October 12, 2007

While shopping last weekend with my husband at Costco, I spied a crockpot. I looked at it and it says you can cook a meal in 3 easy steps. Sounds like my kind of contraption.

Honey, look at this. It’s a crockpot. I could make fabulous meals for us, you know, without sending any one of us to the emergency room with severe diarreah.

Ya. I don’t think so. Crockpots are for chefs. And you, are certainly no chef.

For chefs? Are you insane? What would be the point in making something like that for chefs? They all ready know how to cook.

It’s for people who know how to cook. So I don’t think we should waste the money.

Are you even listening to yourself? That makes no sense. If someone is a great cook why would they need a device that you throw food into and turn on? I mean how much easier could it be? Toss some meat in there, throw a few veggies and a bit of water and boom, gourmet meal!

You just throw bloody meat in with raw vegetables and it just cooks? Wouldn’t we get some kind of poisoning from the blood touching the veggies?

Ummm so? I mean that would be better than getting the trots that I may give you if I just winged it and cooked in a regular oven.

I guess so.

So we now have a crockpot, which I later learned is actually the brand name and it’s technically a slowcooker. I prefer to call it my new best friend. I prepared my first meal in it a couple of days ago. That bitch made a stupid old round roast into a tender, yummy piece of meat. Now if I could get it to do the laundry, I’d have sex with it. Did I say that out loud? I meant, I’d hug it. Yes, I’d hug my Crockpot slowcooker.

I did want to mention to anyone who is thinking about purchasing a Crockpot/slowcooker/miracle worker/best friend that it comes with some warnings, which I thought we should discuss, you know, so you can be protected. I’m nothing if at least not helpful.

1. Do not touch hot surfaces. I’m not sure if they are only referring to the slowcooker or just any hot surface in general. Either way, excellent advice.

2. Use an oven mitt when handling hot surfaces. Another piece of information that I never would have thought of all on my own. I normally just put my bare skin on extremely hot surfaces and see if I can withstand the heat. I sometimes get third degree burns but that’s the price you pay to learn your lesson.

3. To prevent electric shock, do not plug the slowcooker in water or any other liquid. I normally plug things in an outlet designed for plugs and thankfully they wrote this warning because I was going to bring the slowcooker in the shower with me. Cook and clean all at once.

4. Do not use outdoors. I was a bit upset about this one because I was going to bring it with me next time we go on a family hike and plug it in a big, sturdy tree and let our meal cook while we’re hoofin’ it up a mountain. Kinda spoiled the fun there but oh well, such is life.

5. Do not let children play in the CrockPot slowcooker. Right. I know my children were counting on getting in there and whoppin’ it up but mommy is gonna have to be mean and just put her foot down. Such a drag. I guess they’ll have to stick with their, umm, playroom.

There you have it. Solid, informative advice when cooking with a slowcooker. Don’t say I never gave you anything.

October 8, 2007

It’s Thanksgiving here in Canada. Get with it mmkay? We had our turkey dinner at the wench’s house and she cooks a mean bird. Everyone ate too much but that didn’t stop us from eating more later with several desserts to choose from. People never learn. Anyway, on the topic of dead meat and other such things, let me tell you what I found on Saturday.

My husband brought home a big freezer, which was given to him and all that was needed, was for it to be cleaned up. So he begged me to clean the filthy thing I graciously offered to clean it so he could put his meat in it. See? Told you this was going to be about all sorts of meat stories.

As I’m cleaning the free deep freezer, I could smell something weird. We have 2 kitchens in our house because who doesn’t need two kitchens to clean? I mean, sweet right? Butter my ass and call me Judy. No wait, that’s not right. Smack my loaf and butter my bisquit? I forget. Whatever. I’m downstairs in our other kitchen, cleaning this freezer and this smell keeps assaulting my sense of well being, making me slightly nauseous. I stick my head way into the deep freeze and while it’s a bit musty smelling, it’s not rank. I’m thinking perhaps my kids spilled something in the garbage can and it’s a bit smelly. But there’s nothing in the garbage can except some stale chips and a couple of paper towels. Hmmm.

