kdiddy.org

I fear that I am perhaps the last-ish person from the MamaPop crew to post about our Vegas Vacation (a movie which the husband tells me we watched several nights ago but I have no recollection of this whatsoever which caused the husband to rest his weary head in his hands but whatever because like I was telling him last night while I was “reading” for class, I can read paragraphs of stuff and realize that I’ve absorbed none of it and it’s like my mind has two tracks: one that is sieve-like and does what it should be doing in the most begrudging manner and the other that thinks about more important things like cupcakes and bunnies…just like you’re doing right now). So you might be over the whole thing by now, but that’s too bad.

As I’ve mentioned before, this was my biggest trip ever (I don’t get out much) and the fact that I was going alone had me extra paranoid. My flight out of Pittsburgh was supposed to depart at 8:20 a.m., so I estimated that I should be at the airport at 6:20 a.m. and, using kdiddy math where 2(x+y) = casserole, I determined that I should order a cab for 5:30 a.m. “Worst-case scenario, the cab is an hour late and I’m still there in plenty of time because there won’t be traffic. Best-case scenario, the cab comes on time and I can just press my nose on the glass of the airport until they let me in,” I reasoned.

It was kind of a long day. Pittsburgh to Chicago, 2 hour layover, then Chicago to Vegas, then shuttle from the airport, surrounded by members of the Sigma Alpha Douche fraternity who had big plans to PARTY AND FUCKIN’ PARTY AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW HARD I’M GONNA PARTY, DUDE, to the hotel where I met up with Tracey and blinked and said, “I don’t understand when this is.” Because the time zones were totally fucking with me. It was like that scene in Spaceballs where they’re like, “This is now now. Everything that’s happening now, is happening now.”

When most of the rest of our crew got there, we went to the Bellagio for The Buffet where I was still too tired to eat and I nearly wept when I saw the desserts that I passed up AND sipped on quite possibly the worst wine ever.

But the weekend wasn’t about the food or the wine or the cost of everything (because, really, I’d rather not get into it), but about hanging out with the people who, up until this weekend, were all 1s and 0s. We sat at the Bellagio and gaped at the cover band’s track selection (“Ants Marching,” then “Smooth,” then “Fire and Rain?!?!?” Seriously?!?!). We trekked a billion miles to a karaoke night that was discontinued just a few weeks before we arrived. We Twittered and Twittered and Twittered.

The driver of the cab that Jason, Tracey, Sarah, and I took back from Failaoke added insult to injury by subjecting us to Nickelback. I will never forgive him.

Black Hockey Jesus and his wife welcomed us into their home for brunch on Saturday, which was quite possibly my favorite part of the trip. I mostly sat and listened to everyone and thought about how it was cool to hear them all laugh.

Sarah and I went shopping after brunch to get pretty dresses for dinner that night. I blushed a little at how much I spent on my two dresses (one for dinner and one I just couldn’t live without), but when I got dressed that night and rushed through the lobby to meet Sarah, who looked lovely in her dress, I felt a few glances in my direction and I let myself feel snazzy.

The Venetian is indeed a gorgeous place. Bouchon was impressive, though not mind-blowing. I did get to eat the best creme brulee I’ve ever had and laughed until I thought my ribs might break, mostly at the expense of our misguided waiter who I think was in Vegas trying to break out as a stand up comedian. Good luck with that, dude. My trout still had its head, which didn’t phase me, but apparently freaked everyone else out. I am a bad ass, no?

Tracey went back to the room feeling ill while the rest of us wandered around the Venetian’s casino and wondered how anyone could get addicted to gambling, since it is SO BORING. We had an impromptu karaoke session outside one club where the band was playing “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

Schmutzie and Palinode retired for the evening so we bid them farewell and lamented the fact that our time together was so short. Sarah, Amber, Danielle, and I went to the Bellagio to watch the fountain show, set to that obnoxious, “I’m Proud to Be An American/God Bless the U.S.A.” song.

Back at the Flamingo we watched the waitresses shuffle about in their blazer/dress things, their eyes heavy with Vegas life and presumably landing there after they turned 30. Finally, we bid each other goodnight and farewell.

Tracey and I got room service in the morning and lounged in bed eating eggs and drinking coffee, talking about life and shit. Vegas is a tad bleaker during the day, without the darkness and flashing lights to cover up a multitude of crap. But it is constantly appealing to your senses, with mixed results. The flap-flap of the people handing out trading cards of prostitutes all along the strip, the constant ding-ding-ding of the machines, the occasional cheer of that elusive pay-out, the can’t-put-your-finger-on-it scents pumped in to the hotels, the smoke, the booze, the snippets of conversation, the palpable sense that you’re getting away with something just by being there.

