving is not the limit! There is a whole world out there waiting for your linguistics. It is so much more fun than just sticking to the 100 or so words and phrases that almost all of us just doggedly wear out when describing the world around us and expressing ourselves.

So don't be afraid! Call your doctor out the next time he/she forgets to hook up the doll and rush you through that appointment. Don't let your brother ruin another Thanksgiving dinner whining about how he shaved his balls for everyone at the table, and for God's sake be there for a friend when they need you to assist when it comes to the actual ton. Neat.

* Sidenote to Big V ~ Nine months ago, "You forgot to hook up the doll" was added to Urban Dictionary! You realize what this means, right? We changed the world. For the better. In less than three years. That makes us better than most people, and don't you ever forget that.

Fritter

2009-09-04T08:50:00.000-07:00

No one better ask me for one of my fucking kidneys. That is more giving than I think I could take! What if I fall on the one I have left, or accidentally blow it out? Whoever has my other one ain't giving it back...damn, that would suck.

What is a Fritter?!

Ms. I and The Fish

2009-09-03T09:38:00.000-07:00

I was a complete tool in high school. I focused most of my studies in how to be an complete and utter ass.

Very few teachers were willing to put up with my malarkey, let alone have an appreciation for it.

Ms. I was one of the few who did though. She was my English teacher for two years. The great thing about Ms. I was that she was a bit of a maverick too. The way she carried herself told you this stuffy, devout, Catholic school was not going to hold back the way she swung her hips or got excited about Zeffirelli's version of Romeo and Juliet.

I had always been a reader, but it took on new meaning when she introduced pieces of literature to us. Her enthusiasm and love for what she shared, brought it to life in a way I had never experienced before.

Like a hungry mob on Free Wing Wednesday at KFC, [Don't go crazy - I don't think that really exists.] we would all sit in class and take Shakespeare line by line and pick it clean of all it's literary meat - I mean beauty.

Vocabulary lists of words like galvanize, titular, onomatopoeia, and faux pas became these fabulous new ways to talk about things, as she encouraged us to use them in fun sentences.

For over 18 years now a snippet of a poem about a fish that she introduced us to still lingers with me. In her usual way, she took us through the poem line by line and I still remember the reference to the scales of the fish being like "ancient wallpaper". I loved that description. Just couldn't get enough of it. Ancient wallpaper.

From time to time I would word search those keywords online, but I couldn't ever locate the poem. This morning I tried again, and there it was!

As I read it again after all these years, I felt like I was back in that wooden crap desk my freshman year. I could hear Ms. I at the front of the room reading aloud to us, pausing in all the right places to emphasize parts that if we missed, life just wouldn't be the same [Or maybe the planet would shift of it's axis. I can't remember which one it was now.] If I looked up, there she would be with chalk dust smudged along the leg of her pants, her expression filled with excitement for each piece of symbolism.

I loved her for all of that -- and for putting up with me.

In the spirit of Ms. I and her fabulousness.....I give you...

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

Elizabeth Bishop

This little fishy swims in my room

I think I am Going To Fritter

2009-09-02T11:41:00.000-07:00

Update: Yesterday's post got me think about names and mascots and I think I have a duo I can run with.

I am going to Fritter, and MTV Puberty's Fart will be my mascot.

Fritter is catchy, rhymes with Twitter, and reminds me how much I love donuts. Fart reminds me that I am pulling all of this out of my ass, so let's not take oneself too serious.

Stay tuned for future Fratter!

Twogging?

2009-09-01T10:57:00.000-07:00

I like the idea of small thoughts. Concise expressions. Condensed mental soup.

Twitter's concept appeals to me in that way. Twitter itself though....not so much. I am already a Facebook Flopsweat and if I don't rage against one of these egomaniacal web machines, then I stand for nothing my friends. That's not true, I just need to have something I can be against to feel good.

So here it is: I want to take the twitter concept to some of my blog posts. When those scathingly brilliant 140 word or less thoughts strike. I want to post some twogs? Twat once in a while?

I don't know -I think it needs a good name and a logo for me to really get the mojo going.

What do you think? Any ideas?

Marvelous Monday Meal Munchable In Minutes

2009-08-31T11:17:00.000-07:00

Just getting through that title is enough to work up an appetite, I know. Hang in there though; this is worth it!
I made little bowl of Asian perfection on a Thursday, but it was so quick and easy that I thought it would be the perfect fare at the end of a busy Monday.

