Archive for the 'Culinary Abortions' Category

I’d sell your heart to the junkman baby
For a buck, for a buck
If you’re looking for someone
To pull you out of that ditch
You’re out of luck, you’re out of luck

The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
There’s leak, there’s leak,
In the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves, and lawyers

God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business. Business.

Digging up the dead with
A shovel and a pick
It’s a job, it’s a job
Bloody moon rising with
A plague and a flood
Join the mob, join the mob
It’s all over, it’s all over, it’s all over
There’s a leak, there’s a leak,
In the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves, and lawyers
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away,
On Business. Business.

Goddamn there’s always such
A big temptation
To be good, To be good
There’s always free cheddar in
A mousetrap, baby
It’s a deal, it’s a deal
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
I narrow my eyes like a coin slot baby,
Let her ring, let her ring
God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business.
Business…

And those are the lyrics to Girlfriend’s favorite song.  It’s by Tom Waits.  I’d like to thank my father-in-law for playing it for her and singing it to her.  He thinks he’s hilarious, you know.  She busted out with that one when she was about 2 1/2 and we were at Target standing in an aisle with two elderly nuns.

EDIT BY THE PIMP: here’s the song…

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She was all “God’s away, God’s away, God’s away on business!”

Luckily, I think they were deaf so it’s completely fine.

I love random playback of inappropriateness at inappropriate times though, don’t you?

The song is going through my head because this morning, we do, in fact, have a leak in the boiler room and I have to survive the morning with no water because we had to shut it off so as not to flood the house.  My father-in-law, being the great dad that he is, will be coming over this afternoon to help Mister fix the broken water pipe and will without a doubt, be singing in chorus with Girlfriend about a leak in the boiler room the entire time. I need to brush up on the lyrics so I can join in.

Also, any work people reading this, it’s my official calling in.  I won’t be at work tonight because somebody has to watch the kids while they fix the leak.  Don’t any of you say you can’t phone it in on your blog because I totally just did.

Suck it, bitches.

And Homeslice was awake all night with teething pain and the Monkey Pig Typhoid Cold Flu.  I might take her to the doctor’s.  I’m debating.  And I was feeling much better after my Monkey Pig Typhoid Cold Flu but I’m getting re-sick.  My hair hurts again and I have a sore throat.  I blame Homeslice and all her snots.

There’s baby snots in my hair right now, fyi.  I just had it blonded, too.  It looks awesome even with the snot.

And I got Lady Days finally and it’s beastly.

It’s pretty much Armageddon here as far as I’m concerned.

So I will spend the morning baking 32 festive green mini cupcakes for Girlfriend’s St. Patrick’s day thing at school with no water for clean ups.

Sa-weet!

So yes.

The universe woke me up with great big “HAPPY MONDAY, FUCKFACE!”

PS: I don’t know why the formatting is all shaquaed up there.  It’s the least of my problems today.

PSS: I don’t mean this to be complain-y.  I’m just sharing with you what it’s like to be Queen.  It ain’t all glamor and midget porn, you know.

Wanna know what I ate yesterday?

Oatmeal with wheat germ, butter, and brown sugar.  I put just a little bit of butter and brown sugar, so it tasted like, I don’t know, paper? I’d have put banana in it but my mom ate the last one when she was visiting the other day. (Whore)

Orange juice

Half a mango

One handful of Whole Foods brand organic chocolate animal cookies, consumed in the dark in my pantry with the door closed so Girlfriend wouldn’t catch me eating them BECAUSE COOKIES ARE BAD FOR YOU AND YOU CANNOT EAT THEM EVERY DAY.

One handful of dry roasted peanuts.

Water, water, water, water, water, water

Cheddar cheese on whole wheat bread with pickles on the side. (Btw, you guys HAVE TO get this book.  I’ve been making bread like a motherfucker!) (Don’t worry.  There are NO semen recipes in it)

Then I get to work, and here’s where being tired and sad and wanting to go home turns into a Food Craptacular:

Immediately upon entering break room to put my dinner in the fridge- BAM! One mini cupcake from the break room table. It wasn’t even good, I knew that, but I ate it anyway. WTFF?

A couple of hours later…

Baby carrots and 1 tablespoon of peanut butter

1 Cookie

1 Apple

1 Chocolate from somebody’s Valentine’s sampler

1 Cookie

Amy’s Palak Paneer and a salad for dinner

1 Piece of Denise’s birthday cake

And then I went home and went directly to bed before I could eat one more thing that would make me want to shoot myself in the face with a bazooka.

Do you see a pattern here Queefies? Because I do, and that’s why I’m about to do something unimaginable, something I never thought I would do, something that has absolutely nothing to do with Lent (because I’m giving up anal for Lent just like every year).