I get back to cleaning the freezer and there a few icepacks in there, so I wash them off and since they were in perfect condition, decided I’d keep them and walked over to the fridge, open the top freezer and was about to put them in when the horrendous smell smacked me upside the head. I pick up an open box of Mr Freezies. Remember, this is in the FREEZER. Where things are supposed to be FROZEN. As in not thawed. I peeked into the box of Mr Freezies and sorry to say Mr Freezie ain’t frozen, he’s quite limp. The whole box is liquid. I scan over to the huge box of chicken fingers and reach inside to pull them out and they aren’t frozen. They’re soggy. Not good. As I’m trying not to pass out from the smell, I reach in and grab a bag. Not sure what’s in it, however, it was not pretty in either looks or odor. It was our pork ribs. Another bag held what was once fairly expensive pork loin. Yet another bag yielded a huge tray of chicken wings. Oh and let’s not forget the $30 worth of strawberries we picked, that I was planning on making jam with seriously, you think I was going to get around to making homemade jam? Sure.. There are piles of sticky Mr. Freezie, ah, juice, ahem, and the icecube trays no longer hold ice. Oh I had cookie dough in there that is able to be thawed and then refrozen but it was now tainted with rotten pork/chicken smell. Yum.

I opened the fridge to see what the freezer control was set at, and low and behold, instead of 8, where it’s recommended, it was at 2. I stood there scratching my head, wondering just who might have messed with the controls. Probably not my husband since he rarely goes down there and I’m pretty certain he’s busy, oh, running his own business, that he’s not got the time to ruin the meat he forked money out for. Oh, oh, oh, see that? See? ‘Meat’ he ‘forked’ money out for. You eat ‘meat’ with a ‘fork’. There’s that amazing word magic I have going on. Revel in it. Basque in it. Deep breath. I know it’s hard being around such word greatness. Snap out of it now, you’ve got more reading to do.

I am quite sure it wasn’t me who turned down the freezer because as appealing as cleaning smelly, rotting meat sounds, I just have other things I’d rather clean. That leaves a 7 year old who could care less about frigging with controls on motorized/mechanical things and an eleven year old, who loves seeing just how things work and playing with buttons, moving them, seeing what button does what when turned this way or that way. Hard to decide isn’t it? Right. Needless to say I had to clean up all that disgusting, rotting meat and sanitize the whole refriderator. What better way to spend a Saturday afternoon? Ya, Happy Thanksgiving.

September 13, 2007

…shit? Nope. Chris. Chris Crocker. If you haven’t seen THIS yet, perhaps you’ve been under a rock or have been busy staring at my picture and the rest of the world has passed you by. I can see that happening. Anyway, crazy Crocker boy was featured on Jimmy Kimmel Live last night and I thought Jimster’s (that’s what I call him, we’re tight like that) comments were hilarious. He’s not quite as funny as me, but then again, we can’t have everything can we? No. Just thought I’d share that bit of info. I love being helpful in any way that I’m able. I can feel your appreciation eminating from all the way over there to here. Wherever you are.

My daughter was showcasing her many purses to her father this morning and he didn’t think a 7 year old girl really needs that many handbags and she informed him, that she will be purchasing more at a later date. I say, get used to it, she’s a girl who inherited her mother’s unhealthy obsession for purses and shoes. It’s genetic. She can’t help it. Anyhoo, she pulled out some play money out of one of them and I thought it was helpful that the manufacturer had printed a big SPECIMAN across the bills. I know I often get play money confused with the real thing, hence all my embarrassing moments while trying to pay for shit. What do you mean I can’t pay for my house with this????? More companies should print warnings on their play money. Bastards.

