Glass Half Full, Carton Empty

Last weekend, I awoke and shuffled into the kitchen to make people breakfast.  (Two thought simultaneously went through my head as I typed that - 1) "Every day I'm shuff-uh-lin" and 2) the frontier wives who prepared the thresher's dinners in Little House books.  They seemed like tired women.)

So I make the coffee first, because when you are on an airplane and you're going to crash they very specifically point out in the safety videos that when the oxygen masks drop, you should put yours on first and THEN the child's, because you have to be alive to keep them alive.  Coffee comes first.

I made a move to four different breakfast staples, all with the same result.  Exhibit #1:

I go for the obvious choice - Eggo waffles.  This makes it seem like they are getting a treat without me doing much.  Who can resist the warm buttery syrupy-ness of an Eggo waffle??  But there was no "Leggo my Eggo" in my house, because SOMEONE ate the last one and put the damn box back in the freezer.

I move on to cereal.  Not as impressive, but hey, they'll eat, right?  Box #1 - EMPTY.  Box #2 - EMPTY.  Seriously.  WTF, Family?

Maybe we'll just have toast for breakfast.  Toast and some nice cranberry apple juice, so we can carb up and prevent urinary tract infections, two birds dead.  Oh, but wait.  Someone put the juice back in the fridge, EMPTY.  Not even the crafty "oh there's enough for half a juice glass for someone, I'll put it back".  It was completely empty, no backwash, no nothing.

I stood there for a moment while I did my angry cartoon character imitation.

The thought bubble on this is not yet rated, but is surely inappropriate for delicate ears.

Then I had my coffee and stared at the empty boxes and changed into this:

Because honestly people.  How do you lecture kids on THROWING AWAY THE BOX WHEN IT'S EMPTY?  We all know how it's going to end.  I'm explaining things slowly and loudly, as though I'm talking with foreigners who don't know English, but no matter how loud or how slow I may speak, they just aren't going to get it.  They are going to look at me with the "When is she going to STOP?" face, and look at each other and roll their eyes and hope I don't catch them.   (You'd BETTER hope I don't catch you!)  These children are 15, 12 and 9.  How will they ever have jobs or pay taxes or get themselves to a dentist regularly if they can't throw away the box?  These are the issues I grapple with on a daily basis.  This must've been covered in the 8 a.m. classes I missed in college.

As a side note, take a look at my iPod:

Whenever Oldest Daughter is in the kitchen, she brings her iPod 4th gen 8 gb down, removes my old grandma iPod from the speaker, and plays her music, which is fine.  Until she leaves the kitchen and leaves Grandma laying on the counter to collect toast crumbs up in her craw, and then perhaps she won't play someday.  Put my iPod back in my iPod player, dammit!  Do you know how long I waited for the Beatles to be on iTunes!?!  Have some respect!

Do your people leave empty boxes everywhere?  Because I'm about to call the ACME company and order some kind of elaborate trap for the next person who leaves one in the cabinet.  I'm sure it won't end well for me, but at least I'll have done SOMETHING.

And Mom?  I'm sorry for when I surely did this to you.  You are a saint.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 67

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.

Today’s topic: No Sale, J. Lo
Hello Wifers, and Happy Independence Day weekend!  I'm in the urban mecca of Nebraska for the next week, in an area next to a flooding river that has iffy cell phone reception, so forget about laptops.  But I do know something I want Independence from this weekend, and it's J Lo's song "On The Floor".  I know J Lo has a smokin' bod and piles of money and talent.  I conceed this.  And her music pre-Marc Anthony was great. 

Additionally?  Her love don't cost a thing.

Really.  It don't.

 
Here's my issue - I thought Jenny from the Block was adorable, particulary with all of the gratuitious shots of her badonkadonk in bikinis and briefs, with Ben Affleck tricked out all street with his tats showing and kissing her ass, literally and figuratively.  But I bought it, Jenny (from the BRONX!).  I was buying what you were selling.  Sold.

