Saturday, June 25, 2011

Cotton or Lace?

I just typed an entire post about underwear that was witty and sort of a hallucination and then accidentally deleted the whole thing. Gah!

Summary...I am still not sleeping, which is making me feel like a crazy person. Also, I am pretty sure everyone thinks I am stoned. I am not, in fact stoned. Just tired.

I revealed that I only wear cotton boy shorts. I do not wear sexy, lacy underwear and discovered that this may, in fact, be weird. So, I would like to poll the readers and find out if there are any other cotton loving, boring underwear wearing girls out there. Or are my underwear choices just terribly, terribly unattractive? And it's not like this is new, I have always been this way. Sexy underwear just aren't my thing.

The previous post was much more hilarious. And I would rewrite it, but I am not totally sure I didn't hallucinate it. Also, sleep.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

What side are you on?

If you are friends with me on Facebook, you have already discovered the latest blow in my culinary world.

Kraft owns the patent to Provel cheese. I realize that none of you, except maybe Bradshaw, know what this is. It is a blend of white cheddar, swiss, and provolone cheese. It is found on the St. Louis Bread Company (now known as Panera, I refuse to give in) menu as well as my all time favorite pizza ever...Imo's. It has the melting capability of Velveeta (gag, gross) and the tangy flavor of cheddar. I often bring it home from St. Louis, because you can buy it at the grocery store there. Or order it online for the same price as, oh, buying a car. 

I hate Kraft as a corporation for many reasons which I am sure I have spouted off here about. If not, well, be glad I just saved that as a draft and didn't share. Because the hatred runs deep, my friends. I stopped eating my favorite pickles (I miss you!) because they were a Kraft product. Not to mention how much the boy misses their boxed mac and cheese. 

I also feel this way about most mainstream chicken and pork manufacturers. But, this post is about cheese. My favorite cheese. A cheese I am not willing to give up, but that Kraft has bought the patent to. So, buying and eating said cheese is supporting a corporation that stands for everything that I believe to be wrong with the food system in this country. It's not like I can buy it everyday, it is not sold in Ohio. But, isn't just one purchase, one dollar towards that company going against everything I stand for? Isn't it the same thing when I get McDonalds on a road trip or pick up Smithyfield bacon because it is the only thick cut brand the grocery store has left?

I spend 40 plus hours a week supporting locally sourced, organic farmers. I cook with their products and I do my very very best to buy local meats and produce at home. But, it's hard. And it's expensive. And sometimes, the results are sub par. Let's be honest, Velveeta makes a good cheese dip and it is easy as shit to melt. The alternative is a Bechamel sauce, turned into a cheese sauce to the tune of an hour or so of your time. Most people are going to buy a can of rotel and a block of Velveeta and call it a day. 

It's more cost effective to buy the bacon that is on sale. Or the chicken or the pork chops or whatever it is you are buying. It is so much easier to support the huge corporations with livestock farms and genetically modified vegetables. It is so much cheaper too.

Where do you draw the line? Where do you say, I won't eat this? I won't support this company? I won't be a part of this?

Where do you draw the moral line and how often do you cross it for convenience and/or love of food?

I cross it more than I wish. I eat veal (I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON, I KNOW) and not just free range veal. Put you in a box and torture you veal. I buy produce from Mexico and Chile and Argentina and other countries that make my carbon foot print five gazillion. I forget my cloth bags at the grocery store all the time and opt for plastic. Which we reuse to pick up dog, you know, that is better for the landfill. I eat fast food late at night when I am on my way home from work and so hungry I am contemplating eating the passenger seat in my car. I eat at restaurants that are not locally sourced, that are not organic, that could give two shits about any of that. I drink domestic beer and wine, not all craft beers and local wines. 

But, I also shop at a local butcher with local meat. In the summer, I drive the 5 miles from my house to the weird barn farmers stand to buy produce. Often, having to go to the grocery store to supplement, but still. I use environmentally and pet friendly cleaning products. I feed my fucking animals holistic food, you guys. I support Local Eats, an organization that supports sourcing food locally. I support Dine Originals, an organization that supports locally owned restaurants.