My husband and I had bought a couple of cases of bottled water a few weeks back. We have another complete kitchen downstairs, so we keep extra food and drinks in the fridge down there. I had put some of the bottled water in the downstairs fridge and after the water up here was gone, went to get some of it to bring upstairs. I noticed that the seals were broken on the bottles. I asked my kids if they had opened them. Indeed they did. They dumped out all of the bottled water and replaced it with our tap water, which is fine to drink, but umm, that’s not the point, is it? No. They also made mommy some ‘gatorade’. How? It’s an easy recipe actually. You take many Mr Freeze freezies and let them thaw on the kitchen counter for an hour or so. You then take some scissors and cut them open and pour the now thawed sticky liquid into the empty bottled water bottles and put the covers on. You then put the bottles back in the fridge. Then you wait until your mother finds them and has a breakdown thanks you profusely. See? Easy.

I have to paint the bedroom downstairs. I do not like painting. At all. I have nightmares about it and perhaps THIS could be one reason why. I usually end up wearing alot of paint, no matter how carefully I plan things out. Painting, plus me, don’t mix. Don’t paint and drive I say. Or something like that. I think maybe I should wear cling wrap or something so I don’t ruin more clothes. Or just paint naked. Now there’s an idea. Maybe my ASS could help me paint. Might as well make it useful for something. I mean it just sits there normally. See that? That was sorta pun-ish. I’m a wordsmith champion and you shouldn’t mess with me.

I must leave the internet for now. Martha Stewart is coming up on The View and I want to punch my tv in the face. Oh the day in the life of me. Busy busy busy.

July 30, 2007

….forty twenty-five. Hmmm. I thought that little ditty was supposed to rhyme? Not my problem.

I know what you’re thinking. How can someone who’s clearly drunk twenty-five have a son who’s 20? Baffles my mind too people, baffles my mind. Stranger things have happened I suppose.

You’ll never believe what I did today for my birthday. I really shouldn’t be so mean as to make you jealous with the excitement that filled my day but since it’s my party, I’m going to tell you.

I woke at 6am after having only 3 hours of sleep, did my workout, then crawled back in bed while my offspring were still sleeping, woke again, fed my kids, did laundry, cleaned my bathrooms, vaccumed, fed my kids again, did more laundry, took a shower, loaded my dishwasher and then did more laundry. How bad ass is that? I never knew turning 5 years older than my 20 year old son, would be so much frigging fun. Who knew?

My daughter proclaimed to anyone who would listen to her today, ‘how her mom is an old woman now, and how depressing that is’. Gee, thanks for practically telling people I’m ready for the bone yard. Might as well make some calls tomorrow and book myself into a ‘home’. Where’s my flippin’ walker?

On a fun note, my husband took me to Applebee’s for dinner, where we waited an hour for our meal because our smart as a whip waitress forgot to place our order to the kitchen staff. She also forgot the meal of the lady across the table from us, so I guess I shouldn’t take it personally and think there was some sort of conspiracy. Gosh, I feel bad for punching her in the head now. But then she charged us for the strawberry dacquiri that I ordered that I DIDN’T get because they were out of the ingredients to make it, so then I felt like my decision to knock her upside the head was justified. All evens out in the end. We did get free desserts compliments of the manager. Great, now I have to do another workout tonight to combat the brownie I ate. Gee, Happy Birthday.

June 12, 2007

…since sliced bread. That’s what this piece of bread is:

What the hell kind of bread shape is that? Oh before I go any further, this will be riveting writing people, so be forewarned. I can’t help it if I’m brilliant.

So anyway, the bread shape. What is it? Who makes bread look like that? I mean this is 2007 last time I checked and hello, can we not make bread look like bread? What kind of pan does one have in order to make the bread come out looking all haphazard like that? I want answers dammit! Does the bread have a yeast infection? Oh feel the pun, soak it in. I was going to make a sandwich but now I’m sorta afraid to. What will my tomatoes think? Oh no bitch, you are not putting us on THAT piece of bread. My tomatoes will riot. They’ll throw themselves at me up on stage. Okay, well, I’m not up on stage but you know what I mean. My mayo will throw up on itself, begging me not to spread it on that slice of bread. Listen darlink, you vill not spread me on dat piece of nasty white,all misshapen an’ shit. No way. My bacon (if I had any) would be pissed that I would be placing their fat ass on that sick looking bread. We fried ourselves in our own grease for you and this is how you repay us? By putting us on your ugly bread? You suck. See how this would go? It would be awful and I just don’t think I can do that to my toppings or myself. Oh the horror.