I mean, she's gorgeous, really, and as an American Idol judge she is America's Sweetheart. But DAMN. With two teen-types, our car radio is locked on Top 40 Pop, and I have to hear that stupid song three times an hour, and I've heard it so many times now that I've gone all philosophical on it. I'm starting to miss Barney.  As I hear on the radio over and over and over and over....it's a new generation...of party people.  Presumably J Lo is not part of that new generation.  Here is J Lo as the new and improved Mother of Twins Clubber:



What I take from this video is that if, as a mother of babies under the age of two, you aren't carrying a transparent mesh spiderweb bodysuit in your diaper bag, then get off the floor.  Oh, you mean you aren't clubbing with Pit Bull?  Getting your drinks up, and if you are criminal, particularly, killing it on the floor?  Dancing with string bikini-clad models painted in gold glitter?

No Sale, J Lo.

Am I saying mothers of babies shouldn't sing or dance or continue their career?  No.  But as an entertainer, J Lo has to be believable, and anyone starting their song with "it's a new generation of party people" is essentially saying, "Well, my generation has moved on and I'm too old for this shit."  Aren't most of the target audience of this product-featuring video (Swarovski! BMW! Crown Royal! If you look closely, the crotch of her spiderweb suit says "Dr. Stan Liebermann, OB-GYN") young enough to be Jenny from the Block's kids?  Because if in real life a 41-year-old woman walks in the club in a mesh bodysuit and yells, "Don't stop keep it movin' get your drinks up!"  The people in the club are going to yell, "MOM! Go home, you're embarrassing me!"  (Or at least that's what happened the last time I did it.)

We've gone from this adorable photo op:

To this slightly awkward video shoot:

And while I would love to be as gorgeous (and rich!) as J Lo, I think it might be time to hang up the clubbing boots, glitter, and Snoop Dogg chalice.  I don't want to judge you Jenny, I'm not fooled by the rocks that you got.  I know you're still Jenny from the Block.  But you need to be keepin' it real.

And?  I seriously can't listen to that song one more time.

The Post Where I Rub It In

Let me preface this post by saying I love my children.

What's not to love?

That said, OMG, this kid-free week is the

Best. Week. Ever.

Seriously.  Why don't I send them away more often so I can love them more?  The night we drove home from dropping them off at their respective posts, Current Husband and I stopped for ice cream.  Lovely.  The second night, we went to the grocery store together, picked out some steaks and asparagus and wine and little mini apple pies and cinnamon ice cream and had a fantabulous dinner and then watched True Grit.

Ah.  A film about death and punishment. 

Isn't it romantic?  Hold me...



CH then stayed up to play Modern Warfare on XBox 360 and I went to bed to commence with reading "Commencement".  Bliss.

Today we met for lunch, and tonight we attended a fine arts meeting for the school, and then went out for wine, stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, tiramisu, white chocolate bread pudding, and Irish coffees.  I'm getting a quick blog post in, he's playing more Modern Warfare, and I'm going to bed to hopefully get another 50 pages read in my book. 

Have I mentioned how KICK ASS this is?

I'm truly not wishing it away - I love the kids, and I don't want them to grow up and move out.  I will cry like a big baby when they graduate.  Some of my friends have kids who are starting to graduate, and honestly I get a little choked up thinking about THEIR kids graduating.  But.  There is something magical about having a little time to oneself.  Pair it with some booze and delicious desserts and repeat.  SWOON.

What I am currently digesting.  Nom-nom.

We talk to the kids every day, they are doing great, so that is helpful.  We know we will see them all on Saturday, so that is helpful.  We are sleeping soundly, so that is helpful.  We are eating delicious food and drinking delicious wine and getting some project done.  This whole damn thing is a win-win.

I guess I have no real point here except to brag about my gluttony, so I'll sign off.  But I'll sign off all warm and fuzzy and rested and well fed.  HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!  I love camps and grandparents!  And it's only Tuesday!

Have a great week Wifers!