You will need:

4 tablespoons sesame seeds, toasted
A pinch of salt
A pinch of red pepper flakes (optional - like I have to tell you that, right?)
2 teaspoons rice vinegar
5 teaspoons soy sauce
2 teaspoons honey
2 teaspoons sesame oil
2-3 scallions thinly sliced or 1 small shallot*

9oz Asian Noodles -- you can use any kind you like really. This time I used dry rice noodles that are about fettuccine width.

Two Baby Eggplant, sliced -- you can also add bok choy, snow peas, etc.

Take a small, dry pan and over medium high heat toast the sesame seeds until golden. Set aside.

Next mix together salt, red pepper flakes, rice vinegar, soy sauce, honey, sesame oil and set aside.

Set a pot of salted water on to bowl. Make sure you are using a pot large enough to give your noodles some room to swim; they will cook better. Add noodles when water is ready and cook following package instructions.

Heat a pan with some olive oil [or sesame oil if you want extra bold flavor] and saute the eggplant for a few minutes until tender. Then add your prawns and cook 3 to 5 minutes more depending on size and whether or not they are fresh or frozen.

Drain your noodles and throw them in a bowl. Add sauce to sauteed ingredients and immediately turn off heat and add to bowl with noodles [You don't want all of your sauce to cook down and not be liquid enough to spread over your noodles.].

Toss ingredients, dress with toasted sesames on top, and bust out your chopsticks baby! I am just telling you that to be festive, by the way. I only use forks - my native tool.

Enjoy!

Serves 2 to 4

Note: I highly recommend at least doubling the sauce so you have enough to really flavor your dish.

* When I use scallions I simply add them to the sauce, but when substituting with shallots, I add them to the saute when I add the prawns.

Adapted from Nigella Lawson's Soba Noodles With Toasted Sesame Seeds

I Dreamed A Dream - A Nice One This Time

2009-08-30T12:08:00.001-07:00

I dream a lot, and I remember many of my dreams in pretty vivid detail. Sometimes that is not always all that fun as many tend to be rather intense adventures into my subconscious that leave me wondering "what the hell?" in the morning.

Last night was different though. Last night was dreamy in every sense of the word -- ethereal, romantic, and exciting.

I dropped into Dreamland smack-dab in the middle of my aunt and uncle's pool yard. They had gone through what I would assume was a great expense to completely enclose their entire backyard. It looked wonderful! All the lush plants bordered and the roof had big sky lights that let in some of the evening light.

As I dove in, the water in their kidney shaped black-bottom pool was bathtub perfect. When I surfaced I found myself surrounded by people. Some were in the water with me and others were standing beyond in the patio area. Many people I know and like were there, but I was also aware that I didn't know everyone. Despite this though, I was completely comfortable. None of my social anxieties had leaked in to this night flight.

I was having a great time playing in the water and chatting with friends. I was also rocking this black one piece bathing suit. Every time I popped out of the water, I was once again amazed at the favors I was doing for this suit!

Me rockin the suit...in my dreams

And then it happened.

I am chatting away with someone, standing in the shallow end, when I become aware of someone waiting to get my attention. A man is standing over by the pool steps waiting to catch my eye. A hot man.

I finish my convo and wade over to where he stands looking down at me. He is tall, and dressed in a dark suit (I guess he wasn't planning on swimming). He compliments my swimming (you can't avoid awkward ice breakers party people -- not even in your best dreams). I see his cheesy remark and raise him by replying,

He rockin my dream...in my dreams

"Well my ancestors are from Sicily - island people are good swimmers" Island people are good swimmers - nice Daniella. Yeah, that is what I said, I remember it crystal clear. Yikeys. He then told me he was from Italy (how convenient this dream is becoming!).

The whole time we are talking I feel this rush of excitement and attraction to my new pool pal. We have total dream chemistry.

Next thing I know I am taking his outstretched hand as he helps me out of the pool. We are standing pool side gazing at each other when he curls his forefinger under my chin and raises my mouth to his. It was a fabulous kiss of course....then I woke up.

Ahh......in my dreams.

Free Books Are One Of The Ways God Shows His Love For Us

2009-08-29T11:53:00.000-07:00

They really are. I'm going for it. Check it.

Letting Go

2009-08-28T15:07:00.000-07:00

Another song has been running through my head again. Just like the last time it is not a song I feel particularly attached to, or even remember much about.

