Are you scared? Giant monkey will help you get through it.

I dressed up again for y'all today.

Just kidding- I made Mr. Whiskeymarie do it this time.

Happy Monkeyween!

Oops- I mean Halloween...

Give me 20 minutes and I'll show you how you- yes YOU!- can change your life.

Seeing as I seem to be posting something every 2.5 seconds this week, I'll give you ONE more idea for tomorrow.

I think this would work for both the ladies and the gents, as long as the boy in question is comfortable enough with his manhood to put a pair of tights on.

Remember though- and this is important- Cut a hole to breathe through.
Don't forget.

If you have the time, you could fashion the bag to look like a purse.
And if you're a girl, you could add cute shoes.

Remember, I have a 20-minute limit- cut me some slack.
It took a while to stuff all of that bubble wrap in there. (But hey! if you get drunk and fall down later you'll be your own party favor!)


Meet Prunella Von Fiberbottom:

*She appears to be on the run again- maybe all that fiber finally caught up with her.


She's (or he's) the most fun you'll have with two lawn and leaf bags and a whole mess of bubblewrap.


And once again, you're welcome.

Dear interdepartmental "Issue" at work:

If you were some whiny bitch at a bar, complaining about your boyfriend and how you hate that he sleeps with your sister AND your bi-curious cousin from Atlanta...
Well, I'd slap you hard and tell you to snap out of it.
Seriously.
Then I'd buy you a drink and sing karaoke with you.
But c'mon.
I'm not kidding.
Get the fuck over it already.

How you can karmically make it up to Miss Hucabee for firing spitballs every day in 6th grade English class...

My girl over at Wide lawns and narrow minds has a great idea for her birthday (see the Thursday, Oct 25th entry) - she created a charity challenge for all of us, instead of asking for a new car, or a spirograph, or a birthday cake shaped like a monkey (hint, hint.)

She set up the challenge here, and it's really simple: There is this great site where teachers submit proposals for things they need, but don't have the money for. You can pick whichever proposal you want, and donate as much as you want- you can donate a DOLLAR if you so desire, and that's fine. Those dollars add up, and she's hoping to raise $20,000 total.

I'm not a public school teacher, but I teach at a public institution (if that makes any sense at all), and I know how hard it can be to get the things you need, though probably not to the degree that most of these teachers do.

So, I never do this sort of thing on my blog, but I think this is an unbelievably great idea and want her to make this happen. If you can spare a few bucks, go on over and give a little.
you didn't need that grande skim caramel mochaccino today anyways. Have a cup out of the damn coffeemaker at work like the rest of us for once.

We will now return to our regularly scheduled programming: "What's that growing on my tongue?", followed by a repeat of "The bad hair diaries" at 10:00. Thank you.

Look into my fridge- look inside my soul.

In case you were sitting around thinking:
"Hey! I wonder what Whiskeymarie has in her refrigerator right now. Does she eat pickled herring too? Does she like the same brand of yogurt that I do? Or, does she sustain herself entirely on booze and condiments?"

Well, this is it- I didn't clean it up, remove anything, or try to toss in some fancy stuff like a leftover rack of lamb with truffles and gold dust from that fabulous dinner party I had last night.

Actually, last night we ordered in Cleveland Wok, the remnants of which you can see here. We had steamed dumplings, Veg fried rice, Chicken with black bean sauce and spicy beef lo mein.

The energy drinks belong to the Mr.
I consider it a personal victory that I finally nagged him into submission and now he drinks the sugar-free ones. Ha! Nagging: 1, Husband: 0.

You'll note the jumbo bag of prunes (keeps you regular!), one lonely sweet potato, two bags of organic field greens (I can't remember which one is older. I hate when that happens), the syrup brought forward from its usual resting place in the back (banana-cranberry-pecan pancakes this morning), and leftover jar of orange nacho cheese from an after-going out binge. The white packet is tonight's dinner- salmon something or other. I haven't thought dinner through quite yet.
Oh, and there is a really old pack of sauerkraut in there that I haven't bothered to check the date on to see if it's toxic waste yet or not.





The freezer is pretty boring.

Some decaf coffee that's been in there since last Christmas (I don't understand the concept of "decaf", but I hate throwing things away), light ice cream (it is to ice cream what Boone's Farm is to fine wine), many, many frozen bananas, some leftover pumpkin in a container labeled "lamb", frozen peas from the farmer's market this summer, frozen berries, and then a bunch of shit in the back that I'm afraid of.


And yes, my refrigerator is from (approximately) 1982. It is ugly. But I'm one of those sad people that won't get rid of something as long as it still works. When it breaks, then we'll get something that isn't beige with smoky brown drawers.
Until then, beige it is.





So there you go- another 5 minutes of your life that you'll never get back.

Sorry to have done this to the both of us.

Around, and around, and around, and around, and around...

So I got it in my head that I want- no, I NEED- a spirograph set.
Anyone remember those? You used the circle dealies and a pen to go around and around and make these sorts of designs?
It was the most mindless of mindless entertainment when I was a kid.

I freaking loved it.

This is a picture I found that is the same exact set we had. The cool thing about this set is that you could "build" your own spirograph track and make all sorts of goofy-shaped designs.

So if you happen to have one in your basement/attic that you are itching to get rid of, I'm your gal. Maybe we can broker a trade of some sort.
Maybe a Planet of the Apes lunchbox for it? (Yes, I have one.)
How about a loaf of pumpkin bread?
How about a hug?

Food, fat and fillings

Damn teeth.

What are you good for anyways? Eating? Smiling? Opening mail?

Yesterday I suffered through day 1 of my oral overhaul.
Fillings replaced, the beginnings of a crown and two bondings yet to come at appointment #2.

At one point I had 5 different instruments and two hands in my mouth. Not pretty.

Today my jaw feels like I spent the last few days on the road as a Motley Crue groupie. But luckily I know for sure I couldn't have been as my ass seems to feel fine.



And all this for the modest sum of $1000-1200.00. That's AFTER insurance.

Damn teeth.

