However, there are times that I will act all kitchen-bitchish, as if I know what the hell I’m doing.  On occasion, I do know what I’m doing – if it doesn’t involve recipes of more than say, 3 ingredients and/or the oven.  I kid.  Or not.

I decided I would make a shepards pie.  I do happen to make that very well – call it luck if you want, point is, I can make it well and people actually eat it and DON’T DIE AND SHIT.  I’ve not felt like cooking meals of late (as if I ever do) and was all excited to prepare good food for my family.  Sometimes, I like them.

I wanted to make everything ahead of time, so that when suppertime rolled around, all we’d have to do is heat up the shepards pie.  So, for an hour in the early afternoon, I got busy.  By 3 p.m. the casserole was done and ready for reheating later on.  Super.  I could nap clean the house.

At around 6 p.m., the fam is looking for food.  Great.  As if I like to cook.  I know what you’re thinking – hello?  you made a shepards pie!, use that? yeah?  – hey, don’t judge me.  I can’t even remember what I ended up cooking – yes, I can feel your judgy eyes on me and I DON’T LIKE IT – but my family got fed.  They just didn’t eat the shepards pie I had worked my fingers to the bone (*might* be a slight exaggeration) to make.

Let us fast forward to last night.  Yet another evening where I get all chef-y and decide to cook.  Like with real pots and pans and again, turning on the oven.  You know when you turn on the oven and it goes ding when it’s all heated up and stuff?  Yeah, I hardly recognize that sound myself, but you know what I mean, right?  Right.

So, oven dings, announcing it’s all HOT and bothered, and I put on those fancy mittons that feel all yucky and fuzzy and open the oven door to put the salmon in to bake and um, I noticed something.

Like, it may or may not have been the shepards pie I made a few days ago:

Still in the oven.  From four-ish days ago.  Right.  So.  I’m assuming it’s not any good now.  I mean it involves MEAT.  And I may not be the brightest bulb when it comes to preparing meals, but I do know meat left out for a few days is usually not suitable to eat.  ‘Cause you might die if you eat it.  So, don’t eat it.

I was wondering where I had put that shepards pie and the mystery was solved.  Whew.  Had my brain working overtime trying to figure out where the hell I had put it.

Serving it to my family tonight *might* be a bad thing.  Just sayin’.

I’m cooking again tonight.  By cooking, I mean, I’m ORDERING TAKEOUT.

I’m asking for a particular reason – see, I have to do just that. I have this really pretty heart-shaped silver ring with a tiny diamond in the center of the heart and I took it off the other day and was going to put it in the adorable jewelry box my best friend gave me, but no, I was lazy and just set it inside the cabinet over the island in the kitchen, which wouldn’t be a big deal. That cabinet doesn’t get opened often, so really, it could have sat there for days – weeks even – without incident. However, my husband wanted me to make a call for him today, and I needed a piece of paper and a pen to write some numbers down, and where is the paper and pens? Yep, in that cabinet, which I opened the door, and when I reached for the notepad, I set off a paper avalanche, and that in turn knocked the ring off the shelf in the cabinet, and it bounced onto the island and plop, into the open garbage bag that doesn’t normally sit on the floor by the island but I was cleaning out my fridge and pantry and disposing of items no longer safe for human consumption, that really, could probably pass for science experiments.

That sure was a long, rambling sentence, for which I do apologize but I didn’t want to lose my momentum. Plus, I’m stalling. The garbage bag full of gross garbage (not that there is garbage that isn’t gross) is smelling up my house and my ring is sitting in there somewhere – I’m guessing at the very bottom of the bag – and I know if I want my pretty ring back, I must dig through that bag, but I’m nauseous just thinking about it. One plus though – I do have a wicked-ass cold, so my sense of smell is not quite a hundred percent, which will work in my favor. However, my cold has not affected my eyesight, so I’ll see the grossness, which in turn will probably make me puke.

Wish me luck – I’m goin’ in.

*Edit* I found it – less than five minutes of garbage picking. *Insert gagging noise here*

As you know, I’m not a very good cook. Actually “shitty cook” is a better description. However, there are times when I get the urge to try something new, despite my family’s loud protest. I say, ‘can’t learn to cook properly unless you try.’ Actually I NEVER say that, but it sounded good.

I’m not exactly sure how I ended up where I ended up, but rest assured, I will never be the same. Neither will you – particularly if you’re a dude. And listen, some of us *cough* have had these in our mouths for one reason or another – but probably not to devour them.

See that photo up there? That’s a picture of a pizza. A testicle pizza. Yes, you read me correctly. Testicles. As in balls. I wish I were kidding. I wish I could go back in time, say about 38 minutes ago, but unfortunately we can’t turn back time. We can however, stab ourselves in the eyes and I’m seriously considering that.

A Siberian guy named Ljubomir Erovic has a new online cookbook that features, uh, family jewels as being the main ingredient. I will tell you know, never again will I eat chicken balls at the Chinese restaurant or enjoy spagetti and meatballs, that’s been taken away from me.

Sure, the jewels (I will never think of diamonds the same way again either) are not from a human, but still…. nasty. He uses bull balls (sure, we’ve all heard of prairie oysters…barf), horse balls, ostriches, pigs and turkeys. I’m becoming a vegetarian. Like now.

