If You'd Like Your Children to Learn the Fine Art of Dinner Conversation, Please RSVP

Sometimes a song will get stuck in your head. Why is it when this happens it's never a song you like? It's always some incredibly irritating jingle that just goes round and round and round until you're ready to perform your own frontal lobotomy. With the nearest pair of eyebrow tweezers. This time it was after watching Yo Gabba Gabba with Girl-Child, the song was "Don't Bite Your Friends". And no, I'm not kidding. Click at your own risk:



So the children and I spent the rest of the day making up words to the song. Some of our versions included:

• Don't, don't, don't drop your baby
• Don't, don't, don't lick your friends
• Don't, don't, don't suck your toe
• Don't, don't, don't smell your farts (you knew that one was coming)
• Don't, don't, don't rub your butt (and that one too)
• Don't, don't, don't eat your hair
• ... smell your elbow
• ... bite your face
• ... touch your wedgie
• ... shock the monkey
  
• ... talk to shoes
  
• ... shave your yak

Over dinner, Boy-Child#1 meant to ask me how my day was...except...

Boy-Child#1: How was your life?
Me: Why, am I dead?
Boy-Child#1: Yes. And this is heaven.
Me: So in heaven we sit around eating Italian take out talking about how we don't, don't, don't lick our butts?
Boy-Child#1: Exactly.

Vacation. Like National Lampoon's Only With 99% Less Chevy Chase

While many of you are NaBloPoMo-ing, I'm considering taking a vacation from blogging for the rest of the month. Sort of a NaBloVaMo-ing if you will. It's Thanksgiving and things are a little slow... [unless I just keep talking about cleaning my house in preparation for guests and really, why in God's name is my house so dirty? It certainly proves that I've been doing just enough to give the illusion of clean around here] ... Of course, now that I've said that, a pocket full of blog fodder gold will fall into my lap and I'll post anyway. Even though I said I was taking a vacation. And then you'd be all, why is she in my reader? Tootsie is a liar. So I guess what I'm saying is you just never know. I might post. I might not. But if I went a few days without posting and also not mentioning that I wouldn't be doing so; I was afraid the worried and concerned comments and emails would start filtering in and I didn't want there to be any drama. Where'd she go? I dunno. I saw her comment on a blog so I know she's alive. Oh, thanksbetogod for that.

Anyway...It will give me a chance to catch up on others' blogs and visit some of my newer readers too! Of course if I keep writing daily then that throws the aforementioned theory out the window. Basically I'm not telling you anything at all here, am I?

Someone is being mighty noncommittal.

In any event, I'd like to wish you all a happy and safe Thanksgiving. I hope you get to spend it with the ones you love. And that no in-laws are injured during the consumption of any meals.

This is last year's turkey:

TA-DA!

And we think that the secret to its savory juicy goodness was inadvertently turning the oven off for 45 minutes while it was roasting when we removed the stuffed mushrooms.


Or that it cooked for precisely the right amount of time. Since I'm unsure I think I'll turn the oven off again this year. Just. In. Case.

*photos by DorothyZ.

A Two-Fer Cuz I Didn't Have Enough for a Onesie

Getting ready for guests that will arrive on Thanksgiving will have you cleaning things around the house that had become those things you just don't notice anymore. Until you're planning your menu and look up from the kitchen table to discover a fur coat fine layer of dust covering your decorative plates hanging on the wall above your head. And also on the window covering over the sink. And the tops of the cabinets. And if you decide to stand on a chair; the top of the microwave and refrigerator [and those last two things are a must clean because two of your guests are extremely tall].

Before you know it you're waist deep inside your oven breaking your back and passing out on fumes gently wiping away the burnt on residue and cleaning solution because you don't want to set off your fire alarm while the family waits for turkey.

