A few weeks ago I went to my Work Father-in-law's funeral. Or, alternatively, the man at work who is my "Work Husband" suffered the loss of his father, and I went to the funeral. It came up that both the father and the mother attended my Mom's high school, McKinley High. I got Mom's yearbooks from my closet so I could take them to work.
The yearbook was the "Nugget." Because President McKinley ran on the gold standard, McKinley students were the "Goldbugs" and the yearbook was the "Nugget." I mean, that's just freaking weird. Like, "Hi, we're the Nixon 'Burglars', and this is our yearbook the 'Scandal.'"
I didn't look too closely, but of the yearbooks ('50 to '54), two were covered with signatures. "Did she graduate twice?" I wondered.
When I got them to work and Work Husband and I were searching for his Mom, we realized that the first signature-covered yearbook didn't belong to Mom, but her older sister Delores. That's Delores who died in the car accident heading to visit Mom at Mizzou.
So, it was my dead aunt's yearbook! And, even better, Work Husband's mom had signed it.
"Delores - Loads of Luck! I wish you the best in your future endeavors. Love, Dot."
Sadly, Dot is dead herself, so Work Husband can't go home and present his Mom with her faux pas. "Look! You signed this woman's yearbook 'Loads of Luck' and then she DIED the next year."
'09 was fine! That's my chant for the end of the year. Here's what happened in personal music in '09:
I went to three of the Riverfront Times top ten concerts: Guster/Live on the Levee, Coldplay, and Leonard Cohen (Number One! Number One!)
Pete Seeger led a group singalong of "This land is your land" at the inauguration
Gary missed a five-day long concert because he forgot his passport
Steven Page left BNL
Bought a steel drum, which is currently doing double-duty as a sock catcher.
Big Red G concert
All American Rejects concert
Elton John / Billy Joel concert
Carbon Leaf concert
Bought a bass
Watched Mama Mia, horrible
Leonard Cohen concert announced
Nothing! And it was my birthday month and all. Tellingly, this is the month I got sick.
Lions of Hazelwood concert
BNL in Vegas
Leonard Cohen concert
Bruce Hornsby concert
Cowboy Mouth concert comes in just under the wire. This must be one of the few times Gary and I have left the house on NYE. I think the last time was during the Y2K turnover when he had to go to work.
Clearly, I need a monthly concert. BNL is on tour this coming year, so that'll be handy.
Letting Go of God was witty and delved into topics perfect for Christmas. How much of the Bible should we take to heart? Should we ignore any part we don't like? I'm ignoring everything but the Gospel of Q, myself. I've stepped far away from my part Catholic part Southern Baptist devil hybrid upbringing.
Here is what really captured my imagination:
See her shirt? The middle button isn't buttoned, but still it is flatteringly adhered to the smallest part of her body, a part I know well, the upper midriff / lower underboob region. And it looks from the left side that it's gathered, but it isn't, as you can see on the right. I sat through the whole thing wondering, "How did she get her shirt to do that? Did she put spray glue on a tank top and mush it against her uppermidriff?"
Unto the woman [the LORD God] said, I will greatly multiply thy pain and thy conception; in pain thou shalt bring forth children have bladder infections every DAMN time you have sex; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.
Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar and resident celebrity, pondered Elsa's comment on Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon's breakup:
I suspect that any public figure's marriage is exponentially harder than the same marriage would be in private. Have you ever done that thing, that stupid stupid thing where you say or do something indiscreet to or in front of a friend (or oh god forbid an in-law) to indicate a perhaps-passing irritation or annoyance with your partner? And then the friend (or oh god forbid in-law) repeats it in front of your partner? And then everybody feels terrible except for the friend (or oh god forbid in-law)? (So, by "everybody," I guess I mean "everybody in your marriage.") And the friend (oogfi-l) stubbornly refuses to forget the stupid thing you mentioned stupidly because you're stupid, and instead keeps an eye out for any sign of said annoyances recurring? I suspect that for public figures, this happens all the time, except that the friend (oogfi-l) is, y'know, everybody watching "Access Hollywood" and reading "Gawker."
One member of Spunky's entourage, Gary, often threatens that his family will find this blog. Spunky will not regret this. However, Spunky realized that in recent memory there WAS one regrettable thing she said that might help her sympathize. Spunky bought a winter scarf ...
