Tag Archives: recipe corner

It rubs the lotion on its skin

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Yesterday the parasite and I took a voyage au train. The parasite has been hanging around making me ill for weeks, and now it has started speaking to me. Perfectly logical, I suppose. Stockholm Syndrome.

It told me that this girl sitting in front of us looked like Soccah Stah Mia Hamm, wife of Nomah. And she sort of did, except she was wearing fake Vuitton sunglasses and a blazer that appeared to come from Sears. Then Mia Hamm put on headphones, and the parasite and I recoiled at the sound of tinny audible fiddle music.

At the parasite’s behest, I took my gum out and stuck it on her headrest. She leaned back to enjoy her fiddle, and I popped an Altoid in my mouth in case my minty breath should implicate me when she discovered the gum. “Dirty deeds done dirt cheap,” crooned the parasite. I became excited because it’s so hard to find a reliable dirty deed provider in the first place. Maybe the parasite isn’t so bad. We could achieve symbiosis instead of a host/guest relationship. I am not about to put out soap shaped like seashells. Or fancy towels. No suh.

Although it did encourage me to vomit on Mia Hamm as well. I bribed it with a granola bar and the promise of leftover risotto, and it took its patter of villainous invective down to a dull mutter during my meetings. I’m still not above making an appointment with Science to have it removed if it doesn’t straighten up.

Breakfast: what a fucking bitch

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Man, I have been chewing for about an hour, and I am still not finished with this bowl of cereal. Kashi Crunch is the Bataan death march of cereal eating. Is that a rock in there? I think it’s an igneous rock.

Yesterday Mr. H and I put on hip waders and slogged upstream to check on our hovel. In theory, we can give the developer more money and start living in it (the loft, not the money, although I have always wanted a money bin) next month. But there are only about four feet left before the foundation floods, so it’s really anyone’s game. We met two dudes boosting each other to peer in the windows, and it turns out they will be our upstairs neighbors. Those grandiose maniacs have purchased two units and are planning to knock out the wall between them. The developer is still forcing them to accept installation of a kitchen in each unit, so they will have to rip one out. They offered us an extra fridge. I guess I could set it on its side and nap in it. We made fun of the color of the hallway and vowed to reconvene later to hate the drapery choices of others. Too bad this friendship will be all over once they see that we live like animal. I don’t even own a pastry marble!

On the walk back, I found a pair of washed up thong underwear and a Precious Moments change purse. If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is.

Big do-ins like for humans

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And such it is that we are all consenting adults in this house, and we have set upon a solution: the DVR. It came in the afternoon, and Henry, the installer, even left us an extra remote. We can all sit on the couch and hold a remote, captain my captain, even the cat. It is important to feel powerful. These remotes will no doubt stop other acts of bullying. This way I can watch America’s Fattest Fatties and all the Top Model I can cram down my gullet without regurgitating, and Mr. H can watch Nerdistar Nerdlactica or whatever. Picture in a picture, bitch! Look, it’s Santa Claus, and he’s holding a Coke bottle with Santa Claus on it. It’s turtles all the way down.

So the first thing I think I recorded was the Martha Stewart talk show, but maybe I just watched it when it was on. I have no idea. I fast-forwarded it and rewound it, and then I had to have a yogurt because I was hungry. That is a thing to do if you find yourself hungry. My tip is free from me to you. Martha made Larry King frost a cake, and he didn’t know what a dollop was. Yeah, right! As if he never ate a dollop of lard right out of the jar. The man’s had heart attacks, for chrissakes. Next week Martha is planning to have Kate Moss on to discuss garnishing a plate with powdered sugar.

I want to be on that Martha Stewart show so badly. I write them every day, telling them about whatever trumped up talent I can think of. I feel certain they would like to have me and all the fat kids on the show, and then I will trick the fat kids by making a cookie recipe with applesauce instead of pork fat, and they will cry, right on TV. And Martha will laugh, because I am sure she does not like fat kids any more than Anna Wintour does. She should have Anna on that same show, and they will practice sealing envelopes with only disapproving thoughts.

Indianpeopleloveus.com

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This morning Mr. H and I attended an Indian birthday party. We made up fifty percent of the white people in attendance. People asked us “Is this your first Indian event?” No, we’ve got a few Hindu weddings and birthday parties under our belts, and no, they aren’t any louder than Mr. H’s family on a slow day.

The Other White People kept following us around, and it was really embarassing. Those damn honkies kept asking what the food was.

“What’s this garbanzo bean thing?”
“It’s chana masala,” I said.
“What is this spice? It’s soooo spicy. Is it curry?”
“No, it’s chili powder and garam masala.”
An Indian bystander: “Ooh, she knows what it is!”  Food of many lands, I salute you. You might as well be octopus eyes, chana masala. I’ll eat the hell out of you anyway. Me eat everything. The worst food I ever had in my life came from the Cheesecake Factory. It was worse than that time I accidentally ate the moldy yogurt.

Internet, I am just wasting time waiting for the architect. Then we are off to the high seas! We will probably only eat White People Food for the rest of the weekend. Boring.

The new phonebooks are here! The new phonebooks are here!

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It is a red letter day already here in sunny Vomitsville. After I got back from having the dealer fix the perma-locked car door, physician I decided it was high time I paid the car insurance this month. The things a mind does think. So I headed downstairs to mail it (I hope pressing a blank check to my forehead, malady thinking “car insurance,” and dropping it in the outgoing box works; Zellweger usually handles these things for me, but she is on a zen retreat).

