Monday, November 30, 2009
Yeah, our lives are provocative and wild!
As we pulled into the driveway I cheerfully said, "Hey, thanks for the date!"
"Sure," he answered, "anything for my lady." And then we got out of the car and he started walking to the house well ahead of me.
"Wait!" I whined, "Aren't you going take my hand and walk me to the front door like you used to when I was 17? Like you used to when you were hoping for a kiss and maybe to touch a boob?"
"Nah," he laughingly answered, "I don't want a kiss, you've been eating garlic crackers. And nowadays I have my own boobs to feel."
Middle age. Awesome!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Canned Black Olives + Vicodin = Higher Than Normal Threat of Divorce. That's a standard formula, right?
Thanksgiving bylaws are complicated. What can I say?
Consequently, we get no house full of Thanksgiving smell, no leftover turkey (no turkey sandwiches or turkey soup!) and no apple pie for breakfast over the weekend.
Eight or nine years ago I made my own damn tradition, thankyouverymuch, wherein I treat my hubby and kids to a scrumptious, gluttonous feast. The day before the real feast. Rendering the actual Thanksgiving Day dinner rather "leftoverish."
Don't you hate when your attempt to solve a problem only begets its own set of problems?
So. To remedy that issue, I vary from the conventionally accepted Strict Menu Of Thanksgiving, thus making Thursday's meal entirely different from my Wednesday meal. Except for the turkey. And the stuffing. And gravy. Cranberry sauce . . .
Also? I am not a fan of what Thanksgiving has become. I loathe pushing a cart through the grocery store late in November and finding that my basket has identical contents to every other basket I pass in the aisles.
- Sparkling cider? Check.
- Boxed stuffing? Check.
- Cans of pumpkin and evaporated milk for pumpkin pie? Check.
- Ingredients for "The Green Bean Casserole"? Check. Check. Check.
I diverge from the party line. I'm a rebel with my Thanksgiving menu. Gone rogue, if you will : )
While I was preparing our Thanksgiving Eve Thanksgiving Repast, hubby started opening a can of jumbo black olives and asked which dish I wanted to serve them in.
"I'm not serving olives." I answered, matter of factly.
"Why?" he was perplexed.
"Because they don't really go with the food I'm serving tonight."
"But we always have olives and pickles on the table at Thanksgiving," he counters. "Why do you have to be all 'fancy'?" And by 'fancy' he means, "This is different from the way my mom does things--therefore I don't like it."
"Not serving canned jumbo black olives qualifies as 'fancy' now?" I ask with not at all disguised contempt.
He continues opening his can of olives, puts them in a pretty bowl and sets them on the table. I seem to have lost that round. Bastard.
Later, when nibbling from the hors d'oeuvre dish, he quips that he needs to go check his Pilgrim Manual to make sure that pear/onion/cheese strudel was served in 1621. He's completely lost sight of my intention. I've lost another round. Bastard.
Oh, at this point I should probably tell you that I have a non life threatening, temporary medical condition and, since it's a holiday weekend and all, my physician has put me on constant and strong doses of Vicodin just to get me by. So my head's a little fuzzy. And I can't string two thoughts together, much less make a complex recipe or finish a conversation without looking around and asking, "What?" as though I've just entered the room and don't know what's going on . . .
My original idea was, instead of serving squash at the meal, to pay homage to the gourd family by making roasted pumpkin and garlic hummus. I put all the ingredients into the blender and it was all a yummy orange puree speckled with seasonings. Thank you, prescription narcotics, I got a little confused and poured my lovely blended concoction into a pie crust . . . I lost that round too and it wasn't even my husband's fault.
Later, while singing Comcast karaoke with the kids, I was 100% committed to belting out a song I love, Kryptonite, when I realized I really didn't know the lyrics and was singing completely different words. In a different key. With different timing. And they were all chuckling at me . . . "Take another pill, honey," my sweet mister mocked. He wins another round! Damn, that guy is good! El bastardo!
And when did this whole day become a competition anyway? Actually, let's face it, any day that is about family and celebration where a husband and a wife have different ideas about things, and where alcohol and/or medication are involved, naturally becomes a competition.
Can't wait til Christmas!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
A series of e-mails between me and my Aunt Candi who is hosting Thanksgiving dinner this year:
You and your family are cordially invited to have Thanksgiving dinner with us! If you can come, think about what you'd like to bring.