I guess I should be happy. Without the lovely choppers I wouldn't have been able to eat all the gloriously glorious delights that I did this weekend in Sonoma and SF. And boy howdy, did I eat a LOT.

Our gastronomic journey:

Friday night, after we landed, we rented a car and headed North. The roads get all twisty and narrow where my sister lives, so she met us in the lovely village of Villa Grande, home of the Pink Elephant bar.


We settled in at the lovely Casa de SisterofWhiskeymarie in the tiny community of Villa Grande, CA.

By this point all I had eaten was bad airline food, antianxiety pills and sparkling wine, so we decided that food was a good idea.

It's a little fuzzy for me still, but I know we had dinner at the Cape Fear Cafe in Duncans Mills, yet another quaint little nook surrounded by redwoods and hills in the N. California landscape. I had really good smoked salmon tortellini and a glass of Sauvignon blanc, if my memory serves me right. Later that evening, back at the Casa, I tried to drink a glass of wine with my ear, while seeming to have mysteriously grown a double chin:





I only remember this vaguely.



The next morning I was surprisingly chipper, considering that most of the previous day was a complete blur- thank you Ativan. Actually, I wish I could fly without the aid of pharmaceuticals, as I honestly "lose" an entire day from them, but I'm not at that point yet. I think I'm too much of a control freak to ever get there, unfortunately.
Damn flying.

Anyways, I was feeling fine and dandy, so I made omlettes (potato, bacon, jalapeno, onion and Cotswold cheese) and we drank gallons of coffee.


Saturday was spent tasting wine here and here, but we got kicked out of the one I really wanted to see as we didn't notice that they had a sign up saying they were closed for a private event. We just walked in and some dude gave us some wine, so we thought everything was hunky-dory. Guess not. Oops. But hey- thanks for the free wine, it was delicious.

After lunch here (a lovely and sophisticated burger with avocado and a couple of beers), we meandered around town shopping.
My favorite shop (shout-out to Dr. Monkey- didn't know you were such an entrepreneur):




Sadly, there was only minimal monkey merchandise to purchase here.

I felt misled and cheated by the false advertising.


Whatever- I didn't need a new monkey anyways. Mr. Wiggles has a few more good years left in him, as long as the mange doesn't become too much of a problem...




Back on track-

Dinner was here. Meh. Kind of like and upscale Perkins with booze and seafood for about $50/person. I had grilled salmon with Bearnaise, bland rice and steamed veggies. Whatever. It seemed geared towards the upwardly-mobile geriatric shuffleboarders that eat dinner at 4:30. It was fine- just not great.
But, the drive there was gorgeous- along Hwy. 1 at dusk with the huge waves crashing into the rocks. The drive was as perfect as it gets. And we did eat right on the water where pelicans and the like gathered right outside the windows while we ate.
Which was nice.

Breakfast Sunday was at the quaint little Cafe les Jumelles in Monte Rio. Best biscuits and gravy EVER. Holy crap they were good. Totally worth the clogged arteries. Best part was, they came as a side to most of the other items- so I got to have an amazing breakfast burrito AND biscuits and gravy.
Oh lordy, it was good. I won't be getting my cholesterol tested anytime soon, that's for sure. I'm pretty sure my veins are running thick with butter and gravy at this point.

Unfortunately this was the last stop for us in that part of the world. We needed to hit the road to get the car back in time. So we bid SisterWM and husband of SisterWM adieu and hit Highway 1 for San Francisco.

We once again stayed at The Hotel Carlton on Sutter St.
I love this hotel. Super cute, super clean, and the staff is disgustingly helpful and friendly. Plus the location is fantastic and the price is right. And they have really, really nice bedding and a cute Middle-Eastern-esque restaurant.

For dinner, we went (conveniently) next door to Brick. I cannot say enough good things about this meal. It is easily in my top three or four meals of ALL TIME.
We had hamachi sashimi with ginger and such and such for an appetizer- it was like Asian-y butter. I could have eaten a pound.
Then I had the goat cheese-crusted lamb. Kind of a pedestrian choice, but I really wanted lamb. holy shit it was good. Every bite was perfect. I could have licked the plate.
Equally good was the Mr's olive oil poached halibut on squid ink risotto with fried calamari. That halibut just melted in your mouth. Mmmm....

Dessert, as darkly pictured in my last post, was uh-ma-zing. I am the worst kind of dessert snob there is: a former pastry chef that only rarely eats the stuff. So when I do- it damn well better be worth it.
It was.
Caramel pots de creme for two sprinkled with candied cocoa nibs and black salt.
Weird? Indeed.
But the caramely creaminess with the crunchy nibs and the lingering salt...
Oh my.
I could have eaten two.

Later: Drinks at Lush, then drunky drunk sleep.

Other dining highlights and lowlights:
* Breakfast here. Sure, it's a hotel restaurant, but it is such a charming little room and the food is so good that I don't care. We have had breakfast here twice and dessert once and it has been exceptional each time. I had a spinach and gruyere omlette, the Mr. had a chorizo and mozzerella omlette. A very nice way to start the day.

*Lunch here at table on a sidewalk in North Beach. The service was just o.k, but the food was great. I had a salad with house-made pasta, fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, greens and fresh basil. the Mr. had a tomato, basil and fresh mozzarella sandwich. Both were really simple, but really good. The champagne cocktail didn't hurt things either.

*After lunch cookies at Stella's Pastries. They sold them by weight, which I thought was funny. But we bought an assortment of tasty little treats and ate them as we walked back to the hotel. My favorites were the little cookies with a buttercream filling and the mini almond pastries. Yum.

*Dinner here. The Mr's was really good, mine not so much. I had to send the first thing I ordered back, which I NEVER do, but it was so gross there was no way I could power through it (cold ground pork? I don't think so. Really- if you are going to serve something that is normally hot ICE COLD- well, it really should say so on the menu. Really- we need to be warned.) I got the carnitas as a hurried replacement, and it was more than a little disappointing. But, the ceviche was stellar and I enjoyed the atmosphere and the sangria, so overall it wasn't the worst meal I've had.

Other than that, the rest of the gorging was fine, if not better than fine, but nothing worth noting.