...hoping it would make her look thin and asian. It did not, but it was the red version, perhaps that was the problem. Spunky was taken aback for a moment by the price of the scarf: $118. She bought it anyway, because she would wear it every day for months and it would be essentially a dollar a day she wanted it. (Spunky says shut up.)
This is where Spunky made her mistake: she did not respect her own privacy and she mentioned what the scarf cost to a friend. Let's call that friend The General Public.
The General Public was greatly taken aback by the price of the scarf. Buying a scarf for $118 isn't a Tiger Woods level of stupidity, but it is pretty stupid. Understandably, The General Public will not stop talking about it. It is horrifying excess, it is hard to understand, and it is interesting. Kind of like Tiger. And no, it isn't really any of The General Public's business, but who limits his or her conversation just to that?
So, Spunky regrets being so foolish, and she will work on her wicked ways, and she might retire from golf, but you know,the only way Spunky knows to control the situation right now is to come clean about the full story. (Call Larry King. Scarf! $118! Thats' the full story.)
I was curled up in bed, a little down because Gary decided to stay at work instead of buying me Christmas gifts, and Gary decided to stay at work instead of coming home, and Gary decided to stay at work instead of any of the other more entertaining Love Languages, and also because Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins are breaking up after 23 years.
I'm six months away from my 25th anniversary and it bothers me when long-time loves go south. I wonder what went wrong because it's probably just as wrong in my marriage too.
Like, I was wondering about their sex life, because when it's been over twenty years, people, the LOVE has been MADE. A young person was listening to me and another 20+ woman as we were describing our seduction techniques, such as barking "When are we doing this thing?"
"But that's awful. The best part of making love is lighting the candles and the soft music and the romance," the young person said.
We answered, "That is a waste of time. The orgasm feels just as good if you spent two hours getting there or five minutes. It's like if you could get the best steak of your life at the Steak and Shake drive-thru. Just as good in a tenth the time."
"But what about the love?"
The love is there. The intimacy is there. But do you remember during the months after 9/11, when Tina Fey reported on SNL Weekend Update that Ashcroft would be putting the US on high alert, said, "I think I speak for all Americans when I say: 'Bitch, I can't be any more alert than I already am!'" Bitch, I can't be more in love. The love pop-up timer has popped. It doesn't get more intimate than this.
So after you plateau at the peak of love and intimacy, you start to think, "Wouldn't it be fun to go all the way back to the beginning with someone completely different?"
And I imagine I would start acting on such thoughts were I hot like Susan or Tim. However, Gary and I wisely planned ahead and got dumpy and old, unlike Tim and Sue. That was their big mistake. Gotta think ahead.
And now that I think about it, I imagine in a few years we'll both have changed (aGAIN) and it will be like we're back at the beginning again anyway. Might as well sit tight.
Has anyone been married more than 25 years? Does it get even more intimate? Do we start to hear each other's thoughts? Warn me.
FLORIDA - Today, Tiger Woods announced his plan to sue everyone who doesn't respect his privacy. The spokesman for Tiger's team of high-priced attorneys claims this puts them in the odd situation of having their client (famous golfer Tiger Woods) sue famous golfer Tiger Woods.
The press release announcing the suit reads in part:
"Tiger Woods (hereinafter referred to as Bad Tiger) has shown a complete lack of respect for Tiger Wood's (hereinafter referred to as Good Tiger's) privacy. For example, Bad Tiger had sex with at least fourteen females, and if not for Bad Tiger, these women would never have been able to violate Good Tiger's privacy. For example, Bad Tiger exposed Good Tiger's penis to these women, he left them voicemails, he may have given them semen that could be used to clone yet another Tiger. Good Tiger is outraged these women are now going public and talking about him in the media."
Tiger Woods is only the latest celebrity who has found himself in this situation. Another personality accused of disrespecting his own privacy is former NY Attorney General Eliot Spitzer, with mitigating circumstances: Mr. Spitzer claimed he thought prostitutes were trustworthy and honest. In addition, Mr. Spitzer is one of the celebs who feel bitterly that the public is still commenting on his indiscretions. "I have a right to privacy. YOU don't know ME. You have no right to judge me."
"AHAHAHHAHAHAHA," replied the public.
Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar, is one of the few celebs who has maintained her privacy. "I just live my life as if it was going to be posted on the internet for all to see. If it's something I want to keep private, I do it in the bathroom, where there are no windows."
When asked by our man on the street reporter, dowdy middle-aged suburban wife Ellen S____ wondered, "I'm only supposed to talk about things that are somehow my business? I had no idea that was the rule. Crap! Just today I talked about Hitler and Joe Lieberman and Charles Manson. Do they all have privacy too?"
The next few weeks will determine if Bad Tiger will countersue Good Tiger for invasion of privacy due to the public scrutiny.
So, driven by a threat of snow as solid a ten-day weather forecast, the in-laws moved the Christmas Eve celebration up to today. It made for a stressful day yesterday, but it's nice to have the family Christmas done.
One of my mother-in-law's gifts was a package of Host. Yes, Host, with a capital H. Host. Dehydrated Jesus. ("Jesus was made of crackers? - South Park.) Great disappointment because it wasn't round, but perhaps they were the Christmas wafers shown on the link.
There was also a question of if it was blessed, but Gary's parents are now Charismatic Catholics and have a more bottom-up view of Catholicism. Wilma went rogue, blessed it, and went about giving communion to everyone. I tried, I really tried not to make any smart remarks, but my brother-in-law was having stomach pains, so his Jesus just wasn't agreeing with him. Wilma then explained transmogrification and how through the body of Christ we become like Christ. I had to ask if Mr. Wonderful still had his double hernia, or if Christ had a double hernia too.
Wilma took pity on Gary, who had been up all night, so we didn't sing any Christmas carols. We went home and slept instead. I have to say, I do kind of like my in-laws. Did you get communion at your in-laws? Ha! No, bet you didn't.
Previously seen on In-law Christmas '09"
Sister in law: "No, let's just do two presents each."
Gary's Mom Wilma: "I don't have the energy to make the whole Christmas Buffet of Fingerfoods. I'll just make the salad and dip and 200 cookies. Your sister will bring the sandwiches and meatballs and you bring something else. Just not dessert, because we have cookies, and no salad, and no entrees, but finger food."
Gary's Dad: (has hearing aid turned off) (Smiles.)
The parent in laws are covered and this weekend is designated as the time to get something for the siblings in law. But HA HA (Laugh of Panic: think of it like the Cha-Chun! on Law and Order) the sister-in-law called.
"It is supposed to snow on Christmas Eve!"
Gary and I on speaker reassured her, "No, they never know what's going to happen a week from now."
She said, primly, "I am looking right now at Weather.com, and it says 'significant snow.'"
"So," she continued, "I was talking with Mom and she said we should move Christmas Eve up to tomorrow." (Wilma, I am sure, said "No one else will go for this.")
"I'm not going for that," Gary said, "I have to go in to work at 4:30 am. I'll be dead."
"Plus," I added, "You won't get anything from us. We aren't done."
"Oh, that's okay," she had the grace to add. She called half an hour later to "give us ideas," which again puts us right back to errand-shopping.
So, today is Christmas-eve eve! We'll be relying on KFC for Chistmas Fingerfoods, since they'll be open. And I have already assembled a nice assortment of possible gifts for Karen:
A lovely pillow that says Feliz Navidad that I got Friday from Karla at work, particularly apt since Karla is Hispanic and funny.
A lovely absorbent cloth one should put under one's dishrack that I got from Larry at work, because Larry cares about the environment and wasting water.
A lovely boxed teabag with proceeds going to St. Jude's Hospital that I got from Jennifer at work, also apt because Karen had her spinal surgery at 13 at St. Jude's. You know, the surgery that generated such indulgent pity from her family that she still to this day feels she should get anything she wants that trapped her in a hospital bed for a year in their living room so she has issues with control and privacy adhered a giant metal stick to her spine.
Actually, this is great for me, because I get to have a Christmas eve and Christmas day for once with Gary and only Gary. I think I'll make a ham. Oh wait - I'll bet you anything he still goes there Christmas eve next week. Because it will not snow, you know that. Because you are sane.
I am afraid to touch any dog's belly now.
Are you telling me the area in the red triangle on male dogs is off-limits? (And my dog doesn't have testicles, just hard little submerged knots, so I'm scratching the area formerly known as his balls.)