Thanks! I’m not picky about what to bring for dinner (okay, except I hate Jell-O : )
We feel the same about Jell-O. Guess what I'm assigning to your mom? :D
Are you looking for specific veggies or side dishes or are you wanting everyone to just bring what they have a wild hair to make?
(Hint: don’t give me too much leeway because I’ll pick a recipe I’ve never tried before, I’ll realize at the last second that I don’t have one of the essential ingredients, have to run to the store, start making the food an hour later than I need to in order to make it to your house on time and I will not have read the recipe all the way through and won’t realize it needs to chill for 4 hours and can’t be served the moment I finish making it . . . in my car . . . on the way to your house . . . )
The moral of the story here is: don’t trust me with anything of major significance : )
I suspect there is a grain of truth to your story as I seem to know exactly what you're talking about from my own personal experience!
I'm just working up the details of what we should have to eat. No hurry right? After all, I've got 3 whole weeks to figure out the details, clean the house, prepare food, oh, and clean the guest house because my younger son's girlfriend will be staying there a few days. We all know what is (or should I say isn't) going to get completed so, as usual, bring your dusting cloth!
I think the only requirement to make it a true Mouse Family Thanksgiving is pie. Fourteen different kinds of pie! Also, if I get around to it, I might supply peppermint schnapps and cocoa mix if that’s okay with you? I like a warm, sleepy drink after a tryptophan laced dinner : )
Best of luck with the planning and shopping and cooking and cleaning and cleaning the guest house and all that! Glad it’s you, not me : )
Schnapps and cocoa - that's a good idea! Oh, and the house cleaning is a little behind schedule. Because I've never met my son's girlfriend before. So I had to run right out and buy a new bra. You, of course, understand . . .
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Somehow we got to talking about intellectual giant, Levi Johnston, and it went south from there. Because really? Where else but south could it have gone?
a) I'm pretty sure the only people who read Playgirl are gay men. Ergo, the only people excited about seeing Levi Johntson's Playgirl spread are gay men. I can't fathom it. He's not all that great to look at. And maybe kinda dumb? Maybe it's not his brain they're excited about : )
b) According to a gossip website (which, I'm sure, is impeccable in its reporting) one of Kate Moss' favorite quotes is "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." That just irritates me. That's a *terrible* message to be putting out there for young girls! Both for the ones who will ruin their bodies, teeth and health obsessing over being Kate Moss skinny and for the ones who can never achieve that kind of skinny and will forever think they don't deserve to be happy because of it. Biotch!!!!!!!
a) And Levi's conservative and probably doesn't support gay rights so why would they want to look at a big, stupid, ignorant teenager who knocked up the daughter of what some people say is what's wrong with America?
b) That's a profoundly stupid quote by Kate Moss. Are we conceited much?
" . . . why would they want to look at a big, stupid, ignorant teenager who knocked up the daughter of what some people say is what's wrong with America? "
I think that's my favorite the quote of the year. And I'm totally blogging it : )
Thank you :) But seriously, it's true. I hope people aren't stupid enough to buy that Playgirl issue for the novelty or something.
Here is a list of people who should not be allowed to be interviewed ever again:
1)Carrie Prejean. Because she has completely embarrassed anyone who is opposed to gay marriage by her double standards, skankiness and all around stupidity. Any time the girl opens her mouth it's a train wreck.
2) John Gosselin. Need I say more?
3) Kate Gosselin. Not quite as bad as John but is talking about wanting a TV career when she's supposed to be Mommy Of The Year at home with her kids not out globe trotting and working so hard to make herself look better than her embarrassment of an ex.
4) Sara Palin. The woman made such a fool of herself and the Republican party and makes rednecks everywhere look bad. Same thing as Carrie, every time she opens her mouth it ends badly.
5) Levi Johnston. His only talent seems to be that he knocked up his teenage girlfriend. Okay, and his incessant whining. Why is he getting interviews? We do not care. So far, he has had nothing profound or remotely interesting to say and should not be famous! You know, the media jumps all over young mothers, especially ones in Hollywood, for taking teen pregnancy too lightly. But the only thing Levi has ever done to be noticed is to get a teenager pregnant so what kind of message is that sending?
All these people should step out of the public eye and go be good people. Or at least try not to daily embarrass themselves and our country.
Can I get a witness?!
*Editor's Note: Beautiful is concerned that she comes off as a negative whiner in this post because I cut out all the parts of this conversation where we talked about kittens and rainbows and unicorns. Trust me, she's not completely negative. Wicked funny, sarcastic and cutting, but in a happy, positive, life-affirming way.