I'm pretty sure I gained 27 pounds in 5 days- but it was totally worth it.

Gotta go- the elliptical is calling my name and I need ibuprofen for my side job-related jaw injury.

So, my little cocoa nib-sprinkled chocolate-dipped tomatoes- go out and eat something nice this weekend- hopefully something that doesn't involve Tommy Lee, a 12-pack and bruised knees.


XO
WM

I'll be back to my old self tomorrow. Unless I decide to be that girl from that show. You know- that one show, with the thing...

My awesomely awesome trip, with minimal descriptors as I am pooped.
I can't let perfectly good pharmaceuticals go to waste, so as soon as the Ativan wears off I'm sure I'll have lots of stories for you. Right now all my brain can come up with is:
Mmmmm...me love wine.


This first one is what morning along the Russian river looks like. Seriously. Why do we all not live there? Let's start a commune. I call dibsies on being queen. I promise to rule with an iron fist and a drunken heart. Let me know what you all decide.

I took this while on a walk by my sister's place, which is located about 1-2 blocks from the river.

Yeah, gross.
How about you just give me that extra couple million you have laying around and I'll move here so you don't have to. Deal?

It's all cold and damp in the morning, then if the sun comes out everything starts to steam.

It's damp.
Moss grows on everything.
Slugs are everywhere.

Hello Mr. Slug! (foot added for perspective)

Some drunk bimbo on a tire swing over the Russian River.
What's that you say? You've never been?
You simply must, darling, if you ever get the chance.

They don't call it wine country for nothin', you know.

Best dessert ever.
I'll talk more about the food tomorrow.
But oh lordy, the food we had.
I will share. Soon.

But sorry- I can't share my dessert as I ate it already and licked the bowl.
I'm a real pig like that.

Me drunk at Lush on the corner of Post & Polk Streets. (Sunday)
And I was a little schnookered there the next night too, which brings my grand total of times I've been lushily drunk at Lush to three.

Next trip I hope to make it to five.

Obligatory tourist shot on Nob hill (tee hee- Nob.)

I was all excited to go to the fortune cookie "factory" in Chinatown.
It's in a tiny alley and isn't so easy to find.
Turns out, it's basically a small garage where two machines and two people turn out a whole lot o' cookies. But it's SUPER touristy, and SUPER small. Basically I got to watch them work for 35 seconds, take two pictures, pay a dollar, then get shooed out the door by a little Chinese guy.

Good cookies, though.

I'll have a Whiskey on the rocks, please.


*I do own other clothes. Why I am wearing the same jacket in every picture is beyond me. You think I would have taken one picture when I actually had something cute on. Nope. Not so much.

And yes, I brought comfortable shoes. And yes, I know how much walking you do in S.F.

Yes, I get it.
I am only occasionally retarded. I don't understand a lot of things, like basic directions on a map or how to wrap a gift without using half a roll of tape.
But shoes and feet I understand, my dear. Oh, yes I do.

My feet however, decided that I am indeed "challenged" in that area or were angry with me for some reason that they're not saying.

I hear band-aids will be big this season.

Oh, and I stepped in a big pile of dog shit within 1/2 hour of getting into the city.

In my new boots.

Thank-you San Francisco for rolling out the welcome mat. You sure know how to treat a lady.

And, on a shameful note: Sorry I didn't see any of my SF blogger girls. My fault. I really didn't try very hard. I was with you in spirit, I promise. If you felt drunk and silly either Sunday or Monday night- well, that was me wielding my awesome power.

Next trip, I promise. PROMISE!!!!

West coast Whiskey v. Midwest Whiskey

I'm leaving you for a bit. Don't be sad.

I'll be in Sonoma/San Fransisco for a few days, terrorizing the locals.

I promise pictures.

I'm not bringing my laptop, but if there is a computer handy I'll check in.

Gotta go- the ativan is starting to kick in and I'm getting a bit dreeeaaaammmy- did I mention how much I hate flying?

If you've ever seen the Simpsons episode where Marge is in the airplane and starts to have a freakout/meltdown before takeoff and starts to run up and down the aisle like a caged animal...
that's me.

Thank you, gods of pharmacy, for glorious antianxiety drugs.




So- have a great weekend, my little deep-fried balls of turkey custard. We'll continue this one-sided conversation another day.


XO
WM

p.s. As to my previous post, maybe I'll think of more possible Halloween costumes over the weekend...
Maybe.

And how did YOU spend your Thursday morning?

I won't be dressing up for Halloween this year- again.

But, in the spirit of the season, I thought I'd use my monkey-addled brain to help y'all with your costume ideas.

I came up with a few flashes of brilliance that you may be interested in.

I had few requirements in this endeavor, except that:
a) They had to be completed in 20 minutes or less
and,
b) They had to be reeeaaaallly cheap. (I spent a grand total of $2.49 for some white face makeup and a box of Good n' Plenty's which really don't count cause I'm going to eat them.)

Prepare to be dazzled.


#1 is what I like to call "Welcome to the Valley of the dolls nine months pregnant, darling"

All that was needed was a negligee big enough to stuff (which strangely, I already had on hand), some girly heels, a cigarette (mine is gum), a cocktail and an "empty" pill bottle (this is where the GNP's come into play. Feel free to pop them all evening)

Mommy needs her "medicine..."

For this to work, your makeup needs to be fucked up. I really should have gone more over-the-top here, but I ran out of time.

This next one is one I like to call "Hellraiser's poor trashy cousin"

All that was needed was a garbage bag, nails, white makeup and black clothing.
Not bad for 20 minutes, I think.

Hey, even scary nail-head ladies need a little down time. You know, time to kick back, watch "The Office" (lady hellraiser loves Dwight) and just have a cosmo with the girls.

Right as I was set to take the pictures of this next one, the Mr. Came home from work early.

You can imagine how awkward this was.

I don't think he was so much surprised that I looked like this, but more surprised to find out what I spend my free time doing.
He just shook his head and went upstairs.
I thought that was for the best.

