Category Archives: Food

Evading the Uprising


There comes a day in every adult’s life when he or she must make the choice to risk their very safety in order to use their carefully-clipped penny saving coupons. Today was that day for me.

I left work dreading the task looming before me. As if I did not already abhor grocery shopping anyway, the Cashwise in my city wickedly decided to advertise dollar saving deals on Doritos and other life-sustaining foodstuffs. I planned my assignment with the skills of a Navy SEALS ninja.

I seemed to have forgotten my riot shield, as I was not expecting masses of people stocking up for the approaching zombie apocolpyse, and so I hunkered down into a defensive pose as I laid my re-usable grocery bags in the seat of my cart, all the while clutching my purse, preparing to use it as a battering weapon if necessary. I looked down, refusing to make eye contact with other people crazy enough to try to get their two-for-one Oreos, afraid my own insanity would be reflected in their eyes.

I made  a pitstop at the coupon bin, keeping my cart between myself and the elderly lady frantically searching for the free Malt-O-Meal coupon. I found what I needed, and proceeded to bound through the fruit aisle at a self-preserving speed, stopping only long enough to pick up a seedless watermelon marked down to $4.98. As I did so I couldn’t help snickering to myself that I finally had a melon in my hand that was bigger than my own “melons”.

I repeatedly flipped through my handful of coupons, intent on not missing an item and having to risk backtracking through the money-grubbing throng. I debated on whether to get Hershey caramel chocolate coffee creamer or French Vanilla before madly tossing both on top of my free bananas and scotching outta there before I was rammed by the overweight man in the sweat pants.

I maneuvered my growing-heavy cart down the frozen foods aisle, ignoring the call of the new Cool Whip Frosting, and hastily grabbed two delicious looking tubs of ice cream, only to realize when I got around the corner that the tubs I had the coupon for were on the endcap. I threw my hands up before throwing the unwanted tubs in the place of the two I grabbed. (Shhh, you know you’ve done it too.) I zoomed past the candybar aisle, resisting temptation, before coming to a screeching halt in the shortest checkout line that sported a not-retarded looking checkout dude.

Sadly, in my extreme speed, I failed to notice the elderly couple in front of me who had been unable to locate said sale Malt-O-Meal. I looked on, pretending to smile politely when all I really wanted to do was shove grampa and gramma into their carts and push them off to the old people’s home. At last, their Malt-O-Meal was found, only to find out it wasn’t what they were looking for. Finally, I was cashed out and bagged up, only to realize when I got loaded into my truck that my endorphins were pumping, and I zoomed home in record time for absolutely no reason.

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Loving Julia Roberts and Other Such Nonsense


There was a time “when men were kind, and their voices were soft, and their words inviting.”

Sorry, that wasn’t exactly where that sentence was supposed to go; just gearing up for my Les Mis audition.

Actually, what I was going to say was, there was a time when I believed Julia Roberts to be the best thing since the value menu at Burger King, but then I realized trouty lips don’t age well.

It’s been awhile since I posted, and there is really no good excuse for that, other than I was busy sleeping and reading The Help. I’m so sorry, my lovely followers who depend on me for their daily Special S, for I have let you down and not in the last weeks given you the fodder necessary to lose pounds from laughing your asses off. I shall do better, this I swear.

Anyhoo, back to Julia and her amazing platypus lips.

When I first saw Pretty Woman, I didn’t see a hooker in safety-pinned boots. I saw a tall slender woman with amazing red hair who was everything I would never be. At the time, I was not who I am now, mainly because I was a self-deprecating anorexic with bad hair. In the end, my point is that for a couple years, in my eyes, Julia Roberts could do no wrong. (Except for that movie Mary Reilly; it’s true not everyone can do period pieces.)

I had the entire VHS filmography of Julia up until the time DVDs became popular, when I then decided her best movies were My Best Friend’s Wedding and Runaway Bride. (The latter mainly because any glimpse of Chris Meloni still gives me chills in my drawers.) I opted to not replace all my Julia tapes with DVDs, and as they say in the Bible, I put away childish things, and never thought much about Julia again. (Partially because ever since she won an Oscar, she’s starred in nothing really worth seeing.)