Letting Go by Suzy Bogguss is the tune. It's a country song [don't judge] from the early 90s [Seriously, stop judging me] about a young girl going off to school; leaving behind the comfort zone of her kid-dom.

Only a couple of lines of it have come to me.

There's nothing in the way now,
Oh letting go, there's room enough to fly
And even though, she's spent her whole life waiting,
It's never easy letting go.

Letting go - it isn't ever really all that easy, is it?

There seems to be so many little fingers that come with it. Our hearts have them, our minds have them, our ego, our pride, our fear of suffering. All these steely grips keeping us in place - hanging on.

Whether we are excited for the next phase of the journey, bittersweetly moving on, or thrust into the change that is beyond our control, it seems we all are faced with some degree of resistance to letting go.

Right before this song piece came to visit me, I had made a decision to return a material item from someone I had to let go of recently.

I've got all my figurative digits dug in on this one too. I don't want to feel bad, it is a damn nifty material item [Do I really have to let it go?], I don't want my choices leading to someone thinking ill of me, I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, I don't want to move forward in some ways because I keep analyzing and then reanalyzing my decision.

Despite it all though, I am loosening my grip because I want to be true to myself.

And isn't that what this is all about anyway? This short, difficult, precious, precarious, wonderful life is really just a stab at standing staunchly in the truth of who we are. Can we come full circle on letting go by holding fast to ourselves.

Today I made one small step for letting go and one big[ish] step for Daniella.

So now I think I know why my brain has been entertaining this little diddy all day. My subconscious was just stopping by to weigh in on the sitch and remind me that while these things are never easy, they do indeed make room for us to fly.

This is me getting ready to fly.

In Order To Be Returnable, There Must Be Death

2009-08-26T10:12:00.000-07:00

Not long ago I was watching Elmo with a very charming young man named Joe. In this riveting segment, Elmo was asking his goldfish Dorothy questions, and I'll be goddamned if she wasn't answering them!

Each time the E Man interpreted another tidbit of the sage advice of Miss Dorothy, I became more and more enthralled. I had to have one of these fish, so it could start talking to me as soon as possible.

Alright - cut to reality: I don't believe that shit. I know fish only talk to other fish. They aren't going to give up their magical watery speech skills to some red furry Plaza de Sesamo character. Sheesh, what kind of nutbag do you take me for?!

Anywho, despite my irritation at Elmo's attempts to trick me, I was getting a warm fuzzy over Dorothy. I remember my first fishbowl with it's two crap feeder goldfish in it, and how excited I was to have them for the 42 hours they lived.

I remember my dad taking us on a rainy afternoon to the local aquarium store to pick out our goods, and then helping me and my brother each put our fish bowl together. They were round, glass bowls complete with colored gravel, plastic plants, and the token must-have treasure chest.

I loved having a pet in my room and eventually our bowls turned into full-fledged fish tanks with all the fixings. I still remember falling asleep under the soft glow of the tank light and the hum of the air pump.

Ahh those were the days.....

Two weeks ago, I decided to indulge my nostalgia and went to Petsmart. I already had a bowl set up, and I decided ahead of time I was going to get me a couple of scrappy feeder goldfish to go in it. Recapture a bit of the good ole day's glory.

I had a touch of that little kid excitement too [ok - big touch] as I entered the store and started perusing the tanks. Fish, fish, fish, expensive fish, ugly fish, who would want that fish?, saltwater fish, glowy fish, tiny fish - where are the feeders man?!

Eventually I work my way back to where I started, and next to all the fancy goldfish I see a big empty tank. They were out. Noooooooo!

Like a seven year old, I was hell bent on instant gratification. I was going home with fish goddamnit!

I then proceeded to make a big mistake. I bought Ethel and Enid.

I have had fancy goldfish in the past and it has never worked out. They're snotty, spoiled and superficial. And then just so you can hate them that much more, they go and die right away so you can weep as you flush your $5.99 down the toilet.

What was I thinking?! Fancy goldfish?! Eck! As soon as I got them home, I knew I should have held out for my scrappy little faves, the feeders. Talk about an attitude of gratitude! They know how grim their prospects are. How you could have fed them to your snapping turtle or pet piranha or dumped them in bleach water like a certain brother I know. Their every move screams "thank you!" and you have just got to love them for that.

Alright, well so I fucked up, but I am a commitment girl so Ethel and Enid are going to shack up with me for as long as they haunt this earth.