I think I’ll write to the bread place and complain. Like get your pans fixed and make bread that looks like bread. Guess I’ve got a busy day ahead. Where’s my pencil?

May 22, 2007

I’m sure most people have seen an episode of Fear Factor. And if you haven’t, you should because it’s really rivoting television. By rivoting, I mean it’s gross. The stuff they make those people eat, is just nasty. Well they don’t make the contestants eat the junk, the contestants are apparently hard up for cash and will do just about anything for some money. The thing is, it’s not huge money. Most game shows now, head towards large amounts of moola, not FF, they win a whopping 50 grand on that show. Sure, I don’t have 50 thousand in my bank account right now but I’m also not willing to eat bull balls with a side of goat hair. Just not doin’ it.

However, my husband will apparently eat weird things, oh, for FREE. For FUN. Just for the pure pleasure of grossing out his family. I’m so not even kidding one little bit.

We had to stop and pick up a receipt at some guy’s house and it was sorta rainy yesterday. And when it rains, what happens? Come on, you know. Certain creatures crawl out of the earth. I know you can totally see where I’m going with this. As the kids and I are sitting in the truck, we see hubby coming back down the walkway and as he approaches the sidewalk, he bends down and picks something up. At first, I’m thinking he’s picked up a spider and is going to throw it at his very arachnophobic wife, you know, for shits n’ giggles but as I’m about to jump out of the truck and start running really fast, I see what he’s holding. It’s. a. worm.

He opens the truck door and immediately my kids start screaming. Okay, it’s totally normal for people to be afraid of spiders, kids (like your mom), but worms? Come on. Toughen up for petesake. As my husband is standing there holding the worm, he raises his arm up, tilts his head back and in goes the worm. In his mouth. As in, he ate it. I’m shocked but not 100% because I’ve seen this performance before, about 6 years ago while gardening with him. Our older 2 boys were just as horrified as their younger siblings were now. I guess it’s a tradition or something. It’s a right of passage. Yes kids, now you can say you’ve seen your father eat a worm and then laugh hysterically about how nauseated you are seeing him swallow it. We all tell him that that is sick and nasty and he tells us that obviously we’re chickens. No honey, we’re not chickens, because if we were, we’d eat the stupid worm. So there. Nanny nanny boo boo.

*Edit* Next time it rains, I’m totally going to tape him eating another worm and post it, so you can witness the horror that we had to see. You’ll barf. And then I’ll laugh. No, wait, you might make me clean it up and that people, would NOT be funny.

May 17, 2007

As we all know, my trips to the grocery store are usually filled with freaks, more freaks and now mighty fucking annoying clumsy people.

As I’m putting my groceries on the conveyer belt thingy, there’s a man behind me, holding a few things. He starts pushing my stuff further up the counter, which, listen buddy, you can wait the 30 seconds it takes for my crap to be rung through. So he continues to push my groceries and as I turn back to the cashier to roll my eyes, we hear a huge crash. The moron pushed my glass jar of barbeque sauce off onto the floor. Of course the sauce doesn’t just fall in a plop on the floor, it splatters like some kind of yucky crime scene and I now have bright red barbeque sauce splashed on my pants. My nice capris actually. My nice white capris.

I look back at Mr Pushalot and he’s smiling like an idiot and literally saying, “he he he”. He what? He gonna get his ass kicked by white capried lady with red sauce sloshed on her pantlegs, that’s what. I give him my best death glare, which I’m told is about as scary as Bambi giving a dirty look but still, I’m giving it my best effort. The cashier apologizes, which was sweet, but it’s not your fault honey, it’s the dumbass behind me. I’m thinking, he’s going to say he’s sorry at least. Nope. Instead, he again starts pushing my groceries and then my son’s butterscotch pudding cups fall onto the floor, and you guessed it, into the big blob of sauce. I give yet another death stare and the guy is still smiling like he’s won a prize. I gotta prize for you buddy, bend over and let’s see just how far my pretty high heels can fit up your butt. Wait. I like my nice shoes, so forget that. Let’s see how far the cashiers fist can go up your butt. Wait. That’s not fair to her. She was lovely and friendly, and why should she be grossed out? Let’s get the janitor and his mop and we’ll see how far that mop handle goes up shall we?

