Tag Archives: recipe corner

Mainly bent, with moments of radiant joy

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Forgive me, for I ate up all the oranges in the crisper drawer. I think you were saving them. Oh, no, wait, you are too lazy to peel an orange on your own. You wait for me to peel them and feed you slices. Damn. That’s OK. I like to peel them animal style, with my bare paws. My pappy, he used to use a paring knife, and he could take the peel off all in one long curl. Who am I talking to? Well, I don’t know either. This orange is totally not as good as all the oranges I had last week. How am I supposed to know if I’ll ever have the best orange in the world? Maybe I should be living somewhere warmer. Today is an ordeal, and you should see how filthy a keyboard can get.

In other news, I am at a content loss. I heard a German cat got the bird flu. Do you think I can make a truly delicious Marsala sauce without a shallot? Is it a bad sign that my mortgage company’s SSL certificate seems to have expired, but they will show my information anyway? The Ethicist replies: No, it is a bad idea in the first place to even have a mortgage. Pay cash next time.

Compound fracture: Saturday/Sunday special

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Fwoo, writing on the internet is hard. I missed another day of content challenge. Amy is trouncing me with the alphabet. So far, I have managed to sneer at the real estate section of the Times, as is my weekend custom, and I also ate Belgian waffles. Yesterday was more involved, but too exhausting to recount.

The wind is howling, the cat is hiding under the table, and I am trying not to think about mini tacos because if I eat them all, they will be gone. The movers dropped off a billion boxes the other day, and I should be filling them and labelling them, but we can’t have that. I am also supposed to be doing something career-related, but I just. don’t. care. The parasite releases chemicals that make my brain fuzzy. It’s a warm, cuddly static, more like being trapped in a duvet than the usual January ennui, but the end result is much the same. We have pressing matters to address like playing “Who’s the baby!!!!!!,” which involves lying on the couch with a hand on the abdomen waiting for bonks. The baby is indignant when Mr. H takes his hand away, and the cat turns around and glares when petting stops. High needs.

Friday we took the gruesome ultrasound pictures over to oblige Mr. H’s family. Since he is a bastard, he held out two pictures, side by side. His mother freaked out, asking “Am I looking at TWO pictures?” And he said “Yes, you are looking at two pictures.” His sister jumped up and did an end zone dance, all “In your face, I was right, I was right, it’s twins!” No, but there are two pictures. I am not sure what made her think it was twins, since I am now 50% done gestating but have no obesity to show for it. Apparently my innards are spacious. So I asked about her reasoning, and it seems Darlene the psychic said it would be twins. Or a boy. Or a red-haired girl. Darlene is very diplomatic.

Content Challenge already challenging

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Sometimes you have good intentions of writing something really funny and relevant, you know, for the first time in your entire life, but it just doesn’t happen. You go to Content Challenge with the army you have, and sometimes that army is in a really bad mood and doesn’t want to make fajitas for dinner. Sure, all the ingredients for fajitas except a few are in the fridge, and an end product of fajitas makes more sense than anything else the army could put together, but the army just doesn’t fucking feel like fucking fajitas, OK?

The army considers defecting and sits down on the floor and covers its face and says “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I could kill with my bare hands. I am going to just sit here and be very quiet to avoid that.” Then Donald Rumsfeld says “It’s OK, baby, let’s go out.” And then the army sniffles and says “But we’re supposed to be saving moneyyyyyyy.” Donald Rumsfeld sagely reminds the army that the army could get one of those huge dill pickles it likes so much. The army doesn’t defect after all, but it does stay up half the night drinking water on account of the pickle.

The one about the customer service indignity and my related suffering that goes on in my dumb life here in America with all the paperwork and confusion and general bougie peril

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Oh damn if I aint been on the phone all day talking to people who can’t really help me. I saved a boatload by switching car insurance. I didn’t know this was possible in Massachusetts. So I told them we lived in New Hampshire. Apparently it gets cheaper to insure your car if you also insure your secret underground SCUBA lair while you’re at it. At least I am banking on the lair being underwater at some point since I had to get all that flood insurance. I did opt out of earthquake insurance even though we live on a fault line.