If I hadn't been thinking like a kid, I would have got me some guppies. At least they are small and darty and you never know when they are going to splooge out some babehs - God's miracle every one of them.

But I digress.....back to E & E.

They are annoying as hell. My visions of relaxing evenings sipping a glass of wine, gazing at my peaceful little fishy duo are blown out. These two will not be any help in lowering my blood pressure.

For starters, they can't swim worth a shit. Everyday looks like it is their first day behind the fin. Most of the time they just look like they are trying not to float up to the top. They fight over the food like there isn't a thousand little flakes there floating for them to share. They're pretty much ungrateful little biotches........and I am stuck with 'em.

And we come full circle: When I was leaving the store that fateful day, the sales girl tells me that they have a return policy on their fancy goldfish. If they eat it within 14 days of purchase, and you have your receipt AND the dead fish, [she told me twice I had to have the carcass on me] they will give you a refund or store credit.

Well that little ray of hope blew out yesterday. Today is Day 15 and as I type this those two gaping fools are over there still trying to get the swimming thing down. Damn.

Super Power Ball Me!

2009-08-24T12:21:00.000-07:00

I have given up all dreams of self earned grandeur for my life. I'm an American, goddamnit! I shouldn't have to work hard, or take responsibility for myself.

That sort of tomfoolery is for the Russians or something.

I on the other hand will be playing lotto from now on. Like a fiend.

I will let you know when I make it to the Big Spin baby - wish me luck!

Don't Let Another Child End Up Stoopid Like Me

2009-08-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

The amazing Back To School sales going on right now at the warehouse office supply stores make it easy and inexpensive to help out students in need!

Too many kids go back to school each year without the tools they need to excel in the classroom. This is unnecessary - and easy to fix.

So how can you get involved? Glad you asked! Following are a few organizations that could use your gift.

C.A.S.A. - Court Appointed Special Advocates together with its state and local members, is to support and promote court-appointed volunteer advocacy for abused and neglected children so that they can thrive in safe, permanent homes. School supplies donated to C.A.S.A. enable their advocates to share with the children they are paired with. For more information on a branch in your area, click here

Foster an A+ by contributing to a local Sleep Train location's school supply drive to benefit children that are part of the California Foster Care system. You can visit their site and find by going here

I Love Schools is an online program aimed at matching classrooms with the people who can help them get the school supplies they need. Read through teachers' wish lists to see if there are any school supplies you are willing to donate. You may also post a "donor offer" and let teachers contact you if they are interested in the items you would like to give. You can find out more here

Want to go international with your donation? Awesome! Here are a couple of ideas.

Operation Iraqi Children does amazing work for the Children of Iraq. They have ongoing needs for school supplies. For an outline of what they need and how you can pitch in, please visit there site here

Have you read or heard of the amazing book Three Cups of Tea? The Central Asia Institute was born out of Greg Mortenson's incredible work in Pakistan and Afghanistan. They continue to aid central Asia in educating it's youth. To find out how you can help them, please click here

Operation Action Packed! sends small toys and school supplies to our deployed troops so that they may share them with the children they encounter incountry. You can visit OAP's site by clickinr here OAP also ships reserve supplies to an organization in Afghanistan, Women Of Hope, that aids Afghan women and their children rebuild. More can be found out about WOHP at there site here

Just want to keep it super simple? That's easy -- simply shop till you drop and take a quick drive over to your favorite school (one in a low income district will probably be able to make even more of an impact with your generosity). In most cases, you can drop off your donation at the main office and the supplies will be distributed to those most in need.

Typical supply needs include:

* lined paper
* pens and pencils
* rulers
* erasers
* highlighters
* dry-erase markers
* overhead projector transparency sheets
* overhead projector markers
* paperclips
* binders
* report covers
* staples and a stapler
* construction paper
* glue sticks
* markers
* tape
* art supplies (for elementary and art classes)
* text and reference books

Many of these items are less than a dollar each right now! Dollar stores are always a great place to shop for school supplies as well.

There are many ways you can help a student.

We don't need any more tit-a-whirl operators over here at Daniellaland, so I hope this has inspired you to reach out through an organization that shares your vision.

You can make a difference for these kids!

Thank you,

DL

Funny Fecal Friday

2009-08-14T09:05:00.001-07:00

Scroll down, smile and have yourself a little chuckle because this shit right here is funny. Happy Friday!

Joe's Special

2009-08-11T20:37:00.000-07:00

How can I put this? Joe's Special isn't all that....well...er...special. Don't get me wrong, I love me some JS, but the specialness definitely lies in how unsophisticated it is.