Happy Valentine's Day, Bitches!

Honestly, I have no idea why I just said that, but I'm going to tell you that for some odd reason, it felt good.  I swear that I am 100% sober.  But I am drunk on blog love.

Nigella Lawson said on NPR today that she is to Valentine's Day what The Scrooge is to Christmas, and I have to say that I'm a bit the same.  I love Current Husband, he loves me, that's super.  So why is it that I get irritated every Valentine's Day?  Let me give you my rundown of irrational reasons I'm bugged by Valentine's Day:

1. Flowers.  My sister-in-law owns a greenhouse, and this is one of her busiest days, so I hope you all buy flowers from your locally owned florist.  That said, I get really pissed at the pressure put on people to order flowers.  I would much rather get a random bouquet of flowers during the year for no good reason than to get flowers on V Day or birthday.  I did get flowers today, for probably the third time total in the 20 years I've been with CH, and they were lovely, but I was the only woman in the building who got them, and honestly I felt a little guilty, like I had to say, "No, really, I'm usually totally disappointed with the rest of you today."  Anniversaries, however, are flower occasions, especially on anniversaries divisible by five.  There were flowers at the wedding, it seems like a nice reminder.
2. Candy.  Sweet Baby Jesus, how much candy can I stuff in my craw in one day?  After Halloween, I ingest more chocolate today than during the rest of the year combined.  It's because everyone is getting chocolate, but no one wants to eat it all because we're all on the downside of eating ourselves into a coma from Thanksgiving through New Years and we're all thinking, "Oh hell, I'm fat again and swimsuit season is coming - please someone else eat the rest of this chocolate!"
3. Music.  I have to listen to the Top Hits station because of my teen/pre-teen, and have you heard some of what passes as relationship music?  Rihanna's new song is about S&M, it actually repeats "S S S S and M M M" and the chorus says "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me".  I'm sorry, aren't you the girl who was beaten silly by Chris Brown?  Who is your manager?  Then the rest of the songs are "Let's get drunk and crunk and glitter on the floor and take off our clothes and ride the disco stick".  But whatever you do, DO NOT KISS OR RESPECT ME.  Because then I will tire of you.  My God, I'm old.
4. Porn. I love the ads for Doctor John's porn shop or whatever it is, and they say, "Come here for all of your sex toy and fetish needs" and "It's Valentine's Day all year here!"  Yes!  My idea of Valentine's Day is a gag ball and leather studded chaps.  Giddyup, Valentine!  Now spank that ass!  And how many husbands are saying, "Yes, I need to get my special lady friend a Valentine's gift AND I  like porn, so I can hang out in this porn shop for a few hours, and then buy her a gift that says 'I intend for you to pleasure me this holiday'." Brilliant.
5. Dinner.  This one is Nigella's, not mine.  She said today that one reason she hates Valentine's Day is that some couples use it as the one night a year they go out for dinner, and then you end up in a restaurant with 20 couples who have nothing to say to each other.  I don't necessarily agree with Nigella on this one, because I am always up for an excuse to go out for dinner, but I do avoid VD because you can never get in anywhere because of the Valentine crowd.  I like to dine on the Thursday after, because it's quiet then.  Happy Valentine's Day, food.  I love you.

I'm not trying to bust St. Valentine's chops.  I think it's sweet and wonderful when someone takes a moment to appreciate the ones they love.  I just get annoyed when it's contrived because Hallmark and FTD guilt people into it, and then there are these expectations that can never be met.  And the guys who use it as an excuse to hang out in a porn shop and buy crotchless underpants for their 2-month girlfriend.  However, crotchless underpants after being together 20 or 30 years says, "Hey, I'm still curious about what I can talk you into" and shows interest.  Wanting to see someone in crotchless underpants at 45?  That's love, people.

Happy Valentine's Day, Wifers!  I give you all a big sloppy kiss!  And crotchless underpants!

Prilosec Sunday

This blog is on Monday hiatus due to a large ingestion of cheese and chips and salt and fat and a little bit of beer.  Go Packers!