This one is called "mentally ill mime" which I think is redundant, but hey.
All that was needed was a black turtleneck, leggings, a beret, a hot pink or similarly-colered bra, a pair of Elmo underwear and the white face makeup ($.99 at Walgreens)

Hey! Someone get me out of this box!

And finally, the one I like to think of as my little tribute to Minnesota, the Girl Scouts and marshmallows.

You'll need a white or ivory sheet, a brown shirt and two pieces of cardboard for this one:

C'mon- you know what it is!

A Smore!


There you go, and you're welcome.

Dating, mating and Whiskey part 2: Small is such a dirty word...

When I was 20 I had my first (and only) blind date ever.

It was an odd sort of date, the kind most (smart) people would have avoided like the plague, but being that I am immune to most diseases (also known as borderline retarded) I mightily forged on.


The year was 1992-ish. I was deep into my love of Skinny Puppy, The Young Gods, Coil and coincidentally, This Mortal Coil.
Yes, I know, you don't have to say it. I wore a lot of black and my hair was short and edgy. I wore tights with jean shorts and boots. I thought matte lipstick was cool.
I am aware of how completely dated this is. Get over it already.

I have discussed the circumstances of this date before, but to those of you new to my trail of tears, it went something like this:

I was at First Avenue (which you may or may not remember from the smash hit movie "Purple Rain") with my convenient "of the moment" bestest girlfriend, Kristi (I haven't bothered to change her name because the bitch stole my clothes. Eat it, Kristi, wherever the fuck you are now you southern redneck cashmere-cardigan stealer.)
We were dancing, in between taking turns to the ladies room with the flask of vodka. We were young and poor- go figure.

All night we were dancing by this group of three guys, one was tall, skinny and cute in a heroin-junkie sort of way, one was reeeeaaaalllly sadly Renaissance-y, and the other we didn't get a good look at, but he was tall, dark and vaguely cute, in a "I dye my hair myself and buy jeans I can't afford" sort of way. We flirted, we danced, we slurped from the flask. All was good.

1:30 came around (bar close at the time- LAME!), and we were winding down the booty-shakin. The lights came up, and the bouncers started looking for reasons to have something to talk about in that week's anger management group discussion.
We started making our way out, when all of a sudden this very tall, dark and apparently very quick stranger pushed something into my palm and swooshed away (my memory has him wearing a cape, but I may be mistaken) before I could even get a good look at him. Whatever it was I thought it would be best to stuff it in my bra, for safe keeping. Good thing it wasn't a stink bomb. Or razors.

Later that evening/morning I was getting ready for my 3.5 hours of sleep before I had to go to one of my two gross retail jobs (Hello! Can I help you? Can I listen to you talk about how your bunions make it hard to buy shoes? Can I help you find that perfect hunting-themed sweater for Father's Day? Can I? Can I????). I pulled off my bra and whoops! What's that? Oh yeah, what the hell did that guy give me? Can you catch the Herpes from a note stuffed in your tit sling? God,I hope not.
I picked it up, and there was a matchbook. A matchbook. I almost threw it away, but I decided to look inside, as I was unfamiliar with 70's Cruise ship mating customs but knew enough to take a peek.

Inside was a little note:
"Just moved back to town. No phone yet (pre-cell phone, if you can remember all the way back to the 1800's) but would like to meet. Coffee? Drop me a note.
My info: Gustav VonSmalls, 1234 Uptown place, Uptown Mpls, 50001.

I so desperately wanted to run there and do the "I'm reckless and want my life to be like a made-for-t.v. movie thing" that second, but I was drunk, and my boyfriend sleeping in the other room may have, maybe might have noticed. Oops. How unladylike of me.

So I waited three discretionary days, then I dropped him a note.
Then he sent one back. With a phone number.
Shit.

Long, bad breakup story later (wait for installment #3, my impatient little peepers), me and Gustav were fused at the nether regions. Or, as I like to call it- newly dating.

But there was an issue. A big/small issue.

An issue I was aware of, but honestly didn't really give a shit about until the subject was broached on that fateful day.

"Are you sure it isn't a problem?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know- how small it is."

"Oh, I didn't even notice." (this is a blatant lie)

"Really? Don't you think it's too small?"

"No! It's fine! Really!" (Um, yes, but I'm willing to overlook it for that thing you do with...you know.)

"Are you sure? My last girlfriend had a problem with it." (I remember this conversation exactly as this is the FIRST time I will hear the phrase "my last girlfriend" where it won't make me want to vomit)

"Totally sure. Everything is great." (Not a total lie yet, but it will be.)

(he smiles) "That's good. That makes me happy."

(I smile) "Great!" (not the least bit forced)


Cut to 9 months later (no, not THAT sort of nine months you freaks. Do you honestly think I'm qualified to give birth? Hello?). I think things are great- me and Gustav are an "item", I know all of his friends really well, I hang out at their apartment all the time, I cook for them, I loaned them furniture, and I don't even mind that really slutty girl that seems to be "working" her way through the group- I know my Gustav is just being nice to a wayward soul...right?

I had my suspicions. I wasn't that dumb, or stupid, or not smart.
I knew a slutty girl when I was/saw one, dammit. And I had every right to ask the questions I did.

"That Alison girl-(again, why change the name when they were a total whore?) is there anything going on there with you two?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you seem to be spending a lot of time with her and not me. She just seems sneaky and diseased to me, if you want to know the truth. Are you two involved?"

"She's a nice person and we're friends- that's all!"

"O.k. fine. Whatever."


So I did what any rational, sane girl would do. I drove by his place approximately 45 times that night he was "hanging out" with his "friend" Alison. I may or may not have parked my car and tried to peek in the windows. I may or may not have seen absolutely nothing. Zip. No one may or may not have been at home.

The next day I decided to prove what a good girlfriend I was and bring my boy some coffee and a muffin (raspberry caramel, not the dirty kind you evil monkeys).
I pushed the buzzer for the apartment.
His roommate, C, answered.

"Hey, is Gustav home? It's Whiskey."

"Hey Whiskey, I don't know if he's home or not, you can come in and check." (seriously. The apartment was ginormous and really spread out. They sometimes didn't see each other for weeks.)

"Great!"