I first enjoyed this dish at Original Joe's, a restaurant that has been in my hometown since the 1950s.

Being part of a large Italian family, many occasions called for a trip downtown and a big booth at Original Joe's. Many traditional, Italian old world specialties are on their menu.

My first OJ memories are of large, white oval plates of steaming ravioli in hearty Bolognese sauce. I think The Adults ordered that for me on every visit until I was street legal. Left to my own vices as an adult, I definitely got more adventuresome on my travels through the menu. One day I happened upon Joe's Special. That moment began the love affair that lives on to this day.

So just where did Joe get his special?

According to legend: Folklore has it that a customer ordered a spinach omelet very late one night. The customer asked the chef if he had anything else available to cook. The chef replied he had some hamburger left. The customer asked him to throw some of the hamburger into his omelet. The dish became so popular that they eventually put it on the menu. ~Original Joe's website

A simple pairing of flavors and ingredients that comes together to be absolutely delicious -- and satisfying.

To begin, heat olive in a skillet and brown ground chuck (I used ground buffalo because I prefer the taste and leanness of the meat,and it was still de-lish).

Once meat is mostly cooked through add finely chopped onions, garlic, and after a couple of minutes, the chopped spinach (I used fresh spinach but frozen would be fine as well).

Once the onions, garlic and spinach have had time to soften, add eggs and cook through until not runny.

The rule of Joe's Special is one egg for each person you are serving.

Beat 'em!

Salt and pepper to taste, then your ready to plate! A little grated Pecorino Romano cheese on top is the perfect finish. In the OJ's tradition, serving this tastiness with fresh, crusty sourdough bread is highly recommended.

Manga!

The other thing of beauty about this recipe is how well it lends itself to your own creativity too. Have some mushrooms in the fridge? Throw those bad boys in with the onion and garlic. Summer time tomato calling your name from that bowl on the counter? In it goes! Have a bell pepper that is just asking for it? You know what to do..... And there you have it -- Joe's Special just keeps on getting more specialer.

Looking for a more regimented recipe? I think the OJ's San Francisco adaption will do.

Original Joe's Special
Source: Original Joe's, a restaurant in San Francisco
Serves: 4

1 pound ground chuck
1 box of frozen spinach
2 medium onions (sliced thin)
1 clove of garlic
1 egg per person
Olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Drain spinach and squeeze out as much moisture as possible. Set aside.

Brown onions and garlic. Add crumbled meat. Sauté until it loses red color. Mix constantly. Add spinach bit by bit, and stirring in.

Break eggs into skillet and stir constantly. May be served immediately or allowed to brown further.

A Miracle Is Never Old News

2009-08-10T10:03:00.000-07:00

I heard about this when it first hit the news, and I have been meaning to do a post ever since.

Long story short, apparently God so loved the world he decided to send his virgin mother's image to us....in the form of......loose stool from a bird's pipe.

I'm not making this shit up. ABC and many other news agencies actually reported on it.

A miracle. Moved by the grace of the spirit. Touched by a bird's ass.

What?! Come on, people aren't really buying this crap, (full pun intended party people) are they?

If you watch the video, there is no shame in anyone's game as they gush over the miraculousness of dried poo on some dude's truck mirror.

They're full of it, right? I mean, come on. Our creator actually expects us to draw the sacred from this? In these troubled times, what message are we supposed to take away?

Bird poo? Really?

But what if....

What if the Divine really is trying to shine through shit? Trying to reach out to us. Send a message. Let's suspend doody disbelief, and go with it. However, I offer you this: The supposed miracle detailed above is simply not grandiose enough.

Here is how I like to envision it.

A zookeeper enters the Elephant enclosure early on a Sunday morning. The zoo won't open for visitors for several hours, so it's very quiet as he works. The hills in the background are misty and the there is a golden Sun Ray coming down right over the pen. A truly glorious morning. After water troughs are replenished and hay bins refilled, Jesus grabs his shovel and prepares to muck out the stalls.

As he enters the enclosure the sight before him takes his breath away. There on the concrete floor is a giant pile of dung, and in the center is a perfect image of the heavenly father. Swathed in a deep red robe, one hand outstretched, the other over his heart. He smiles peacefully as he lovingly looks up at Jesus. His halo and the surrounding divinity glow coming through the pile have filled the room with a soft yellow light.