I’m going into sugar de-tox, you guys.  I’ve been eating like this every day since Christmas 2008 and I’m tired of feeling like shit about it.  It’s not so much that it makes me fat.  It’s that it’s a monster and it demands more and more and more of itself and it’s never happy or satisfied.  There’s always another cupcake, another cookie, another whatever and I’m all done with it!

So, for the next week, I will not eat any bullshit food.

None. Nada. Nein.

Who’s with me?

Let’s ALL do it!

One week.

No sugary treats.

If you guys see me eating a cupcake or some such nonsense like that any time between now and next what day is it?, you need to slap it out of my mouth and shove it up my ass (except I gave up anal for Lent, so probably don’t do that last part).

So here it is. Mister worked really hard on this new theme, and we struggled with the colors. We’re (I’m) not totally sure we (I) love them like this, so that might change at some point. But he didn’t pimp slap me when I kept saying the colors weren’t right, so tell him his balls are pretty and touch him on his bum a little. He likes those things (even if you have to lie about the balls part because let’s face it. Balls aren’t cute).

Today Homeslice and I will have adventures on the East Side of Providence over at Monica’s, and then at Whole Foods. All the fancy stuff is on the East Side of Providence, you know.  And then tonight, we all go across the street for our weekly Pot of Crap dinner with the Richard and Micheles. I’m making pizza, it’s very exciting.

Try to control yourself.

I’m just concerned about the drive over to the East Side because I’m like 85% sure we’re going to die in a car crash. Just this past week, I’ve been run into the ditch THREE times by 2 asshats who were texting and came over the yellow line and nearly hit us head-on, and one stupidcuntbitchasshat who decided to drift into my lane without even looking when I was right next to her. Yes.  I was trying to pass her because she was doing 45 in the fast lane on the highway with her head resting on her driver’s side window.  What the fuck, woman?  She could have killed Girlfriend and me!  Homeslice was on the other side. She probably would have been okay.  But when I beeped the horn at her, she didn’t even notice.  She didn’t even take her head off her window.

So, I’ve decided that my next car will be one of these:

Sexy, right?  That’s actually the sexiest picture I could find. It’s not the BMW,but you know what?  At least we won’t all die in this car because some fucktard was texting his girlfriend.   And you see where the fog lights are mounted right there on the front?  I’m going to take those out and have Mister Macgyver some kind of flame thrower arrangement so that when somebody tries to kill us, I can burn them.  He’s totally brilliant at ghetto rigs.  He can do it.  Once he figures it out, he can do your car too.  It’s up to us to teach them, you know.

SOLIDARITY BROTHERS AND SISTERS!

btw, this is my official announcement to Mister that he’s buying me a Volvo.  He doesn’t know yet.  He’s going to be Very Excited.

Like, $45,000 exciteds.

PS: We don’t actually have $45,000 for a new car.  I’m just feeling like a rich lady because I made $130 selling my stuff on eBay last week, so clearly we can afford a new car.

PSS: I’m not good at math.

PSSS: That’s why I think I might have to bust out my feminine wiles for this one.  It’s going to take some convincing.

PSSSS: By feminine wiles I mean promises of blow jobs and steak every Friday night.

PSSSSS: I’d watch the comments section if I were you.  Just sayin.’

PSSSSSS: If you don’t help support my cause, I will totally ban you from this blog.

Why does everyone die at Christmas?  My grandmother died at Christmas two years ago.  And now Olivia is dead too! I can’t say I ever really felt a connection to Olivia,  I was more of a Maria or a Mr. Hooper kind of girl, but she taught millions of us little childrens all kinds of  important stuff.

I’m not talking about this Olivia, btw:

She’s not real and therefore, cannot die.  At least, I don’t think she can die.  Anything is possible, I guess.

I’m talking about this one, for those of you lazy so-and-sos who didn’t click the link:

So yes.  Olivia.  RIP.  Nobody is talking about it because her death isn’t sexy like Brittany Murphy’s.  I hate the fucking media.  I really do.

Dicks.

Olivia contributed way more to the world, I dare say.

Anywho, thank you guys so much for all the wonderful recipes yesterday!  You’re all so helpful, and it took you forever to type all that in! You saved me from having to sit here searching the Internet.  It came to me! YAY!!!

I think I might go with a pot roast for the meat thing as suggested by k8 because it can be done in my crock pot and not take up my oven.  That sounds smart because what usually happens is I wind up with everyone fighting over oven space to heat up/bake the shit they brought and it always turns into a game of who the fuck are you using my daughter’s/son’s/brother’s oven where my mother’s green bean casserole and my mother-in-law’s potatoes volley for space with my sister-in-law’s thing and it’s a big. giant. clusterfuck.