I was buzzed in, went into the apartment, then proceeded to Gustav's bedroom- way in the back.

When I opened the door, there it was: Gustav enjoying what (I assume) was a post-coital cigarette NAKED with the slut, Alison. (Mind you, I enjoyed a lengthy bout of promiscuity in my early 20's that was nearly legendary. If I say slut, I mean it.)

"WHAT THE FUCK???????"

"Um, Whiskey!" (This was muffled as I had slammed the door and was stomping down the hall- shaking and plotting two separate, but grisly, deaths.)

Yeah. He cheated on me. Asshole.

I wouldn't have been nearly as pissed, but I had asked him point blank the day before if something was going on. THE FREAKING DAY BEFORE.

He was weak.

I guess a two-inch penis, third nipple, and really really odd lump on your back might do that to a guy. (no, sadly I am not exaggerating or fabricating here. Honest. Girl Scout's honor. I wouldn't lie about something so...so.)

Don't EVER tell me I wasn't a good girlfriend- that's all I'm sayin'...






Dear Gustav:
Hope you found a really understanding woman.
Really.
I do.
You need it.

Love,
WM

This is as painful for me as it is for you- trust me. Does it help that I brought pancakes?

Getting my oil changed at the place we'll call "Spiffy Pube", these were my magazine choices.

Obviously I chose the Honeybaked ham catalog, cause' you never know when you'll have a ham emergency and need to have a 12#, spiral-cut beauty FedExed in.

(As as aside to Enrique, my Spiffy Pube tech: I know what you did to my car. That noise, and the "check Engine" that's on now- that came on ONE HOUR after you all messed with my baby- yeah, you know what you did. I won't be back to visit you anytime soon, evil Spiffy Pube. I'll find somewhere else to get my hams from.)









I spent Sunday afternoon with my lovely lady Stacy at the St. Paul Art Crawl. We went to the bar at the Local Embassy Suites for bloodys beforehand. This is where, if you watch the news at all, you may remember this incident occurred.
No ducks were injured in the drinking of our tomato cocktails, I promise.

I bought some lovely earrings and this plate.
You will note that it depicts bunnies escaping from prison.

Yes it does.










Yesterday I got a haircut.

And yes, this is the best I could do for a picture. Cut me some slack. I'm retardedly busy.

Blurry, and I look angry.

It's a haircut. It's fine.

It looks a little Rock and Roll here. That is completely unintentional.

Whatever.














Like my muffin? Do you? Do you like it toasty and warm, big boy? Mmmm...tasty muffins.

Gotta go- many, many, many more of these to bake today.

I think that FINALLY, tomorrow, I will return to whatever "normal" is for me.

I'm really not sure what that means exactly.

I'll keep you posted.





*****************************************

Oops!
I almost forgot! Here's the puffy pancake recipe!

Puffy Apple Pancake

2 tbsp. butter
4 eggs
2/3 c. flour
1 tbsp. sugar
2/3 tsp. salt
2/3 c. milk

2t vanilla

sliced apples, if you like that sort of thing

Heat oven to 425 degrees. In medium bowl, combine eggs, flour, sugar, salt, milk and vanilla; beat until smooth (I just mix it in the blender). Spoon 2 tablespoons butter in to a 10 inch heavy oven proof skillet (I use a large glass pie pan). Place in oven to melt butter and heat skillet. Pour batter into prepared hot skillet. Top with sliced apples, if desired. Bake 20 to 25 minutes until edges are deep brown and puffy. Loosen pancake with knife or spatula; cut into wedges.

Dust with powdered sugar when done, serve with syrup or whatever the hell you want- I’m not the boss of you.

Exposed for the fraud that I am.

I lied.

I guess I thought after Friday a whole new world of free time and leisure would open up to me.

Not so much.

I had a whirlwind weekend, full of baking, wine, The Office season 3, baking, a birthday party, art, wine, bloody marys and baking.

And today I have a haircut, more baking, work and such and such.

I will be answering your cooking questions throughout the day. Don't let my busyness deter you though, if you have a question- ask away!

Oh, and did I mention that I'm getting ready for a little mini-vacation to fabulous Sonoma/San Francisco on Friday? Did I? Did I???

I wanted to show you a few pictures from this weekend, but Blogger seems to be pissed at me about something. Maybe I left my socks on the floor again. Blogger hates picking up after me.

Maybe later...

Chef Whiskeymarie, why does my cake taste like burning?

I don't have time for a real post today, but thank you baby jeebus that today is the end of my eight-week stretch of hell at work. Hopefully by next week I will be returning to my regular schedule, which includes no less than 4.5-6.7 hours of sloth per day. Oh sloth, where for art thou?

So, I thought this would be a good time for y'all to bring forth any pressing culinary questions you may have (if you have any at all). I'll have time to answer them this weekend.

Don't be shy- I can tell you how to quit scorching that water, if that's the problem. Really- I can. It's my job. I don't wear this badge for nothin', you know.

So have a glorious weekend, my little morsels of nutty, caramel-dipped bumblebees.

XO

You're not actually going to try and kiss me with that thing, are you?

Awesome.

May the shame monkey visit your home often.

Tripping + falling + uttering inappropriate expletives + talking to myself + thinking the car is in reverse when it's really in drive + food in my teeth + reading trashy pulp like Us and People + not washing my hair for loooong periods of time + getting accidentally drunk + wearing inappropriate clothing + eating Ruffles and Top the Tater in vast amounts and often + wine-stained teeth and + occasionally, forgetting my lines

=

Things I should probably get embarrassed about, but don't.









I do not embarrass easily. Not these days anyway. As an adult I have learned to embrace that which makes me- well...me.
As an adult.

I think this complete and utter lack of shame stems from my childhood- a time filled with so much shame and humiliation that I don't think it would even fit in even the most spacious of psyches.

As I've mentioned before, we weren't exactly "affluent" when I was growing up. I almost never had any of the cool clothes or stuff that the other kids had. You had Kangaroo tennies? I had Roopocket tennies from Kmart. You had Guess jeans? I had Whatthefuckarethose jeans. You had a satellite dish and a remote-controlled t.v? We had four channels and a "remote" that consisted of me getting up off the couch to change the damn channel.

