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

I had a dream. And that shiz was crazy.

I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not exactly "normal."  On the outside I may seem sweet and innocent, but on the inside, and for those that actually know me know me probably think I'm a little bit of a whackadoo.  (Which I consider a compliment, btw.)  Even my dreams are bizarre.  Like, super duper bizarre.  There are two dreams in particular that I have every now and then, but I think those are the ones that I have when I'm stressed out.  One is where a Southwest plane is hovering over my house, and eventually crashes into it.  Weird part is, the plane stays in tact, no one gets hurt, and there is never any damage, but I'm always either in my backyard, or looking out my bedroom window, watching the plane take a nose-dive into the ground, and thinking, "Holy crap.  I can't believe I'm seeing this." I usually wake up right after feeling a bit panicked, and every time I'm in my backyard and a see a purple and gold plane flying in the sky, I hold my breath a little bit.  The other repeat dream is where I'm back in my old neighborhood, walking back to my house either from the middle school that I attended (what up, Hoover), or making my way back from the high school that I attended ('sup West.)  I'm always aimlessly walking back, either feeling lost, or like someone is following me.  That one doesn't sound so weird, but I guess it's more of the feeling that comes along with the dream that makes it feel so spooky. I have also had super macabre dreams, that should probably have me laced in a straight jacket and thrown into a dungeon.  I've dreamt of being at a carnival and watching a person get decapitated on the Tilt-a-whirl.  I've dreamt of watching someone get murdered, and then the murderer asking me to carry the duffle bag that they've stuffed the body in, and drag it into the woods.  See.  I told you I was weird. But it's not like I can control my brain at all times.  But seriously, sometimes I wonder where I come up with half of this strange crap.
Not all of my dreams are bad, or have someone dying a dastardly death.  I also have awesome ones where I dream that I can fly or levitate, or that I'm swimming in the crystal clear ocean.  I've read online before that if you dream of clear water, everything is a-okay in real life and you aren't stressed.  I've also dreamt of being in deep, dark water, far away from shore in a total panic, and that dark tumultuous water symbolizes stress.  I believe those theories, too.  Usually the dreams that you remember hold some value and become a picture show of your subconscious.  (Whoah.  Didn't know I could be so hea-vyyy, did ya?  Ahh snap.  Where's my beret and corn husk pipe?  Cause fancy smart people wear French chapeaus and smoke pipes.  And before any of you get your p-words in a bunch, my pipe would be empty.  I would just look extra sophisticated having one hang out of my mouth.)  I promise I'm getting somewhere with all of this.  *promise*  So, I get it.  They say that if you dream of death, it can symbolize a new beginning.  If you dream of accidents, it could mean that you feel out of control.  If you dream of water, blah blah blah.  But here's my question for you.... What the hell does this dream mean? And I swear to God this is something that I dreamt the other night, and when I woke up I was all like, huh?  Here it goes, and I'm open for any interpretation....
Francis Mcdormand (the lady that was in the awesome sauce movie 'Fargo'), was putting things away in a kitchen that I have never been in in real life, and she was wearing a Wendy's drive-thru head set (I only know that it was a Wendy's drive-thru head set because she said it in my dream.  Even Francis was like, let me clarify this one for you), and she was listening to aliens come through on the frequency of the head set.  And she thought it was both exhilarating and delightful.  What. The. Eff.  What does this mean?  Does this mean that I'm having a premonition about the future career of my girl Francis?  That she should change career paths?  Or is this more of a 'build it and they will come' type of situation, where I have to go get me a Wendy's head set and contact the alien hob-goblins out in deep dark space?  Have I officially lost it?  Someone, please just explain this one to me.  I'll even buy you a Wendy's frosty,  because they are delicious.
Now, don't get too concerned my dear friends. I'm about 87% sure that circus music is playing up in the old bean most of the time, and my brain is like, how can I confuse her this time?  But if I start donning a helmet out of aluminum foil and telling everyone that I'm looking for Mork to pair up with an earthling named Mindy, well then yes, please bust out the butterfly nets.
Alright.  That's it for today.  I have a sudden hankering for a square hamburger. ;)

