Looks like I’ve moved!

The blog looks like it’s been quiet, but really, I was working on getting myself set up over on Blogspot. I managed to get all the posts & comments transferred over – so if you head over to The Juice Box Journals, you’ll see where I’m going to be, moving forward…

Some days you leRn things you want to unlearn

I love my husband’s laugh

Been there, done that, was at the funeral.

Houston, we have a problem. Yes, but we have a riding crop

Am I in the right place?

No really, am I in the right place? A majority, I mean a big majority of the blogs I read all seem to exist on blogspot. Am I missing something? I mean, it’s early enough that I could probably move over there without disturbing the 4 or so people who have become my stalkers. Okay, maybe 4 is being generous. But I’m SURE it’s more than 2. Surely it’s more than 2. I hope…

Who will win the battle royale!?

 

So that’s it, short and sweet. Should I move over to blogspot? Oh, and a side note. Will autocorrect please STOP changing blogspot to bloodspot?

…Aaaannnnnnd this is why I’m fat.

Did I mention that Punk is a chef? He’s owned/run his own restaurant (The North End) for over 20 years. There’s almost nothing he doesn’t know how to cook, and cook wonderfully – and I’ve benefitted/suffered because of it. So this morning, as I’m finishing walking on the treadmill (walking off last night’s delicious BLT’s), he sticks his head in and says “I feel like making something.” This is a common sentence in our home. When I say it, you know there’s a pitcher of cocktails in our immediate future. When Punk says it, something tasty (and usually sweet) is on the horizon.

Are they as good as they look? Fuck yeah.

This mornings concoction? Cupcakes. Not just cupcakes, but Key Lime Curd Filled Lemon Cupcakes with an Italian Buttercream Frosting. I came downstairs to see the kitchen aid whirring, and Punk boiling the sugar for the Italian buttercream. I’ve been with him long enough to know that “You are insane” is not the thing to say when he’s in a baking mood. Because do the two of us really need 2 dozen cupcakes? If I mention that, he will inevitably respond with “You didn’t get that way from looking at it, douchebag.”

Here’s the thing. He’s used to cooking “restaurant scale”. I’m not sure if he’s even capable of cooking for two anymore. A Pasta dinner for the two of us will involve a pound of pasta, a dozen or so meatballs and a full loaf of Italian bread. During the week, I’m a hero at work for the amount of leftovers I bring in.

So yes, I blame my husband for the 40 pounds of weight I need to lose. If he was a shitty chef, I’d be much thinner. But then again, if he was a shitty chef, I wouldn’t be noshing on this fucking awesome cupcake right now, trying to decide just what cocktail would best complement them…

 

Edit: After much experimentation, it was determined that Cosmos were the best complement. But then again, I say that to a lot of things.

It was Amityville Horror, without the pig.

We were away this past weekend. Technically we were up at our friend Rich’s house camping, but the weather was so ungodly hot that we refused to sleep outside. So I don’t think you can call it camping if we slept in the air conditioning. But that’s not the point. The point is what happened in our house while we were gone.

Flies. I got a text from Viv (who had crashed at our house Saturday, since she & Rob are in the middle of a bathroom redo) telling me that she killed a shitload of flies. I assumed she was exaggerating.

A little backstory. We always seem to have about a dozen or so flies in our house. I’m not sure why, we just do. It’s a constant annoyance. As fucking gross as it is, I’ve sort of (and this sentence is horrifying to write) become immune to them. So when Viv texted that she killed flies, I just shrugged it off.

Then we came home.