Rusty, broken-assed cars, junk in the yard, hand-me-down clothes, a bad perm, growing freakishly tall by the sixth grade, having boobs by the fifth, hee-haw relatives, bologna sandwiches, grocery store-brand pop, no-name kool-aid, clearance underwear and drunk family gatherings that always ended with inanimate objects getting shot really, really, REALLY didn't help the situation.

I lived in constant fear that my classmates would notice these things- that my jeans, shoes and well, everything wasn't the same as theirs. Sometimes they didn't, but mostly they did.
Some of you may remember the first time legwarmers were in style? I was in the sixth grade, and it was winter. All the girls had cute ones they had bought at Maurice's or Deb, or Stuart's. I begged and begged, and eventually all of my wishes came true- sort of.
Instead of being pink and purple and blue like everyone else's, and obviously store-bought, mine were beige, blue and mustard gold. And hand made- the horror! They were hideous.
But, my grandma had felt bad for me, so she knit me a pair in what she approximated were our school colors. I knew it was a nice, sweet, loving gesture, but I also knew that the minute I wore them I would be socially crucified.
So I did, and I was. It was mortifying in a way that only a gangly, dorky 12 year-old can be mortified.

Multiply this scenario by like, 10,573, and you get a sense of my early adolescence.

I'm no Psychaiatristdoctorperson, but I'm pretty sure I used up most of my shame reserves during those years, leaving the coffers nearly empty.

And for this, I am glad.

Shame and humiliation wastes so much energy and time. I need all the time I can get to do things like write blog posts about my ovaries. I need all of the energy I have to "re-enact" what I imagined happed this week on "Dancing with the stars", as I have never actually seen the show. My version involves sort of a hybrid breakdance/rhumba/Flashdance montage- am I close?

So...the point I have yet to come to here is this:

It's REALLY hard to embarrass me. Really.

And I was tagged by the lovely, smart and accordion-playing Ms. Feisty to pick five songs that I'm kind of embarrassed that I like.

So sit back, pour yourself a nice cognac, put your feet up and prepare to be dazzled...


The top 5 songs I love (way) more than I should (with video links, in case you don't know- as the case often is- what the hell I'm talking about):

#1) "All out of love" by Air Supply. I know all of the words to this song. All of them. I sing it so loud in my car when it's on that dogs a mile away start barking. For this, I should be a little bit embarrassed.

#2) "Xanadu" by Olivia Newton-John. It's totally one thing to love the ELO songs from this wonderful roller-disco epic, as I do (shout out to Mr. Lynne, alive and well). But to love this song as much as I do, well...not so much.

#3) "Bust a Move" by Young MC. I don't know if they still do it, but Grandma's Sports Garden in Duluth used to have an 18-and-up dance night that we went to ALL. THE. TIME. This song was on mine & my roommates regular rotation for our pre-game party at our apartment.

#4) "Kids in America" by Kim Wilde. I used to play this really loud in my bedroom and dance like Molly Ringwald did in the Breakfast Club.

And finally, one that I really, really, really, AM embarrassed about. Seriously. You can think less of me for this one- I'd understand. I can't explain it either. I'm as horrified as you are. Feel free to delete me from your computer.
Here it is...
.
.
.
.
.
.
#5) This.

I need to go and wash it off now. Sorry.

Try and remember that true love is unconditional. UNCONDITIONAL!

Let's go for a quick little drive! I call shotgun!

The other day, I was driving along and I spied this.

So I actually stopped and took a picture of a rainbow.

Then I took out my "Hello Kitty" journal and wrote a nice long entry about how I don't like it when people are mean to puppies and how much I wish fairies were real. I made sure to dot all of my "I"s with smiley faces. God likes it when you do that.












Which reminds me...


I'll be adding this to the permanent collection as soon as the artist, Fredwick deSparkles signs it. He hasn't had a lot of time for his art lately, what with working double shifts at the 7-11 and all. The pay isn't great, but the slurpees and nachos are free, and he can take home all of the outdated magazines that he wants. Sweet!

Note to self: Rethink career move.














After the "rainbow incident" I needed a little freshening up in the breath department.


Ahhh, banana and mint. Together at last.
















On the way home, this guy thought he could intimidate me into being a better driver. Ha!

It's like he knew my head had been full of rainbows and monkeys all day.

I'll show YOU, Mr. hearse guy.

I can drive with my eyes shut! Look at me! Look at me!

Oops. Sorry Ma'am. Didn't mean to scare you like that. I'll be exiting now. Thank you.

The end.

Can you keep a secret? I can't either.

Every week I go on over to Post Secret and let myself in on the rest of the world's dirty little secrets. I can't help myself.
Some of the secrets are scandalous, some are sad, and some make me giggle because I love when karma bites someone in the ass. I love being a voyeur into other (normal in a way like you or I are "normal") peoples' deep, dark inner stuff.


So, what about this secret thing?



I have secrets. You have secrets. We all have secrets. Everyone. If you say you don't, you're a liar. Everyone has something they don't want ANYONE to know- not your best friends, not your significant other, not even your doctor (remember when you told her about that rash on your...you know? Remember??!?)

In my 29 years of life, I have learned that there are some people I can trust with classified information, and there are some that I shouldn't really tell anything.
I'll tell you what, when everyone and their mother knows that you farted in your sleep with that one guy that one time, well- it's time to rethink who you share your secret bits with, that's all I'm sayin'...

I have one friend I adore. I would walk across hot coals to get her an ice cold frappuccino if she asked. I would drive her to California on a moments notice just because she wanted a picture of David Hasselhoff's star on the walk of fame, if she asked. I would donate my pinky toe if she desperately needed a pinky toe transplant, if she asked.

But if she asks me about anything too personal and/or potentially juicy, well there is where I draw the line. This girl can't keep a secret any longer than it takes her to reach in her purse and pull out her cell phone. Tell her about that night with the circus clowns and the thong and the ouzo shots...well, within 20 minutes it will be in your FBI file in Quantico. I love her, but I wouldn't trust her with knowing who my favorite Brat Packer was (it was James Spader), let alone that thing that happened last September- you know the one... thing.