This morning, I decided to watch Larry Crowne, and was again reminded why I fell in love with Julia all those years ago. Whether she is playing a dolled up hooker living a fantasy or a disenchanted community college professor in a failed marriage, she is absolutely believable. I must admit it was a bit disturbing to not see her trademark mile-wide grin until almost the end of the movie, but as she wallowed through her margaritas while mourning the lack of boobage her husband so desired, I could not help but identify with her.

It was then that I decided I was going to make carrot cake cupcakes.

I do not proclaim to be a domestic goddess, but in the past year I have felt the urge to bake cupcakes. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I watch Two Broke Girls on Monday nights. Whatever the reason, I thought that carrot cake cupcakes would be perfect for a post-Easter Monday.

I set about dirtying ever dish and measuring spoon I could lay my hands on, only to find right before I mixed that I hadn’t as many carrot shreds as my recipe called for. Not to be phased, I turned the dial on my hand-held mixer anyway, and produced extra-moist (I hate that word moist, blech) carrot cake cupcakeys that taste a bit more like pineapple than carrots. Ah, well. This is what comes of having my Rockstar pick up ingredients at the store.

P.S. I know you are wondering, “Rockstar? I thought she got rid of him?” Let us just say relationships are complicated. Welcome to my simple life.

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Why I Really Just Don’t Care What You Think


I know, the title of my post sounds very rude. I certainly didn’t mean it to, but I have a serious case of the Fuck-its today, so too bad.

I’ve heard that a woman with confidence is something to behold. Men flock to them, and women want to be just like them. This second fact is the reason I would not necessarily consider myself a Confident Woman, because I am convinced only a completely insane person would wish to be just like me; however, I HAVE come up with a few reasons why I don’t completely suck, and why I really don’t give a fuck what people think. (But I still love you and think you’re all awesome! XOXO)

1. I know the definitions and correct spellings of such words as concubine, scintillate, and a plethora of other words many normal people don’t know, including plethora. I also know how to correctly pronounce oneiromancy.

2. I will dye my hair blonde, or red, or black, or orange, or pink, and just shrug when someone says it looks bad, because it keeps me from being bored with my otherwise normal-looking self. I also don’t mind resembling the Little Mermaid or Jessica Rabbit.

3. I can tell you who wrote Polonaise in A Major, when he wrote it, how he died, and if you wish, I can play it on the piano for you. Or I could play the theme song from Alice in Wonderland by Shinedown.

4. I can eat more than a family of four; therefore I do not waste food. Ever. Those starving people in Africa that your mother told you about? There’s nothing left for them when I get done.

5. I can work a 12, or 15, or 17 hour day and still give a shit what my place of business looks like when I leave it. But I am also not afraid to sit on my ass and do absolutely nothing and admit it when I have a day off.

6. I am the most stubborn person on the planet. Some of you may like to point out that this isn’t a good quality, but if we have a second Holocaust, or I am caught and tortured to give up the location of our nuclear weapons that could destroy the population, rest assured that the hidden Jews will be safe andhumanity  will live.

7. I can aim and shoot a gun, which doesn’t really do me any good unless a Zombie Apocolypse occurs.

8. If you are my friend, you will remain my friend, even if you are a complete Assface who treats me as a fair-weather friend and only call when you need something. However, chances are I may not answer your call the next time you need me to save you from a burning building.

9. I am not too hard on the eyes. I’m not saying I’m as pretty as Marilyn or Audrey, but I’m cuter than at least some women you know. And even if I think you’re more beautiful, I say to myself, “I’m cuter.” Even if it’s not true at all.

10. I can admit that I’m a complete dork, because I am also smarter than all those people who call me one. Including my Rockstar. (Don’t worry, he loves me because of my dorkdom.)

11. The final reason I just really don’t care what anyone think is because I can whoop their ass if they cock off. They just need to give me a reason. XOXO

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She’s Alive!!!!!


