Gifting Myself

I spent $40 on myself on nothing practical. I got a manicure, a pedicure, and my bows waxed. It felt good.

Of course the shoes Kiddo made me wear smudged one of the big toes, and I have no comparable polish, but I don't care, because I have pretty eyebrows and no more unsightly cuticles!

Mom and Kidlet got me my x-mas presents and I have NO IDEA what they are, which is incredible. All the x-mas crap is done except for the wrapping. I'm on call tomorrow, and for once I really do have a clear schedule just in case I have to run out and sit somewhere for money. If I don't have to go anywhere then I have bonus time cooped up with the kid who is so starved for my attention lately.

This feels good, this feels right.

Mutha-fuckin' OM.

Solemn Truths

Today I found out why my son has been an absolute terror lately. He's usually been none too thrilled when I go to work, but lately he's been beastly. Now I know why.

He thinks if he's really bad for his grandma, I'll have to stay home with him every day.

He's only 3 1/2 and I know he doesn't understand, no matter how often I explain it, but what else can I do? Once again we snuggled down and I told him that it was something I had to do not just for me, but him, grandma and the pets too. I also told him that even though grandma's knees won't let her work like I do, she works in his heart taking care of him when I can't be here, and last but not least that I missed him just as much as he missed me when I was gone.

I don't know if it sunk in any more tonight then it has in the past, but again what can I do?

Doesn't stop me from feeling like crap about it, though.

So....Much....Fudge

Like every other human being on the planet, I love fudge. Even people with chocolate allergies love it, and I'm still not thoroughly convinced that chocolate allergies aren't just the Aliens' way of avoiding the only thing that will bring them down.

It's chocolate, but MORE. You know what I'm talking about. If chocolate is sex, then fudge is the deeply satisfying kinky shit you can only get from an ad on Craigslist.

You, um, may just have to trust me on that one.

Wow. Awkward.

ANYWAY...it's good stuff, but it is a pain in the ass to make. The recipe I use involves cooking a mixture of butter, evaporated milk, and sugar then pouring it over chocolate, marshmallows, and flavoring. Anybody who's done any kind of candy making knows that sugar + stove = a metric asston of mess if not watched, stirred, lovingly caressed and told that the saucepan doesn't make it look fat. Then you pour it over the other stuff and stir like your life depended on it. You stir like Dennis Hopper will blow you up if you stop and then you'll have Keanu and Sandra chunks all over the gingersnaps.

Fudge making isn't for wimps.

It's frakkin' good though.

Baking, Day 1

So this weekend is Baking Weekend. I love baking, don't get me wrong, but I prefer to just go in the kitchen on a whim and make some cookies instead of planning it out around holidays and shipping schedules. Today I managed to complete the cranberry bread.

Cranberry bread is one of those things from my childhood that was always made for the neighbors because it's just so damn Christmassy. It was a no-brainer to make cranberry bread, I even figured on using some orange extract I have to make a nice glaze. Cranberry and orange are a popular combo, right? One thing about me you don't know, dear 1.5 readers?

I fucking HATE cranberries. They are a utilitarian fruit put on this earth to rid the bodies of pesky Urinary Tract Infections, and they are flavored as they are to be a deterrent from ever getting another UTI.

But I know I am in the minority in my hatred of cranberry, so I make the bread. We always used, of all things, the Pilsbury Quick Bread mix, because it tasted good (I was told) and was a lot easier than farting around with Bladder Fruit. A nice mix with a homemade glaze? No problemo....

Except I couldn't find the mix. I found pumpkin, banana, nut, cinnamon and even fucking DATE bread mix but no cranberry. I had to settle for another brand of cranberry/orange muffin mix, a brand that in the past has produced nothing but some sort of cross between sawdust and cardboard flavored baked goods. Oh hell, that's what doctoring is for. It works for cakes, no reason it can't work for muffin/bread mix, right?

Well there was one thing I had forgotten about. My mother the kitchen grump queen. This brand of mix is one of those "just add water" mixes. Never do this. Here is a transcript from my kitchen, shortly after lunch:

Me: "Just add water"? No I don't think so.
Mom: Don't experiment with the mix, mixes aren't for experimenting!
Me: You sure like the cakes that come from this kind of experimenting, why not do it to this mix?
Mom: Just make it the way they say, there's milk and eggs and things already in there!
Me: So? They're already in cake mixes too, and, again, messing with them turns out well.
Mom: But why? What do you want to do?
Me: I'm adding 2 cups of milk instead 2 cups of water, beyond that, I don't know until it's mixed up.
Mom: But why add more milk?
Me (losing my temper at this point): BECAUSE THESE CRAP MIXES ARE JUST LIKE BISQUICK KNOCK-OFF PANCAKE MIXES. YOU JUST ADD WATER TO THOSE AND WHAT DO THE FINISHED PRODUCT TASTE LIKE?
Mom: They taste like flavorless crap.
Me: And how did YOU teach me to fix them so that didn't happen?
Mom (mumbling): add milk
Me: RIGHT. NOW LET ME DO THIS.

What I ended up doing was using milk instead of water, added a touch of cinnamon to the mix and making a glaze with powdered sugar, orange flavor, vanilla, cinnamon, a little water and a dash of milk.

And how does it taste?

I don't fucking know. I HATE cranberries, remember?

On Ballet And Taking A Leak

For those of you keeping score, please go read a book.