Other people, like my gals Blondie, Waffle and Hotpants (mostly. sometimes Ms. Pants can't help herself. Who can? I totally understand), are a different story. I can trust them with the details of that one weekend, with the dress, and the shots, and the cab ride to that place, and the such and such. With them, my secrets are like Condi Rice's pants- zipped up Reeeaaaly nice and secure. Ain't no one gettin' in there. No sir.

How am I with secrets, you ask?

My own, not so good. Give me a few glasses of wine and I'll tell you about the one time I cut myself "mowing the lawn", if you catch my drift. (wink)
Share a cocktail and a cheese plate with me and before the night is through you'll know my pin number, my pants size and the penis size of every guy I ever dated. And, if you're lucky I'll tell you about the first time I lost my virginity.
I am weak, with these secrets of mine.
Weak!

But if you're my friend, and you have the questionable judgment to share a secret with me- well, you may be surprised.
I'm pretty good at keeping these things mum.
That weird sex thing you like that no one else does? Zip.
That time you threw up Jim Beam and skittles in the grocery store bathroom? Nuh uh.
The time you got arrested for having sex in the park with that 19-year old carnie? Well, o.k, that one I couldn't resist. Sorry. Carnies!!!

But, for the most part, your secret is safe with me.

Just don't expect me to tell you about that weekend I had with the Italian racecar driver, the monkey and the tire swing.

That's my little secret, and I'm not telling anyone.

Hey-
Want to go and get a glass of wine? Maybe a martini?
Did I ever tell you about that one time I met an Italian racecar driver...?

Exciting? Um...not so much. Unless you think lettuce is exciting...

Not much cooking this weekend.

Too busy.

I did have Thai take-out Saturday night: my favorite laab (or larb) salad with chicken (sometimes tofu or beef), chiles, kaffir lime and fish sauce served with lettuce, cucumbers and sticky rice.

And two crispy tofu spring rolls.

And I had this deliciousness all to myself as the Mr. was busy getting his geek on with an old friend at a Comic Book Convention.

Yes. Seriously.

Comic. Book. Convention.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

When I placed my order at the Thai restaurant (which was NOT busy at all), the 13 year-old-looking girl told me that it would be a "while" as I had ordered the sticky rice as an extra (sorry, you don't eat this salad without it- it's horrifying to even consider the thought.)

I said "That's o.k, I need to run to Walgreens anyways". And off I went down the block to peruse the drugstore makeup selections and make the ever-importand decision: Us, or People?

I tend to linger in Walgreens- I can seriously spend an hour there, walking back and forth in the makeup, making the salesclerks nervous.

I purchased this new-to-me product there, and I think I'm in love. (Boys, think about sports here for a minute as I briefly discuss makeup.)
Some of you know how devoted I am to my Terra tints lip stuff. This new product is easily 99% as awesomely awesome. Light, sheer, shiny, good but not overpowering color. Highly recommended. (end makeup discussion.)

Anyhoo- I go back to the restaurant, approximately 1/2 hour later, and the same girl just stands there, staring at me blankly.

Me: "Is my order ready?"

Her: "Um, yeah. It's going to be a while. The sticky rice takes longer, you know."
(I look to my left and count 3 people eating sticky rice at that exact same moment)

Me: "Um, yeah, I know. O.k. Do you have any idea how long it will be?"

Her: "Why?"
(What? How is "why?" an answer? What the fuck do you mean- "WHY?")
Um...o.k.

Me: "Well, I thought I'd run one more errand but I just wanted to know how long I have."

Her: "What errand?"

Me: (pausing, thinking WHAT THE FUCK? What an odd question. What the hell do you care? Excuse me, Miss, have you been hit on the head lately? Taken any pills from strangers? Hmm...?)
"I'm going to the liquor store. I'll be back." I turned on my heel and marched out.

I went down the street, had a beer at a bar, stopped at the liquor store, and meandered down Grand Avenue- killing approximately 45 minutes in the process.
When I went back to the restaurant, my order was just coming out of the kitchen. Some days the universe just likes to play Russian roulette with my patience, it seems.

But it was delicious. Worth a 1.25+ hour wait? The jury's still out on that one. Whatever.

Moving on now...


I did make sort of a "greek-ish" pizza last night, but pizza is so easy I don't really count it as cooking. I'm at work so I can't post a pic. Use your imagination.

The catering was weird, but fine. I guess I don't really know for sure. I just sort of left when my work was done. I don't have patience for waiting around at these things. If you can't be around at the end to say whatever you need to say post-meal, too bad- I'm done. Just make sure my check arrives this week, or you're going to hear from me, that's for damn sure.

And...that's it. That was my weekend.

About as exciting as plain yogurt, but still kind of nice.

Anyone else eat anything interesting this weekend?

On the non-existent fruit of my womb.

About this baby thing...

I'm sorry, I don't want one.

Wait- no, I'm not one bit sorry.

Here's the deal:

Once I reached the ripe old age of 23 and started realizing that this dating thing could lead to more serious endeavors such as nuptials and procreation, I made a few decisions.

The first such decision was that if I happened to get "accidentally" pregnant I would seriously consider going through with it. (no reproductive rights debates here, please. You can have any opinion on this you wish, I just won't discuss/debate it here or now. The end.)
By "accidentally" I meant that if I happened to trip and fall into a penis and I happened to be feeling fertile and nature took its course...well, you know how this works by now, I hope.

At 23, when you think you're old and wise and are already so DONE with everything- and that's when one tends to make these sort of grandiose, sweeping decisions.

Other than a few anxious near-misses involving late menses, discount pregnancy tests and maybe me having bad aim peeing into the minuscule cup that (at the time, pre-pee stick) was provided, no such accidents occurred. Whew.

The other decision I made was that, should this "accident" never happen and I were to actually go on and live a child-free existence, I would refuse to take any shit from anyone about my decision.

