I was just sitting here thinking how little there is to write about when your life is just shit-damn happy. And also when you are not drinking.
Oh my fucking god, I’m still not drinking. I can’t even speak further on that, I’m afraid it will cause an aneurysm. I’ve fallen through some wormhole where time stops, so it’s never 5 o’clock. There are a lot of quantum physics involved, so trying to understand why this is happening to me will make your head explode, thus the aneurysm. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s gossip about a friend of mine instead.
I’m having an argument with an old friend on Facebook. I don’t know, it may not be so much of an argument but more of me shoving my opinion down his throat. Because my opinion is right, of course, which I’m sure you will help prove.
See, Derek* posted a manwhore picture of himself on Facebook. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless since 1993, and I’m not entirely sure I saw him shirtless even then. Did I? Didn’t I? We dated in high school, but not seriously. I can’t recall if he even got to second base. These things get fuzzy after 17 years.
Anyway, Derek posted this manwhore picture on Facebook. I call it a manwhore picture because, quite frankly, it offends me. First and foremost, I always find it offensive when guys I broke up with develop these really hot bodies down the road. They should all get fat and bald, reinforcing my wise decision to dump them. When they turn out hot in their mid-thirties, it makes me wonder if I was really that smart in the ’90s.
I can deal with that, though. Yeah, Derek may have gone and developed this hot body, but I have this here blog with its huge following of 11 commenters, proving what I’ve suspected about life all along: it’s quality over quantity.
But let’s get to the meat (har!) of this manwhore picture. What really bugs me is the lack of body hair on Derek. Clearly he has shaven (or waxed) his chest hair. This current trend of grown men appearing hairless drives me absolutely INSANE. And I don’t mean the sexual oh-my-god-I-want-you insane. I mean the What-the-fuck-Twilight insane.
When I fantasize about the hottest man in showbiz, Stephen Colbert has some goddamn chest hair when his shirt and tie comes off.
(Hi Stephen. Yes, I’m the person who came to your website and searched “shirtless” and then “shirtless Stephen.” I then turned to Google for help, Stephen, so yes, I am also the person who landed on your website by searching “Stephen Colbert without a shirt.” I have to say I’m not only disappointed but disillusioned too. The only clip I could find included shirtless men WITH NO BODY HAIR. God help me and my fantasies!)
What the fuck is wrong with the world? First we have grown women panting over teenage vampires and werewolves, like an un-spayed cat locked up in a suburban laundry room for her own good. Now it appears the conventional definition of a sexy man is something that looks like an overdeveloped, hairless man-child.
I don’t know what is happening?! Is it me? Am I the crazy one? Should I visit a gynecologist to have my hormone levels evaluated? Do I need more estrogen? Progesterone? A steroid shot so I can just grown my own damn chest hair? What the hell? I no longer belong on this planet.
I had to go way back to 2001 (speaking of time wormholes) to find sexy, shirtless celebrities with chest hair.
I hate to disappoint you but I’m not going to be on the computer today. I’ve decided to spend the entire day focused on my children. And by that I mean I’m off getting a haircut while Wally takes the boys to his office.
Sweet serenity!
I hope I get a scalp massage while they wash my hair. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, which I don’t understand because this is an uppity salon and I tip very well. Maybe I should lodge a complaint. And leave the kids at Wally’s office all day.
But while I’m not here, possibly getting or not getting a scalp massage, I have some other stuff to share with you. Because I love you.
Do you know Sara Swears a Lot? Well, you should. She’s my new BBFF (bloggy best friend forever) after she emailed me and we discussed booger picking. It was more than awesome, almost as awesome as her texting post.
Or this celebrity tweeting post by Fuck Yeah, Motherhood. It makes me want to follow celebrities on Twitter, which sort of goes against everything I stand for – peace, honor, and reverse snobbery.
Of course I could just link to anything Stacey writes, I love her so. She has a shrine in my house, you know. In the linen closet. Same goes for Amalah and Oh the Joys.