I joked later that we were all ramping up for a crazed weekend, especially in contrast to the many bloggers at the wholesome Blissdom conference. But we were all in bed by 12:30, no one got especially drunk, and I even got some homework done.

You might say that we did Vegas all wrong and you might be right. But I sat at the bar in the Flamingo on Sunday, sipping on my gin and tonic lunch and chatting with bartender Lil Joe about the Steelers, killing time, the last one to leave, and felt my chest tighten. I just had such a good time. I missed my husband and my son. I couldn’t wait to get home to them.

But I really missed my friends, too.

I know it looks like I’m sitting on the couch in my pajamas and posting to my blog about something not quite earth-shatteringly important when I should be doing laundry and hacking a path through the Christmas debris that is littering our entryway, but it only looks that way to you because you’re high.

Anyway, a belated Merry Christnukkwanzaa to you, internet. I hope you’re having a lovely holiday week. Yesterday was fun, but very long, and I am still a tad exhausted today. We all got plenty of cool presents.

The baby seemed pretty happy with all of his stuff, despite not getting a D-Rex, which we said no to because a) it’s a $150 and this is not a $150 dinosaur kinda year and b) we weren’t convinced that he really wanted it. And, as it turned out, he didn’t mention it once since he did get plenty of rad presents and we kept telling him not to be disappointed if he didn’t get everything we wanted and that Christmas is more about hanging out with family (and eating) than presents. Moral lesson learned? Let’s hope so. Especially since I think The Lord must be communicating with me through my breakfast. Check it:

I was frying an egg and broke the yolk, because I hate dippy eggs, and it started looking like a fetus. That’s gotta be a sign, right? I should go buy canned goods and bottled water or something.

Alright, I need to get moving. But! I do want to say thank you to reader Emily from LA who was sweet enough to send me a book from my Amazon wishlist. Thanks, Emily! I read a few pages the other night and it’s crazily interesting so far!

I started this post the other day. Go ahead and read through and then I’ll meet you down at the bottom.

As I mentioned the other day, my semester is finally over. It’s a relief, sure, but I find myself uneasy about my final grade. But there’s nothing I can do about it now, so let’s discuss parties.

The baby had his birthday party this past Saturday and it was rather awesome. The Oaks Theater is available for parties so we booked that and showed one of the baby’s favorite Godzilla movies for him and his buddies. It was especially fun for the kids since they got to talk and giggle and wander around the theater during the movie. A taste of the forbidden! The guy at the Oaks also wrote a happy birthday message to the baby on the marquee, which was really cool for him to see.

It was a small group. The kids in the baby’s class don’t seem too big on birthday parties. But that was fine. Less noise, less stress, etc.

So, I highly recommend the Oaks for special events. I will note that it was a tad pricey (not surprising, really) and I’m thinking this will be our last big birthday party for awhile.

Of course, the baby started feeling crappy right as the party was ending and spent the rest of the weekend fighting off a nasty head cold.

I made cupcakes for the party, continuing in my deranged domesticity. Amber requested a picture of a cake wreck and I’m happy to deliver.

Those are chocolate cupcakes with mint icing, as per the baby’s request. I bought this pastry bag set the other day and it’s one of those crappy home baker sets, not a professional one. I don’t harbor any delusions that I am hiding a cake decorating superstar, but the pastry bag experience was rather frustrating. This is as far as I got the other day.

Anyway, yes, cupcakes. I went at them with the pastry bag set not really looking to make them fancy, but it just seemed easier to ice them with that than a butter knife or whatever I normally use. Not so much. But they tasted awesome.

AND I got my final grade for grammar and it’s an A minus. I’m not really sure how I pulled that off but I will so take it.

The title of this post refers to a story I was going to tell you about this yinzer baby shower I went to on Sunday and how I cleaned house during the loathed shower games. But it’s left me.

In fact, I am totally sapped of writing energy. I had an article due on Monday and I guess that and the usual end-of-semester meltdown have rendered me useless. I’ve been sparing you and subjecting the readers of MamaPop with my semi-coherent rambling. Lucky them.

Aaand I’m out of nothings to say. Instead, I’ll leave you with this clip from Sade’s Lovers Live DVD, which we started to watch last night and were stunned by it’s awesomeness.

My pie was awesome. I got the recipe from Martha Stewart. I think it was a little rich for my family but I think the taste was undeniable. The husband really liked it. And yes, I realize my crust is a little wonky. It was kind of late at night and I was getting punchy. I spread the topping out because one part of the filling separated from the crust. All in all, not bad for a first attempt. I also made a mushroom pate to use up some mushrooms from my CSA box. I don’t really like mushrooms…it’s mostly a texture thing. But this pate was pretty yummy.

‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the house…

Dudes were sleeping and drooling all over that heinous couch.

The pie crusts were baking, the mum without care…

…for she knew that wine would always be there.

I would totally translate the whole thing into “‘diddy” but I’m a tad too tired at the moment. But I will say that I am thankful for my family, for my opportunities, for writing, and for having time to think with a full belly. We saw Synecdoche, New York earlier and I’m thankful to know that I’m not the only one who thinks such weird things. I’m just glad that Charlie Kaufman puts them down on paper and has beautiful actors speak them for the screen. I’m thankful that art helps me to feel human. I’m thankful for my son, seeing the best pieces of me in him, knowing that I help people to experience him and all of his amazing thoughts and actions. I’m thankful for the husband and our life together.

And I’m thankful for Sidney Crosby and Yevgeny Malkin. 😉

Started this last night…

So, first things first: how are you guys? I’m okay. I’m very tired right now. But at least tonight I don’t have to talk myself out of going on a stabbing spree. That was last night, before I remembered that, once a month, my normal, bearable contempt for my fellow humans turns into BLINDING STABBING RAGE FLAMES! FLAMES! ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE! I did teach the baby some new and inventive ways to use the word “motherfucker” in a sentence, so I can’t say I haven’t been productive.

Speaking of the baby, he turned to me earlier and said, “Daddy makes you unhappy and poor.” I laughed heartily and then gave him a raise. He’d earned it…the cute little motherfucker.

Anyway, yes, the subject of this post. I’ve gone wildly Stepford the past few weeks. I think it all started when I said to my mom, “You know, I made some pretty tasty pumpkin puree and froze it. I could make the pumpkin pie this year.” Apparently what is an offer in my world is a throwing down of the gauntlet in the world of my mom and my grandmother. They’ve given me multiple opportunities to back out. Whatever, man. My pie’s going to be fucking awesome.

The last time I made cookies, I noticed that my cookie sheets were pretty gross. I’ve had them about 2.5 years and they’ve seen plenty of mishaps. I’ll still use them, but for more dirty jobs…say, catching whatever bubbles out of a casserole dish. So I bought some new cookie sheets and some of those nifty Silpat thingies so I don’t have to struggle with tearing parchment paper into strips to fit the sheets. Those came yesterday today.

So, to go with my upcoming pie baking and Cookie Baking Extravaganza ’08, I bought some aprons. Oh, yes.

WE ARE THE ROBOTS!

This darling thing and another Christmasy one that reminds me of one that my mom used to wear came from Boojiboo on etsy.

I’ve been on a small etsy/handmade binge lately. My buddy Cristina and I went to the Handmade Arcade a few weeks ago. I got a few Christmas gifts and a few things for myself, most notably this purse:

It’s by these folks, Ray-Min, and I absolutely adore it. It’s made out of vintage upholstery fabric. Know what that means? SCOTCHGARD!

I’m also rocking this necklace from etsy seller HouseThatCrowBuilt:

Jen posted it to We Covet a few weeks ago and I snapped it up immediately. Admittedly, that’s kind of a dick move since I write for that site, but whatever.

To top off my wifey-ness, I made a Bundt cake the other night. A Banana Caramel Bundt Cake to be exact. The bottom (top?) burned a little bit. I don’t know why. But other than that it’s pretty awesome.

It’s the little things. I get out of work at 3 p.m. today, which is awesome, but I noticed this morning that the day or two before a vacation I get very, “Who gives a fuck?” about getting out of bed on time. Like, we’re going to be off of work and school in a day so why bother going now? Clearly, I have some work to do in the whole maturity area. Also, the Boulevard of Allies reopened the other day and our commute is no longer a gigantic joke.

I should probably go take some valium now, right?

There was nothing on TV this morning so I started watching I Love Lucy and while I was watching it, I was looking at Google Reader and there were TWO Lucy-related secrets today. Weird, no?

A friend of the husband’s was in town last night to play records at AVA and he was supposed to stay the night at our house. So, I spent pretty much all day cleaning. Our house is always pretty messy and dusty since we never really have time or energy to clean. The husband is, of course, out of commission with his hand so I was on my own and had a pretty sobering moment when I realized that I couldn’t possibly clean the whole house myself and had to determine which parts were the nastiest/most potentially embarrassing.

About 15 minutes after I finished cleaning the bathrooms and was sprawled out on the bed panting, the husband came home from work and announced that he had to poop. After he emerged, I whined, “I don’t know why you always do that right after I do the toilets.”

“That’s why I don’t like cleaning,” he replied. “It’s a Sisyphean effort. You’re Sisyphus.”

“Yes, and you’re this huge rock that shits all over my squeaky clean toilets.”