Also? Add Tyra Banks to my list of people who should shut it already. Just sayin.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Let's start with Dave. In fact, let's just skip right to saying it's Dave's fault.
Dave posted this entry. I thought it was funny and immediately recognized the everyday usefulness of the phrase.
However--and I guess this is because I have two young grandchildren and read lots of kids' stories--since initially seeing it within the context of Busytown, I can't divorce that phrase from children's literature.
Every kids' book I can think of--including every book I read to Gabe or Lily--has an opportunity to insert this versatile little epithet.
For example: Old Yeller, just as Travis headed toward him with the rifle, surely must have been thinking, "this is bull**it."
Cinderella, when given a mile-long chore list to complete before being allowed to go to the ball, had to have been silently saying to her evil step mother, "this is bull**it."
It even works with nursery rhymes:
This little piggy went to market,
This little piggy stayed home,
This little piggy ate roast beef,
This little piggy said, "this is bull**it"
Nothing--no piece of literature, no sentimental movie, no historical figure--is exempt from my mind's heedless substitution of any poignant moment with my new favorite phrase.
And you know what the British Royal Governor was thinking as colonists dumped boatloads of tea into Boston Harbor, right?
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Okay, so he's not technically crying here, but you can see he's CLOSE!
For example, at the end of last season, I cried when Helen won. But not because I was happy for her (I was happy for her) but because she looked unhealthily skinny and it bothered me that the healthier body type Tara sported didn't win.
Hmmm . . . this picture doesn't really show the too skinny. But trust me. She was.
While Tara, on the other hand, looked healthy. And isn't healthy the quality we're looking for in losers? Yes, healthy is how I like my losers.
The new season started right out with the tugging of the heartstrings. For one thing, Daniel (who, up until this season's first weigh in, was the heaviest person in Biggest Loser history) was back from last season--he had been given a second chance. What a huge blessing! (Um, sorry, no pun intended . . . )
Daniel before and Daniel mid--not quite after because he's still working on it . . .
And they brought in Shay. Specifically to make me cry. Shay lost her inattentive mother to longtime heroin addiction. Maybe some of that played a role in Shay's weight issue? We need to get Sherlock Holmes on the case . . .
Anyhoo, Shay, as of this season's first weigh in, became The Biggest Loser's heaviest person ever. And it made her cry. And it made me cry--surprise! And then [*sniff* I can barely get through this *sniff sniff*] just so I would spill over into a giant puddle Daniel chose Shay to be his partner because if anyone understands what it means to be young and enormously overweight and have to face that and work back down and try to gain health that was always undermined in the first place and . . . *sniff* . . . I just have to stop there . . .
Hi, Shay. You go, girl!
I already resembled a used tissue by the time they let Abby tell her story. For those of you who don't know, Abby started rapidly gaining weight and not quite knowing what to do with her life two years ago in the aftermath of losing her husband, 5 year old daughter and 2 week old son all at once in a car accident. If you aren't tearing up just a little while reading this, then you might want to see a doctor. You're probably a robot.
Spunky, loving, been-to-hell-and-back Abby.
Where were we? Ah, yes. Sobbing.
Every week no matter what happens, no matter how much weight is lost or who prevails in the challenge of the week or who is voted to go home, I always cry. For two hours. Pretty much non stop. Good heavens, someone help me!
Case in point, last night the group visited Washington D.C. The week's challenge was to recruit as many folks as they could to do a public exercise class with Bob and Jillian. When Amanda was recognized by a huge group of girls on the street for being the contestant voted in at last season's finale? Yeah, a few tears spilled over . . .
And when Allen rounded up a bunch of firefighters, well, what can I say? Guys in uniform? Guys being part of a brotherhood no matter where in the country they're from? Guys helping out their fellow firefighter? Okay, fine, a few buckets of tears spilled over . . .
Later, during the public exercise class, when Bob lead (led?) the group of hundreds in some warm up squats? Oh, come on! Who doesn't break down and blubber at the sight of hundreds of people in the nation's capital doing squats?
I couldn't find a picture of Bob leading the squats. So just look at that body and imagine the muscles rippling and the sweat beading and . . . wait . . . what were we talking about?
And then? Later? After the emotional week and the emotional weigh in and the emotional speeches and the emotional voting and the EMOTIONS, when, after weeks of maneuvering and conniving and betraying people right and left to stay in the game, Crazy-Eyes-Tracey was voted out?