[Editor's Note: Jesus God I hate my oven]

Then you demand from your husband:

Me: My next oven is going to be self cleaning because this sucks [also, I might have dropped the F bomb]
Husband: C'mon. How often do you clean that thing anyway?
Me: PMSing and already reaching for the steak knives How often DO YOU?
Husband: You're a big fat cry baby. [okay, he didn't say that he just called me mean I don't know whyyy perhaps it was my tone]

***********************************************
We finally hallelujah! had our last soccer game ever ever ever of the season which means - all together now - team party. WoooOOOooo. There was pizza. Goody bags. And the worlds ugliest trophies. I'm not even kidding. Two words: Bobble head. [although, it may be one word, Google was torn]. Great. It's not enough to get a trophy for showing up; now they've gone and made them interactive. [should we start placing bets now as to when this will become a headless trophy?] I'm also willing to overlook that it is a boy.


Seriously, doesn't it look like a small child fell into a vat of hot bronze? And doesn't that just creep you the hell out? I don't trust it. Think I'll sleep on the lighter side.

Also at team parties? Small talk. Oh GAWD just kill me. I happened to choose a chair in the shade which also happened to be directly located next to a woman that, between you and me, is a bit of a sourpuss. She's one of those people that kind of barks when she talks and she's always disappointed in something. And. Never. Ever. Smiles. She's also the mother of twins and a younger third child.

Meanwhile, back at the small talk.

Me: What is the age difference between your children?
Her: TWO minutes!

And she was dead serious. She thought I meant the twins. She also thought I must be the dumbest person on the planet to ask the length of time between births of the two people that shared her womb simultaneously. Or? She forgot she had a third.

then she caught a ground squirrel with her bare hands and ate it

The small talk ended in one of those not often seen moments when it comes to Tootsie - speechless and mouth agape.

Papa Don't Preach About My Guns and Pythons

After rolling around on that gondola in Italy, she inspired a world wide army of teen girls to wear the uniform of spandex leggings, fishnet tops, lace fingerless gloves, and made visible bra straps acceptable for public. [I was Private Tootsie, captain in charge of headbands and Dep hair gel] She was the impetus that created a surge on black rubber bangles and using the symbol that represents the martyrdom of Jesus Christ as a fashion staple -in ears and around necks. She was, quite frankly, the bomb diggity. And even with all of the dancing, and rolling, and pelvic grinding, her physique remained firm yet soft.

And then something happened to her. It was gradual. You didn't notice it at first. But then you couldn't deny it any longer. That's right. I'm talking about: Yoga. And why didn't we see it happening?

“Yoga is a metaphor for life. You have to take it really slowly. You can’t rush. You can’t skip to the next position. You find yourself in very humiliating situations, but you can’t judge yourself. You just have to breathe, and let go. It is a workout for your mind, your body and your soul.” Madonna.

(Note to self: I hate it when this happens)
(also? hammy cramp)

Madonna, disengage from the Downward Dog. I can't discern what has become of your mind and soul but - What does a girl have to gain by becoming: Lou Ferrigno?

You need a few more sandwiches and a little less: testosterone.

And now? What's this?

You're raiding Cher's closet?

Brit-Brit will be your server for the evening. Would you like to hear the specials?

P.S. Tom Petty called, he want's his hat back.

*all photos Google Images

It Was Sesame Street

'Cause a Postman is a Person in Your Neighborhood - In Your Neighborhood

Dear Person Who Is Living With Our Neighbors On A Temporary Basis And Parks Their Truck Regularly In Front Of Our Mailboxes,

I know you know that you're not supposed to block the apparatus that houses four of your neighbors mailboxes. I know that you know this because I have spotted the occasional note from our mail lady tucked into your windshield wiper blades, asking you to please park elsewhere. It is hard for me to ignore when I'm quite literally turning myself, sucking in my breath and side stepping just to squeeze between your truck and my mailbox. There was also that one time when your passenger side mirror prevented me from opening it altogether. At first I overlooked it and gave you the benefit of the doubt that perhaps you just didn't know that on this street we've all learned the hard way that parking in front of the mailboxes is frowned upon, seeing as how you're from Texas, as your license plate indicates. But once I knew that you knew that you were inconveniencing not only your neighbors but the whole delicate system of mail delivery; and once I deduced that you simply do not care or are unwilling to park your car at the end of the street where ample space is available because you perhaps suffer from a severe case of lazy bones jones - I've determined that you are just plain rude.

And the mail lady has had it up to here with your blatant disregard.

