Peanuts and Prozac

Sooo.... in two days I will be boarding an airplane.  I should be easy to spot.  I'll be the woman on the plane with a bottle of Xanax in one hand,  a Rosary in the other, and wearing a beer helmet that is filled with gin and tonic.  I hate flying.  HAAAAAATE it.  I thought I was improving with handling this great fear of mine, but as soon as I pressed the "purchase" button to order my ticket, I broke out in hives and started hyperventilating.  In fact, my armpits are sweating profusely right now, and my left eye is twitching,  just thinking about it.  Sure, it'll get me to where I need to go much faster than say driving or walking, but I'd honestly rather walk 1,000 miles on my knees than get on a plane.  Let me paint you a picture of how it usually goes down-oh God, I think I should avoid that saying when I'm writing about airplanes-*ahem* of how I handle myself whilst on a deathtrap.  As soon as I get to my seat, I automatically lock my seatbelt into place, and look for the emergency exits.  I then have to unlock my seatbelt to let another person into my row, who either a) needs a seatbelt extender, or b) is wearing some exotic scent that violates my nose holes, and adds a migraine to my list of airplane ailments.  Just as I'm about to take a sip out of my gin and tonic tiara, I usually have to get up again, because Ms. Baby Soft or Mr. Drakkar needs to get something out of his or her bag, that is conveniently located in the overhead bin.  Finally, finally I am settled into my seat, where I will comfortably clutch the arm rests for the next three hours, while nervously peeking out of the airplane window, hoping that I don't see a colonial woman on the wing churning butter.  When the plane takes off, whoever is within a five foot proximity to me, will be able to hear me say the Hail Mary over and over and over again, with a few "Oh God's" thrown in, and "What was that?  Is that normal?  Are we there yet?"  Then again, these last few exclamations are usually drowned out because my head is shoved into a strangers armpit as I mumble to them, "Don't let this be awkward.  As soon as we land I'll remove my face from your arm crevice.  Hey, is that Dove fresh scent?  Because that shiz is delightful."  The only time I will uncurl myself from the fetal position is when the drink cart comes around.  That conversation usually goes like this:
Steward:  Would you like peanuts or cookies?
Me: If by "peanuts or cookies" you mean Prozac and tequila, well then both.  I want both. In fact, I will take one of every small bottle that you have on your little cart that always ends up slamming me in my elbows.
Stew: That'll be $296.00
Me:  Worth every penny.
So this upcoming Wednesday, say a little prayer for me.  Until then, I leave you with this classic clip from the movie Bridesmaids, because in all reality, Kristen Wiig's character was clearly based on me. :)

The sky is falling

Again, I really don't have anything stellar to write about today, so I've decided to compile a list of random facts about moi. Enjoy.
*I hate mangos.  I think their texture is repulsive and they taste just like vom.
*Cilantro is a runner-up.  I have a friend who believes that cilantro is the devil, and I would have to concur with that.
*I have an obsession with painting my nails.  Shocker.
*I can be super DUPER anal retentive.  If something is out of place, I can't relax until it is exactly where it should be.  I'm pretty certain my husband likes to torture me by not lining up the t.v. remotes parallel.
*I like even numbers.  For example, if I want the volume turned up a notch on the t.v., it has to be changed to an even number.  If not, then the world will explode.
*My favorite number is 23.  It's the only odd number that I enjoy.
*I love animals, and think that anyone who is cruel to an animal deserves to be water boarded and then repeatedly slapped in the face with a large bass.
*I'm a bit obsessed with pinterest.  The category with the most "pins" is titled "Snoogle Poofs", which is all animals.  (Refer to the fun fact two spots above.)
*I have a paper mache rhino head hanging in my bedroom.  His name is Richard, but we call him Dick for short.
*There is a large painting of a cow that hangs in between my kitchen and dining room.  His name is Mr. Ahmoozing.
*I name inanimate objects.
* I can watch the movies The Sound of Music, Garden State, Steel Magnolias, and Stand By Me, over and over and over again, and never get sick of them.
*I once met Chumlee from Pawn Stars on a flight back from Vegas.  He smelled delightful, and he wore an itty bitty Versace backpack.  He looked like a hippo with a Tic Tac container strapped to his back.
*My dream job would be an Indy car racer.  Sometimes when I'm driving on the thruway, Leonard gets his manties in a knot because I drive too fast and get too close to other cars.  I just tell him that I'm drafting and it's all part of my tactic.  He then proceeds to proclaim that he will never drive with me ever again.
*I'd really love to be able to yodel.  Like a boss.
*I wish unicorns were real.
*I'm addicted to my Instagram app on my phone.  I know no one really cares about the sixty-seven photos of my dogs that I post a day, but deal with it.  Just wait until I have a human child.  It will be photos of Stan's first dump, "Early Bird" style.
*I hate moon roofs in cars.  I recently got a new set of wheels, and I specifically asked for a car without one.  Why?  Because when the screen is open and reveals the sky, I'm convinced that some rogue object from space will come hurtling through the moon roof and cause mass destruction.  That, or the sky will simply fall on my head.
There's more, but I already know that this is a lot to process.  I have to go straighten up the house.  One of the throw pillows is askew, and if I don't fix it the world will tip off its axis. :)

