Tag Archives: recipe corner

So where were the spiders

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Yesterday, Mr. H said “I dreamed we had a little boy too.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I dreamed I had a calzone.”

Each concept is equally ludicrous. No cheese and no more seibab!

I’ve been cleaning up the house, and I noticed there are spiderwebs all over the rafters. Perfectly architected Halloween spirals. But no actual spiders are present. This is infinitely more creepy than the few months I spent living with Shower Spider in my old apartment. Each time I’d get in the shower, I’d say something to the effect of “Please don’t drop on my head while my eyes are closed, and I’ll let you live.” We respected each other. Shower Spider would never eat cheese in front of me when I can’t have any. AHEM. But absentee spiders? Who the hell knows? They could be forming a giant pyramid on top of the headboard while I’m asleep, for all I know. They could be blinking in Morse code to say I look fat! Stick with the devil you know. Hypotheticals and invisibles are terrifying.

If it quacks like hydrogenated oil, then it must be an Oreo

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Recently I found out that Oreos are dairy-free. Who knew eating vegan could be so bad for you?

I am covered in fibers from my new hemp shopping totes. That I used to carry home pure poison.

Oh, that smear on the floor is avocado. Glad I finally figured that one out. I might get around to cleaning it up in another few days. I have to clean up because IKEA is coming to leave us 379 boxes of screws and some pieces of MDF. This time, I am not going to follow their instructions. I am going to build a small replica of the Guggenheim Bilbao instead. Directions are for chumps! And Mr. H, who will really put together the IKEA. I will stand there and say “Are you sure that doesn’t go there…are you SURE?” until he backhands me and takes my shoes and sends me to the kitchen.

But that’s OK, because there are Oreos in there.

The more I ignore me

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Yesterday my lunch resigned from my stomach on short notice. As I was hunkered on the floor, a caustic freshet of broccoli dill soup shooting from both my mouth and nose, I realized it was the fourth anniversary of Vomitola.com! Actually, I realized that this morning. And the anniversary is really last Monday. No, head in bowl, I thought “Heather would know just what to play!” That’s a compliment. Once I threw up during a college radio shift, and while I was off horking up my tacos, she played “The Choke” by Skinny Puppy. Oh, nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…nobody knows but boddddyyy.

I also realized that I haven’t thrown up in seven months and two days. Say, that’s the exact age of a ybab. Say. I threw up ON her on the most auspicious day of her birth. Should I put that in the memory book? Of course I’m going to. Where is the memory book, anyway? Mr. H has not thrown up in the entire six or seven years that I’ve known him. His take on the situation? “I’d rather crap.” Well, wouldn’t we all. Wouldn’t we all!

Jack Bauer doesn’t recycle, and he doesn’t even feel bad about it

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So the word on the street is that no one likes Jack Bauer. Tell me about it. I don’t like it any more than you men. I don’t even watch 24. My ex-almost-brother-in-law, an actual crackhead, found it too hard to follow. I can eat fifty eggs. You don’t want to see what the inside of my head looks like. It’s like that Mucinex commercial, except with movie quotes hanging down like streamers. Oh, there’s one on my shoe.

A planet must be doing a thing. Quelle mysterioso. Will I finally roll over that 401(k) from 2001? That requires getting a signature from someone who ought to be in jail. I think that’s been the sticking point. Will I stop silently judging people at the grocery store? Only if I start judging them out loud instead.

Tune in tomorrow to find out how fat Jack Bauer’s mama was. Well, I will just tell you now to save you the trip. She was so fat that he had to starve her for three months in a crawl space.

Take your protein pills and put your helmet on

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I am hoping my new vitamins make my claws strong and my coat lustrous. I think I’m malnourished. My current diet tops even the “chew n’ spit” diet for sheer brutality. Try it some time: strap a twenty pound squirming weight to your front while grocery shopping. Then lug whatever you buy down a two-block long hallway, up some stairs, and through an elevator. When you try to eat any of what you bought, someone will start screaming at you. I think “eeeeeaaaaahllllltpppppthhhh” means “You have cankles, you hideous dugong!” The only solution to screaming is vigorously bouncing the twenty pound squirming weight. The weight likes deep knee bends the best. Food gets crusty on the table, and who wants to eat that now?

I so don’t have cankles, for the record. I am seeing numbers on the scale that I haven’t seen since not eating in college. A ybab should stop trying to starve me to death. Is she in cahoots with a cat? They are just waiting to eat my face when I finally collapse. If my returns keep diminishing, I will no longer test well with the vagrants by the bus station. That would be terrible.