And if this were your female dog, you would keep your hands away from the mid-line beneath the bottom two teats?
I woud avoid the teats on the dog below, but not the thigh area. It's important to note that these are dauchsunds, and the lady parts aren't hanging out there all raw and exposed.
Seriously, I really do need to know the rules, because sometimes I rub the bellies of strange dogs, and I don't want to be locked up.
"Gary, did you read the blog today? I just want to check my facts. The commenters are horrified by your mom's behavior with the dog. I need to be sure I'm not making false accusations."
"MASTURBATING THE DOG?" Gary screamed.
"Right! I'm thinking that I heard wrong when you said your Mom was rubbing Tinkerbell's vaginal folds. Maybe you meant she was just rubbing her belly like we do with Mac sometimes, when it's a whole belly rub and sometimes we might just swoop over the penis fast."
"Oh, no. Mom was specifically rubbing the vaginal folds. She just wasn't MASTURBATING THE DOG. She was only scratching that part because the dog can't get to it to scratch. You made it sound like some kind of inter-species lesbianism."
"Oh." (Inter-species lesbianism soon to outpace Spunky Labia on search engines.)
He continued, "Like when we scratch the base of the dog's penis because he can't get to it and he likes anything scratched he can't get to."
So, I have been corrected. Scratching the dog's vaginal folds. Not to be mistaken for masturbating the dog. I apologize for any confusion this might have caused.
The in-laws have a dog named Tinkerbell
my angelic and pure Mother-in-law favors indelicate terms for the female body part.
(Hint: when I tell the above Mother-in-law stories at work I have to say "Twah" instead so no one can report me to HR.)
Gary told me that he visited his Mom today. They spent some time on the floor with Tinkerbell, rubbing the dog's belly. Gary mentioned how it was easier to rub a girl dog's belly, because they don't have a penis to dodge.
Wilma said, "Well, she's a girl, so she doesn't have a penis."
"Stop right there," I interrupted, "Your mother did not say 'penis.'"
"Oh, well, neither did I," he confessed. "I said 'thingee' or 'willy,' and so did she. But wait."
Wilma said, "She's a girl. See, she has vaginal folds."
"You lie! I know you lie. Your mother never said 'vaginal folds.'"
"She did! She said it very precisely. I think she remembers the last time she said ... the other thing."
So then, Gary's Mom began rubbing Tinkerbell's vaginal folds.
He said to his mother, "Really, Mom, you may not want to do that."
"No, she likes it."
So, I say it's a net gain. Sure, she's masturbating the dog, but she's dropped the Twah word.
I haven't watched most of these yet, but TiVo has.
Hoarders - Oh, thank God, no feces this week. Of course, there was a stillborn baby. (Not in the clutter, just as a memory.) Not as sad as the recent Mystery Diagnosis. Diagnosis: Death. The featured kids are going to die. But hey, at least they died diagnosed.
How It Was Series - How It Was: Reagan's Assassination made sense. How It Was: 9/11 made sense. How It Was: The Mona Lisa made no sense. Eyewitness accounts of the Mona Lisa? Archival footage?
Imaginary Witness: Hollywood and the Holocaust- This is one of those things that is going to be soooo good and sooooo depressing that it will have to wait for a special kind of day. A sick day. A rainy dark sick day.
Letting Go of God- This is another Julia Sweeney monologue, and I don't expect to love it as much as God Said Ha, and it's going to take 2.5 hours to watch. Two and a half hours to hear how Julia Sweeney became an atheist. I may have to save it for Christmas Day.
My Car is My Lover - Yes. This is worth saving. Gary only got as far as The Washington state car-lover before he screamed "Pervert!"
Nostradamus Effect Series - It was with a heavy heart I took this off my Season Pass. What sent me over the edge was the timeline of the pyramid at Giza. If it's been analyzed since the thirties, how is it that no one was saying "Oh, watch out for 9/11/2001. That's the very day the timeline enters the King's Chamber. Something BIG's going to happen that day."
Friday was spent at the hospital for the second day of tests for the next phase of the clinical trial.