"Please stop blocking the mail boxes - Nobody is getting mail today 11/19"

You see what you've done? You've prevented me from receiving my mail because you think the post office needs to get over itself. So you decided to take this note from your windshield and offer a rebuttal of what's wrong with you mail person? Don't you remember 1950?:

"That shouldn't keep you from getting out of your truck and walk a few inches. Mail carriers used to do it all the time and walked. What's your problem?"

Well, I can tell you what the problem is but let me first say this: You're entitled to your bone of contention with the USPS, but please fortheloveofgod do not adhere your scathing and demeaning note to the post that houses the mailboxes as if you're speaking for all of us. Stick it inside your own mailbox and alert our dear mail carrier by raising the little red flag, letting her know she's got a little something in there...FROM YOU. Because when I see this note flapping in the breeze, I am apt to snatch it right off and take pictures of it for my blog throw it in the trash. Because A) You don't speak for me, and B) I quite like my mail lady and I don't think she deserves to have her day ruined by your misplaced defensiveness and quick temper.

Now, since you wanted to know what her problem was, I'll let you in on a little something: The mail delivery system for our neighborhood isn't designed for her to get out and walk at each stop. Most of our mailboxes in our little community are shared, and there are thousands of them. She does not carry a mail bag to lug around our junk, cards, bills, stimulus checks, and Victoria's Secret orders. Her truck is structured so that she can pull alongside the curb and deposit the mail into the boxes. It is an efficient system. It also allows for fewer mail carriers to cover a larger route. If she had to, as your disparaging note indicates, get out of her truck and walk a few inches AT EACH AND EVERY STOP if everyone blocked her path, we would get Monday's mail on Thursday. At 10 farking pm.

So cut her some slack. She's asked several times already and you didn't care. Now she got your attention. And now you've got mine because dammit! I didn't get my mail!

I mean really. What's YOUR problem?

Sincerely,

The Person Who Lives Next Door Who Thought You Seemed Like A Nice Person But Now Thinks You're Kind Of A Bitch

P.s. Now how many people have the "People In Your Neighborhood" Sesame Street song stuck in their head because OHMYGOD make it stop!

What I Really Saw During the Class Play

Boy-Child#2's (pictured center) third grade Thanksgiving play. He was Chief Massasoit.

Or better yet: Chief I Wanna Cowabunga; because is it just me or do those Indians look a lot like - surfers? And those pilgrims look a lot like - smitten kittens?

And Chief I Wanna Cowabunga is like, all I need are some tasty waves and then I'll get my grub on. Oh, the ladies? I get that all the time, brah.

If a Toilet Flushes in the Woods, Was Anyone Around to Flush?

I would like to personally meet the person who invented the self-flushing toilet and punch them in the face. Little did they know that this contraption that assists those whose arms are too fatigued to push a lever, or to serve the germaphobes from having to touch anything at all in a public restroom, or that shields us from witnessing a right proper toilet spackling from someone who doesn't have the good sense that God gave a goose to flush the evidence; that this gimmick would scar my daughter for life.

She is afraid? Of noise.

It all started innocently enough one harried morning at the airport in spring of '07; a quick trip to the bathroom for a little girl, who'd just somewhat recently graduated from pull-ups, before boarding the plane. She'd been accident free and was ready for a trip across the country. We sauntered into the stall together and she took a seat. She no sooner finished her business and was all set to, um, tidy up - when a deafening WHOOSHING sound came from beneath her. No kidding, it sounded like a jet, it was that loud. Even startled me. And Girl-Child? Came. Un. Glued. She literally shot off the toilet and clung to me like a lemur. Her feet didn't even hit the ground first. It was as if the self-flushing mechanism acted as a catapult; flinging the user like, you're done, I insist.

The rest of that trip was a series of a screaming 3 year old being dragged into various public restrooms in the greater Richmond/DC area. Gooood times. Many of which had their own self-flushing toilets. They were everywhere! I'd never even given them a second thought before this trip. The trip that nearly scared my daughter back into diapers.

To this DAY I try to only take her to places that I know haven't incorporated this particular function into their facilities. And even still, I have to flush once she's left the stall - where she stands by the sink cowering and covering her ears.