This humble zookeeper can't believe his eyes. As he steps closer a voice emanates from the heap before him, "Jesus my son, I love you and I want you to be happy."

As tears stream down his face he replies, "Yes Father, thank you for showing yourself to me. I have loved you all of my life."

After a few moments, the image starts to fade and the light around this miracle starts to dim. Seeing this, Jesus fills with urgency. Surely, there must be something God has come to tell him to do. A special task he must carry out to save the world.

He stammers, "My father, before you go, is there any way I can serve? I am here to do your will."

God smiles again and says, "Yes my son there is. Clean up this shit."

The Book Of Ruth - Chapter One

2009-08-06T14:44:00.000-07:00

Fixer-uper Puppy

Ten years ago today I brought Ruth home. Well actually We brought Ruth home. You see, back then I was married and it was the other half of the We, John, that wanted to bring Ruth home.

I admit I started it. My not-so-subtle pleading to at least go down to the Humane Society and look around had finally paid off -- or so I thought.

August 4th 1999 was our third trip down to the pound. Our house was small and we were on the hunt for a petite pooch to match. Our previous two visits the preceding weeks were Pit Bull and Shepherd mix adventures. No-go.

This visit was shaping up about the same. Row after row of large breed puppies and large breed adult dogs watched us walk up and down the rows of runs. There was the occasional small dog garnish amongst them but they were all on adoption hold already. We were never going to find a dog this way.

As I frowned into one of the last runs full of Shepherd mix puppies, I marveled at the little brown dog toy they had in there when I realized it was moving. What in the french toast was going on here?!

John caught up to me, and as I pointed, his smile confirmed that my eyes were not deceiving me. A tiny, brown scraggly little puppy was sitting in the middle of this pack of dogs destined for great...size. Each time they tried to play with her it looked more like a pummeling. Paws on head, playful nosey nudges pushing this little thing right over.

Bummer for that puppy or squirrel mix, or whatever, I thought as I walked towards the exit. But John was not so quick to follow. "Where are you going? This could be the dog for us."

Um, what?! I only agreed to the strict size limit on the prospective puppy because I thought I was going to end up with a CUTE one!

This is a cute puppy.

This is a cute puppy.

This.....not so much.

Alright, alright.....but still...

Before I can even spell UGLY, John has hurried off in search of an adoption counselor. Five minutes later he returns. Alone. "She's already on hold" he tells me in a disappointed tone. Whew! That was close. As we leave, the woman who had helped John stopped us to tell us that if the potential adopter doesn't pass muster during the scheduled interview that was to take place that evening, She-It would be back up for takers starting the following morning.

Oh great.

There we were bright and early the next morning; arriving when the Humane Society opened. We waited to speak to someone, and were informed She-It was off of adoption hold and back on the market.

Apparently the woman who wanted to adopt her had what else but a big dog at home. Since that Rottweiler of hers was an adult, it made the environment for She-It unsafe by HS standards, and her application was denied.

Oh great.

We followed the woman out to the kennels and the little brownish clump of steel wool managed a half wag as we approached. As John stepped into the run and picked She-It up, a yellow sprinkling hit his jacket. "She peed on you!" I screeched. Unfazed, John held She-It close and softly dismissed my resistance with, "She's a fixer-uper puppy"

Oh great.

Get A Brian Morons - Go USA!

2009-08-05T09:04:00.000-07:00

If you don't love this picture, then you my friend, do not love this country. Might as well put your shit in a shoebox now and get on the next plane to France.

This picture encompasses all of what is right and good about the USA. Well, not really, but it's funny as hell!

Let's start at the top, shall we?

White stars on blue do-rag is fabulous. I like to think this piece of patriotic headgear is covering a red stripe of faux-hawk to round out the theme. And if we look closely, our friend has a healthy amount of hair coming out the back there. I think I might have to call a Mullett Alert. The Go USA Mullet -- the ultimate in patriotism. It's one thing to die for your country. It's a whole different sacrifice to look like an idiot for life for it.

On the subject of hair: a moment of respect and deference for this man's Magnum PI would be nice of you.

Right now I am wishing that I was more of a sports buff so I could find some witticism about his shirt, but I got nothing. I do love the hint of the shed he is building to cover his tool we get under that shirt though. Niiice.

Now we come to the signage - it's just so perfect! Or purfect.

And hell yeah - GO USA! Who wouldn't want those morans to get a brain?

I encourage all of you to get out there and follow this man's lead -- show your nation something GO USA! about you!