And then I drink some wine and hide in the garage with a smoky treat.

I don’t give a fuck if the casserole is cold from being in the car, goddammit.

Don’t make me kill you.

This morning, Frank Coletta, ace television reporter for the Turn to Ten news, told me that Brittany Murphy died.

This is very sad to me because one of my favorite movies of all time is Clueless, and now the “tragically unhip” Tai is dead.  I love Tai.

That’s sad. Very sad.

What’s also sad is that I am super way behind on Christmas preparations and I need help from people who aren’t clueless in the kitchen.  Do you see how I worked that in, you guys?  The clueless thing?  That’s why I’m the Queen.

I have to make some sort of meat thing and a potato thing and a vegetable thing and also a breakfast thing I don’t know what to make.  I don’t have the head space to come up with anything.

HELP. ME.

I need recipes that are easy, and that I can do with a baby attached to my boob.

Thank you.

Happy almost Christmas.

I’m so tired it’s hard to breathe.

EDIT: here’s the song….

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Wow.

That was a busy weekend.

So Mister’s  snippy snippy went fine on Friday.  Thank you all for your well wishes.  It warmed his heart as his balls froze to death under a pile of frozen peas.  I was feeling a little sad about it, to be honest.  I’m not going to have any babies anymore.  Sigh.  But then Homeslice starts bitching and pulling my hair and I am very comforted that I won’t be having any more babies.  Hoo. Fucking. Ray!

And Mister is maybe a little sad that he didn’t have a son to pass on his family name, but I told him not to worry.  Maybe one of the girls will be a lezbeefriend and she’ll adopt some little Chinese babies with her life partner and the family name will not die with him.  It will just become Chinese instead.

(This cannot leave this blog, but between you and me, my money’s on Homeslice.  I mean look at her!

She’s diesel!  And she’s a little, shall we say, overly enthusiastic, about the boobages.  I’m just saying.)

And so right after Mister got home from his appointment, I went to a party because I’m a very caring wife like that and I know you’ve all been waiting for the final count on the theme sweaters and I am very sad and disappointed to tell you that there was only ONE and it wasn’t even that hideous.  What a bummer.  And there was nary a candy cane turtle neck to be seen.  What is wrong with these people?  There were, however, a large number of red sweaters and snow flake pins, so it wasn’t a total loss. I got a really awesome coffee cup that said “Do you have a library card, cause I’d like to check you out.” on it.  It’s pretty awesome, obviously, and so that nobody would Yankee Swap me for it, I rubbed it on my bum.

I like to think that I always bring a touch of class with me wherever I go.  This was no exception.

And then yesterday we did our Christmas tree.  It looks lovely, but can I ask you guys something?  Do you always picture events like these in a glowy, Hallmarkish scene only to get to the tree place and freeze your ass off while dragging a kid who keeps whining “I’m hungry. Can we get donuts?” every five seconds because she knows Home Depot has donuts (assholes), and when she’s not asking for treats, she’s bitching that she’s cold because she left her hat and gloves in the car, and you just want to kill yourself?  And then when you finally get the fucker home and set up in the stand, people wind up fighting and acting like jerks and you end up decorating the tree all by yourself while fantasizing that the Goblin King came and took them all away?

Or is it just me?

Anywho, that’s my weekend update.  It was fucking fascinating, I know.

PS: I got a shipment of wonderful home made bath stuff that I ordered from the lovely Ms. Darkstar.  She sent me some as a present after I had Homeslice and the stuff is just marvy. I bought some as Christmas presents.  She makes awesome lip balm too.  The orange mango (I’m too lazy to get up and go check on the name) one smells just a like an orange Chuckle.  Serioulsy, you need to order some stuff for the people on your list who, ahem, need to smell better.  She’ll hook your shit up.

Happy Thanksgiving Queefies!

A mouse died in the wall of my kitchen, so instead of smelling all those wonderful Thanksgivingy smells this year, we have the stench of decay.

It’s pretty festive around here, obviously.

My dinner with Melissa Lion and her Fancyhats  was lovely last night and they’re adorable and fun and you’ll be very proud of me you guys.  I was not Party Asshole (as far as I know).   I’ll tell you more about it later (I TOUCHED HER BUM AND IT WAS MARVELOUS!) (Come to think of it, maybe I was Party Asshole.  That was not appropriate behavior, probably.)

Anyways, there’s probably nary a Queef to be seen on the eve of a major holiday, but I’m over at Toy With Me today talking about Sex Positions I Won’t Be Trying.

PS:  If you leave the best comment today, you will WIN A VIBRATOR!!!  No shit.

So I came upstairs from doing yoga yesterday and Mister said to me “I have a stalker.  He wants to kill me.” And I was all “WHAT?…lucky.”