Today is a day to celebrate. I urge you all to stop what you’re doing and dance a jig, or clap yo’ hands, because today is Delightfulness‘ birthday! Ok, I can see where you mayn’t be as thrilled as me, but she is my special friend that I know personally, and I can assure you any dancing or clapping that is done for her is well deserved. If you have never paid a visit to her blog, you MUST! She is simply too funny and sweet for words, and she writes amazing poetry. Lucky for me, she lives nearby, so I get the honor of her presence on occassion.

Today, Delightful, I will gift you with everything you ever needed, and deserve.

A muzzle: To place on the faces of the adorable children you deal with every day that seem to think you are but something to eat. That’ll show them the next time they try to bite you. Simply place this muzzle on the next child that bites you  and scream, “NO BITING, DEVIL CHILD!” Yeah, I know. It’s prolly a good thing I haven’t children.

A Box of Kleenex: For the next time you walk in to your apartment and find your beloved watching Alien VS. Predator. Heeheehee!!!!!!

A Gluten-free cupcake: Technically, that would be me, since you call me Cupcake, and I contain no allergens for you, but this one was prettier, although I don’t know if there is a difference in the way a gluten-free cupcake looks compared to a regular deadly one. You’ll have to tell me about that.

Michael Gray-Gubler: Because you love him and he is almost as pretty as Chris Meloni. Sadly, I was only able to find a picture of him- it seems he and Chris also have that in common.

A beautiful pair of shoes: because every birthday girl needs a new pair of shoes!

A poem: I bet you didn’t even know you knew Maya Angelou, did you? Well, she knows you, because she wrote an entire poem that describes you perfectly. I have included it just here.

Have a lovely birthday, my friend! I loves you to pieces and I’m so glad you put up with me. XOXOXO

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19,107


I checked my site stats today and noticed that my blog has been viewed precisely 19,107 times. The more I thought about this, the more it floored me. It almost seems as though people like reading about my histrionic thoughts and the reactions people have from them. While there are many bloggers that have far exceeded the 19,107 mark, I must admit that this number far exceeded any expectations I may have had concerning the reading of my writings.  Since 19,107 is a perfectly beautiful un-even number, ( if you recall, I detest even numbers) I have decided to compose today’s post in honor of my growing popularity. Since you all clearly don’t know every intimate detail of me, it is time to feed your curiosity, and talk about my favorite subject- ME!!!!

When I was young, I became bored quite easily, which resulted in my favorite saying being, “I’m huuuungrrrrrryyyyy!” Instead of redirecting my focus on something productive, my parents fed me to shut me up, therefore contributing to the fact that I can now eat more than the inhabitants of a third-world country in one sitting. Before my stomach was sufficiently stretched out to do such, I would eat continuously until it all came back up. The most vivid memory of this happening is the time we went camping when I was 9, and I ate 3 hotdogs and an entire bag of marshmallows that had been sizzled to perfection over the campfire. After laying myself to rest for the night in my camper bed that was above my parents, I proceeded to regurgitate my healthful dinner over the side of my mattress, therefore creating a lovely splatter pattern of upchucked hotdogs and marshmallows in the tiny camper.  The resulting odor was wretched enough that thereafter I refused to sleep in said camper.

I was not always so fashionably inclined. In fact, when I was 15, I had two friends who were sisters who were quite vocal about my choices in granny shoes. This was around 1997, when chunky Spice Girl heels were in style. My two concerned friends brought me to the mall intent in ridding me of my antiquated loafers. They inticed me with a pair of black Mary-Janish chunky heels embroidered with flowers. (It was the flowers that caught my eye- I hated the chunkiness) After forcing my feet into the offending shoes, a sort-of spell came over me, and my feet have never been perfectly happy ever since unless they’ve been sporting a lovely pair of heels.  Sadly, my first pair of heels lasted less than a year because I wore them incessantly.

