Archive | July, 2011

This Is What Happens When I Try To Be Organized

31 Jul


I thought I’d go all Betty Crocker the other day. I put apple juice left over from mopping Himself’s ribs (That only sounds vaguely suggestive. He was really mopping his ribs. On the grill. Sheesh.) in the freezer. There were Sharpies and one-cup measures involved. I also put up some chicken broth.

You see where this is going already, don’t you?

Tonight we were going to have a lovely shepherd’s pie with mashed potatoes on top. I was going to go, once again, all Betty Crocker and make a GINORMOUS LOAD of mashed potatoes and put up–in the freezer–what I didn’t use for dinner. I remembered–thrifty housewife I am–the chicken broth in the freezer and decided to use that instead of milk in the potatoes.

You’re already there, aren’t you?

Twenty minutes worth of peeling and dicing potatoes. GONE. Dinner plans? DESTROYED. Why? WHY? Do you really have to ask?


If any of you leave a comment about how I could salvage them, I will hunt you down and make you eat the applepotatoes.

Today’s Mood

31 Jul


Today’s Mood

27 Jul

Today’s Mood

26 Jul

I'm ready for Autumn, dammit.

Today’s Mood

25 Jul

This Post Contains NO Snark

25 Jul

Y’all! Y’all this has made me so happy I could pass marshmallow sparkles.

This kid, you guys. THIS KID. This kid is finalist in a contest to design a dress for Michelle Obama. He’s 12-year-old Grant Mower from Flower Mound, Texas. This kid makes me want to take back like 40% of the horrible things I’ve said about Texas.

He’s been bullied because he wants to be a fashion designer. Because he wants to design like Chanel or Lagerfeld or Valentino. And this kid, y’all, this kid’s all haters gonna hate, I’m gonna design.

He got the idea for the dress he’s designed for the contest from an orchid at the Smithsonian. That’s right. While you were ogling Julia Child’s kitchen or getting all starry-eyed over the Hope Diamond, this kid was getting inspired.

Cupcakes: The Gateway Baked Good

21 Jul

My friend says to me the other day, “You know what you should write about? Cupcakes.”

I get that a lot. You should write about dot dot dot. I imagine real writers get that much more
than I do, but I get it a fair amount. Reality shows, cats, Walmart customers, men who carry satchels. I get lots of suggestions for posts. So when my friend asked why women were obsessed with cupcakes, I knew what was coming. So I said what I normally say which is that I’d put that on my list. But then I started thinking about it.

Cupcakes are just small cakes that wear panties. So why are we obsessed with cupcakes?

For me they are just an IDS: Icing Delivery System. My husband can’t abide the frosting. He’s all about the cake. I find the cake part generally to be lacking. Generally to be lacking in moisture and taste, to be specific. There is an epidemic of dry cupcakes in this world. But texture
aside, us wimmins are supposed to be all about a cup of cake. I mean, they’re small, right? We gals love small things…babies, kittens, those tiny boxes of Milk Duds you get at Halloween. Ladyfolk are programmed to like little things, I believe, so we will not trade our young for lipstick and loaded potato skins. Because while the human cub can be an adorable bundle of fat starfish hands and chubby knees, generally it is a drooling, dripping, damp mess with limited
means of both communication and locomotion.

You really don’t hear a lot of men talking about cupcake cravings, do you? Yes, they’ll suck back the Twizzlers, the Nerds, or an entire bag of mini powdered donuts, but you really don’t hear a statement like, Bill, I’m totally craving a mint dark chocolate cupcake. Let’s go get one after our run. But don’t tell my girlfriend!

The other issue I have with cupcakes is the stupid names. It’s rare to get a cupcake from a bakery and have the choice of white, chocolate, yellow, or red velvet. Oh, no. There’s the Prozac, The Elvis, The Tantrum Tamer, The Hot Mama, The Irishman. This is a major reason I don’t eat at Moe’s. I just want a burrito, not something named after a Seinfeld character. I also boycott the IHOP Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. Unless you are paying me handsomely, I’m not saying that.

Cupcakes are fine when you’re a kid. They’re all the same size. No one’s piece is bigger than anyone else’s. You can have chocolate or white cake. You can scrape the frosting off and give it to that kid who smears it all over his face like it’s a beard and mustache. You peel its ruffled panty off and eat it with your fingers.

Wait a minute.

You peel the rather modest paper panty off, lick the top for a little while, and bite into what you hope will be dense, dark, moist cake. Sometimes it’s a wee dry so you have to sort of smoosh the frosting around to compensate. Or dip it in milk.

Great Caesar’s Ghost, you people are sick! This cupcake thing is about sex?! Is
nothing sacred? Can we enjoy nothing—not even tiny cakes—without it being about
our primal need to procreate? Dammit. The cupcake is some lesbian sex substitute? Does Fox News know about this? I’m taking this to the press. To the Religious Right.

These damn cupcake-lickers are the reason those uppity homosexuals want equal rights and shit! And no wonder! Cupcakes are the gateway baked good! Today it’s a harmless red velvet cupcake with three inches of swirled cream cheese frosting; tomorrow it’s lug-soled boots and introducing your parents to your life companion, Rochelle. It’s just a short hop to all sorts of depraved lesbonic activities like listening to Ani DiFranco and trading your Playtex Gentle Glides for The Moon Cup.