And then…THEN. The husband’s friend called and said that he was meeting up with “a friend” in town and would be staying at a hotel, after all.

GAHHHH

Well, at least the house is clean. I guess. Whatever.

In continuing in my Suzy Homemaker routine, I’m baking some homemade Nilla Wafers. They’re my dad’s favorite cookie and his birthday was Friday, so I’m making some for him. I hope they don’t suck.

I was thinking about Steel Magnolias when I was in the bathroom earlier. I generally dislike stereotypical “chick flicks,” but I fucking LOVE Steel Magnolias. It’s the dialogue. And I know I sound like a dude who reads Playboy for the articles, but it’s seriously one of the most quotable pieces of work ever. And, yeah, if I’m feeling emotionally paralyzed, I just need to watch Sally Field’s histrionics and the pent up shit flows out of me. It’s like an enema for bitches who hate…aka Yours Truly.

When our house got broken into last year, Steel Magnolias was one of the movies the dude stole. When we hunted our DVD collection down, we kept having conversations like, “Okay, so we have A Clockwork Orange, Dr. Strangelove, the Tool boxed set, Unbreakable, Kill Bill…and Steel Magnolias?” And I would be like, “Oh my god! What? I have one estrogen indulgence and it’s a huge deal. Fuck off and give me my Ouiser before I cut you.”

Anyway, I thought about Steel Magnolias because I’m wearing tights today and faux-Spanx on top of that because I hate when the waistband of tights rolls down. Like, nails-on-a-chalkboard hate. So I’m extremely…held in today and it was making me think I should just say, “Fuck it,” and start wearing a girdle and then I started thinking about, “It looks like two pigs…fightin’ under a blanket.” And laughing. In the bathroom. To myself.

So there’s a disturbing little walk through my thought process for you.

But while I’m thinking about it, you know who can shut it down? Grown women who still pull that, “Oh, I’m having a second piece of pizza. I’m a pig. Oh, I’m so fat. Oh, I’ll just have some lettuce,” fishing for validation bullshit. I can understand some young chicks being insecure, but my god. If you’re looking at the other side of, say, 30 and you’re still talking like that, go to therapy. Or at the very least do not say that shit to me. I spent many hours of my formative years in a dressing room at a ballet school. I have seen and heard some psychotic shit and behaved that way myself. It sucks. I don’t think that you have an “appropriate” amount of self-hate, I think you’re acting like you’re insecure and want me to fix it. EAT YOUR PIZZA AND OWN IT.

My CSA subscription continues to be awesome. However, I am failing one important piece of produce. They keep sending beautiful bunches of green leaf lettuce. And I guess once summer is over, I am just done with salad for the year. The lettuce sits in the fridge while I go, “Uuggghhh, I really need to wash that lettuce and eat it but graaarrraghhhghhhg it’s October! Don’t wanna!” And the husband and the baby aren’t really lettuce eaters, period.

I’m ashamed to tell you that I’ve thrown out at least 4 heads of lettuce. I’m determined to use this one because letting veggies rot in a landfill is sort of antithetical to some of the reasons I subscribed to the CSA in the first place.

But if I can find some preserving agent, I can just convert this week’s lettuce into some sort of mantle decoration.

Isn’t it fancy? I don’t know why it’s so spread out like that, but I had a hell of a time stuffing it into a bag for the fridge.

Also, these:

Oh, man. I’ve had three since I’ve been home and I’m sure I’ll have at least one more before the night is over. I’m going to have to start going to meetings for these shits.

It’s been awhile since I mentioned any of my cooking adventures, no? Last night ended up being all about pumpkin. For dinner, I made Pumpkin Pasta. Really yummy. I added an extra teaspoon of hot sauce and some curry powder just for an extra flavor. Also, I didn’t have sage so I just used some dried rosemary instead.

I told the sister-in-law that I would make pumpkin cookies to take to D.C. with her today. So I made those last night which spared me from watching most of the debates.

(By the way, my favorite Twitterers are the fake people that I follow, which now includes most of the characters from Mad Men. Case in point: this nugget of awesome from Betty Draper.)

Anyway, those cookies are so, SO good. I make them at least two or three times every fall, a fact which Frank used to mock me about and yes, Frank, I used the special pumpkin-shaped spatula last night because I am just that rad.

I made them for a party a couple of years ago, and near the end of the night, Jwan and I were collapsed on a couch, somewhat, er, incapacitated. We ate cookie after cookie and Jwan kept turning to me and very solemnly saying, “Thank you so much for making these cookies. I love them.”

I considered bringing one or two with me to work today so I could snack on them later, but decided against it and now that’s all I can think about. Like, “Okay, only 7 more hours until I am in the same building as the cookies. I can do this.”