Ay! Dios Mi!

2009-07-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

Yo quiero what the fuck?! Is this summer of celebrity death ever going to end?! I can't take it -- too much loss.

The Taco Bell chihuahua is dead. Yes, you read that correctly: muerto.

Ed McMahon, Farrah, MJ, Billy Mays, Walter Cronkite -- not enough -- no, no the Grim Reaper's appetite for death was still unquenched, so he took his vengeance outside the bun.

Gidget is gone. Apparently she just stroked out on Tuesday evening and no quantity of steaming Chalupa or piping hot Churro could save her. She was 73 (about 15 in dog years).

Her trainer confirmed the sad news stating, "She made so many people happy." Amen sister, amen.

What Would You Do If I Sang Out Of Tune?

2009-07-20T11:27:00.002-07:00

A while back a friend of mine once told me that her therapist always advised paying attention to those songs that just seem to pop into your head. The notion intrigued me so I started to consider these lyrical, potential messengers.

My brain pops up with a myriad of theories for each tune's visit.

Last week I was sitting on the toilet, (honoring a number onesy call) with a thousand yard stare loosely focused on the Man Wall, when a song popped in. To be more accurate, just the first line of a song.

What would you do if I sang out of tune?

Where in the hell did that come from? I don't care for the Beatles -- or that song -- nor do I even recall hearing it any time in the recent past.

But see, that's the thing. Your brain just bubbles this stuff up to the surface, and then you kick it around like a beach ball until you like where it settles - or just get tired.

I had to sit and think for a second what the next line of that song even is, then it came to me.

Would you stand up and walk out on me?

Ahh -- now we are getting somewhere. I don't know why both lines didn't show up in my gray matter at the same time, but I do know that considering both lines made more sense and ended up resonating with me.

I always grapple with loyalty and acceptance. Not so much as to whether or not I can offer those in my relationships, as I think I am pretty damn good at it actually. I struggle more with being secure in knowing that I have those elements in my relationships, and therefore can relax and just be. More simply put: I [still] need to learn I don't have to take care of everybody to be accepted.

In trying to remember more of the song, [that again, I don't even like] I got a whole lot of nothing, until part of the chorus came to me.

I get by with a little help from my friends

Alright party people, this is where the shit gets heavy. Deep.

As I ponder, I'm redefining friend in my head. It becomes more of a representative term for everyone who loves me, a broader category than their title of Friend, Family, Chicken Fucker, if you will.

And that brought me to the final piece of the Name That Tune Introspection puzzle.

I absolutely get by with a little help from my friends. Actually, I thrive with a little help from my friends. If you do stand up and walk out, I will get by. Your retreat may come as a blindsiding gut punch, but someone who loves me will have their arms out as I fall backward like a drunken sailor.

A day may come where I am just too "out of tune" for you. You may be living and loving blissfully tone deaf for 20 years and then one day, off you go. Who knows. The future can't be told.

For now, I guess I have to live by the words of the stinkin Beatles anyway, cause the shit just makes sense to me.

Live without regret and the rest will all come out in the wash. **

I take it all back. I think it was just a reminder that I am a craptacular singer, so mark that off of the Ways I Might Be Able To Make A Fortune list. Oh well. On to the next item: Stunt double for Liza Minnelli.

**I just typed that, impressed myself with the poignancy, then googled it to see if anyone else has posted it before. Holy crap - I think I might have just come up with a quotable quote!

Hey Peter, I Can Smell Your Ass From Here

2009-07-13T10:26:00.000-07:00

I am dedicating today's post to my cousin Ruth. She was on a flight yesterday that included the distinct nasal experience of having a seat at the back of the plane.

This same letter was sent to me by a friend after I had my own experience of this special kind a few years ago.

Seat 29e -- Airline Bathroom Row

Grande Pessismisto?

2009-07-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

I have to work really hard at being optimistic. I just don't have light roots. My tethers are darker and heavier than many. This is not to say that I am always in Half Empty mode. I meant it when I wrote I work hard to spend most of my time at Half Full. I think I have made some pretty good strides over the years, but I suspect if I didn't work at it, I could be a Grande Pessismisto - no foam, extra whip of course.

So this morning I am sitting at my desk thinking that this all is just fucking great. By "all" I mean my life. I got into this head space where I am wondering where the hell I am going and what am I doing anyway? I even made a list for god knows what reason.