And, just to throw, some pop culture in, I loved the ad for the Passat with the little Darth Vader, and I also thought the Eminem ad for Detroit was pretty damn awesome.  I know it was for Chrysler, but really?  The City of Detroit should be giving Eminem a key and a KISS Greatest Hits CD, because even though I know Detroit is about a lot more than Eminem, that ad actually gave me chills a bit.  I also liked his Brisk commercial.  It's interesting that he hasn't really ever whored himself out to advertising, and now he ends up in two Superbowl commercials, and they were both pretty spot-on with his personality.  Talk about owning your brand!  What were your favorite ads? 

I thought the Peas kicked it at halftime, I loved the lighting, and the whole thing was great except for the Sweet Child O Mine bit, which had me cringing just a little.  I love you Fergie Ferg, but that part was not a keeper.  And you are with Josh Duhamel, so grinding against Slash is not convincing.  I know what you snack on at home honey, and it ain't a whiskey-fueled middle aged guitarist.

Hope everyone had a great weekend, I'll be back when the Prilosec kicks in.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 55

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the ghost of Liberace.


Today's topic: My New Pink Button
  
Sometimes, gentle reader, a vajacial is just not enough. 

Perhaps after your vagina has been ripped, tweezed, buffed, exfoliated, powdered, masqued, and had "Goodnight Moon" read to it, you are tucking it in for the night and you think, "Honey, you look a little pale.  Are you okay?"  And perhaps you are one of those people who might stare at their own vagina for a VERY VERY long time, like other people might watch a sleeping baby, or a movie, or three-day biopic.  And then perhaps, just perhaps, you are of the opinion that young vaginas are very pink vaginas, and maybe yours is on the pale side, and you develop a DYE SO YOU CAN ARTIFICIALLY COLOR YOUR LABIA.  Because NO ONE wants an old, pale pussy.  No one.

Get your things in order.  The Mayans were right. 

Yes, ladies, your prayers have been answered.  For only $29.95, you can dye your labia back to it's original jailbait shade of fuschia.

NEXT FRIDAY NIGHT
ME:  "Hey Gail, what are you doing tonight?"
GAIL:  "Not much - the kids are out with their dad."
ME:  "Mine are at the basketball game.  Hey!  I have a great idea!"
GAIL:  "What?!"
ME:  "Why don't you come over and we can dye our vaginas!"
GAIL:  "Awesome!  I'll bring the champagne and the rhinestones, let's tat those bitches up!"
ME:  "Don't forget the outline for the PTA fundraiser."
GAIL:  "Got it right here."

Apparently, the owner/founder/colorist for My New Pink Button was concerned that her kitten had started looking like an old bleached out feral alley cat.  Naturally, she went online to research her desired coochie color, and found THOUSANDS of people online who had the exact. same. problem.  Which makes me weep a little for the world.

She developed her product.  I will assume that some of the blends maybe didn't work out.  Whose labia burned with those mistakes?  How many vaginas suffered so you could have a perfectly pink pita pocket?  Just like when you were head cheerleader?

Let me take a moment to say that the founder of My New Pink Button is gorgeous, and probably smart, and found a product that apparently people want.  Her packaging is great (ba-dum-dum!), and I love the names of the different colors of product.  They also apparently help with cosmetics for post-op breast cancer patients, and perhaps this product makes people feel good, and improves their self-esteem, and for that I say bravo.  The company seems legit, but a little tongue in cheek (eeew, I know, right?), and I can appreciate some humor. 

But I have trouble getting past the words "labia dye". 

I have a question for the Pink Button people - why stop at pink?  What if I want to go a little farther on the color wheel?  Maybe I want a Purple People Eater.  Or Green Eggs and Ham.  Or maybe I want to be a slutty Smurfette.  Or perhaps I don't want to stop with my labia.  Maybe I want to be Rainbow Brite in my Hinterlands.  What if I want a turquoise uterus?  Then where do I turn, Pink Button people?  Where?  I see a huge gap in the market that needs to be filled. (These jokes just make themselves up.)