I’m looking at this guy and he’s still not said he’s sorry. I turn to the cashier and roll my eyes again. Then I see his wife coming over (or maybe she’s his nurse from the PYSCHO ward) and she’s pointing to the mess and he starts giggling again (weird) and then they both run away. Ummm, they’re in their 50’s and acting like they’re 10. Or 2. Whatever.

That was my fun evening. How was yours? Did you get splattered with barbeque sauce? No? Well no need to brag. Gah.

April 23, 2007

I don’t touch our barbeque ever. I think I did turn it on one time last year but I broke out in a nervous sweat and had major heart palpitations, so that was the one and only time. And it’s for good reason I should be afraid, very afraid.

I just had to have a barbequed steak, cooked by none other than my husband, who really does know how to cook a piece of cow. I trotted off to the grocery store and decided to get us decent steaks. I picked out a nice t-bone for him and a ribeye for myself. They even looked yummy in the package. Well except for the rawness and the blood. But hell, if you can look past that and not listen to the moo-ing, then you’re all set.

I arrive home with my proud purchases, my mouth practically watering at the thought of eating my steak. Hubby fires up the Q (no pun intended or maybe it was totally intended…anyhoo….) and as it’s heating up, I make some side dishes and salad and can hear my stomach growling. I beat it and tell it to be patient, that you will get your steak bizatch, but honestly, enough of the roaring.

Mr Man throws the steaks on the barbeque and takes a call that has come in. He leaves the room for a few minutes and I don’t question him about ignoring the steaks, as he’s cooked alot of them over the years and always does a great job. He comes back upstairs a few minutes later to check the steak and the flames coming out of the barbeque don’t look quite normal. And neither do our steaks. Mine was okay, not quite ruined but his t-bone was charred on one side. Wow, I’m thinking, that’s never happened before, that he ruined a steak. We sit down to eat our charcoal steaks and as we’re sitting there, I glance out at the deck and wonder why the barbeque is still smoking? Hubby assures me it’s just because it’s still hot and the wind had picked up a bit. Okay. I’ll believe that.

Hubby gets up to get more water and as he’s coming back to the table, he looks out the patio door and says, ‘hmmm I think the barbeque is on fire’. He’s so frigging matter of fact about it. Oh no problem, it’s a barbeque, it’s supposed to be on fire right? No. Not really. He goes out onto the deck and lifts up the barbeque cover and sure enough, there are huge flames flaring up. This can’t be good.

OMG what are we going to do? Should I call the fire department?

Ummm no, it’ll burn out eventually.

What? And in the meantime, we should just sit here and eat while our barbeque is on fire? Shit,what if it blows up? Panic is setting in. I’m actually afraid of barbeque’s blowing up, ’cause that happens all the time’.

It’s not going to blow up. Do you think I’d be standing this close to it if I thought it was going to blow up?

I don’t know. Maybe you’re a barbeque daredevil. I really think I should call the fire department.

Ah no, that would be silly. It will go out.

I don’t think so, look at the flames. Did you turn the gas off? OMG are you sure it’s not going to blow up? It’s so on fire that you can’t even reach down to turn off the gas! What if it blows up? I’m not sitting here any longer. I inch my way away from the table, head towards the bedrooms.

Where are you going? You’re not going to eat? Come on, the barbeque isn’t going to blow up.

Yes it is. I can just tell. Look at those flames. And that tank has propane in it. Propane blows up, I know it. Panic is making my voice high pitched and totally annoying.

Get a grip. It’s not going to blow up. Oh look at that, 2 of the knobs have melted right off.