And hey, have you RSVP’d for the Mouthy Housewives Two Hour Cocktail Party at BlogHer? Read about it here, or just follow @MouthyHousewife on Twitter for the link to the invitation. Good times are promised. I hear rumors of Marinka vs. Wendi shot drinking contests, followed by girl wrestling with Kelcey and one lucky contestant from the audience. I hear these rumors because I made them up. Spread the word!
I’m pretty sure I intended to tell you about my Son of Thor and what in the hell that has to do with Payton’s social skills work. And I know it was a super great story with lots of witty one-liners and deep spiritual insight to boot.
But here’s the thing about working outside the home where you don’t have access to a computer. It forces you to live in the outside world and not the world in your head. Gah, I still have to deal with PEOPLE! And be polite to them. It’s exhausting.
There’s the eavesdropping on people’s white trash family drama. And fending off old men who want me to give them a kiss. And strangers asking me how much money I make. And asking me to help their relative get a job.
I knew society was insane, but this is almost too much.
But I have to do it. I HAVE to get out in society, y’all. I’m sitting on my front porch as I write this and caught myself about to pick my nose. ON THE FRONT PORCH WHERE PEOPLE COULD SEE. OMFG.
I would be very surprised if Johnny Depp doesn’t come and woo me away from Wally, that’s how hot this picture is.
A sad, but true story…
For the life of me, I couldn’t remember how to spell ‘woo,’ that’s HOW LONG I’VE BEEN MARRIED. I kept trying to put an ‘h’ in it. So I asked Wally on AIM. (Yes, that’s HOW OLD WE ARE, we still use instant messaging.)
Heather: How do you spell whoo. You know, as in romance.
Wally: whoohoo.
OMFG, we are SO married. Possibly too married. Is there such a thing?
It’s Monday and I have been around people of the male gender almost constantly for nine days straight. Someone please help de-testosterone my body by sending estrogen, perhaps a little Premarin. Though I would prefer bio-identical hormones over pregnant horse piss, beggars can’t be choosers.
I swear to God, if there is one thing about men that could make me turn lesbian it’s the length of time they spend in the bathroom.
As a result of such non-stop exposure to skid marks, ball-scratching and burping, my brain is somewhat mushy. It’s difficult for me to form coherent much less witty thoughts.
However, I did hear on the radio the other day that consumer inflation has remained steady over the past 25 years, if you exclude food and energy prices.
So for those of us who do not need to eat and live in a cave lit by pine torches and still get from tribe meeting to tribe meeting via a horse, we are doing great!
Don’t you love good news?!
Now for a bit of bad news. Girl Scout cookies are out, if you didn’t know already. Personally I’m bombarded with requests to buy them every where I go but perhaps you have escaped the stalkers. Lucky you.
What I find perplexing is how excited people get when the cookies come out. Have these people tasted the cookies? They aren’t good. I know because I guilted myself into buying a box of Samoas from a friend’s daughter and ate the entire box. I kept eating one after another, waiting for that moment of gastronomic bliss, for the flavor to explode in my mouth, because surely this is what gets people excited about these cookies?
It never happened. Unless you count the taste of cheap chocolate as gastronomic bliss, which I don’t.
I wonder, the next time I’m asked to buy cookies from a Troop sitting outside of Wal-Mart’s doors, can I be completely honest and tell them I don’t want to buy the cookies because they taste like crap?
Next year when I’m asked by friends to buy cookies from their daughters, can I tell them I don’t want to because they taste like crap?
How do you escape the Girl Scout Cookie trap?!?
I think the reason people get excited about Girl Scout cookies is because they can’t escape the trap and in order to preserve their ego, they convince themselves they want the cookies.
I’m determined to escape the trap next year. If only I knew how…
I’ve only had my Le Creuset two days and already I am a wiser and more accomplished cook.
And this is where I was going to write about one of those awesome numerical posts, detailing exactly what I’ve learned about Le Creuset in just two days. But screw that shit, I have a national emergency here.
My large-and-pretty-we-could-never-afford-to-replace-it-now-that-we-have-children-and-a-mortgage wedding ring.
