Archive for the 'Culinary Abortions' Category

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….

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

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?)

Yesterday at work I had a two hour long conversation about celery.  With Lynne.  I’d love to tell you what exactly we were saying, but I think we were both asleep at the time. I believe I ended the conversation by saying something like “next time I’m at the grocery store, I’m going to get up in celery’s grill and ask it what the fuck.

…?

?????

Moving on…

And then I had a little incident with the breast pump.

Have I ever told you that I bring my breast pump, Mr. Thirsty, with me to work so I can pump during my dinner break instead of reading People magazine or something awesome like all normal people? Well, I do because I’m dedicated and kind of heroic and quite probably a better mother than you.

And I do it standing up in the men’s staff bathroom because it’s the only private place in the whole building and nobody uses it. The director wants us (I’m not the only one with a kid on the boob juice)to use the kitchen on the second floor just off a very dark and super creepy old room where monks used to have their dinner and also sometimes pray they’ll stop popping boners when they shower next to the other monks and stuff.

And people have keys to that room and to the kitchen. And there’s a window in the kitchen door which makes it anyone? anyone?

Not.
Private.

And my breasticles are shy, you guys, and they won’t do it when they think somebody can see–just like when you’re in a public bathroom and there’s other people there too and it’s dead. silent. and you CANNOT PEE and the more you think about peeing, the pee is just like “Fuck you! I’m not coming out!” And so you sit there just waiting for everyone to leave and then somebody farts and you try really, really hard not to laugh.

It’s exactly like that except totally different.

Anyway, I have become the stealth pumper and I run into the men’s room super fast so I don’t get caught by the feds or the director or somebody and then when I turn the pump on, I stand really, really close to it so as to muffle out the whoo-pssh! whoo-pssh! of the pump because it’s a pretty unmistakable sound and if I get caught, I’ll be dragged out by my ear and sent to the kitchen and I DON’T WANNA PUMP WITH DEAD MONKS WATCHING ME because they’re scary.

Also, they smell like dead people (probably).

This is a long post, right?

And so there I am, and I’m pumping and I’m thinking my thoughts and planning my plans and admiring my new boots and wishing I wasn’t standing up in the men’s room milking myself, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice something scurry across the floor and it was coming TOWARD ME!

And so I looked at it and it looked at me and it was a fucking spider the size of my head! (not really, but it makes this story soooo much more interesting. It was still big though. I didn’t take a picture so you’re going to have to trust me.) and normally I’m not scared of spiders but it scared the hell out of me and I yelled “GAH! SHIT!” and then I lost my grip on the pumpings and dropped the cups to the floor which made a terrible echo-y clatter as they spilled and splashed the walls.

And guess who was just outside the door when all hell broke loose in the mens’ room?

There wasn’t anyone outside the door and I know this because I checked before I started wiping Homeslice’s dinner off the floor and the walls and my NEW FUCKING SUEDE BOOTS.

And no, I had not waterproofed them yet, like an asshole.

And I got it all cleaned up and everything and poor Homeslice had to have formula for dinner, but I didn’t get caught pumping in the men’s room which is good, so this story has a mixed ending of both happy and sad pony feelings.

So yes.

That’s the most interesting stuff that’s happened to me in the last 24 hours.

PS:I’m going to have to sit under my desk and pump from now on because I’ll be damned if I go into that men’s room again.

PSS: The spider is waiting to kidnap me and take me to her web and eat me. I’m reasonably sure that could happen. Like, 75% sure. It was a BIG motherfucking spider, okay?

So in Girlfriend’s backpack there was a giant wad of papers regarding various bullshit going on at the school, and with it was a lovely orange slip explaining the snacktime policy.

And it says:

We are aware that snack has caused a bit of confusion.  Please refer to the calendar.  If there is an “S” listed, that means someone in the class will be bringing in a group snack.  ON those days, you do not have to bring in your own snack/drink. On pizza days, you will see a “D” listed.  This is the drink/dessert snack used with pizza.  We will offer dessert/snack to every student.  You can check the calendar in the kitchen to sign up for either “S” snack/drink or “D” drink/dessert snack.  The snack at pizza time does not have to be dessert.  When you sign up to bring in the pizza, drink/dessert, you do not need to pay for pizza that day.

And it goes on to explain how the lunchboxes should only contain re-usable drink and food containers and only cloth napkins and label everything with your child’s name and for the love of all that is good and decent in this world,  NO MOTHERFUCKING PEANUT BUTTER.

(actually, they allow peanut butter, but if there is peanut butter that day, the allergic kids have to sit at another table and Crissy does not want Girlfriend to be the one who brings the poison so it’s as good as forbidden if you ask Crissy.)