Move over Easy button.  There's a New Pink Button in town.

Because feminism was about choices.  Betty Friedan didn't make all those cake mixes so we could live with pale vaginas.  She wanted us to have choices.  She wanted our buttons to be able to be both Easy AND Pink.  Now we can finally have it all.  Yay, feminism!  Make mine the color of Watermelon Sherbet!  With sprinkles!

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  May your buttons be easy and your labias be as pink as they wanna be!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 53

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the ghost of Liberace.




Preface:
Last week, I had this REALLY funny e-mail conversation with one of my co-workers.  I e-mailed him that he should watch Flight of the Conchords, and he told me to watch something, and then I asked if he listened to The Black Keys and he said, "The Black what?  Hmm.  No.  But I have a picture of me with these cool guys I happened to be hanging out with in a bar in Chicago in 2006" and it was a picture of him with the two guys from The Black Keys.  Then I sent him the link to The Bloggess, (for which he STILL hasn't thanked me), and then he sent me a link to this funny blog called Salami Tsunami. 

And then my ego took over the reasonable, thinking, logical side of my brain, and I did it.  The thing I swore I wouldn't do.

"So, Snarky Co-Worker, if you click on this link, you are promising to never, ever pass it along or share it with anyone else at work or I will key your car."  And I sent him a link to this blog.  Oh, the narcissism!  Is it not enough that there are 245 followers here?  Is there really room for any more!  Particularly when I start slacking off on posting three times a week!?  And when will people learn not to use work e-mail to pass on questionable material!?!

Co-worker laughs, on e-mail, so it was like "ha ha, LOL, :o or some electronic chortle, and says, Of course I won't pass it on! and then he promptly does a REPLY ALL on our e-mail exchange to send me and my boss some artwork we needed for a box for the hooking supplies.  OH. SHIT.

I promptly speed walk to his office, poke him hard in the chest, and scream whisper, "THANKS ALOT, JIM BOB MCGEE, YOU SENT THAT TO THE BOSS!" and he turns five shades of green and says, "No I didn't" and turns to his computer, pulls up the e-mail, and starts repeating, "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck".  Then I feel bad because he is getting a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and I say, "Oh, it's okay, I'm sure he loves vagina cupcakes" and laugh nervously, even though we all KNOW they were not vaginas.


Today's topic: An Open Letter to my Boss


Dear Sir,

I understand that through an unlikely string of events there is a chance you may have been given a link to my blog.  On Whoreticulture Friday.  If you have already read the blog, then I am sure you already realize that it is being written not by me, but by the ghost of Marliyn Monroe, who we all know was on barbituates and can't be held responsible for what she writes.

I ask you, who looks like the more likely candidate to be the author of a blog series called "Whoreticulture Friday":

 Mr. President-singing Playboy covergirl sexpot, OR

Respectable marketer of hooking supplies?

That's what I thought.

The topic of last week's post was Pussy Posting.  Clearly, this was not related to genitals in any way.  That would be crass, even for Marilyn.

Such a cute little pussy.  Nice shag, too.

If the ghost of Marilyn was trying to offend you, she wouldn't post pictures of kittens, she would post pictures of George the Superpet sexually molesting my mother at Christmas to the horror of the children because she had the misfortune of sitting in his chair.

Down boy!  Bad dog!

Perhaps, Sir, you were puzzled by the pictures of the colorful cupcakes.

(Photo credit to the person whose name I can't track down who will punch you in the vagina if you dare re-post the photo of her vagina cupcakes without permission.)

Obviously, Marilyn posted this photo because I am planning a Georgia O'Keefe-themed party for Youngest Daughter's birthday in April.  Georgia O'Keefe cupcakes!  Yummy and enlightening!  Let's culture up, second graders!

By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Not a colorful vagina.  Art.

I see it in chocolate with rainbow fondant.