Flappys, Laser Beams, and (of course) Poo

Today's post is dedicated to my husband.  Leonard, you are the apple of my eye, my little love muffin, and the inspiration for so many blog ditties, that I don't even know where to begin.  You see friends, Leonard is just as big of a random weirdo as I am.  Quite simply, the man is the peach to my cobbler.
I figured I would just illustrate why he's right up my alley by giving you snippets of some of the conversations that we have had, just within the past week.
Sitting in the car...
Me:  Do you think I'm cute?  (I don't fish for compliments.  I go right in for the kill.)
Leonard:  No. I think you're beautiful.  And I'll still think you're beautiful, even when we are both old, ugly, and flappy.
Me:  Did you just call me "flappy"??!?!
Leonard: Noooo.  I just said that when we are OLD we'll both be flappy.  We can be flappy and happy together.
Me:  Dear God.  You think I'm going to be flappy....  Me, with my old lady flappy arms.  You, with your old man flappy balls.  Evens Stevens.
Sitting in the car, during a separate occasion...
Me:  Quick.  If you had the choice between having laser beam eyes as a super power, or shooting wolverine claws out of your fingers, which one would you choose?
Leonard:  Easy.  Wolverine claws.  No brainer.
Me:  Pppbbbttt.  I would choose laser beam eyes.  'Cause this way I could shoot my laser eyes at people that are at far distances.
Leonard:  Yeah, but then I could also fling my wolverine claws at people far away too.
Me:  Umm.  No you can't.  They would be retractable claws.  Kind of like cat claws, only made of metal.  You could go around scratching people like a cat.  And then people could start calling you Puss in Boots.
Leonard:  Why didn't you say so?!?!?!  You need to clarify these skills.  Laser beams.  I want the laser beams.
Me:  Too late, Puss.  You've already made your choice.  And I want a cape.
Watching t.v. when a commercial came on about people having difficulty taking a dumper...
Leonard:  Why is there a lady with a fancy basket, walking around first class in an airplane handing out pooh treats?
Me:  Ummm. What?
Leonard:  The lady on t.v.!  Doesn't she think that people back in coach need to pooh, too?
Me:  Why the hell is this woman handing out pooh treats on an airplane?  Is that what you get in First Class?  Besides an egg salad sandwich, you also get pooh pills?
Leonard:  (Hypnotized by the television screen, absolutely dumb founded by the fact that this woman is  not offering her Metamucil delights to those that are behind the curtain.)  I just don't get it...
Me: I'm more concerned about the fact that you're upset about something that you refer to as "pooh treats."
There you have it.  Just a tiny snippet of why the husband and I are weirdos.   :)

YOU'RE an idiot; Here's YOUR sign

I realize upon reflection that between my last post griping about people who can't drive, and today's post, I kind of sound like a crotchety old man.  It's like I'm somehow morphing into Andy Rooney, the quintessential old fart that would have a whole entire segment on 60 Minutes, where he could b*tch about anything that he wanted.  Lucky b@stard.  So even though I don't resemble the old man from the movie Up, and I am not, in fact, an old man, I'm still going to complain anyways. :)
People who do not use the correct form of "your", "you're", "there", "their", or "they're", drive me iNsAnE.  Without fail, everyday when I peruse Facebook, I always, always, ALWAYS see people misuse those above mentioned words incorrectly.  THEY ARE GROWN UPS.  And as far as I know, fairly intelligent people.  I mean, COME ON!!!!  It's not. that. hard.  And I will not accept the excuse of, it's faster to type out "your".  Really?  Really.  Adding in an apostrophe and an extra letter really takes that much time out of your day?  Really.  Now I KNOW I am far from perfect.  I have gone back and looked at some of my entries and have found numerous mistakes, but still. Come. On.
Quick lesson:  You're= You ARE.  Example of the word being used correctly:  You're really annoying me when you use the word "you're" incorrectly.  I'm pretty sure a piece of my soul dies every time you use it incorrectly.
Your=Your; As in, showing ownership of something.  Example:  I think we should get a mini horse for YOUR birthday.
I know it's not the end of the world when someone is grammatically deficient, but still, it drives me bonkers. And honestly, it's not that hard of a rule.
*phew*  Okay.  I suppose that's enough of a b*tch fest.  I'm going to go see how I can get my own nationally syndicated show where I can complain about anything that I want to, all while I drink copious amounts of sangria. :)

