Love Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry

I used my husband's battery operated sideburn trimmer without permission to shave my pubes and accidentally dropped it in the toilet.

Naturally, I panicked, snatched it out of the water as quickly as possible and preformed the "on/off, on/off" test to make sure it still worked.  YES!  Still works.

Totally embarrassed and afraid of getting in trouble (I spontaneously regress to age five when faced with awkward situations), I did the first thing that came to mind - I hid the trimmer in the bottom drawer of my vanity under a box of tampons.

The other day, I walked in on him shaving his sideburns....with the razor.

I still feel bad about not telling him.  I think I'm going to buy him a new one for Christmas.

Dinner with a side of Torture

Everyone told me, "It is impossible to fuck up a crock pot meal. You just stick it in the pot and leave it."

Well, guess what.....It is possible!

Here's what happened:

I went for an easy, no brainer, recipe first. Pork chops and apples with a cinnamon and brown sugar glaze. I followed the directions to a T. Ok. To be honest, I only had three pork chops and the recipe called for 6 so I improvised.

Unfortunately my improvising didn't take into account cooking time because after only two hours the chops were completely cooked. Shit! Like any logical person I decided to stick the pot in the fridge. I figured I could just heat it up again after a few hours so we could eat it at dinner time, but after several hours of chilling out in the refrigerator, I noticed a fat slurry floating on the top. I thought the fat would reconstitute itself after I reheated it and no one would be the wiser.

As you can see, my genius plan didn't work. That white stuff is congealed fat (even after 30 minutes of reheating on high). The photo is a bit misleading since it appears as if the chops look edible. In reality, they were grey. Yes grey. Not exactly an appetizing color for pork. The apples were grease soaked mush.

Maybe plating it would make it look better. Chefs always make a big deal about plating on Top Chef.

ew

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next I tried ham and scalloped potatoes. Again, a recipe with few ingredients. Something for a beginner. Easy peasy. Right?

It looked somewhat appetizing in the pot. Then I put it on a plate........

"What's for dinner mom?"

"Beige."

It tasted like beige.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After my failures with pork, I decided chicken might be a little easier. Don't ask me why. Chicken just seems easy. I wanted to go exotic so I found a recipe for honey and soy sauce glazed chicken breasts.

This tasted as good as it looks........completely dried out, yet surprisingly greasy. You're welcome family!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My husband convinced me that I could not possibly screw up a roast if I cooked it in the crock pot. He must have been drunk to have such faith in me, or he was just being nice because he wanted to have sex that night because I did indeed, screw it up.

I forgot to remove the blood pad thingie that the butcher puts under the meat before I cooked it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recently I've been recruited by the US military. They thought my cooking would be a less humane replacement for water boarding. I start my new job as head chef at Guantánamo next week.

Elliptical machines do not have genitalia so don't bother looking.

I gained fifteen pounds when I quit smoking four months ago.  Now I need to lose twenty-five pounds (yeah, I needed to lose ten before I quit smoking...shut up).  I need to do something before my weight gets so out of hand even Ruby thinks I've let myself go.

Hey ya'll

I've tried bingeing and purging.  Believe it or not, the bingeing part is pretty easy.  I just can't make myself throw up.  I am notorious for suppressing the urge to puke.  This talent comes in handy when one is intoxicated in public, but not when one wants to get rid of that cheeseburger one just scarfed down in three bites.

Ok, so bulimia is out.  What about laxatives you ask?  I think not.  I have a fear of anal leakage.  I'm clenching my buttocks as we speak.

That leaves anorexia.  I need to decrease my caloric intake to next to nothing and work out like a maniac.    K, that might work, if I weren't addicted to Fruity Pebbles and reality television.

GTL baby!

After absolutely no much debate I decided to just stop eating like a pig and start working out.

I've been repeating the mantra "Little Debbie snack cakes are not a meal!" and I recently bought an elliptical machine.  I am in love with my elliptical machine.  It's the only best piece of equipment I've ever used to work out on and that includes my vibrator.  I named my elliptical machine "Mack" and I want to make sweet sweet love to him, but I can't find his penis.

So far I haven't lost a fucking pound, but I've only been at it for a week.  I'm gonna give it another month before I start smoking again and take up crack.  Crackheads are always skinny.

Crack is wack!

Now that is one fierce flautist!

My kid came home from school today with a note that said fifth graders can join the band, and if he's interested he has to pick an instrument.