By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Titled "Through the Eyes of an OBGYN on Peyote".



By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Titled "Sorry, We Are Fresh Out of Epidurals".

And so, Gentle Employer, I think you can see that it was all a big misunderstanding.  A post on that crazy and mysterious Internet, posted by some random woman who is actually not even alive and on barbituates, about kittens and art.  I think we have all learned something here.

Never send links to your occasionally porn-themed blog to anyone you will see on a daily basis or with links to your paycheck, particularly male marketing gurus who hang out with The Black Keys.  Even if it WAS an accident.



It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 52

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the ghost of Liberace.


Today's topic: Pussy Posting

Before I get started, there is an agenda item today:
Todd's Taxidermied Squirrel Party has been CHANGED.  ALREADY.
It is now Tuesday, January 18, from 7:30-9:30 p.m., because a couple of people from my book club e-mailed me and said ,"WHAT THE HELL!?! THAT'S THE NIGHT OF BOOK CLUB!" and I said, "Sheesh, I forgot, I didn't know you miss me when I'm gone!" and they said "We don't, we want to go to Todd's party."

Hand to God, true story.  Just wait until I host the next Book Club, bitches, where I will pick "The Love Slave" and serve only soy crisps and carrot juice.

"In the hands of Karim al Malina, master of the erotic arts, kidnapped Celtic beauty Regan was to be schooled in carnal pleasure--and made a fit consort for a king. But pupil and teacher broke the cardinal rule of their relationship--and fell in love."

(Let me tell you a little embarrassing secret - my boss at the time lent me this book, soon after she lent me her electric breast pump, I actually read it, and I was forcing CH to have sex with me after about page 40.  Creepy book fact.) 

SO.  DID ANYONE NOTICE THE PICTURE SOMEONE POSTED OF THEIR VAGINA ON MY BLOG THE OTHER DAY?

I like to check the blog every so often and read the comments, which I love - I am a total comment whore, by the way - and I glance at the sidebar, and there, in the little pictures of the followers, there is a little shih tzu.  No....it's an Italian guy's head.  No...it is someone's VAGINA.  So I click on this follower, and I see the postings on the page.  They are things like "Korean sluts are hot and wet for you" and "College pussy for the taking".  I'm thinking, "Why is this person following me?  Do they think they will get customers for their clearly illegal international porn ring?"

Then I got mad.  I make it a policy not to pick on random people on the internet, but if you are posting a pussy shot as your icon, you are literally begging people to say something.  If you want to spread your wings on my blog page, at least make it interesting.  I don't want to see some random va-jay-jay.  Make it look like a cupcake, or dye it purple and shave it in the Prince sign or make it look like a standard poodle.  But if you are just posting an out-and-out pussy pic, you are wasting my time, and that of my readers.  I know for a fact that Grande Mocha and Muffintopmommy aren't putting up with that crap for a second.

TIP:  My readers now find regular vaginas uninteresting.

Case in point.  Remember these?
Click here for The Ghost of Whoreticulture Friday past.

 So, gentle pussy, I didn't block you because you posted a crotch shot.  I blocked you because you bored me.  I ask you, Where is the Vajazzaling?  Where are the dreadlocks?  Where is Waldo?  Because if a normal, bushy vagina with slightly uplifted thighs is all you've got for me, you need to go back to the stirrups my friend.

I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

Sweet Baby Jesus.


Since December 22, I have only worked three days.  The last 12 days have been some of the best I can remember in a long while, and most of that has to do with food.  I mean family.  Yes, family.  Family and mealtimes.  And Jesus.  Because he is the reason for the seasoning.


On the first day of Christmas, my winerack gave to me
A wineglass of cold chablis.

On the second day of Christmsas, my kitchen gave to me
A pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Thank you, Italy.