And lo, there on my doorstep was my powerbook, like some kind of bastard foundling. It was so nice of Apple to warn me they were shipping it back from Rancho Relaxo, and so nice of DHL to, you know, ring the doorbell or something, instead of leaving a several thousand dollar piece of equipment with a “signature required” sticker on it out in the open. No harm done, right, Pants? Pants? Are you there? I missed you so. Mommy did so much while you were gone. Mommy got some new pain pills, and mommy even thought about making dinner.

Yes, I did think about making dinner. I went so far as to add wasabi to the mashed potatoes someone else was cooking. This was grueling. I had to lie on the floor until things stopped spinning. The cat came by and considered eating my left eye, but then I moved and ruined everything. So now she sulks, and I sit on the highest chair in the house to avoid her.

Same time tomorrow

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This crappy website simply could not exist without our vast network of spies, also known as Revenue-Optmized Partner Affiliates. We learned today that someone in an office somewhere is handing out candy bars doctored to read “HERESHEIS” to announce the birth of a female child. What does one hand out for a male child? NUTRAGEOUS? I thought the birth of a child was celebrated by tying the child up in a burlap sack and heaving it off a pier, but I learn something new each dew-freshened day. My friend suffers from new child ownership, and it seems all children want to do is eat and sleep. What spite! Enjoy it while you can, li’l buddy. Here sheis indeed. Alles was ich zu meinem Geburtstag bekommen habe war dieses scheiss T-Shirt.

We at Vomitola have recently realized the need to breed a team of strapping farm hands to see us through the coming apocalypse. Ideally they will also shoot lasers from their eyes. We have our Zellwegers, but they are not keen on heavy lifting. They prefer to eat ice cream and run up the phone bill. The trouble is that I am not keen to birth a child myself. It seems so last century. Mr. H did find a promising development: New Harvest – Advancing Meat Substitutes. Surely this can be adapted to humans. It’s about time, Science. I’ve been waiting for you.

Today in cats: there is just no pleasing them.

Boulevard of broken spleens

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Today I am Honoring My Feelings, and I feel that I should eat an entire chocolate cream pie. But Feelings Are Not Facts, so I won’t. Or something. I think I need some Vitamin Tequila and some Me Time. See, I am coming to terms with the crushing realization that I have virtually no problems save being me and nipple confusion. Damn you, mother!

I got a hot tip that I could probably haul an abandoned CAT scan machine out of a dump in Brazil, so I have new plans to convert Mr. H’s Saabaru into a roving radiology wagon. If I pry the rear seat out, I’m sure the machine would fit. For good measure, I’ll install lead plating somewhere. And I’ll need an air-brushed sign: CAT scans, $20, meow meow! I can diagnose a brain bleed just as well as a trained professional. Look, this one is in the shape of Cookie Monster. If your brain is bleeding, I can’t help you, but I will be sure to let you know, as if you had toilet paper on your shoe. I will do it politely but firmly.

Oh, I am taking a moment to enjoy watching that dog dash away from the boulangerie with a string of sausages. Well, look at you! You are so cheeky! Run.

And….pie!

C’est si bon

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Flying does not make me nervous. Mr. H closes his eyes and grabs my hand when we take off, but I am usually scrambling to turn the video screen to the channel that shows the under-plane camera and jamming in ear plugs so I can start ignoring fellow passengers. However, on the return trip, I am paralyzed with fear as soon as I get off the highway within five miles of my house. I call this “The Zone of Ironic Death.” I have no qualms about being vaporized at 35,000 feet over some place exotic, but to get hit by a garbage truck around the corner? What a waste of my victim tribute photo that would be.

We had a lovely time in Spain. The food was soooo delicious. We ate at Pizza Hut, Subway, KFC, Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Burger King, and McDonald’s. I am totally kidding. There are 14 McDonald’s locations in Barcelona alone, and there is no way we had time to go to all of them. We counted 10 Starbuckseses too.

As usual, the only people who annoyed us were other Americans. There was the spoiled college girl loudly espousing her life philosophy and complaining about having to fly back for her cousin’s Bat Mitzvah in Connecticut, and of course we spotted people wearing sneakers and sweatshirts and braying about the prawns having heads. Luckily, we passed for European of Indeterminate Origin, so Americans wearing fanny packs asked us directions, shouting at us so we’d understand. Donde esta THE TRAIN STATION. I always lied in broken English. No wonder Americans think everyone else in the world is out to get them.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store, and my soul was nearly crushed by the lack of delicious yogurt. I came outside only to find that some intrepid soul had managed to use his vehicle to ram a shopping cart into my passenger door. I dropped to my knees and swore bitterly. Clearly America does not want me. To add insult to injury, the paint smear indicated that the cart must have been one of the blue ones from the Wal-Mart across the plaza. Poor people indirectly touched my car!

I am still hunting through photos, trying to find the ones where we are wearing pants. Control yourself, Internet.

Mega-low mania

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That’s a baby, gumming a laser dot off the carpet. Babies are so stupid! You can’t eat a laser.

I miss eating, period. It was rad while it lasted. The tubs of tapioca pudding, the beef wellington, and above all, the ham. Lambchop and I have declared a fatwa on food. We are a sorry pair, stabbing half-heartedly at broth when we lunch together. But we look great! We are so lucky to be afflicted with wasting diseases. Some people pay for tapeworms, but not us. It merely took some vagaries of the digestive tract and a whopping dose of serotonin, between the two of us. America, wait for our book.

It’s strange that we do everything together. People look at us funny when we use the same machine at the gym at the same time. And sometimes I do get tired of her sitting on top of me at the dentist, and I wish she didn’t need a night light. It’s all worth it, though. My bodddyyy and me! Maybe someday we will be surgically separated, but so far, so good. Don’t tell Lambchop, but for Christmas I am knitting us a muff.