OMG see?????????????? Melting knobs, flames, then BOOM. I can feel it. I’m calling 911.

No you’re not calling 911. Be reasonable. You’re getting freaky now, it’s not going to blow up.

Okay, sure and when we’re all laying here in a pile of dust and debris, I’m going to kick you right in the balls for letting us blow up.

Okay, you do that.

We watched as our $650 barbeque (that I got for a fabulous deal and paid only $399! Okay I digress…….) got nice and black on one side and as the flames died down a bit, hubby got some water to throw on it, which we both knew was not the right thing to do but at that point, I wanted the flames out. I was near hysterics and was practically packing the kids up and heading out the front door because I was so afraid. I think I was being totally fucking slightly irrational but I couldn’t help it. I’m a freak like that. Things blowing up seem like a real possibility to me especially when, you know, THEY’RE ON FIRE. So much for having a nice steak in the near future.

March 13, 2007

I still have a secret and I still have to keep quiet about it because I didn’t hear the thing that I thought I’d hear, therefore I don’t think I should mention it yet incase I jinx it. So once again, you’ll be dreaming about me and my secret. And that’s not so bad is it? Naw.

I can tell you this though….I suck…in the kitchen. I must admit I’ve had a few successes of late but usually my true self comes out while I’m in the kitchen. Not if I’m cleaning it so much, just if I’m cooking in it. I was cooking tonight and I managed to drop the raw hamburger on the floor, slice my finger, slop pasta sauce on my WHITE shirt and on the floor, down the WHITE stove and all down the cabinet doors and this was all before I even decided what I was going to actually make. In the end, I cooked some kind of pasta noodles, not sure what their name is, they’re sort of long, fat and hollow. Logs? I dunno. Anyway, please pray that my family doesn’t fall ill after eating it. At least let’s hope it’s not full fledged food poisoning. I mean, really, a little vomitting and diarreah never hurt anyone. Well the cramps might be a bit of a pain in the ass. Oh did you read that pun? A warrior with words I am! Gah. Hopefully there’s not much lint in the ground beef that I put in the sauce. I think I got most of it out. Fingers crossed.

I’m going to watch American Idol tonight. I’m not exactly sure why though. This has got to be one of the most boring seasons ever. There’s not even any eye candy for mama. Not unless you like 17 year old boys who kinda look like girls. And I don’t. However, it’s like I’m compelled to see it to the end, like I’m being disloyal if I stop watching it now. I could use a nice sleeping pill though and I’m betting Idol will come through for me.

Oh to the guy who sent me emails asking if I need a penis enlargement (actually he said, “hey no more short dick for you”…charming), thanks, but I’m good. And to the chick who said, “let’s meet on messYenger so we can ‘cat’,” I’m not sure what the hell that means, but I’m super busy tonight *see above paragraph*. To ‘Loverlacehodax’, your message to me, was appreciated, “of course I’d love to meet you, you’re a hot guy and I love hot guys and incase you forgot my info, I’m a femAIL“……..ah ya, but I’m not as hot a guy as you think, although I’m flattered that you think I’m a hot guy. Makes me feel confident and not be self conscience about the hair on my back. And ass. And pits. On that note, where’s my friggin’ razor?

Well time to stir the pasta and hope it’s still fit to eat. Maybe I should look for that take out menu…………..

October 31, 2005

Last night Sean and Amanda made us dinner. They bought penne noodles and spagetti sauce and garlic bread. Everything went well until we sat down at the table. The sauce had a slight………..odor. OLIVES. Ewwwwwwwwww. They honestly smell like a dirty diaper or worse. Noone could eat it…….’cept Matt. That kid loves just about everything!!!! I looked over at Sean and I could see his crestfallen look, I know he felt bad, felt like he failed. He wanted everything to be perfect. My heart really hurt for him. I said thank you for supper and told him not to worry about the sauce, that he didn’t know that it had olives in it. I mean it really was okay. Just the mere fact that he wanted to do something nice for his family is way better than any gourmet meal from any gourmet chef!!! Thank you Sean for being a good son. Love Mom