And then he told me the story of how he commented on some nice lady’s blog where she had written that her husband was pissed at her for writing about him and so forbid her from writing anything about him ever again, good or bad, and Mister said:

“If you can’t write about your husband, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he’s got some insecurity issues he should be dealing with.  Hell, I provide a good portion of my wife’s blog fodder. In return, she poses for pictures which end up as flickr fodder. We have a system.”

WELL.

That was about a month ago, and Mister forgot all about it until he got an email yesterday morning that said this:

“If your gonna post to my wife about me watch what you say. I come from a fighter history and love to play with my fists. So fuck off and follow someone else. People don’t get that on the other end of a computer a person exist. If this was said in my presence it would get bad. Have you heard the song Walk from Pantera? Thats how i prepared for my cage fights and pre football games. If i hear from you again there will be a problem and i will take the next step bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Uh-huh.

The next step being what?  Flying out here so he can play with his fists on Mister’s face? That makes sense. That’s what anybody would do in this situation. Absolutely.

The Internet is very serious business, you know.

And poor Mister was confused and he wasted like, five whole minutes backtracking to figure out what the guy was even talking about.

I’m so jealous!!

This whole thing makes me sad because of all the shit I say and how much I could potentially piss somebody off–Escalade Pajama Cunts, stupid people, circus clowns, republicans, assholes, Jesus freaks, Doocebags, people who suck, sweaty lesbian fitness gurus (I say that with all the love in my heart, Jillian), woodchucks, etc. NOBODY HAS EVER THREATENED TO KICK MY ASS BEFORE!

Sure.  I’ve got hecklers, but all they ever do is come over here and they’re all “meh-meh-meh.  youR abitchhh!!1!!!! meh-meh-meh. You’re blog isnt’ even worth trashing.” ( It has come to my attention that that might actually be true). I mean come! On! Internet!  You can do better than that.  I know you can!

Quite frankly, I’m hurt. All Mister has to do to get awesome death threats is make some random comment on some lady’s blog and all hell breaks loose (eventually…later on.).  And what’s worse is this is the guy’s facebook picture (edit: it is no longer the actual facebook picture):

It’s FUCKING WOLVERINE!

Unbelievable.

All I can say is that if Wolverine decides to catch a plane and brave Holiday Travel Season to come and show Mister his Super Cool Villan Claws I have to warn him.

I don’t care a fig about “cage fighting” or “pre football” and Mister doesn’t only know that song, he can play it on the guitar.

With his dick.

I do TURBO JAM, BITCH.

You may have heard about it, but probably not.  It’s too hard for “cage fighters.”  See those gloves I’m wearing?  They have weights in them for extra POWER.

And don’t forget MY GLADIATOR OUTFIT, SPORTS FAN.

You don’t want me to play with my giant padded stick thingy on you.

No sir.

So, come on you guys.  Don’t any of you want to kick my ass?

Maybe just a little bit?

Anyone?

Please?

Rachel and I always talk about how there are two kinds of people in this world–those who suck dick and those who do not. And then last night over the phone in a vodka fueled conversation (remind me to go check Melissa’s blog later. I may or may not have left a vodka fueled comment there. I don’t remember. Actually, let me do it now. Hold on a second…actually, it’s fine. I don’t have to kill myself. Today.), we made an addendum to that rule. There are now two more kinds of people in this world, Queefies.

Those who eat frosting, and those who don’t.

I have no use for people who don’t eat the frosting with the cake (unless they are willing to give me their frosting and then I can tolerate them) (maybe).

My mother-in-law and my sister-in-law scrape all the frosting off and just eat the dry cake and when I look at them like they’ve lost their everlovin’ minds, one of them says something like “frosting is too rich for me. It’s too sweet.”

(Did you read that in a prissy voice in your head because that’s how I meant it. If you didn’t, you should go back and re-do it because it’s way better if you crinkle up your nose and do it prissy.)

(See? That was better wasn’t it?)

And just so you know, my mother is a badass.  She just opens up a can of frosting and has at it. No cake required. Fuck the dumb shit.

And don’t get me wrong, Queefies. I love The Marcy and The Cya and everything, but my relationship with them will always be flawed and we’ll never truly understand each other because really?

The Fuck are you eating cake for if you don’t like frosting? Go have an apple, ass. And pass that fucking cake over this way because I can’t stand to watch you mutilate it like that.  Why don’t you just take a shit on it too?

Jeezus.

So tell me Queefies, and be honest.

Do you scrape the frosting off your cake (like a bitch), or do you punch your grandmother in the neck for the corner piece with the rose on it?

(You realize your answer to this question could get you banned from this blog, right?)