It's not just toilets anymore either. She's graduated to other sounds, such as:

• lawnmowers
• leaf blowers
  
• hairdryers
• water filling a tub
  
• water draining from a tub
  
• vacuum cleaners
• helicopters
• street sweepers
• garbage trucks
  
• airplanes
• motorcycles
• ........wind

The most commonly used phrase in this house has become: It's just noise. Only I pronounce it more like NOY-YAH-ZUHHH. And about the bathrooms in the kindergarten classroom? Well, let's just say the teacher has a new phrase too.

All We Can Do Now is Call a Priest and Make Sure it's Comfortable

The television in the boys' bedroom is dying. It started with a few wavy lines like when you tried to watch porn through the scrambled channel when you were younger. Yes way you did, don't lie. [of course, it doesn't work that way anymore because now when you encounter a channel that you don't pay for it's just blank with the words "you must subscribe to view this channel contact your local provider, etc", so our children are saved from jumbled yet discernible sex-having, viewing. Now they have the internet. Fastidious parents need apply] And about that, they really should have done something about the audio while they were busy making sure you couldn't see almost some of everything. I learned so much from hearing what I wasn't allowed to watch. Sorry for the digression through Smut-ville...

The tv. The wavy lines grew heavier and then the color became ultra saturated. And now if something too bright (i.e. outdoor shots) airs, it makes this god awful humming/buzzing sound. And the brightness blows out the color and it's like looking into the sun. Yet still, they watch. Heh. After fiddling with the wires, outputs, and inputs, I've diagnosed that the television is suffering and it is stage four. And it's not even that old. Poor thing. To go so young.

My mother in law purchased the tv not long after we moved into our current home because she couldn't sleep in the guest bedroom without one. And we didn't have a spare [nor do we have a guest bedroom any longer because that was several children ago]. It is only eleven years old. Which I guess in technology years makes it Rip Van Winkle. But get this bit: it's not the oldest one in the house either. The one in the master bedroom is a holdover from my single one bedroom apartment days and won't become obsolete until next year when everything goes HD. And the one in the living room that the kids use to watch their DVD's and play various video games was a gift from my parents on my sixteenth birthday. Do you even KNOW how old that is? I can't count that high! That one? Is older than each of my younger sisters.

And the only reason we replaced the one in the family room with a wide screen was because the one that was there? The one that belonged to Mr. Farklepants before I even knew he existed? Finally slit its own throat.

Mr. Farklepants and I are what you could call STR. Slow To Replace. When it comes to certain technology and household appliances we will wear them into the ground before shelling out the cash for something shiny and new. Take my oven for example. It's a disaster. Baking is considered an extreme sport around here. If the instructions on the box of brownies says bake for 40 minutes; you'd better check them at 20 because chances are, they're starting to burn around the edges. Cookies? Five minutes. If you can smell cookies it's too late.

I have a feeling it will be never quite some time before the boys have a functioning television in their room again. See, Mr. Farklepants wants to do a computer monitor/tv all in one type deal in there. Except it won't be done until he finishes taping, spackling, and plastering the wall he built that turned the loft into a bedroom. Five years ago. The home improvement project that I like to call: ohmyhell that's a bottle of vodka and a story for another day...

Today's Entry Courtesy of Mr. Farklepants' Super Badass Camera

Alternate Title: Mother Nature Should See a Doctor About Some Hormone Replacement Therapy. She's Rather Bitchy.

Just another average day at the golf course:

Tiger Woods never has to contend with this:

Here I come to save the daaaaaaaay:

View of the Sayre Fire from our neighborhood:

Eerily empty freeway on a busy Saturday (i.e. Once again we were cut off from anything south of us):

Marriage Rule #48: Verify Wife is Aware Her Photo is Being Taken. And Rule #49: That She Looks Good

Never let it be said that I only post attractive pictures of myself on this blog.


The most troubling thing about this photo is not my ass fat squooshing out and trying to attack my sleeping daughter, nor that my neck appears to be feasting on my chin, or that it was only somewhere between 7:30 and 8:15pm [or something, I don't know I was asleep] on a Friday night. Or that my mouth was open. Bonus points for lack of drool.

No.