The Truffle Shuffle

Hey there, friends.  Today's post is going to be short, sweet, and to the point.  Don't get your expectations up though, because I'm not feeling all that hilarious. In fact, I'm feeling more like a fat ass because I'm fairly certain I gained fifty-five thousand pounds this past week, because my best friend from back home came out to visit me, and what better way to catch up then sit around eating sticks of butter and reminiscing?  My husband was also on vacay, and Chef Boy-Ar-Lenny delivered.  So all-in-all I'm a big fat fatty, and quite frankly rather winded from just typing with my sausage fingers.
I will post about the adventures of Thelma and Lousie on another day, but for now I've decided I'm just going to give you my B*tch List.  Enjoy.
Words that are not real:
*Woofs.  Here I will use it in a sentence:  Look at those woofs howling at the moon.  Oh.  You mean wolves?  Look at those WOLVES howling at the moon?  I'm pretty sure "woofs" is what the wolves actually say.
*Yous.  Yous guys better hurry up.  I'm sorry, what?
*You welcome.  As in, you welcome.  How about we get a little pirate in you, and add an "arrrrre" to the "you".
*Libary.  I'm going to the libary.  I'm sorry.  I don't know what that is.  Does the libary teach you about woofs?
*Febuary.  Again, there isn't a silent r.  I don't pronounce March "Mach".  Unless you're from Boston, knock it off.
The only words that are permitted to pronounce incorrectly are "Irish wristwatch", and "rear wheel drive".  Haha.  You're saying it now, aren't yous?
And I leave you with a little Goonies treat, because essentially right now I resemble Chunk.  You welcome. :)

Chef Boy-Ar-Lenny

Here's a fun tidbit.  I can't cook.  I hate it with a deep, deep passion, and if you expect me to bring a side dish, you can guarantee that I'm more than likely going to bring either fruit or vegetables that have already beed sliced, diced, and packaged, and some pre-made dip.  If it doesn't come in a box or bag, then I'm more than likely not going to cook it.  On the rare occasions what I do cook, no matter what I make it all tastes the same.  Lasagna?  Tastes like chicken.  Meatloaf?  Tastes like chicken.  Polish sausage, chicken.  You get the point.  I have the blue box blues, and I plan on havin' em until I become an old hag.  When I'm feeling really gourmet I make what I loving (and creatively) refer to as "fire pasta."  Sounds interesting, doesn't it?  I will be sure to include the recipe at the end of the post.  What it essentially is, is spaghetti noodles, butter, and hot sauce.  *BAM* Money.  There was one time when I must of been having an episode of some sort, because I attempted to make a "fancy" grilled cheese sandwich.  Meaning, I had to use cheese that wasn't just Kraft singles.  That should have been my first warning that I was going to be out of my league.  But I thought to myself, it's grilled cheese.  How on earth can I possible screw this up??  Hahaha.  Silly girl.  Silly, stupid, girl.  I started off strong.  I had all of my cheeses lined up nicely, had the bread buttered just so, and then I put the sammies in the frying pan, and I watched as it congealed into a concoction that was part plastic, part magnificent bouncing ball.  The cheese had taken on a new life form.  It was something that should have been studied by NASA, and I'm fairly certain the "cheese" could have been used to patch a hole in a tire.  As I stood at the stove, staring down at the bread that now resembled a wadded up napkin, and the cheese slowly turning into cement, the fire detectors went off.  I'm pretty sure I gave the detectors the bird, because come on.  That's what I get for being fancy.  About ten minutes after my sorry attempt, Leonard came home from work and was all like, *sniff sniff*  "Why does it smell like smoke?  Did you almost burn down the house again?  Were you trying to get all fancy with the ramen noodles again?"  And I was all like, "Dammit Sharpe!  I was tryyyyying to make you a fancy grilled cheese sammie."  And then he was all like, "Did you call NASA yet to have them study your new form of glue?"  And then I threw down my chef hat, and continued to sip on the cooking sherry.  But here's the deal, even though I can't cook, Leonard can.  Fantastically too, I might add.  When I'm all like, "Would you like the chicken tenders that are in the shape of dinosaurs or star shapes?"  He's all like, "I made you a honey glazed chicken, with a side of pea puree and baby roasted potatoes that were kissed with a hint of truffle."  And then I look at him in confusion because I don't speak that fancy chef language, so he clarifies it for me, "It tastes good, and you can't bounce it across the room."
So if you're ever invited over to my house for dinner, and Leonard is out of town for work, don't be surprised if I present you with a Lean Cuisine and a sorry look on my face.
I leave you with a picture of Chef Lenny, to prove that the man means business when he gets down on the get down.  Oh, he's going to be so pissed.  :)  Hi Lenny!  Don't be too mad, because I think your carrot/potato creation is the bomb diggity.  For reals.

I believe he is pureeing some macadamia nuts, during one of his own self-induced "Chopped Challenges".  Sometime I like to play Iron Chef, where I shout out random foods just for funsies, and watch Leonard dig through the cupboard for truffle oil and mangos.

And last but not least, I leave you with my recipe for "Fire Pasta".  I swear to God if this become a thing, I best get credit for it.  :)
"Fire Pasta"
*Take a fist full of dry spaghetti noodles, and snap them in half
*Throw them into the boiling water
*Go sit on the couch and watch The Real Housewives of Whatever.  When someone tosses a table, then it's time to drain the noodles.
*Drain pasta, and then add a glob of butter, and then add a good glug of hot sauce
*Mix thoroughly
*Dump into bowl
*Enjoy
YOU'RE WELCOME