Is 9 am too early for a glass of Mad Housewife merlot?
I can’t even remember when I took them off. I vaguely remember taking them off last night to put on lotion, placing my rings on the kitchen counter, FAR AWAY from the kitchen sink. But the memory is so fuzzy. And it’s winter, so I’ve taken my rings off a hundred times for lotion, am I even remembering the right day?
I also vaguely remember a clinking sound while in the kitchen last night, like something falling. I think? Where was I? I’m not even sure! The kitchen? (Boy, this convinces me to stop cooking with wine!) I can remember looking down at the floor, wondering what that was, but not seeing anything that caught my eye. WAS THAT MY RING? OMFG!?
So I spent about 30 minutes in utter terror that my rings went down the kitchen drain. Then I got smart, grabbed another one of my rings and tried to make it go down the kitchen drain. The drain holes are too small. Or it really pays to have meaty fingers, whichever, I don’t care. What a relief that my rings couldn’t have gone down the drain.
And just then, I started to thank God for that miracle, but now I’m wondering if I should be mad at God. Is this punishment for me bragging about my Le Creuset steal and using it as proof God loves me?
Right now I’m convinced God wants to keep me humble and Le Creuset was actually a gift from the devil.
I’ve ransacked my room in search of my rings. I pulled out the couch cushions and dug through the cracks, finding enough whale cracker crumbs to cover snack time in Parker’s class. But no ring.
I went through my pants and jacket pockets of the clothes I wore yesterday, and even the clothes I thought about wearing but can’t because I gained four pounds over Christmas. As if my rings would magically insert themselves into the pocket of my skinny jeans. This is desperation setting in.
I looked under my buffet table in the kitchen. Under the cabinets, behind the boys’ backpack stations. I’m about to get out the screwdriver and look under the dishwasher and then brave the army of dust bunnies under the fridge and look there.
I even got out my son’s metal detector (yay for smart, nerdy kids!) but the thing beeps at every damn thing.
I suppose I also need to dig through the kitchen trash, in case my rings got swept up in a mountain of school papers as they went into the trash. Damn kids and their fucking education, always screwing shit up!
Is it expecting too much for Wally to rush home from work to help me find my wedding rings? I can’t believe I have to deal with this travesty alone because he has a job. What the hell?
Fuck, I can’t take this anymore. I would make promises to God that I will never ever ever put my rings anywhere again but in their proper place, even for lotion! But I’m mad at God right now.
Instead, I’m going to knock myself unconscious and spend the rest of the day in oblivion.
UPDATE!
I found my rings. You may now proceed with your own lives.
I found them in the strangest place, and you people will either think I’m really stupid, or really crazy. Or maybe you’ll believe me, and if so, that makes you my most favorite reader.
They were in the pocket of the jeans I’m wearing. But I SWEAR upon all that is holy, such as a bottle of Kettle One, I checked my pockets several times and they weren’t in there.
My boss called me after she read my post and got me to calm down, walked me through a meditation, and less than 5 minutes later the rings appeared in my pocket. I say ‘appeared’ because, I’m telling you, they were not in my pocket before that.
Weird, huh? Especially since I joked about my rings magically appearing in my skinny jeans and that’s exactly what they did. Except not in the skinny jeans, which is really thoughtful of my rings because it’ll be 4 weeks before I wear those again.
Now if I could just meditate a winning lottery ticket in my jeans pocket, that would be great.
This really puts into perspective the insignificance of universal health care. Who gives a damn about that, what we really want to know is how world leaders will avert a famine-induced Eggo Apocalypse.
My guess is the government will take over Eggo production and we’ll be forced to appear before committees, testifying why we deserve to receive our weekly allotment of Eggo waffles instead of death.
Well, thank God you’re reading my blog, because this full-blooded American has a solution. Power to the people! and all that revolutionary, anti-government Beatles/John Lennon shit.
Today I will explain how to make your own waffles, again without pictures. But pay attention anyway, even without the picture pages! There is a lot of classified & highly intellectual stuff in here that Eggo wouldn’t want you to have, like the ability to pronounce all of the ingredients in your waffles.