The disturbing issue is that Mr. Farklepants someone was able to come home from work and enter the house. And then locate their camera. And then take their wife's picture. And then make themselves at home on the couch long before my very confused self awoke and was able to register that he had not been there before the reading of half a dozen -riveting, obviously- Clifford the Dog books put a couple of people to sleep.

Then he uploaded it to the family Flickr account.

Note to Mr. Farklepants: Oh, it's on.

If You're Looking For Me...

I'm over at Mrs. G's rifling through her extensive collection of secret boyfriends. Honestly, you can't invite me anywhere anymore.

If Mrs. G sent you...welcome! Pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable. I'd offer you something to eat but I really need to get to the store. I could serve you a couple of heels from a loaf of wheat bread and some questionable carrots but you should probably stick to the canned goods. And Jesus God whatever you do don't open that carton of orange juice!

If you're Mrs. G and are here to throw some haymakers at me, please...not the face.

Obama is President-Elect Now Let's Get Down to Important Baloney...

Like choosing the hypoallergenic First Dog. Here we have a Wirehaired Fox Terrier. Decent size. Sturdy haunches. And a face that can only be described as "colonial". Grade A stuff. All that's missing is his powdered wig, a shot of bourbon, and a pipe.

Another presidential looking dog: the Bouvier des Flandres. Fancy name for a fancy dog. Throw a monocle on this bitch and call it a freakin' day. You can practically hear her scream, I can't see a thing fetch my opera glasses!

Peru suggests this: WTH? Peruvian hairless dog. But, um, ew. Just say no to anything that looks like it could stand a few good rounds with some Rogaine.

Now that the Obamas have a couple of canine suggestions to mull over, let us tackle cabinet positions. Speaking of cabinet members, while doing my extensive research for this entry -where extensive equals one Wikipedia search about cabinet members- I learned that because they are in the presidential line of succession following the Vice President, Speaker of the House, and President pro tempore of the Senate - in the event that all of those people have a really super bad day- that the cabinet members are never allowed to all be in one location all at the same time. For instance, during the State of the Union Address, at least one cabinet member cannot attend and is kept in an undisclosed secure location. Which makes the SOTU drinking game really lonely. But I digress...

Cabinet positions. Just as George Carlin believed that the Ten Commandments were eight too many and was able to narrow them down to two which would have allowed "Moses to carry them down the hill in his pocket"; there are too many shelves in the presidential cabinet.

First: The Secretaries of the Interior, of Housing and Urban Development, of Transportation, and of Energy can be combined into one. Henceforth known as Secretary of Civil Engineering.

Also merge-able: The Secretaries of Defense and that of Veterans Affairs and it should be this guy from The Longest Yard:

So far we've eliminated four. Now let's unite the Secretaries of Commerce and that of Agriculture because what is food if not a commodity? And let's throw in Secretary of Labor in there because it just fits. New title? Secretary of Business Affairs.

We should also just go ahead and marry the Secretary of Health and Human Services with that of Education and it will simply be known as a high school principal.

We aren't finished. We're just going to do away with the Attorney General position altogether because it's been a couple of decades since warning labels became mandatory on cigarette packaging. If you don't know by now that smoking can kill you then there is nothing further the Attorney General can do for you.

Department of Homeland Security is through too. It was created under George W. Bush and frankly anything he's done has been a disaster. Wipe the slate clean I say.

The Secretary of Treasury can stay because I like money.

The Secretary of State is useful too but should be known as The Wing Man.

Now that we've thoroughly purged the cabinet, adequate room has been made for a new position that can only be filled by one man:

Watching Grass Grow and Paint Dry and Other Tired Clichés

Aside from having to pay our dues quarterly, I don't give much thought to the homeowners association. Since our development doesn't have a fancy swimmin' hole, recreation room, or anything else that would be covered by the dues to maintain; our dues are quite reasonable even with the $15 annual donation for the Fourth of July fireworks show - and appear to go towards landscape maintenance of the community, security patrol and the renovation and surveillance of one often soaped fountain. And postage and handling of letters gently warning residents to remove their trash bins from the curb immediately, or shutters that could use a fresh coat of paint; reminding weekend travelers that the RV needs to be returned to its storage area and not left on the street, and that boats, no matter how ostentatious, aren't allowed in the driveway. Neither are yachts.