The parasite is gumming my lower abdomen. It’s a weird feeling, and I am envisioning one of those aquarium cleaning snails just skulking around in there. Yup, hoover that plankton, sweetie. It seemed to relish it when I yelled at the Saab customer service people for telling me they can’t possibly scare up a new windshield to replace the cracked one. I was told to put in a Subaru windshield. Seems we really got a Subaru with an enamel Liger slapped on it. I did not pick this car, let’s just say. I called the leasing agent to see if this voids the warranty, and yes, it does, but since they haven’t managed to produce a properly branded windshield in the last seven months, we are at an impasse. At least they were nice enough to fudge the last state inspection. I feel very safe, let me tell you. Must be the 4-wheel drive.

Usually I do start with strongly worded somewhat witty letters, but this time it felt right to go straight to screaming “This is unacceptable!”

Today in cats: the cat is scratching something in a fit of pique. At least she finally got off her ass and booked the movers.
Tonight in eating: a casserole dish of melted cheese, seasoned with box of wine

My snout is cold and wet like that of a basset hound

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Current mood: EAT EAT EAT

Current music: something catchy from Aimee Mann about being a sad drunk at christmas
Current terror level: financial, existential

I am talking to a flooring company about doing something to some floors. Their slogan is “A walk in the woods brought home.” For some reason, I’m picturing something involving ticks or lice. I should just gnaw my own floors like a beaver.

Earlier, I was eating leftover lasagna, and I had to ask the question “Hey, are you gonna barf on the bed?” And the answer was a barf. Thanks, cat. Luckily I caught it in a bowl, but this meant I couldn’t finish the lasagna. Problems: we all have them. Why was I eating near a bed anyway? It was the office bed. Don’t you have one? There was a time when I had to sleep under my desk, like peasant. But no more! Sometimes I take calls on the floor, but that’s just because I can.

What else can I do? So far today, I’ve been offended by the internets, and I’ve thought it was Wednesday. The parasite is bumping into walls, so I’m guessing it is offended by the internets as well. Or maybe it just wants to hear “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” again. Several people have expressed trepidation that the name “parasite” might give the little bugger the idea that it’s unwanted. Not unwanted. Shocking, sure. So from now on, I guess I’ll call it Montecore. Name that parasite!

Clam Sandies

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I whipped up a batch of my famous clam sandies last night. That’s what you’re all getting for xxxmasxxx! Actually, you’re not getting anything. Someone is getting Star Wars legos, someone is getting a sweater, and someone else is getting a wooden push toy that looks like a crocodile. In order to receive a present from me, you must be a child under ten. The rest of you bastards are on your own. Well, if I catch you using “gift” as a verb, you will receive a sound drubbing. That goes for you too, iTunes Music Store. You were not “gifted” with anything. Someone might have given you something though (Chlamydia, ooh, that’s a pretty name). I do hate to burst your bubble, but you are not gifted at all. You never were. I’m sorry, but nearly everyone eventually learns to count to ten. If you did it early, or in French, good for you and Muzzy, but where did that get you in the long run? You are average in every way, maybe above average if you live in Lake Wobegone.

I am just bitter because I am no longer “good for my age” at anything. I can’t even write a blog post without ripping off Garrison Keillor multiple times.

I was going to tell you about my parking problems, but my heart’s just not in it. I’m going to go eat this candied seafood and enable the power of the powerful internet for filthy money that can’t buy happiness, although it can buy Ralph Lauren paint in a shade called “Old Violin.” Or maybe not even that since bitches never pay on time. American Express has to buy the paint. I blame my foul mood on the lonely old lady who came around and gave us a plate of Christmas cookies. Random acts of kindness can be so depressing!

Which foods am I thinking of today?