I will spare my vast readership the oodles of optimism embedded in the list. Highlights include being a lard ass, one of my neighbors wanting to sue me (and not for having said lard ass), and a couple of fall-on-my-face failures.

So where am I going with this? We all have problems. It always occurs to me how inherently lazy and spoiled it is of me to sit and complain -- even to myself .

I need to turn this around.

Stoopid, (I like to spell it that way) self-congratulating Oprah always talks about her stoopid gratitude journal....."Write five things everyday for which you have gratitude". Whatever Oprah.

But still, it is a good idea.

Let's see if I can turn my mental frown into at least a straight face...

1. I live in Santa Cruz. I may have crappy neighbors, and a little isolation going on, but it could get a hell of a lot worse than owning a home in a coastal Northern California town.

2. I have choices and resources. e.g., I can choose to learn from my failures and take that into my future. I can afford to bolster my job training with some online courses (even if it is boring-ass, tedious bookkeeping).

3. My brother showed up in the middle of my Monday Mental Meltdown and offered to run an errand for me, make a repair to my vehicle, and replace my broken smoke alarm. Thanks bro!

4. I am a fortunate person -- I have food in my fridge, I'm not schizophrenic, I won a free rent lottery once, etc.

5. There's a donut in my kitchen right now....and some hot coffee.

Bonus two things because I like the number seven as much as I like the number five.

6. There are some awesome people out there who care about me. -- Not much more to say than that -- it's a huge gift.

7. I have Now. The potential is limitless.

Now you do it. What fills you with gratitude?

And let's be original people -- no, "Well I don't have Schizophrenia either - done."

The Menu

2009-07-01T14:08:00.000-07:00

I am trying to be a big girl (in the preparation and maturity department, not the ass width department) so I have been planning out meal ideas before going to the grocery store. My next five dinners are slated as follows:

Rosemary Chicken Burger with *fries and sauteed Zucchini.
(I saw Giada make this forever ago, but couldn't seem to get anyone too excited about a non-beef burger. Well I'm excited about it!)

Stuffed Eggplant with Romano topped Angel Hair
(My stepmom donated the fixins for the eggplant (thank you, thank you) so now I just have to pull the pasta together - love it!)

Salami and Munster Panini with fries and steamed Broccoli
(I saw Emeril make this yesterday. Looked so easy, and mmm-mmm good!)

Honey Lime Pork with Jasmine rice and sauteed Green Beans
(The sauce is so easy and so delish that I am remaking it again from it's maiden voyage on my palette just last week.)

Campanelli in Red Sauce with mini Chicken Meatballs and sauteed Zucchini
(I'm going to have chicken left over from those Rosemary Burgers, so......)

*Don't know what it is about fries lately. Usually I can take em or leave em, but they have just hit the spot lately on a few different occasions.......there goes the ass width department...

Edit: The Rosemary Garlic Chicken Burger recipe can be found here. -- By the way, this recipe is the perfect opportunity to try out that new mayo made with olive oil for an even healthier, but juicy burger!

The Honey Lime Pork recipe is here. Technically a chicken recipe, it was (I think) equally delicious made with pork loin fillets I sliced into thin strips and dusted in flour. I then wok fried them in some olive oil, poured the sauce over the top, tossed, and sprinkled with sesame seeds. I did take her advice and double the sauce. This ensures you have plenty should you decide to share it with your rice.

Enjoy!

The View

2009-07-01T08:59:00.000-07:00

My yard needs some serious weeding and trimming. I feel a little guilty that I haven't gotten out there and done it yet, so I tend to turn away with a little bit of a wince when I let the dog out. Well that resistance to taking a real look, caused me to almost miss this little beauty.

I am a craptacular photographer, but trust me -- it's a pretty little trumpet vine flower smiling at me from the fence.

So I would like to take the moral of today's post from the cranky bitches on that morning show that I love to hate to watch their douchebaggery: Take a little time to enjoy the view. *gag*

Yesterday

2009-06-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

What I missed because I couldn't find time in my busy schedule of arguing with someone all day to get to Hollister. Gah!

My brother (center) competed in the steer roping at the Hollister Rodeo - Go bro!

Nice - Giddy Up!

The Best Thing I Have Heard Today

2009-06-03T15:49:00.000-07:00

"A Handjob is still a job, okay?"

~ Terry of Tacos, Tacos, Tacos, Tacos (Reno 911)
after getting caught on the intersection camera
giving handjobs for $3.00 each during the red lights