Chores

In an attempt to get my Rockstar’s Daughter out of my hair and into better habits, I suggested coming up with a list of chores with which to fill her summer days. I was surprised at her unexpected fervor for said task, and even more surprised when one of the chores she thought of was picking up dog poo. (A job not even the most dirty of people relish, I expect.) Of course there were the typical chores a child should learn to accept: washing dishes, cleaning their room, etc… As well as a few that consisted of a bit more fun- giving the dog a bath with the garden hose, washing my truck with the garden hose, watering the flowers with the garden hose. (There does seem to be a disturbing obsession with the garden hose.)

I got to thinking about how we as children are bogged down with such minimal tasks as these; usually with the expectancy of reward upon completion. Why is it as we get older, these tasks no longer hold promise of payment? I object.

In lieu of starting a riot over such injustices, I have composed a list of chores that I might accomplish that very well may result in acceptable annuity. I trust you all approve.

1. Blow jobs.

To quote Samantha from Sex and the City: “Buddy. It ain’t called a job for nothin’.” From what I’ve heard in passing conversations, (yes, most of my passing conversations consist of blow jobs and the like, so shut up) most girls just don’t like to give blow jobs. This is completely foreign to me, for I love giving them so! There’s nothing like having my Rockstar’s hard, throbbing cock shoved down my throat. But! This isn’t all about me and my favorite penis.

Since some girls detest the act, this could be one of those chores they go to with dread, in hopes of a nice big allowance afterward. A nice, big, throbbing allowance- one that you can ride on and get extreme pleasure from….

2. Cooking.

Some women like to cook. I am some of these women sometimes. It’s when it’s an everyday occurrence that I begin to detest it. (Trust me, there’s a reason I always end up working in a restaurant.) They say that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; I always thought it was through his dick- but I guess if his stomach gets filled because I cooked for him, and the end result is him making sweet love to me, that’s almost as good as a good hard fuck.

3. Laundry.

It should go without saying that if you wash a man’s underwear, there will be no surprises when you’re down there doing your oral business. That is reward in itself.

4. Reading.

Because there has to be something completely enjoyable on the list. And reading always comes with knowledge. And the more you know, the more you grow. 🙂

Ok, I’m bored of this list now. Goodbye.

 

It’s Turkey Day!!!!!!!

One of the benefits of living in Sparkleland is the experience of Turkey Day. No, I do not mean the 4th Thursday of November which is America’s excuse at political correctness. I mean the random day throughout the year when I decide to make an ENTIRE Thanksgiving-like feast, and proceed to share it with… no one except the people I live with.

The tradition of Turkey Day started when I came up with the brilliant idea of seeing whether or not I could complete the task of preparing almost every dish associated with Thanksgiving, at one time. This occurred a couple years ago in March  and is best  forgotten really. I found that I was not, at that time, ready to host any family holidays. I was unaware that one must give a 25 lb. turkey sufficient time to thaw (as in 3 or 4 days), instead I tried cooking it after letting it unfreeze for about 2 hours. Needless to say, the bloody frozen innard part of my bird was not appropriate for eating. As for the rest of the dinner? The stuffing was dry, the gravy was lumpy and greasy, the green bean hotdish was runny, and I burnt the brown-and-serve rolls.I  remember that day and cringe- after waiting 7 hours for the turkey to be done (which never happened), all I had to feed my Beloveds was a mountain of mashed potatoes. As my Rockstar put it, “That was kind of a disaster.”

Last year, Turkey Day fell on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I realize this doesn’t make alot of sense, since copious amounts of turkey were to be eaten the next day. My Rockstar amiably went along with it, despite the past wretched experience, because he knew that I really wanted to try again. Luckily, I spent numerous hours researching turkey cooking, and the resulting affect was surprisingly edible. However, I did end up throwing half the bird away when I couldn’t figure out how to carve it efficiently.

Turkey Day falls on today this year simply because my 20 lb. birdy I picked up wasn’t thawed out yesterday. Unless you have prepared a store-bought turkey before, you cannot understand the disgusting thrill of sticking your hand up a mammoth bird’s ass and pulling out all that nasty grossness that only Swedish people eat. (giblets and such) Since I had the assistance of my Rockstar’s Daughter in preparing Bob for baking before school today, (yes, I name my turkeys)  I was bombarded with squeals of “He’s pooping!” and “That’s DEEEE-GUSTING!”  as I was pulling the slimy conveniently- prepared gravy packet out of Bob’s rectum. (which Bob greatly appreciated, having done a little Turkey Jig in celebration)

Of course, it would make sense to prepare my Bob in a similiar fashion as last year, since Josie (last year’s turkey) turned out so well, but I have never really been one to do things that are sensible. Instead, I cruised online to find turkey baking instructions, and settled on some that require NO water in the pan. I hope Bob doesn’t dry out. After cutting the all-natural plastic cuffs that held Bob’s legs together, (oops) I re-tied them together with flower wire. (How handy of me). I guess we’ll find out if this year’s Turkey Day is a bust in 7 hours….

Thought #16

So I’ve made Honey Bread, Zuppa Toscana, and Fried Rice today. If you didn’t know any better, you would start to think I’m domesticated….

Betty Crocker: a Tough Act to Follow

Good ole’ Saturday. A day to kick back, relax, start drinking at noon… or so it WOULD be if I didn’t have to be at work. Do you ever find it strange that the Bosses of the world- the ones who are supposed to be in charge of the workplaces- are the first individuals to be gone on a holiday weekend? And no, it does NOT make me feel better when my manager words it, “We will be away with our families.” Now, if my manager’s wife actually LIKED her hubby, I would say “Good for him”, and mean it. But since every minute I am with my boss is filled with his whiney voice telling me how badly he is neglected at home and how having 4 kids is so hard, I would say to him, “Dude! Work a fucking Saturday so I can hang with people who actually like me.” At least I just got to witness an altercation between a mall cop suffering from Short Man Syndrome and a Somalian.

Ay, me. So I tried to cook Italian last night. It was not completely disastrous, but neither did it have my Beloveds rushing back for seconds. Last week it was caramel cinnamon rolls, which surprisingly rose to the occasion. (HAHA)I sometimes get a recipe in my head that I simply must try, but most of the time, I pretty much despise cooking. This being because I’m not super-great at it, due to the fact that my private school hadn’t a home-ec class and the only thing my mother excelled at in front of the stove was frying home-made french fries without a deep-frier. (Yay you, Momma.) I spent the first decade of my life away from home not needing to know how to cook; I ate at work- the mom-n-pop restaraunt. So when I started dating my Rockstar and found he could make biscuits and gravy when I could hardly fry an egg, I was slightly embarrassed. Being the stubborn personthat I am, I said to myself, “Self! I can be just as good as Betty Crocker, and cuter too!” I would just like to point out- that bitch ain’t real! After numerous failed attempts at gourmet cooking, one of which included me chucking a gravy spoon at my boyfriend, I was ready to throw in the skillet.

But damn it! I realized I DO want to be an excellent cook. Perhaps it’s because when I think about it, I personally do not know one person my age who can cook well, from scratch. I shall be one of the elite few in the year 2061 who actually knows how to knead dough (while wearing 5 inch heels and glitter). As I have learned with sex, what makes a woman good in bed is passion. So I shall passionately persevere at stirring and mixing and sifting, and maybe after 20 or 30 tries, my breadsticks may actually be edible.