On preferences

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Someone is a Big Girl all of a sudden. No, not me. I remain incompetent. Two nights ago, we thought we would add a second book to bedtime since we got a few for Festivus. A ybab pitched an unholy fit, so we stopped and went for trusty Goodnight Moon. She shrieked and squealed and was riveted as usual. Goodnight mush! No, I really mean it. You have a great night, mush. Who leaves mush out on a bedside table? That sounds like a recipe for botulism.

The next night, we explained that we’d still be reading Goodnight Moon after the new book. She grudgingly tolerated What Shall We Do With the Boo-Hoo Baby (Pickle her! String her up! It’s really hard not to editorialize.), but she also lolled back until she was totally upside down with her foot in her mouth. Then Mr. H picked up the other book and started to read the title. She popped straight up instantly and screeched with glee. I guess we have at least another 750 readings of Goodnight Moon left, each. I’ve tried sneaking in made up verses, and this also doesn’t fly. It wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t one ridiculously showy identical rhyme. When we’re really vamping at the end, sometimes we read the ISBN and Canadian price.

Am I 52% dumber than last year?

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I was all worried about that, but then I realized there was a stray USA Today left under my kitchen table by a guest. Once I properly disposed of it, I could do long division again.

The “holidays” bring us new findings, such as the report that I should be feeding a ybab sorbet because she watches people eating. Well, fine. She watches many things, but let’s go with this one. We’ll work up to any courses at all and then worry about palate cleansing. Did I ever tell you of the time I ate smoked lobster foam sorbet with a pickled fiddlehead fern garnish? Perhaps I was inebriated. Dr. Sears wrote to me personally to let me know this is absolutely a good first food for a ybab. She’s knocking back a Trou Normand right now. Bless her little tract!

May I interest you in the devil’s liquid?

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I tried some kombucha the other day (this link might prove illuminating), and it was as disgusting as I had hoped. And by disgusting, I mean I totally hate it, yet I can’t stop drinking it. It is like a vile tincture of feline urine infused with vinegar and carbonated. But I want to marry it and have its little spores. That’s no fungus, he’s my lichen!

I’m going to make my own because my sister is going to give me some of her culture. Or if her poor alien is not up to it, I found a place where internet wackaloons will send me one for only the cost of shipping. I’ll have Zellweger tend a 5-gallon tub of it ’round the clock! Then I can stop giving these people all my lunch money. You know something’s good when the FAQ includes the question “So what are those little floaties, anyway?”

Also, I see that neither Biscuit is online right now, which means hell is freezing over, or their ybab has finally decided to outsource itself. To make sure, I am going to call their house and ask annoying questions.

My small life continues!

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Today I took Potassium Challenge. To do this, put three bananas in a blender. Dump in almond milk and enough cocoa powder to turn things brown. You can add almond butter if you are feeling totally insane. If you are only feeling moderately insane, add peanut butter. Mmmm, allergenic. I like to serve in a glass chilled in the freezer. Instant pretendo vegan ice cream!

A ybab’s dental trauma continues. She’s decided not to stop with just a tooth. She’s growing a tusk. Like a narwhal or something.

I made a list of people who are fated to receive our holiday card. How do we know 100 people? I don’t want to know 100 people. I do not want to address 100 envelopes, that’s for damn sure.

The continuing perils of instant gratification

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Now there comes a time when one finds a leaflet for a new Chinese restaurant in one’s lobby, and one decides to carpe some diem and take a chance on life. One is too lazy to cook celebrating Mr. H’s last day at his old job. One places a call and ends up performing a slow-paced dramatic monologue of one’s address. Let’s try that again…. THIRTY five River… no…Thirty FIVE River…no…. R-I-V-E-R….R as in rangoon, I as in island, V as in vermicelli, E as in eggroll, R as in rangoon again.

One does not hold high hopes for delivery of this meal. One gets a return call from the restaurant in five minutes. One recites one’s credit card number for the thirteenth time.

The food arrives, much to one’s surprise. It is delicious! One notices that the ginger ale Mr. H requested is not in the bag. One calls the restaurant just to let them know. The restaurant representative has a seizure. Honor has been insulted. The driver will be dispatched at once. No, really, you can refund the card, or take it off the bill the next time we order, or just forget about it, we mean no disrespect!

The ginger ale arrives hours later. The arrival of the ginger ale wakes up a ybab. Justice is served on multiple levels. Why did Mr. H fiddle with the universe by ordering a ginger ale?