On the third day of Christmas, Starbucks gave to me
Three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Am loving the polka dot mug.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my microwave gave to me
Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Bless you, inventor of microwave bacon.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my minivan gave to me
Five donut rings....Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Seriously, once you've had Donuts & More,

you'll never go back.  I can't.  I won't.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my oven gave to me

Six kisses cookies baking, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

  

Which I had to check to make sure they weren't poisonous.

That's just good parenting, people.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my fridge gave to me
Seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings!  Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

The dessert drink of champions.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my bathroom gave to me

Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Oh Dear Lord.  I am SO sorry about the gluttony. 

Really, I am.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my living room gave to me
Nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

If you get the children Just Dance 2,

be prepared to get your Outkast on.

Having no rhythm is not an acceptable excuse.

 On the tenth day of Christmas, my dining room gave to me

1000-piece puzzlers puzzling, nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

What Dementors or gangsta rappers do over the holidays.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my bedroom gave to me
Eleven hours of sleeping, 1000-piece puzzlers puzzling, nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

If I had this bed, I would sleep 12 hours next time.

(Thank you for the image, Sunnyspot.)



On the twelfth day of Christmas, my closet gave to me -

The bad news that I am going back to a size 12 because I ate my way through the end of 2010.  Tonight I made steak and potatoes and asparagus for dinner, and tomorrow it's back on the Medifast until I can put my skinny jeans back on.  But it was such a delicious holiday, and honestly, I wouldn't change a thing about it.  Not one cookie would go back on the plate, no Blue Moons back in the fridge, no Thai Basil Noodles (or the homemade Spicy Thai Noodles!) left uneaten.  So before I go back on the soy wagon tomorrow?

One more wineglass of cold chablis.

Happy New Year!

I'd Like A Blizzard, a Snow Blower and a Tapeworm, Please

As John Lennon once wrote, "And so this is Christmas, and what have you done? Bought a damn Blizzard machine, you now weigh a ton."


But if John Lennon DID write that, he would be lying, because anyone who bought the DQ Blizzard machine has found themselves practically Blizzard-less, because that damn $40 machine makes a 2 ounce serving. Hello! I bought the thing not for my child's joy, but so that she would be forced to make me Blizzards on demand.

Look at the kids on the box:

Don't they look all coked up?  Those big, wide eyes say, "I've had 32 ounces of processed sugar and dairy products and I'm going to clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush at 2 a.m."   Once again, I am sucked into false advertising.

THIS is what I was expecting:

Come to Momma.

This is what I got:

A spaceship that poops 2 oz. of half-and-half, and a pissed off kid.

 Another issue I have with the DQ Blizzard Maker?  Where are the effing Reese's Peanut Buttter cups?  WHERE?!?!  It includes little packets of "Popping Candy", but who honestly orders their Blizzard with Pop Rockets on them?  M&M's, Brownie Batter, Reese's, Heath Bar...lots of things would suffice, but strawberry flavored hydrochloric acid?  Not on the menu, people.

Basically, this DQ Blizzard Maker purchase was just another exercise in futility toward my dream of having a Joan Jetson kitchen.

 

Fried chicken?  Let's just push the button. 

Rut-Row!  We got Blizzards!

Maybe I just misunderstood the product.  Maybe it wasn't some vanilla-flavored-sugared-up-lactose-crack at all.  MAYBE it was a Narnia-type machine, whereupon opening the box, an actual BLIZZARD descended upon the land around you, and the White Witch would appear and offer you Turkish Delights, but I just opened the box enough that eight inches of snow fell around my house and Current Husband complained all day that he would have to shovel it and then when he went out to start the 2-year-old snow blower it wouldn't start but instead had gasoline flowing down the back of it.  Is that a Turkish Delight?  Because I think I did it wrong.

Let's Recap:

• No actual Reese's Blizzard
• No child waiting on me
• No cracked-up sugar-jacked kids cleaning my house
• No snow blower
• No Turkish Delight

If that wasn't enough, I had a large salad for dinner tonight, because there is about to be an intervention regarding my Christmas sugar-cookie problem.  Here is the magnet CH had best not give me:

Oh, Onion.  I love you so.