[-Attention landscaping department: There appears to be a problem with the irrigation drainage off the easement, a common area, that sits behind our cul de sac. And when I say drainage I mean, it's not doing it at all. It's stagnant and smells a little like ass. Get a hazmat team on this pronto.]

It would appear that a long since dead dying three by five foot patch of grass on the south side of our front lawn was brought to the homeowners association's attention. The first letter we received requested that, and I quote "In order to preserve the appearance of the community and to keep the property values at their highest level"...blah blah blah..."please water and fertilize your lawn." In which they gave us one week to "correct said violation".

Okay. So we did that. Except the grass doesn't understand this whole one week thing. Which of course prompted a second letter. Worded exactly as the first except for the part about the possibility of being called to a hearing (which wasn't in the first) and another one week time limit to "correct said violation".

And the grass was all, I'm working on it bitches. Which lends credence to the statement that you can't rush nature. A statement that, according to a swift Google search, I just totally made up.

The third letter informs us that our attendance is requested for a hearing. Not in court, no. At the International House of Pancakes. I can't make this stuff up people. Where we will be allotted five minutes to argue our case. Where I will present the letters specifically stating to water and fertilize my lawn. To which I will respond: I did. But unfortunately the grass can't read English - perhaps you should have drafted the letter in Latin. And I've watched enough Judge Judy I know enough about law to understand that I followed their specific instructions; and anything that is implied is moot by what was explicitly written.


Then I'm going to ask them what actions they've taken against the banks that currently own several foreclosed upon homes in various states of disrepair in the community they so desperately wish to preserve.

Then I'm going to enjoy a plate of Super Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity pancakes. Heavy on the Rooty Tooty.

It's All Fun and Games Except for That One Kid

Today is Grandparents / VIP Day at the elementary school. It's really Grandparents Day and/or Whoever The Hell Else is Available to Show Up Day; which doesn't seem all that important to clarify but actually, is. See, way back in the beginning of the millennium and I was hanging onto my twenties by my fingernails and really that's not important I just wanted to say I was in my twenties, and it became necessary for Boy-Child#1 to obtain an education through the public school system; it was just plain old "Grandparents Day". Except that they discovered that quite often A) Not all children have living grandparents, B) Not all children have grandparents that live locally, and C) More often than not it was the parents themselves that attended. And people were walking around going, there sure are a lot of NOT grandparents here today.

Here is where I pull up my curmudgeon pants: I'm not much of a fan of this particular school function. Oh I can see that the PTA's hearts are in the right place and I can get behind the feel goodness and donated baked goods of it; but there's a heartbreaking component in this. And that is that because about 95% of the parents or family or the village that are raising these little people are able to get involved and attend, there is always that one, sometimes two, but always one child in the classroom who has no one available to be there. And it's obvious. And while the teacher and other parents make sure to include the child so that they don't feel left out, you know that they know that their VIP isn't there.

*sniffle*

And then there is always that one mom. The one who's a little clueless. The one who is a little self-absorbed. The one who is a bit naive or purposely obtuse who I will overhear utter, I can't believe no one could be here for him. Perhaps she isn't aware that people have to earn a paycheck. And maybe she doesn't know what it's like to already have to request time off or leave work early for school plays, parent-teacher conferences, back to school nights, open houses, not to mention other non-school related events and some people just don't have the luxury of taking the morning off to spend 45 minutes making macaroni and glitter picture frames and enjoying bite size muffins with their child.

This morning I am Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child's VIP. And because their classes scheduled times coincide; I will vacillate from one room to another and for ten minutes here and there my children will be that VIPless child.

Thank you Elementary School, for seeing to my dose of guilt for the day. The two dozen berry muffins with the burnt bottoms were my contribution to the considerable spread. You're welcome.

~number of times the thesaurus was consulted for this entry? Three. And still too many uses of the same words. I'm failing writing.

After All That I Still Hate 90% of What's in There

On Sunday I finally tackled one of the many projects on my to-do list. Frankly, I have the Rescue Mission to thank for this because if it wasn't for their phone call to ask if I had anything to donate, these two boxes containing one hundred hangers would still be sitting at the foot of the stairs. Correction: That's TWO projects accomplished.