Got a hankering for battered testies? No prob, there’s bound to be something for you. We know there’s testicle pizza as shown above and there are recipes that teach you how to barbeque those nuts as well. Oh and you’ll need a sharp knife to cut through those babies and some water to soak them – to loosen them up. Oh GOD.

Chef Ljubomir (or Chef INSANE as I like to call him) says that balls are a strong aphrodisiac. Sure, chomping down and chewing a pair of giblets makes me hot.

Chef Balls said, “The tastiest testicles in my opinion probably came from bulls, stallions or ostriches, although other people have their own favourites. The best for aphrodisiac properties are sheep and stallion testicles. All testicles can be eaten – except human, of course.” Of course.

I was going to take my family out for ribs, but hell, let me get my sharp knife and pizza pan.

If you gots a hankerin’, you can click HERE to download some tasty testicle recipes. Bon appetit!

It has been fairly hot here for the last few days. On Tuesday, after picking my children up from their respective bus stop and school, I decided I would treat myself to a strawberries n’ cream from Starbucks. My favourite drink ever. I don’t get them very often because, well, they have a habit of making one’s ass bigger. And some of us just don’t want a bigger ass.

I went through the drive-thru, and after a minute or so, it was my turn to order. I was told that they were out of the mix to make the strawberry frapps. What????? Are you kidding me? No. Sadly they were not. Fine, I would make my way to another similar place – it’s not Starbucks, but they do have a chocolate ice frapp that is good – not as good as the strawberries n’ cream but close enough to satisfy my craving.

I, once again decided on the drive-thru. I placed my order of one small drink and one chocolate chip cookie. My son had a craving as well it seemed. The girl taking my order had to ask me again, she didn’t quite hear me, so I repeated myself, slowly and loudly.

I get up to the window to pay, girl takes my money – it came to over $8! Holy shit, what kind of cookie am I getting? The drink is just over $3, so a frigging cookie is $5 bucks? I hope it does my laundry too.

I’m handed my change and then I wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. For TEN MINUTES. I can see into the coffee shop – there are no other customers, and three girls working. How long does it take to make a frapp? A minute, two at the most? Finally, one of the girls comes over and asks me if I want cream on the drink. Duh. If I’m going to enlarge my ass, I may as well do it in style.

She hands me my drink. I’m thinking I’ll be there for another 30 seconds or so because really, how long does it take to put a chocolate chip cookie into a bag? Well it takes ANOTHER TEN MINUTES. I’m starting to get a little impatient and even my kids are wondering if they’re actually BAKING the cookies right then and there.

What takes place next baffles my mind. The sheer stupidity is only something I can experience. I swear I’m wearing a huge sign that says ‘abuse me with your stupidity, please, I beg you.’

Finally, one of the girls comes over. I don’t see a bag with a cookie in it, in her hand. I’m trying hard not to punch her in the neck.

Um, do you want cream on it?

Cream on it?

Ya, cream on top.

On my cookie? Um, no, thanks

Cookie?

Yes, my cookie – I don’t want cream on it. Thanks.

Cookie? What do you mean?

I ordered a chocolate chip cookie.

Uh, this ISN’T Starbucks.

Pardon?

This ISN’T Starbucks. *Says with disgust*

I know it’s not Starbucks.

We don’t have those drinks.

Drinks? I ordered one drink, which I got and a chocolate chip cookie.

A chocolate chip cookie?

Yes. A cookie. With chocolate chips in it.

She stares at me like I’ve spewed pea soup and spun my head around.

I ordered a cookie.

A cookie? I’m not familiar with that drink.

Drink? It’s a COOKIE. I’m waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out at me with his crazy bullshit punking crap.

She then turns to the other two girls, dumbfounded. Finally, one of them asks what I ordered. Chick who insists on telling me that this isn’t Starbucks, over and over, says ‘she said a cookie.’

Finally, one of them clues in that I WANT A COOKIE. You know, A COOKIE.

She gets a cookie and puts it in a bag and hands it to me. It’s then I realize that the price they charged me, must have been for two drinks, one being a large. I nicely ask them if they did indeed charge me for two drinks.

Oh ya, we did.

Okay, we’ll I’d like a refund please, you know, the difference is fine.

Um, *giggles all around* we just started here like a week ago and our manager left us here and we don’t know how to return money.

Me *head exploding and punching all three of them in my mind*

You can’t give me my money back? I mean two or three bucks isn’t going to break me but I’m not paying five dollars for a cookie.

We don’t know how to do that. How about another cookie?

No thanks, I’d just like a refund.

*Giggles* We can’t give money back, we like, don’t know how.

Me *not giggling* I see. Do you have a card that you can give me with the managers name? Maybe he or she can give me a refund.

They all disappear, probably calling me names, although it was really me who should have been doing the name calling. Oh wait, I did.

They all three came back, with an 8×10 sheet of lined paper with a name scribbled on it and a barely readable phone number. Probably not even really the manager’s name. And probably their friend Tina’s phone number. I’m going to go in tomorrow and shake things up.

And yes, chickie poo, I know this ISN’T Starbucks. Damn straight.

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.

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.

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.

….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.

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?

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.