So, I'm not taking any shit about the barren, rocky wasteland that is my reproductive system anymore. I'm sick to death of the pitying looks- like I really want one but have been unable to and I must be masking my disappointment with denial. Nope. I feel for anyone who really wants a child and it isn't happening for some reason- I really do. I can't begin to imagine what you're going through.
I just don't feel the same way.

When total strangers will rudely ask me why I don't have kids yet (generally after they have rudely asked me my age) I usually get "that look". The disbelieving look. That why would I deny myself this glorious and (I'm sure- thank you Mom, without you the mess that is me wouldn't be possible) truly rewarding endeavor look.
When I say "I just don't want kids", they generally launch into the sales pitch of why now would be an excellent time to change my mind ("You're not getting any younger, you know"). it's like they're trying to sell me a used, only slightly rusty car. "You'll love it- really it's hardly any maintenance at all! Sure, it needs a new paint job, new brakes and a new engine, but let me tell you little lady, this little beauty will give you years and years of happiness if you maintain it properly. And you know- you're not getting any younger..."

Or, I get the look like I must be a former hooker and crack addict and that's why I don't have any children- obviously my pimp took the 14 I had in the past away from me and sold them to the highest bidder. Yes, that's exactly it. My ovaries have been depleted and my body so ravaged that if I tried to conceive one more time I would give birth to something that resembled Milton Berle and E.T. with Britney Spears' intellect. Yup.

Or, I get the look like I'm some angry, mean child-hater. Like I kick puppies for fun.
Not even close. Kids loooove me. I will never understand why, but they do. They cling to me like I was made of gummy bears and unicorns. I figure maybe kids have a sense for people like me- they can smell my lack of maternal instinct and figure I'm an easy mark. I am. I love spoiling your kids and giving them toys that both make noise and make messes. Hahahahahaha!

I like kids. I do.

I especially like them in the post-baby years, around ages 2-8. They are frustrating and difficult, but damn they're cute, funny and charming.

Don't mistake this for wanting them though.

What I want is to travel more.

What I want is to have my free time be my own.

What I want is to buy more art.

What I want is to re-decorate my house.

What I want is to explore the hobbies that interest me.

What I want is to have the pitying, sad, disdainful and sometimes angry looks stop.

Am I being selfish? Maybe, but...

I don't give a shit if I am- it's my decision.


*******************************


Have a great weekend, my little fluffer nutters.
Go out and don't give a shit about something just for me.
XO

Mr. Zilla would later describe the meal as "pedestrian, yet filling".

Little random bits, the hors 'doeuvres and canapes of my life

Random bits about things that I have not a lot to say about:

• I seem to have the tolerance of an anorexic vegan these days. A few glasses of wine and the next day has me wanting to spend the day by myself, on the couch, cursing the day wine was invented. I think I may (prepare yourself here folks, this is a big 'un)............stop drinking for a while. I can't believe I said it either. I don't want to scare anyone- this is just a temporary blip in the space-time continuum. No need to go into the safe room with all the canned goods just yet.
• If your salad happens to have 2 fried spring rolls perched on top of the lettuce, noodles and cucumbers, is it still a salad? I'm thinking one cancels out the other, or something like that. I'm not sure how I feel about this as a "salad", but it sure is tasty.
• If it's fall, why is it still too damn hot to wear my lovely new sweaters? Dear Mother Nature: I'm really tired of sweating. Stop wasting time coming up with new flower and spider breeds and do your job properly. It's time to get together with your associates and do something about the weather. Thank you.
• Whoever this Dr. Pepper guy is, I wish he were my Gynocologist. If he can do that with soda, just imagine what magic he could work on my ovaries.
• I agreed to cater a brunch this weekend at a Sorority at the U. I am so regretting this. I have no time to do it to begin with, and the 14,879 phone calls and e-mails that have been sent my way are starting to be a titch annoying. It's fucking brunch, ladies. Just chill.
• Other than the catering, I am hoping to spend the rest of the weekend catching up on my quality "me" projects, and hopefully >90% of this time will be spent in jammies of varying styles.
• In two weeks, me & the Mr. will be going to lovely San Francisco and the Sonoma Area for a little R&R. We'll visit my sister & her husband for two nights, then the other two nights will be spent in the city. I am counting the seconds. I need to get away, even if it's just for five-ish days. I plan on lots of sleeping, eating and not thinking about work. I am more excited for this than if I had just learned that Clive Owen wanted to get together for a little game of naked twister. But- Sir Sexypants Clive- if you're listening...
• I'm going to find some chocolate now. Maybe cake, which would make the grand total of pieces of cake consumed in the last week: 4.

Back to your regularly scheduled day, my crispy little love-filled wontons.

Why things are the way they are

Hey there!

I've been thinking about you!

You know, how've you been, how you have been getting by...you know, the usual.

I hear you haven't been doing so well. I hear you've been fondling monkeys and been busy getting accused of manhandling "sensitive" boys from the monastery.

How's that working out for you?






Me? Thanks for asking.

Well, I've been pensive.

I keep thinking about those monkeys...

You KNOW how I feel about those monkeys.


But then I remembered...









Boobs are smart.

At least MINE are.

Mine know their place.


Thank you boobs, for guiding me properly. And for loving this awesome t-shirt as much as your host does.

You are truly the light and the way.

Monkeys understand this.


Thank you monkeys.


Tags: Why I'm fucking nuts; Why I'm socially retarded



**********************************************************************************


On a side note to those of you who have e-mailed about this:
And, o.k. girls (and boys): I'm already logged into Goodreads and have spent some time there. (www.goodreads.com/). I don't know if I can handle shelfreads too...I'll see what time allows. Honestly, I don't read enough books to justify two book website subscriptions. (I'm lame and uneducated like that. ) (Oh, and I love gummy bears. )(And shoes. I love shoes. But I love warm sunny days too.) (Do you hate me for loving warm, sunny days?) (Do You??)(Or do you hate me for loving gummy bears?) (TELL ME!!!) (DAMMIT!!!) Yes. Books. Yes. I will try and conform and commit to two different, yet equally time stealing ventures. Give me a moment...Or two.

The link for the t-shirt courtesy of Ms. Twisted: Go here, my dears.