I just always feel like there is one more thing I could be doing, one more way I could be supportive. Because, you guys, I am going to eat Provel cheese. It's going to happen. And I am going to feel ashamed until that delicious cheese hits my mouth and then...heaven.

There is a local blogger who lives the life that I want to live. She is a stay at home mom, sort of. More like a stay at home local food advocate. She teaches courses on charcuterie and slaughters her own pigs. She has chickens! In the city! 

I hope to be there one day, to be able to live this lifestyle completely. Until then, convenience and money and selfish love for ingredients seems to keep getting in the way.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011


My life is becoming...well...cluttered. Not just physically, because that too. But, mentally. There is Facebook, which I have to read religiously and know what everyone is doing. There is Twitter, which I have to read religiously and know what everyone is doing. I rarely post to either, more to Facebook than Twitter, because, frankly, I don't have that much to say. Then there is my Google Reader, which some days feels like a chore. There are so many blogs. I clean it out from time to time, delete the ones that I dread seeing in the bold font and bring the ones that make me happy to see in the bold font to the top. There is my DVR, full of TV shows that I am not sure I even care about. 

It is all clutter. 

And my house...oh, my house. Closet after closet full of bullshit that we don't even know is there. Prom dresses, you guys. PROM DRESSES. To start, I am no longer a size zero, so I certainly will never be able to wear it again. Also, IT IS A PROM DRESS. And that is just the tip of the iceburg. There is an entire Rubbermaid drawer thingy full of gift bags and tissue paper. For presents I never buy people. There is a fajita maker in the basement, which is essentially just an electric skillet in the shape of a chili pepper. There are mounds and mounds of clutter closing in on us every single day.

It is overwhelming. And then there are the social obligations. The things that I have to do because is the right thing, but I would rather stay home and watch Lost on the couch with the boy. 

My dad calls me everyday asking when I am sending out the invitations for my Graduation party. I don't even want to have a graduation party. Not because I don't want to celebrate. But because it just feels like more clutter. My moms side of the family mixing with my dads side of the family, sitting at opposite sides of the room glaring at each other. Having to go from group of person to group of person being courteous, when I just want to hang out and drink and have fun. Answering question after question about "what's next" when I am not even sure what I am doing right now. 

I mean, I am not high. I know what I am doing right now. I am sitting on my couch in a tank top with no bra waiting for my fries to be done in the oven so I can smother them in cheese and eat them, only to feel ashamed later that I had cheese fries for lunch. 

I mean philosophically you guys.

My whole life just feels like clutter. And I want to curl up in a ball and feel sorry for myself, but I can't. Because I am not a kid anymore. I am months from turning 30. And maybe that is what this is all about...the big 3 - 0. Maybe I am having a quarter life crisis (although, quarter life implies I will live to 120 and eek! the world does not need me around that long.) Maybe that is what the new hair and the new tattoo are all about. Even though I have wanted to do both for years.

I am the happiest I have been in as long as I can remember. I mostly like my job, which, compared to my job makes me want to kill myself on a daily basis, is awesome. I love my friends, both old and new. I love the boy. Hell, I even love my evil ass cat and gassy dog.

So, why all the clutter?  Why the feeling that the walls are closing in around me? Or not even the walls...the "stuff." The stupid, insignificant, I could care less about it, stuff.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

More Explanation

So, I clearly got a tattoo. On my wrist. That I love. And, no, I am not a Kiss fan and this is not a Gatorade commercial or any other fucked up bullshit that people have said to me. Apparently, hey, I am happy you are happy is too hard. You don't have to like it. You don't have to agree with my decision. But, bottom line, I can't change it. And I don't want to. So, shut the fuck up. 

Whew. I feel better. Here is the thing...I am sick of fitting in for the sake of fitting in. I am not like everyone else, I love tattoos. I want a lot more. I am really, really comfortable with who I am. And I am sick of people having a comment or opinion on everyone who doesn't fit into their mold of what a person should look/act like. I like who I am. The people who I love, like who I am. That's all that really matters.


