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

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

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...

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

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

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

And so are Environmentalists

Irony

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

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

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!

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

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

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?

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

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.