And Crissy is all for re-usable containers and cloth napkins and everything.  No problemo, really.   Crissy just thinks the snacktime policy meant to clear up the confusion is  confusing.  Maybe Crissy is just wicked tired and shit, but she had to read that mother three times before it made any sense to her and she considered making a diagram where snack drink dessert equaled “S” and drink dessert snack pizza equaled “D” but only sometimes on special “P” days and then when Mister came home, she gave it to him and he was actually clutching his tummy from laughing so hard because what the fuck?

But Crissy thinks she’s confused because the slip is written in anyone?  anyone?

Escalade Pajama Cunt Language.

As the Queefies know, Crissy does not speak that language, the language of pajamas out in public paired with violently sparkly gigantic diamond earrings, fake tans, and huge SUVs.  And you know what, Queefies?  Anyone with pierced ears knows you cannot sleep (or use the phone) while wearing big earrings.  It is impossible, which means they take the time to put them on in the morning, but cannot take the time to PUT ON A PAIR OF FUCKING PANTS!

Ahem.

When Crissy  drops Girlfriend off, the EPCs literally corner the principal of the school and barrage her  with comments regarding her policies and she tries to make them all happy by creating the most complicated snackdrinkpizzadessertdrinksnack policy ever. Crissy has better things to do than care about such trivia, but the EPCs are always trying to manipulate the principal to suit their particular busy schedule of personal trainer appointments and pedicures and blowing their pool boys and dog trainers.  I HAVE TO MAKE A SNACK EVERY DAY?  THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS! WHO CAN I TALK TO ABOUT THIS?

Just pour some juice in a sippy cup,  throw a handful of a pretzels in a gladwear container and you’re done,  asshole.

Crissy thinks she should be in charge of the snacktime policy because Crissy has a whole ‘nuther kind of  language for them.

PS: Did you know that CUNT actually stands for Can’t Understand Normal Thinking? It does! It’s the perfect name for them, no?  Crissy is so smart.

PSS: Crissy is up at Toy With Me this morning!  WHAT?  It isn’t Wednesday! But the glorious thing Crissy wrote for Wednesday was so glorious they decided to post it today AND Crissy will have something else for Wednesday too!  Holy shit!  COME LAUGH YOUR ASS OFF ON A SHITTY MONDAY MORNING!

Oh Queefies, thank you! You’ll all get virgins and chocolates in heaven unless you’d prefer sluts to virgins or just double chocolate instead of sex, but you will be rewarded for your loyalty to the queen! They pay Crissy to bring the party, you know and when the party doesn’t come, Crissy looks like an ass. Or at least she feels like an ass–sort of like when you tell a joke at a party and everyone walks away.

That’s tough.

So anyway, thanks for that and you know what else makes Crissy so mad you guys?

Peanut butter.

The other day Crissy was stirring a jar of peanut butter and she realized that she hates stirring a jar of peanut butter.

It’s annoying as shit, isn’t it?

The oil gets all over the place and Crissy winds up with peanut butter all over her hands and the counter and her clothes and almost none of it stays in the jar and so by the time it’s all stirred, there’s only a half a jar left and a giant cleaning headache Crissy didn’t count on. And the whole time she’s stirring, Crissy is thinking to herself “I must be doing this wrong. This shouldn’t be a problem.” And Crissy can never find the proper peanut butter mixing tool. A butter knife just sort of mushes it around instead of stirring, and the handle on an iced tea spoon is too thin and feels like it’s going to bend. Nothing else fits into the mouth of the jar and so Crissy is totally fucked (or “porked” as her dad always says) and she rarely gets the peanut butter mixed properly and some of it is soup and the rest is like peanut dust and when Crissy tries to spread it, it rips the fucking bread, creating a whole ‘nuther situation that displeases an already frustrated Crissy.

And so out of frustration, Crissy turned to Facebook to enter a formal complaint about how peanut butter stirring sucks ass and

WHY CAN’T THEY JUST STIR THE PEANUT BUTTER FOR CRISSY?

What is the world coming to, Queefies, when the Queen of Fucking Everything is owned by a jar of peanut butter? Crissy refuses to accept this!

There must be a better way!

And you know what? The Facebook peoples all had marvelous suggestions that totally blew Crissy’s mind and so she thought she would share them with the Queefies just in case she’s not the only one who’s angry about peanut butter and it turns out that K8 is a genius because she said to just store the jar upside down and so the oil stays at the bottom and it makes it less messy and Marc, Crissy’s realtor, suggested to just buy it already mixed instead and then her friend Jessica suggested buying Peanut Spread instead because there’s less fat in it and you don’t have to mix it and Crissy didn’t even know such a marvelous thing existed and apparently Schmuckytown Stop and Shop isn’t as badass as she thought it was because why didn’t Crissy know about this Peanut Spread?

Queefies, there is a new day dawning.
The sun has come over the mountain, and all of Crissy’s peanut butter woes have been solved!

Next you’re going to tell her there’s an easy way to get past the safety seal on a bottle of vitamins without injury.