I may have mentioned in the past that I grew up going to a Baptist school and church. This resulted in every church service, chapel, basketball tournament, and music competition ending with a message imploring the unsaved to step forward and receive Jesus Christ. While I clearly recall my acceptance of God at a very young age, the constant mentioning of going to hell and having doubts about your salvation did, in fact, create doubts in my mind. Therefore, I am proud to annouce that I have accepted and re-accepted Jesus as my Saviour exactly 7 times. Yay me. He’ll probably send me straight to Hell anyway. Or at least give me a stern talking to before I enter the Pearly Gates.

There have been only two occassions when a stranger has bought me a drink. The first, I was at a hole-in-the-wall bar with my ex-husband (my boyfriend at the time) and his friend. Suddenly, a beautifully free drink was placed in front of me, compliments of the creepy dude who was ogling my cleavage at the end of the bar. What possessed him to buy me a drink when I obviously had my boyfriend in tow is beyond me, but I must say that you have to admire his balls. (Not literally)

The second time I was gifted with alcohol was at another hole-in-the-wall bar I used to frequent with my friend for karaoke night. It happened to be fishing opener weekend, and we were the only two gals in the joint. I went up to procure us libations, only to end up commenting on a rather plastered individual’s t-shirt. The tipsy man introduced himself as Ebner (which I exclaimed was an excellent name) and proceeded to buy me and my friend a drink. While Ebner was a surprisingly nice sir, the conversation was short-lived, since he was drunk and we wanted to sing. I will always be grateful that a man named Ebner saved me $3.50.

I suppose at some point you will be expecting a sex story. I would be expecting a sex story from me too. I shall try not to disappoint.

Hmmm, I’m thinking.

OK, I got it.

The first attempt I made at having the sex was on a 100 degree night when I didn’t have air-conditioning. While my partner was 7 years older than I, he had no more experience than I did. While no actual sex took place, a near-fisting did occur. That’s all I have to say about that.

Thank you for making my blog 19,107 views popular. I loves you all and hope you don’t get sick of me anytime soon. XOXO

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Anal Glands, Shrimp Scampi, and Gene Simmons


That post title oughta get some weird search terms.

Anyhoo, here I am, wide awake (mostly) and sober after another Drunken Monday. After I had imbibed at least 4 peachy-flavored rum drinks yesterday, my Rockstar finally got home. Normally, I would have jumped up in a drunken excitement and given him a giant booby squish in greeting, but I was busy shooting zombies. Sadly, I have discovered Resident Evil 5 is much too hard, even when it’s set on easy, as I couldn’t even make it past the first zombie annihalation mission. (To be clear, my Rockstar couldn’t either, so it wasn’t all me.)

I mixed him a lovely drink and we proceeded to kill zombies for a bit longer, until my Rockstar remembered he had posted pictures on Facebook of his dirt-bike riding experience the other day. We noticed his nephew had a video of his lovely customized Mustang, and we were both distracted by a pair of legs that were sitting in the background. Apparently my Rockstar was buzzed already, because he allowed my drunken self to post a comment stating that the next time a video is posted, it should focus more on the legs and less on the car. THAT got a few comments, let me tell you.

We then paged through Facebook, observing the many unflattering pictures people post of themselves and others. He informed me that if ever I post such hideous pictures of him, I will surely be murdered in my sleep. I agreed that that would be a justified response.

We then realized it was time to make shrimp scampi. He agreed to monitor my cooking, as half of the bottle of rum was gone at that point. This resulted in me dumping a bunch of butter, garlic, and lemon juice unmeasured into a pan with shrimp and letting him stir it occassionally. Having never had srimp scampi before, he assumed it came in an alfredo-like sauce, which made me giggle. So we decided to make Stove Top stuffing and an entire loaf of garlic bread. All the while, we were discussing the losses of our virginities- I had many questions after finding out he went flaccid the first time. Too, he was interested to hear of my reaction when I was denied the first time I tried to have sex. I feel that we have grown closer by sharing these stories.

Somehow, the conversation turned to the surprising fact that despite his being an Ass Man, he continuously ends up with women sporting large breasteses. He has realized that he must change his ways and become instead a Boob Man.