First, plug in your waffle iron to begin heating, then crack two eggs into a bowl, preferably one with a pour spout.
Next, mix in…
1 3/4 C. milk
1/2 C. oil
2 C. flour
4 tsp baking powder
1 tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
dash of vanilla
Just dump it all in and then whip all of it together with a wire whisk until smooth.
What, that’s it?
Yes, for quite a while, Eggo had me thinking homemade waffles were more complicated too, but it’s an easy recipe.
Now! Pour desired amount of batter into the griddle. This part is a bit tricky. If you pour too much, the batter will ooze out the sides and back which makes me utter cuss words before 8 am, it’s a huge pain in the ass to clean up that kind of mess. So, pour less than you think you need to fill up the griddle sections and then spread the batter around to see if it fills in. If not, add a little bit more.
Close your griddle. Give it a couple of minutes, but once you see a good amount of steam coming from the iron, lift it up and check. My boys don’t like crispy waffles, so I take mine out when lightly browned. Adjust brownness for your tastes.
See? That wasn’t hard at all and I averted an apocalypse. You’re welcome.
In other world-stopping news, here are my children home from school, ELECTIVELY PLAYING WITH TOYS INSTEAD OF VIDEO GAMES. TOGETHER! WITHOUT FIGHTING! OMFG.
Also, stop the presses, here’s the laundry basket, devoid of dirty clothes. Because I’m all caught up with laundry.
This moment lasted all of 2 hours so it’s vitally important to record such historic moments for posterity, people. If we don’t, these memories can be lost to vodka tonics and tranquilizers. Don’t be like me and learn this the hard way. Look at my kitchen.
It was clean for a good 5.78 seconds, but stupid me, I didn’t grab the camera within that time and before I could turn around, it looked like that.
What is okay and what is not okay to share on a blog?
Like right now? I’m making my chocolate chip cookies. Should I share my secret, custom recipe, along with all the stirring and gadgetry tricks that has taken about 599 million different tries and approximately 650 pounds lost and gained in 5 pound increments to perfect?
Do I share that with you too, because the pumpkin fudge recipe post was actually fun for me. Though it wasn’t my recipe. The chocolate chip cookie recipe is my recipe, and what if I want to do something with it? Like sell it to…I don’t know, someone. Someone who will make me rich off of it. Or get a job at a bakery, all through the awesomeness that is my cookies, even though I’ve never worked at a bakery and have lazy objections to working on the weekend.
But if I’ve posted my recipe here, everyone has access to it so why would they need to buy my cookies or hire me for my cookies, I PUT IT IN GOOGLE CACHE!
Gesh, ego demands I have a plan. I a 35-year-old desperate housewife with both children in school and in an economy that is almost impossible to find a job – I NEED A LIFE PLAN! Even if it’s an imaginary plan.
But like Paula Deen and Rachel Ray became famous by keeping their recipes secret.
In other questions of over-sharing, over here we’re talking about energy beams up your vagina. Should you? Or no? It’s a personal decision, I suppose, whether to allow alien technology up your lady parts, but she did ask so don’t hesitate to chime in.
And did you read Neil’s advice on bl0w jobs? I mean, really. Get your questions in to us while you can before we become famous. Energy beams up vaginas and a man’s advice on giving blow jobs. It’s inevitable, people.
It’s such a special day. This is the first recipe post here on my blog. I’m convinced I could steal all of Pioneer Woman’s readers if only I weren’t lazy and had quality pictures. Or even a picture. But whatever, my readers use make-believe and we know that’s more powerful than knowledge.
Now there are some weirdos out there who don’t care for fudge, even though they have tasted mine. I’ve heard this odd behavior is a side effect of a botched lobotomy so don’t even try to understand them. Pity them instead
This recipe is not of my own but comes from Southern Living, also known as the Golden Compass of all Southern Cooks.
The directions come from me, but really, it’s like coming straight from God such is the magic when my hands meet sugar and butter and chocolate. I will tell you all my confectionary secrets pertaining to fudge. Except for one. It will cost you $19.95.