I've never in my life had a closet full of matching hangers. In fact, most of my hangers consisted of those that came with the garment still attached from the store. Another fact: I did not purchase these hangers nor would I have ever thought to do so because I was ignorant of just how awesome a thing that is. These were a birthday gift from my sister in-law. It's okay that right now you're thinking, and you're still speaking to her? Because I was like, ummm...hangers, thanks? I should never doubt my sister in-law because she has an uncanny ability to choose items that I never even knew I wanted until I had them. She was all, trust me. And now I kinda wanna make out with her.

After discarding about 1/4 of my wardrobe and half of Mr. Farklepants', and simultaneously wondering how it ever managed to all fit in the first place; I can now see every article of clothing that I own. Nothing is shoved or hidden [except for the pieces that are still hanging on random hangers because I totally ran out of the new ones]. Some things I had completely forgotten. Some I'd never worn as evidenced by the price tags still adorning them.

Consensus? I have a lot of damn clothes.

Mr. Farklepants' consensus? He doesn't ever want to hear how I have nothing to wear. Ever again.

Also? I have a great deal of slacks. I can't remember the last time I wore them but I think wherever it was, it involved a job and a paycheck.

Remember earlier in this post how I told you I tackled and finished this project on Sunday? Today is Friday. And this unsightly pile remains on my bathroom floor.

Have you tried to wrangle a mass of tangled hangers? Ain't easy. They're ornery and unruly and completely uncooperative. Guess who has a project for Saturday?

P.S. For any of you Los Angeles based bloggers, Dooce is going to be in LA on Monday. Here are the details for the meet and greet. I'm gonna go, perhaps I'll see you there?

How Could I Forget The Transvestites?

So we're all sitting around the other night after dinner discussing movies and various whatnot [and boy can we talk a whatnot blue streak in this family]; and someone, my father I think, mentioned he'd just seen True Lies for the first time. My father, being somewhat of a connoisseur of action movies, I was excited to relay to him that True Lies happened to be the first movie Mr. Farklepants and I had seen together on our first date lo those many years ago. Yes, the Arnold Schwarzenegger flick. Yes, and Jamie Lee Curtis too. And when I say date I mean I took my roommate along for security because as much as I wanted it to be a date I didn't want Mr. Farklepants to think me anxious to date him. Play games, who? Rules much? Aaaaand we all had a good laugh about my young, angsty man-trapping methods.

Mr. Farklepants: What?
Me: Oh, I was telling them about our first date when I took Roommate with us to see True Lies.
Mr. Farklepants: That's not right.
Me: What?
Mr. Farklepants: You're wrong.
Me: I did take her!
Mr. Farklepants: No, It was The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
Me: ........(!) Oh yeah! (then to my father) Nevermind, it was the movie about the transvestites in Australia.
Dad: ........?



I guess Mr. Farklepants was anxious to date me.

Some of you requested the Alfredo sauce recipe from Monday's entry in the comments and via email. The great thing about this recipe is that it is easy-peasy. And I am all about low maintenance cooking because if there are too many steps to follow or prep work that has to be done in advance I'm all, which pizza place do I have a coupon for? [Quick factoid: When the pizza place and your parent's share the same first three digits in their phone numbers, how many times do you call your mom when you just want Dominos? Answer: Hi Mom, no I really meant to call you I swear I know it's 7pm, so what's up?]

The Alfredo sauce recipe is below, and know this: it makes an obscene amount of sauce - you'll be eating it for days. It's probably best to make this for a large group.