In the evening hours when I am at work, he has been entertaining himself by watching Gene Simmon’s Family Jewels on Netflix. Apparently he has been reaping wisdom from Gene, because when I pointed out the fact that we don’t do It as frequently as I would like, he said, “I’ll try to say it how Gene said it, because it was a nice way to put it- I’m not looking for anything else, and I don’t need anything more than you, but it’s alot easier to have sex with different women every single night than it is to have sex with the SAME woman every single night.” The point being, he wants no one else, but sex with me every single night would get old. (He has stated that 2 or 3 times a week is sufficient. Blah) Since he tried to sugar-coat it, I am not offended. However, I will ask you men- is Gene right?

We then gathered our dinners together on plates and sat down to watch my new favorite show, Two Broke Girls. Considering that my Rockstar is, at times, not a conversationalist, I was surprised when the mention of doggy anal glands on the show sparked an entire rant from him on the subject. After his 10 minute word rampage, he asked, “What do you think?” Honestly, I was floored that he had that much to say about anal glands in the first place, so I was rendered speechless. I simply shrugged and went back to eating my delicious shrimp scampi.

In my drunken state, I also managed to eat the ENTIRE loaf of garlic bread and still be hungry. I commented on the superior flavoring of the shrimp scampi, and my Rockstar agreed, but stated it was best if he oversees my cooking. I agreed.

It was a lovely Drunken Monday, though a few of our conversational subjects are not ones I care to revisit- mainly, anal glands.

 

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Rules For Loving Me


 

Since I am the Queen of my World, it would make sense for there to be rules for my Lovely subjects to follow in regards to loving me. More specifically, there should be rules for that special person who just happens to be my significant other. I would post these on the fridge if I actually thought they’d get followed…

#1. My Beloved is required to eat french fries of his own making with me at least once a week. (My Rockstar is actually pretty good about this one. Mainly because he is too lazy to cook something other than fried food most of the time.)

#2. My Beloved is required to wash ALL dishes that find themselves dirtied in the sink. In exchange, he shall be rewarded with a complete body rub with my extremely soft hands that are unsullied from numerous dish washings.

#3. My Beloved is required to engage in sexually explicit acts quad-weekly or more with the Queen. In exchange, he shall be rewarded with earth-shattering orgasms.

#4. While the Queen is not against doing her own laundry, it would be much preferred if her Beloved put away his own skivvies and other assorted bodily coverings.

#5. Hand holding, ass groping, booby squeezing, and other assorted acts of physical affection are required to keep one’s place as the Queen’s Beloved.

#6. It is not necessary to accompany the Queen every Sunday to her piano playing gig at church. However, an occasional appearance is required in order to keep the old peoples from feeling pity for the Queen continuously having to sit alone.

#7. The Queen likes to stay home alot. Yet the Queen’s Beloved is required to understand that a date or outing is necessary on occasion in order to satisfy the Queen’s boredom.

#8. The Queen, like any other royal personage, suffers from histrionic personality disorder. Therefore, her Beloved must realize her need for attention is highly magnified, and must act accordingly.

#9. A Royal Spanking must be administered to the Queen now and then to make sure her masochistic urges are satisfied. This may also be accompanied by a Bite to the Ass, or Forced Deep-Throating. For this she thanks you.

#10. The Queen must be allowed to choose Travelling Music when riding along on car trips. No groaning or negative commenting on her choice of music or questionable singing skills is allowed.

#11. You bought another pair of shoes?” is a comment that is punishable by beheading, or some other equally disgusting punishment, such as No Sex.

#12. Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer must be supplied to the Queen daily. If it is used up, her Beloved is required to buy more.

#13. The Queen is required to drive a fuschia-colored Boss Mustang. If she cannot afford one, one must be provided for her.

#14. The Queen’s Library will forever be added to. Sufficient bookshelf space must be accomadated.

#15. When the Queen decides to cook dinner for her Beloved,  the eating of said dinner must be accompanied by ,”MMM, this is good”s, and/or “may I have some more?”s. Also, if she is wearing nothing but and apron and heels, this must be acknowledged.

These seem to be relatively reasonable rules, I say. Who wouldn’t want to be my loyal subject, I ask you? 😉

 

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