He promptly informed me with utmost confidence that he IS going to play the flute.

me: (silent pause - blink, blink) You want to play the flute?

him: (nodding head - arms folded - serious "I mean business" body language) Yes.

I know what you're thinking. Your son is gay.

If my kid is gay, he had better be really fucking gay. I mean drag queen, fabulous and fierce gay! *sigh* That would be so awesome. We could shop together for body shapers and bra stuffers. He could show me the proper way to apply makeup to cover my five o'clock shadow. I could help him with his act (he, of course would impersonate Bette Midler). Ah. A mother can dream right? Unfortunately my kid likes guns and breaking stuff.

Anyway.....to protect him from ruthless teasing from bratty 10 year old boys, I told him only girls play the flute.

And this guy.

He decided he'd rather play baseball.

Taxidermically Speaking

Ever since my Pa started shooting squirrels from the trees at The Ranch (his one acre vacation home) I've wanted to taxidermy their tiny furry bodies and dress them up as human characters - like gangs of Mexican Banditos or 80's New Wave icon Robert Smith.

Is that weird?

Um......no fucking way. It's genius!

See, I could totally give my hand crafted creations to my family and friends as gifts. Who wouldn't want to receive one of these on Christmas morn?

My sister is gonna love this!

Of course word will travel fast and my critters will become the envy of all their friends and neighbors. I can see it now. It'll become an international phenomenon. SoHo art galleries and high end hoity toity interior designers are going to clamber for one of my original works of art, each of which is mounted on a block of rich mahogany for that extra touch of class. A hula dancing chipmunk focal piece can really pull a room together.

Holy crap.......I'm on to something here. I think I'm really on to something! I'm gonna be so rich!

Don't believe me? Well I Googled "Taxadermied Rodents" smartass. See for yourself.....

Steve Carell's character in Dinner for Schmucks showing off his Last Supper rat diorama.

Hipster beer koozie.

The freaking Pope.

This one could be for Grandma.

Mmmmmhmm. The future is staring you in the face with it's beady little eyes.

There is one small problem though. Doing the actual taxidermy is beyond GROSS! There is NO WAY I'm gonna skin a squirrel. *shudder*

I guess I'll pursue my other life long dream. MACRAME. The 70's is totally in right now and those owls were mega cool.

I'm gonna be RICH!!!!

Ok, perhaps this is slightly cuter and more suitable for gift giving than taxidermied rodents.

I am not one of those crazy dog ladies...

I have a boston terrier named Mingus who farts when he runs, which I find endearing and hilarious since his tiny toots are adorably odorless. Recently my darling gaseous pup has been stricken with a disgusting rash that the vet says is most likely a food allergy so I bought him special diet food made by none other than Dick Van Patten (I know right? Who knew the dad from Eight is Enough made specialty dog food!), but as a result of said disgusting rash, he smells like a dirty vagina (my dog, not Dick Van Patten. I have no idea what Dick Van Patten smells like) so I now have to give him a bath once a week with a special medicated shampoo.

Um.....Dick, you may want to consider going into the medicated shampoo business.

He loves taking a bath, (my dog, not Dick Van Patten, I have no idea if Dick Van Patten loves taking a bath) especially when I sing 70's pop tunes to him which I incorporate his name into the lyrics. "Don't you remember you told me you loved me Dinky. You said you'd be coming back again this way Dinky. Dinky Dinky Dinky Dinky oh Dinky.....I love you". I should probably explain that I have made up 32 nick names for Mingus such as: Mingie, Dinky, Dinkus, Dinks, Mingie Dingie, Mayor McDinkey, Dinky Doo and Handsome. He responds happily to every single one.

The Dick Van Patten specialty diet non-allergenic dog food hasn't worked so far, but the vet says it could take a couple of months. So I'm going to have to endure the rank stank emanating from his doggie pits and his pathetic, rashy bald spotted appearance for a while. Fortunately, Mayor McDinkey doesn't seem to mind. He still frolics around the house gleefully unaware of how heinously foul he really is. Unfortunately, he stopped farting when he runs.

"Crazy ass dog lady."

I Blame Country Crock

Hiya housewives! Lets earn our keep and bake some cookies together.

I find kitchen activities to be much more enjoyable (or tolerable) when accompanied by my favorite music so before we begin I'll be cranking up the Bad Brains.