Pumpkin Fudge
(imagine pretty picture of fudge here)
Ingredients
3 C. sugar
¾ C. melted butter
2/3 C. evaporated milk
½ C. canned pumpkin
2 tbsp corn syrup
1 tsp pumpkin pie spice
12 oz. package of white chocolate chips
7 oz. jar marshmallow cream
1 C chopped pecans
1 tsp vanilla
First things first when making fudge – your pot. Oh my, this is important. This is my fudge pot…
…I don’t know the exact size, sorry. It’s the tallish one. You want it tall so your butter/sugar/milk has room to rise as it boils AND it’s deep enough to get a proper reading on your candy thermometer.
Second things first when making fudge – your candy thermometer. Get one.
Third things first when making fudge – your spoon. There is only one spoon I will use to make fudge and this is it:
It’s the best spoon in the world. Notice the partial metal handle? Stirring fudge is stiff business. All plastic spoons flex and bend as you stir in the chips & marshmallow cream and that’s annoying.
A wooden spoon probably works good too, though I do think spoons are like the wands from Harry Potter – the spoon chooses the confectionary wizard. My spoon chose me. Okay, it was really Wally’s spoon from college, but he chose me, so whatever.
Now onto the actual cooking.
(insert here professional-looking picture of all of my ingredients pre-measured in pretty bowls, such as Paula Deen’s bowls. Right now I don’t have these or any pretty bowls since #1 the economy sucks and #2 what the economy doesn’t suck out of me monetarily, my children do. School picture packages cost HOW MUCH?)
Melt enough butter to clog the arteries of 10 different people. This is where you melt butter.
In a microwave. That is clean. Please verbally appreciate the cleanliness of my microwave since no one in my home ever does.
Pour your sugar, melted butter, evaporated milk, pumpkin, corn syrup & pumpkin pie spice into your pot. Grab your spoon and gird up your loins in preparation of a lifetime of constant stirring.
Turn stove eye onto medium-high heat and stir your ingredients together.
Keep stirring. Do not stop. Do not pass go. Do not do pour a glass of wine, cooking fudge takes concentration!
Keep stirring. Constantly. Your life depends on it. Do not stop!
(insert here culinary picture of Heather stirring and stirring and stirring and stirring until she finally props herself up on the stove from fatigue.)
Once sugar mixture begins to boil, insert your candy thermometer (in the pot and not elsewhere, you nasty freak) and keep it in there, waiting for the temperature to reach 234 degrees. Keep stirring!
Now, some recipes will tell you to do that or simply boil the sugar mixture for 12 minutes. THIS 12 MINUTE THING IS A LIE. I’m convinced this lie is propagated by certain chain fudge companies so you will fail and keep buying their fudge.
So use the candy thermometer and keep stirring. Be strong!
(insert picture of Heather’s fingertips turning red from potential steam burns.)
Check your candy thermometer a thousand times. While it doesn’t take that long to go from 0 to 230 degrees, it will take three light years to go from 230 degrees to 234 degrees.
Once it reads 234 degrees, immediately remove pan from heat (don’t forget to turn off eye) and quickly stir in the white chocolate chips until melted. Then stir in the marshmallow cream.
You may want help at this stage. My arms tire by this point so I call in the husband. I have feminine arms and no matter what Jillian’s 30 Day Shred thinks, I will never be a she-man. I need a stirring partner.
Once the marshmallow cream is blended in completely, stir in vanilla and pecans. Pour into a greased (with cooking spray) 13×9 casserole dish. Now lick the spoon and pot. But don’t burn your tongue, idiot. That stuff was 234 degrees just a couple of minutes before.
Allow fudge to cool and set, preferably overnight. Cut and enjoy. And then thank me for all my wonderful insight.
If for some reason the recipe doesn’t work for you, please send in $19.95 and I will tell you what you did wrong.
I'm Heather, and I'm both politically and grammatically incorrect. This blog kicks ass because I write only the truth. And the truth is always funnier than fiction.
Entries (RSS)