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Today I awoke to find free cocaine falling from the sky! Pounds and pounds of it! I am so excited. People are taking it for granted and brushing it off their cars. I don’t understand that. It’s a gift from God. I am going to put some clothes on and go harvest some. Later-ish. I think I need a massage and a nap now. I’m also having all my pants hemmed to this season’s length, and I’m getting neck extensions. Huh, the landlord is out there pushing the cocaine around with a plow. That’s the ticket, man. Jolly good. Put some behind my car, yes, do that. I am going to have so much fun backing through that.

Oh, about the food. I am thinking of how bad microwave popcorn smells. And about how Hot Pockets are made of asthmatic stray cats. I could also go for some of that leftover casserole, except I ate it all last night. What do you people eat, anyway? I always imagine other people are eating better things than I am. Who am I talking to? Why do I let random dingdongs know my business at all? And by business, I mean total exaggerations or lies. Envy and vigilance, that’s the name of the game.

OMG OMG OMG

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I am a hideous monster, born of the briny, briny deep. I am wearing pants without a waist band.

Hey, would anyone ELSE like a copy of my bank records or my social security number? Because I will totally fax that right over to you. I’ve been playing “justify my existence” with several financial entities this week, and it’s getting wicked old. I used to care who had my social security number, but not now. It’s 229-43-8817. Or is it? Did I even give the right one to the bank? Maybe not. That could be the trouble. Actually, there is no trouble. They just want my birth certificate for scientific purposes. They are going to build a better Licketysplit. Then the condo board wants a photo of the cat. Whatever. I hope my clone gets properly toilet trained.

Also in OMG, at IKEA yesterday I saw a woman eat a 15-piece Swedish meatball plate with extra gravy, fries, a side of macaroni and cheese, and two slices of cake. NO, it wasn’t me. I was busy gumming my way through an ADEQUÄT potato. It was a boiled potato. Boiled things have no calories, don’t worry.

This post is titled Damn but I could go for some raclette

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Christ, it’s Monday again. There was a holiday dinner, and I survived the gauntlet of one billion hugs. The mashed potatoes were instant, and I almost ran screaming into the cold when I found out, but I toughed it out and ate them anyway. Mr. H’s Indian co-workers livened up the proceedings by graciously enduring inadvertent racial slurs. I am pretty sure they took pictures of the carpeted kitchen.

This week my pants don’t fit. I can’t tell if it’s because I am genuinely obese or because the parasite made a major land grab. We’ve been getting quotes for hardwood floor installation (yes, I know people do this themselves, but that’s people), and this has been a humiliating process, reminding me that we have no money. Between that and my rope belt, I feel myself entering a Shame Spiral.

Also, I broke the internet yesterday. Word to the wise: the reset button on a DSL modem is hard to press for a reason. My inner monkey tried power on/power off a few times, but then she stuck a pencil in the reset hole, figuring this must fix internet good. It didn’t. A smarter monkey would have just signed “Put lipstick on cat OK please cake.”

Nancy Drew and the case of why I am so damn stupid

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I woke up this morning, went about my breakfast and second breakfast routine, and yet I felt too ill to properly enjoy elevensies. I was going to blame the parasite, and I stormed into the kitchen to get the melon baller to have it out once and for all.

But then I noticed the half-filled French press on the counter. That could only mean that Mr H did not make coffee in the coffee maker this morning. Yet I drank coffee from the coffee maker, and I wondered why it was cold. I just thought he must have made it earlier than usual. I’m not one to complain, so I just microwaved what was in the pot and added honey and soy creamer. The parasite is laughing at me now, saying “I told you so!” Except it most certainly did not tell me. It sat idly by, chortling, while I sipped day old coffee. Misery! I am not going to swallow Thanksgiving dinner. I am going to chew n’ spit. That’ll teach it. “Mmmm, isn’t this greenbean casserole delicious? Oh, you’ll never know. That’s too bad.”