Pull out your trusty Betty Crocker Cook Book and find the one cookie recipe in which you already have every ingredient in your pantry. We wouldn't want to put in the extra effort of going to the grocery store now would we? Hmmmm....Sugar Cookies. Perfect! I have flour, sugar and eggs. Baking soda that has been in the fridge for a year to keep away nasty odors is still good for baking right? Sure...why not. Giant tub of Country Crock counts as margarine or butter right? Of course it does!

Next, measure carefully and dump all of the ingredients into a large bowl. Sifting the dry ingredients then slowly adding the wet can't be that important. Note: Make sure your mixer isn't set on the highest speed......trust me on this one. Once everything is thoroughly mixed lick the beaters, but make sure you do it on the sly or you'll have to share them with your rotten kids.

The directions say to chill the dough for two hours before forming it into one inch balls and dropping them on baking sheets. (*giggle* balls dropping). Hmmm...I don't think the dough needs to be chilled for THAT long. I don't know about you, but I'm in the baking zone now. Thirty minutes ought to do it. Thankfully we don't have to use cookie cutters for this type of sugar cookie because this happy homemaker only has penis shaped ones.

Find your best cookie sheets. Don't use the rusty ones that you insist on cramming in the dishwasher under the assumption that if it fits, it must be dishwasher safe. Roll the incredibly sticky dough into balls *giggle*, cover in sugar and drop them about an inch apart on to the sheet. I think you can probably shove them a little closer together. After all, we don't want to be at this all day. Set the timer on the oven for fifteen minutes, prepare a vodka and coke (or whatever your preferred cocktail is), turn on the tv and watch your stories until you hear the buzzer.

BUZZZZZZ

First batch done and ready to cool! Hmmm...mine kinda grew together into multi-cookie blobs. Oh well, more cookie to love. Remove (scrape) the cookies from the baking sheet with a spatula. Dammit. The first one is sticking pretty good. Lets try a sturdier spatula (maybe a snow shovel). Nope....this batch seems to be holding on for dear life, and crumbling as soon as they're separated from their home to be placed on the cooling rack. SON OF A! Maybe it's the sheet. Yeah, that must be it. The next batch will be perfect.

I think I'll have another cocktail.

Fifteen minutes later. FUCK ME! Cookies are still sticking to the sheet as if that is their sole purpose in life before they disintegrate..................and there is a half a batch waiting to be baked. *face palm*

Fuck it....I'm just going to eat the rest of the dough.

"Me think you're doing it wrong."

Bored + Vodka + Twitter = FRIDAY NIGHT!

Ok.....so I like to drunk-tweet my favorite celebrities on occasion. I mean, who doesn't right? Anyway, it's not a crime. Stalktarded and creepy perhaps, but not a crime.

Odds are, Craig Ferguson hasn't noticed my incoherent prattle since he has over two hundred thousand followers (who I'm pretty sure are all Scottish and way more drunk than me), but there is a good chance the other victims who are forced to endure my 3 am intoxicated tweets probably do. So I'm going to apologize now, during this brief moment of sober lucidity, to the author Christopher Moore (9,180 followers) and musician Erik Elbogen (559 followers) of the band "Say Hi". I usually regret what I've done in the morning, even if I can't remember what I Tweeted. I just can't help myself. It's sort of a compulsion - possibly a sickness. I know you have been confused and possibly feared for your safety, but I can assure you, I mean you no harm. I am mearly a fan who can't hold her alcohol and has nothing better to do on Friday nights.

I expect to be blocked and reported to the Twitter authorities any day now since my dumbass behavior will undoubtedly continue.

A Courtesy Flush

This is my first post on this new blog. I've started and deleted and started this introduction several times and I just can't get it right. I tried to write a little something about myself to let readers know that I'm a housewife, stay at home mom, prisoner of suburban America, lost soul and disgruntled citizen of Earth, but who really cares? I don't want to define myself. I hate definitions. I guess I just assume that no one will give a shit about who I am because I know I wouldn't. That should probably be a sign that I don't have anything interesting or clever to say, but for some reason, I think I do. Sometimes I just have to let it all out, like that chimichanga I ate for dinner two days ago. That thing kicked my ass from the inside out. So yeah, this blog is gonna be like that. Reverse explosive diarrhea in the form of habitual complaining and random thoughts shot out of my fingers instead of my ass and double flushed into the universe.

Enjoy.