Rage Against the Machine

Now I know I tend to paint myself in a glorious light.  I try to highlight the positive attributes that I have.  You know... My ability to swim like a dolphin, play intense instruments like the kazoo and finger snapping, and my greatest goal in life, becoming an exceptional fisherman of items that have fallen down into the deep crevice of my boobie cavern.  Not all of us can be graceful creatures.  But today I figured I would show you the more "human" side to me, and that I too, have flaws.  I think I just heard audible gasps from the crowd, and can practically hear some of your internal thought processes:  You mean this woman who tries to pass off mustache sweat as a glow has flaws?  Say it ain't so.  Oh.  It's so.  Okay... here it goes.  *Deep breath* I...have road rage.  NOW WAIT A MINUTE!!!! Let me explain.  The problem you see isn't me.  It's all the douche nuggets on the road that goad me into a rage of fury.  I have two wishes in this world.  1) That my car came equipped with a box of rocks, so that I could have them on hand to hurl at people who are driving like ace-holes.  Each rock will come equipped with a note tethered to it that would say: YOU are a douche nozzle.  I'm not concerned with a "Baby On Board" window sticker.  I want one to say "Lady With a Box of Rocks On Board".  See if you'll want to ride my a-s-s then.  Douche.  My second wish is that the my back windshield had LED lights that would spell out "You Sure Must Be An Ass Man, Because You Sure Are Riding Mine-BACK OFF", or "WARNING: Lady With A Box Of Rocks".  *sigh* A girl can dream.
You might be wondering why someone as demure, calm, and classy as myself would be filled with such rage, and the answer is simple.  People are ace-holes and don't know how to drive. The other day I went out to lunch with a friend of mine, and the issue of road rage came up.  My friend had a theory that the reason why we probably have road rage (she's a rager, too), is because we have to have so much patience during our daytime jobs, that by the end of the day our patience tank has been completely depleted, and we are ready to lob some rocks.  Being professional beekeepers  does require copious amounts of patience, so I totally get her point.
I will end today's post with a conversation snippet that happened between Leonard and myself, as we were driving along the thruway, and the King of all Douche's that was driving a gigantic white Dodge pickup truck, license plate number IMADOUCHE, decided to ride my rear and then had the AUDACITY to flash his high beams at me, and then proceed to make hand gestures to me, suggesting that I should get in the other lane.  Yeah. Well I had some hand gestures for him too.  Unless you have a RAGING case of butt rush, get off of mine.
Me:  OMG...This ace-hole is going to run me off the road! And now he's giving me the thumb!  I'll give him the thumb!  Except instead of my thumb I'm going to flash him the Doublemint Twins.
Leonard:  Seriously Kristina.  He can't hear you calling him a douche bucket.  Your window is rolled up.  Just get in the other lane.
Me (too busy being enraged to listen): I am busting out in HIVES, I'm so mad right now. HAHA! I'm not moving over. I'm going to box this tool off.  Let's see how going forty in a seventy feels. *maniacal laughter*
Douche Nugget behind me:  More erratic thumb gestures.
Me, having a death-like grip at ten and two on the steering wheel, plotting new ways to piss the D.N. off even more.
Leonard: OMG, Kristina! PUT YOUR MIDDLE FINGERS DOWN, AND PUT YOUR HANDS BACK ON THE WHEEL!!!!!  People carry guns in this state!
Me: I AM NOT AFRAID!!!!  Dude's lucky I don't have my box of rocks.
And that my fine friends is an example of how I can be quite scrappy, and have absolutely zero tolerance for people that don't know how to drive.  So if you're ever driving along the thruway and you see a lady driving around in a black Jetta, and she's waving around her two middle fingers screaming, "You're lucky I don't have my box of rocks!!!!", it's just me.  Remain calm, and help me box the D.N. in. :)

Swimming Upstream

So I’m seriously considering changing the name of this blog to “Sweet Bass”, because of the copious amounts of aquatic fodder that I’ve been supplied with, due to my new adventure of training to become a deep-sea diver.  It’s like I’m the female version of Michael Phelps, except cuter and I don’t have a banana to fit snuggly into a banana hammock.  Anways…. 

Where shall I begin.  Oh, I know.  How about how Leonard thinks that I have an “old lady” bathing suit, because it has “old lady” ruffles on the front.  First of all, it doesn’t have ruffles, it’s ruching to help accentuate my one-pack.  Second of all, old ladies tend to wear tropical print bathing suits that have built in over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders that make their tah-tahs resemble torpedoes.  My bathing suit has not a pastel palm frond in sight, or a built-in cone bra. So there.

But back to my story of how I felt like a salmon trying to swim upstream.  When I got to the pool the other day, I noticed that there were a few fellow Olympic swimmer hopefuls that had beat me to the early bird arrival.  One man, who I believe was alive during the Lousianna Purchase, was doing what I believe were aquatic lunges, while simultaneously doing arm curls with the foam arm “weights”.  And then I saw her;  My water nemesis.  She was  decked out in the typical old lady swim gear, i.e. not my bathing suit.  Black suit with purple and teal tropical flowers, and her lady missiles were creating a wake in the water.  I didn’t realize her plan at first, but after I discovered that I was treading water in the same exact spot for five minutes, and not moving anywhere, I discovered her evil, master craft plan.  Let’s just call my new arch nemesis “Lilly Pad”.  L.P. was walking laps in the pool.  NBD.  Who am I to dog on a person for doing a little water aerobics?  Not this lady. As I furiously tread water in the same spot, I noticed that I was being slightly carried towards Missiles MaGee, I realized her tactic.  Lilly Pad created what I believe was essentially a water vortex.  L.P. wasn’t just walking back and forth, up and down the lane.  Oh no.  She was creating her very own whorl pool by walking in a circle.  The same small circle, over and over and over again.  I think she was threatened by my aquatic prowess.  I mean, it’s not everyday that you come across a thirty-ish mermaid who is gasping for breath as she’s attempting to doggy paddle in her not-old lady bathing suit.    So, being the grown up that I so am, I stood up and huffed at her.  And when I say “huffed” I mean I mean-mugged her to her backside, walked back to the part that allowed me to paddle freely, and sighed heavily.   She probably thought I was just trying to catch my breath from attempting to do the dolphin in her whorl pool of destruction, and didn’t realize that I was actually just exasperated at her.  And exhausted from swimming like a mammal with a blow-hole. 

After her 7,862 laps around, she finally called it quits, and I was able to go back to swim like a sweet, sweet Bass.  Little does Lilly Pad know that tomorrow when I go back, I’m going to be prepared.  I plan on wearing a bathing suit that will give me missile boobs, because those babies can make some headway in a current created by Ms. Palm Fronds.  :)