Monday night, the boy and I went to what has been coined the best restaurant in town. It is a classic French restaurant with a steep price. I have a secret soft spot for French food because, well, culinary school. Also, it's not so secret. I started the meal with an Escargot and mushroom terrine which was just...I don't have words. I wanted to lick the plate. The boy had a Mesculin Salad, which was a salad, nothing new to report there. He got the veal flank steak with scalloped potatoes and haricots vert. I got the blue cheese stuffed pork loin with fresh tomato pasta and THE BEST CORN EVER. You guys, I don't even really like corn. This shit was fucking amazing. All of it was fucking amazing. I wanted to die on the table eating this food.

Plus, there was the boy and I. Things are rough with my schedule and we don't spend a lot of time together. When we do, it tends to be rushed or filled with that awkward list of things to do over the next week. 

Have you ever seen the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie talks about how good her and Berger are at restaurants? That is what it felt like. We laughed and for the first time in a really long time, had a relaxing and amazing evening together. I loved every fucking second of it. I wanted to curl up in that night and never leave.

The food....the company...the body art....what a Monday. An amazing, amazing Monday.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Look what I did...

More explanation later...but today was one of the best days I have had in a really long time. It involved a tattoo, an episode of Cops unfolding in my backyard, and one of the best meals/date nights with the boy ever.
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Monday, June 6, 2011


I need help. Big time, huge, intervention style help. I have crossed a line and there is no turning back. 

I started watching Lost. And. I. Can't. Stop. Nope, can't do it. I watched 15 episodes in 24 hours. I am watching it now. I will stay up into the wee hours of the morning watching until I can't keep my eyes open. Then I will go to bed, only to wake up, run downstairs and start watching it again.

How did people watch this for 6 years and not go hysterical with curiosity from episode to episode? I can hardly stand the time it takes for Netflix to queue up the next episode. The"commercial" breaks, which are 3 seconds of black screen, annoy the living shit out of me. 

I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS. What is the monster? Why does the island talk to people? What's with the French bitch? WHO IS ETHAN? Why did the psychic tell the pregnant woman she had to raise her own baby? Why did he put her in danger? Why is the warthog stalking Sawyer? 

And all of you know the answers to these questions. And are thinking THERE ARE SO MANY MORE QUESTIONS and I can't stand one more second of it. I need to know everything right now. 

And the boy sits here like, oh, do you know who so and so is yet? Oh, this part is important. Have people started disappearing yet? AND THE FACT THAT HE KNOWS AND I DON'T MAKES IT SO MUCH WORSE. I want to drill into his brain and suck out all information pertaining to Lost. 

So, all of you fall into two categories: those who have watched the series and can openly mock me until I finish it and those who need to watch the series. With me. On my couch. I need emotional support. I will provide the beer.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Kitty Comforts

When Krackle and I were roommates, she had these blankets. I don't know how to explain them. They were torn apart and threadbare and amazing. She called them kitty comforts. There were always two, one for her and one for me. We spent hours curled up under these blankets. The name came from the fact that cats always look comfortable, no matter how they are laying. And it certainly didn't matter how I laid, those blankets were comforting and soft and amazing. I miss them so.

When we first got NCH, I finally saw what she meant. He always looks comfortable. Then the anti-anxiety medication started and he slept in some WEIRD ASS POSITIONS. None of them looked very comfortable to me.
 I do believe that this is a sign of a broken neck.
 Asleep on my toes. Not the side of my foot, or the top of my foot. The tips of my knobby, hard toes. Futurama does not amuse him at all.
 OK, this may be mildly comfortable, but is the toilet seat cover really necessary? Or the completely fucked up rug?
 Is he looking down? Nope. He is asleep. In a drawer. Bent over the edge of it.  
 This is only weird if you know my cat, who let me put this blanket on him. Moments later, he was building a laser gun in the corner.
 There is no way, no way that this is comfortable. I don't even understand how he decided to lay like this.
 When in doubt, hang yourself over the side of a chair. 
And the final, and best picture. Sitting straight up. On the stairs. Sound asleep. 

Now, I know that none of you read this site for gratuitous pictures of my stoned cat. But, dude, I could not stop laughing the entire time he was drugged up and it is wordless Wednesday right? Now is as good of a time as any to participate and then immediately break the number one rule. 

I am a rebel.