Ingredients:

* 1 pound fettuccine pasta (trust me, you'll need a lot more than that)
* 2 sticks of butter, divided (the thing about cooking - math)
* 1 pound skinless, boneless chicken breasts ( I use the skinless tenders and just dice them up into 1" chunks - cuz I'm all about the bite size)
* 2 (15 oz) containers whole ricotta cheese
* 1 pint heavy cream (I always use heavy whipping cream which is what I assume they mean. If there's another kind of heavy cream out there know that the heavy whipping cream is divine)
* about 1 teaspoon pepper - keep adding while stirring until you can see pepper flecks (the recipe does not call for pepper but I think it kicks ass. The recipe calls for salt but it doesn't need it, I promise)
* 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese (purchase a cheese grater - I'm looking at you AFF)
* 1 heaping teaspoon of chopped garlic

1. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add fettuccine and cook for 8-10 minutes. Drain and set aside in large bowl.
2. While the pasta is boiling melt 2-ish tablespoons of butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Saute chicken and garlic until no longer pink.
3. In a large saucepan (emphasis on large) combine ricotta cheese, cream, pepper, Parmesan cheese, and remaining butter. Cook over medium heat until well combined (about 10 minutes). Stir constantly. Add sauteed chicken and all its garlicy drizzliness into the sauce. Stir until it reaches creamy goodness.
4. I add the sauce by the ladle-ful to the drained pasta and toss until it meets my satisfaction. Some people are all about heavy on the sauce while others are like, stop when I say when-WHEN! I fall somewhere in between.

Buona fortuna!

Hippie Chick

I've voted in every election since 1992; 1992 being a combination of presidential election year and my being old enough to vote. At the time it was William Jefferson Clinton v George Herbert Walker Bush and it had been twelve years of Republican presidents and we were ready for a change as evidenced by the 370 (Clinton) to 168 (Bush) electoral votes. And the 44,909,806 to 39,104,500 popular vote for Bill Clinton. There was also a little elf-like character named Ross Perot [no offense to the pro-elf movement].

Once again we are ready for change. Yesterday was my little sister's generation's turn. I'm so proud of her; and a little envious that her first time was so utterly fantastic!



**photos of and by Dorothy Z. & tweaked by Tootsie without Dorothy's permission using Picnik

Pardon Me, I'm All Vaklempt and Full of SQUEEEEE!

Well hello, Mr. President-Elect! How you doin'?


Tonight Barack Obama made history! And I only wish I could have been there in person to hear him speak. Except when it came time to hunt for my car because holy hell can you imagine trying to navigate your way out of that when it was time to go home? Where'd we park again? I don't know, Indiana I think.


We pause to bring you the obligatorily point at random person in the crowd.

It's a new day...I can smell the hope. Can you?

P.S. Except that I have to go to bed knowing that Proposition 8 is currently leading with 53% in favor and really hoping that number changes before I wake up in the morning.

P.P. S. WTF California?!?

*all photos associated press

Because All That Butter Just Wan't Enough

I have to admit I'm not terribly humble I make a mean Alfredo sauce. I don't make Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo often because - fat. This recipe is not even joking around about its fat content. We're talking two whole sticks of butter. Two 15 ounce containers of WHOLE ricotta cheese. One pint of heavy cream and a whole cup plus a little more for good measure of grated Parmesan cheese. Freshly grated of course. And when it comes time to physically apply cheese to grater you're all, why didn't I just buy the Kraft pre-grated stuff? Then you remember - flavor. One thing missing from the recipe that I follow is garlic.

I'd like to introduce you to a permanent staple in my fridge:


I sautee one teaspoon of this with the chicken before adding it to the sauce. One teaspoon is all you need because you want to wake up the flavor; you don't want to scare the shit out of it. A little of this stuff goes a long way.

After you recruit your mother to grate the cheese, and your sister to make the salad, and your other sister to pour everyone's drink, and you enjoy your second cup of coffee - dinner is served. You don't worry that you've just forced yourself to finish the entire bowl of rich and heavy Alfredo you were served; or that you sopped up the remaining sauce with a soft buttery roll, or that you didn't actually have any room to finish the salad after that carbohydrate orgy, because you still have three weeks to lose those five pounds that will give you permission to gain it all back come Thanksgiving.

Send Aspirin and Faux Fur Ear Muffs

Boy-Child#1's birthday money rainy day purchase: Guitar Hero World Tour. I thought the drums would at least try to sound like electronic drums. But they sound like someone beating on a cardboard box...repeatedly. For. H-O-U-R-S. The singing? Dying cat.

And man did that game come with a lot of wires. Le sigh.

Wrong side out pajama top not included.