I kid you not, when we walked in the house it was like that scene in Amityville Horror where the window is filled with flies. The frenchwood doors in our back hall had probably a dozen flies flitting around. Okay – kind of weird. But then we started to look at the other windows. They ALL had flies bashing their dumbs fly heads against the glass.. Vivian was NOT exaggerating. She even left the mini vacuum cleaner out to show all the flies she sucked up. There were dozens trapped, flying in and around the dog hair & rug lint. It was one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen. Punk & I spent the next two hours, two fucking hours, killing, vacuuming & in general, just getting rid of flies. It had to have been over 100. Fucking disgusting. The only thing we can surmise is they came in via the garage, because we had a garbage can that, as it turns out, had some shit in there, and we wound up with maggots. In the explosive heat we’ve had over the last few days, we think the fly population exploded like 9 months after woodstock.

That was several days ago, and I’m happy to report that we have the fly population mostly under control. But it was a close call for a while there. I swear, if I had seen one set of glowing red pig eyes, I’d have called for a priest.

Apropos of nothing…

Random thoughts:

I have a lot of shit on my laptop. It’s a 2009 15″ MacBook Pro, and I love it to death. But really, I need to clean it up. I have dozens of weird random images on my desktop – many for blog posts. Here’s one of the stranger ones:

I just installed Lion, and so far, I think I like it.

I’m creative, caring, know how to make a mean cosmo, and am occasionally clever. Those are the plusses. I’m a procrastinator, I hate conflict, I’m mildly ADD, and am absent minded . Those are the minuses. I love reality TV, reading on the john, I’m a happy drunk, and can’t burp. Plusses or minuses – you decide.

I’m blogging in my underwear, sipping a delicious glass of Kono Sauvignon Blanc. I’m also watching Big Brother – Rachel should be shot at dawn. Just a little slice of life insight.

Speaking of which – Punk & I have a side business called Slice of Life. It’s an online t-shirt company with designs by and for foodies. Check us out!

My nephew just married his long-time girlfriend/fiancee last weekend. Unfortunately, Punk & I had to miss it, due to work. But we are psyched to officially welcome Lady to the family!! Hi Danielle Councilor! I saw Jodie’s pictures – you were (are!) beautiful!

I’m also an avid computer gamer – I love World of Warcraft, even if I’ve barely had the chance to play it in the last few months. Yes, I’m a geek.

One of the the things I’ve learned I need to work on doing in my blog posts (thanks for the great examples, Jen!) is really to tell a story. Beginning, middle, end. And of course, to be entertaining.

Random thoughts, out….

He’s a chinchilla farmer…

I know I blogged about my fear of being judged in my last post. Here’s the catch: Snap judgements are fun, and occasionally hysterical.

The scene: A pool filled with 100’s of bears. For those of you who don’t understand that last sentence, I’ll give you a readers digest. A bear is, generally, a gay man who is somewhat heavyset & usually hairy. Intrigued? My job is done – but if you want (or need, you perves!) more info, check this link for the dry, boring explanation. The more daring of you can follow this link, but I won’t be held responsible. You click it, you buy it!

Okay – so anyway, we’re at the pool with 100’s of bears (One more side note. Lots of bears in a pool is commonly referred to as “Bear Soup”.) Punk, Frank & I are sitting in the chairs, daintily sipping our Planter’s Punch, complete with 151 rum floaters. We watch as one scantily clad (okay – another side note. Many bears wear speedo bathing suits, with wildly varying results.) bear gets out & poses & preens while talking to a friend. This guy was so furry it was overwhelming. He was also wearing ancient, a decrepit cowboy hat, had ratty semi bleached long hair, leathery face, etc. It set Punk, Frank & I to analyzing him. The conversation went something like this:

Frank: You know he’s named something unisex, like sky or storm.

Punk: He’s probably named after a car.

Frank: I don’t think he’s a mercedes. He’s more of a buick.

Me: And you know he’s sad because it’s his last day here before he goes back to working at the ranch. I’m sure he works at a chinchilla farm.

Frank: Yes, that’s it. His name is a vowel & he’s a chinchilla farmer.

Punk: Mystery solved.

At which point we decided the best thing to do would be to order another round of drinks. I was fairly sure Oue the chinchilla farmer would approve.