Ahem, sorry, not a great day. So tonight's monster was red, with pointy things, and red eyes, and to quote the bizarre creature I call Son, "It's craaaaaaaaazy."

Thank goodness for Lysol, I mean, Monster Spray.

Once this latest menace was taken care of, he asked for a story, which I read to him (previous attempts were thwarted by jerkishness) and when he asked if he could put the book away I said yes, but he had to go potty again when he was done.

Eventually he was rounded up in the bathroom and after I failed to believe that he had really "ga-looed" the toilet lid shut (I didn't ask) he decided to whiz standing up, or as he calls it "peeing like a fireman."

Now this was something to see, and I had no choice but to see it as I was standing in the doorway to prevent further escape, like some sort of Urine Goalie I suppose. He lifts the lid and seat, he gets in position kind of off to the side of the bowl, he tucks his shirt under his chin, he bounces on the balls of his feet, bends his knees a little, almost achieves en pointe, clenches his little buttocks into a pair of pink kidney beans and lets fly!

I don't think NASA ever prepared as much for a shuttle launch.

It got me thinking though. If all little boys are this good at en pointe and other ballet-like moves at the john, why aren't there more male danseurs? Seriously, is it the lack of toilets in ballet? I think it is. I say we all band together and this holiday season we demand a rewrite to accommodate the natural proclivities of today's culture-starved boys. I, for one, am not going to rest until The Dance Of The Ty-D-Bol Fairies is a reality!

Who's with me?!

Like You Never Did This...

A Special Moment In Parenting

So here I am with my earphones plugged in, watching Penn and Teller's Bullshit (great show) when my mom taps me on the shoulder to tell me Kiddo has a monster in his room and I am the only one who can help. Oh yes, he has horns like this *wiggles forefingers near temples*.

Okay, let's see what we can do.

"What up Kiddo?"

"There's a monster in here and he has horns like this" *wiggles forefingers near temples*

"So I heard. Where is it?"

"In the closet, here, you hold my little bunny."

*thinking to self, "where the hell did the bunny come from?"

"There he is. Ssssh!"

"Which shelf?

"I think he's on the bottom shelf, let me move my shoes."

Okay I know if we start this shtick he will use it as an excuse to stay up all damn night and I have to get up early tomorrow, so it's time to nip this in the bud.

"Okay, before you move the shoes, what exactly do you want me to do with this monster, do you want me to get rid of him?"

"Yes. Get rid of him."

"Do you know the monster's name?"

"Yes. It's Red."

"Red? Okay, let me go get my can of Red the Monster remover."

Please keep in mind that I am pulling all this out of my ass as I go. I walk 3 steps to the bathroom and grab my can of Red the Monster Remover, also known as Lysol Neutra Air Freshener in Clean Linen scent. Monsters HATE the smell of clean linen, it's a fact. Give me 10 minutes and you could even find it on wikipedia.

Okay, so back in the room, I explain the way the spray works, and with a *fwoosh* no more monster. You know how you can be sure? They smell like clean linen when they vaporize. 

So I tucked the critter back in bed and walk back into the living room where my mom is trying hard not to snicker.

"What's your problem? It's the best I could think of, okay?"

"Oh I think it's great. Anti-monster spray, I love it!"

"Well, the poor thing was lounging on Kiddo's shoes, I figure he'd appreciate it."

"So it was a mercy killing?"

"Exactly."

Why I Am Not An Anthropologist

**BEWARE- BLOGGER HAS DONE NO REAL RESEARCH BECAUSE SHE IS LAZY**

Okay folks, it's time for another trip into my weird little mind, brought to you today by Man Vs. Food. I love that show, man. It's like a soap opera for fat chicks. There's the intriguing leading man, (an absolute cutie who wouldn't mind me cleaning my plate? be still my possibly enlarged heart) the ongoing ups and downs of emotion; you feel the thrill of victory when the host manages to down that barbecued half cow in 15 minutes (plus sides), and the emotional trough when he throws up after the 25th pound of deep-fried butter. It's addictive as hell and I'm still pissed I didn't have cable and knew nothing of the show before he came to Tucson. 

Anyway, back on topic.

I saw a bit from a restaurant in Hawaii where the audience was being shown how to make this traditional pork and butterfish thing, and it occurred to me:

Where did the pig come from?

These are small groups of islands, the idea that some species of wild pig had been evolving in these little South Sea dots of rock since the breakup of Pangaea kind of sounds iffy to me. Especially when you consider the largest comparable land mass, Australia, didn't have pigs until they were introduced in modern (as in not paleolithic) times. So, there were pigs on these little dots, but none on the huge frakkin' continent? Huh. That's a noodle scratcher. So from that I formed 3 possible answers to how there could be South Sea pork recipes of such perfection and understanding of the ingredient.

1. The recipes are newer than the seeming perfection of them would make you think, and were, in fact, perfected fairly recently after the introduction of the pig.

2. The recipes are old ones that were made with indigenous ingredients and then mildly adapted for the new ingredient of luscious piggy.

3. The recipes were perfected with something indigenous that is very close to pork but fell out of favor with the arrival of white people, and presumably pigs. Yes, I'm going there.

I think it is possible the fantastic island pork dishes folks love are in fact adapted from similar if not the same ways of preparation used back in the days of cannibals.

Before the flames are kindled, let me remind you all that I am in no way an anthropologist and I didn't even bother to do a quick check on wiki-freaking-pedia to try and find out if and/or when pigs were introduced to the South Sea Islands.

Let the games begin.