(Parenthetically, if you have MS and don't want any more fund-raising calls from any MS Society, tell them you are in a clinical trial and that maybe you are doing your part already. And it works! They thank you for your time and get off the phone! As if you weren't getting cutting-edge drugs for free. I should try this with all charity solicitations. Unless Alzheimer's calls, then I'll have to say, "Who are you again? Who are you calling?" every few seconds. )
It was a long day, and here's why: I made a bad decision. I washed my hair the night before, but I didn't get gas in my car the night before. So at 7 am I had to decide if it was more important to get gas or be on time for my MRI. I checked the digital readout on my tank level and it said my range was 33 miles before I ran out of gas. I did not realize Barnes Hospital is 33 miles from my house; I thought it was closer. So I coasted into the spot in the Barnes parking garage, checked my range: approximately 0 miles! I decided if I tried later to drive to the nearest gas station, I'd probably snarl up the entire parking garage by dying in the middle.
While I waited for the MRI, I called about to check if anyone at Barnes could help, where the nearest gas station was (1 mile away), called them to see if they had gas containers AND I KNOW I SHOULDN'T HAVE RUN OUT OF GAS SHUT UP already, Mom-in-head. (Mom-in-head: "I always made sure to fill up when I only had half a tank.")
So before my next test I called a cab, had him drive me to the gas station where they sold me a container and gas. On the drive back, I talked about the mornings breaking news and that someone would have to be particularly stupid to burgle to Nelly's mansion. He replied that committing any crime probably was stupid. Then I sensed that since he was black I'd somehow insulted him or Nelly. Therefore, I tipped him eight dollars. Because I'd suggested Nelly was intimidating. Like a gangsta.
Then, secure that I could drive 60 miles in any direction, I had for lunch something Applebee's was premiering that very day: some citrus chicken salad with apples and basalmic vinegar. And, had I read more cautiously, Pico de Gallo. Pico de Gallo is secret code for cilantro.
When the manager came by to hear the first reaction to the new salad, I mentioned they should put a cilantro warning sticker on anything with cilantro. I don't like cilantro: I didn't like the salad.
"Is there anything I can do to make it better?" he asked.
I thought a moment. "Purge all the cilantro from every field on earth."
After lunch, I called Gary to brag how I'd not bothered him and had not needed to ask for help, and he complained, "I like it when you ask me for help!" As if he wouldn't have complained if I'd dragged him out of work to drive (approximately 33 miles) across town. Cannot win.
Gary Gets Sassy
For some reason I was awake before Gary and I got to read the news, including a story about the Norwegian Spiral.
When woke up, I told him, "There was the coolest story on the news this morning. There was a photo of a perfect giant spiral in the sky over Norway, because a missile spun out."
Gary said, "That isn't really a story, is it?"
"Well there isn't really a plot."
Guilt Trip / Road Trip
I took Highway Forty to my dermatologist appointment at Barnes Hospital. Now that Highway Forty is finished, the electronic signs that formerly read
CLOSED BETWEEN I-170
These signs trouble me. I did not realize I had been pressuring Highway Forty. So, now I have to deal with Martyr Highways and Sassy Husbands.
And Then the Day Turned Around
So, I was naked in front of the dermatologist, and I commented I was now too fat to fit in the standard hospital gown.
"What? You look great!" he peered at me all over. "Everything checks out okay. I just need to look at the backs of your thighs."
I turned around and exposed my cellulite and said dryly, "Not my best part, you realize."
Again, "What! No, you're terrific!"
When women insult themselves, answer enthusiastically, "NO! You look GREAT!" This is a smart doctor.
He finished up and said, "Well you're easy to examine. You just don't have any spots or moles at all."
I thought about saying, "I'm just a big blank white whale of a woman," just to hear what he'd say.
Almost exactly a year ago, my team at TeddyJ did a little "DISC" personality analysis. Others on the team scored you on Dominance, Influence, Steadiness and Conscientious(ness).
Here is my score:
This year for festiivus, Anne concocted an Anti-DISC test, analyzing one Deviousness, Insanity, Sociopathy and Cluelessness. Click it to embiggen.
(I had to annotate the "Direct" score after I signed it and before anyone scored me.)
(Whenever anyone asked what "Squee Marzipan Flurm" meant, I sneered, "Well, if you have to ASK ...")
(It appears I nod a lot during meetings.)
I was curious when the Fingolimod trial nurse called and said I needed to talk with her before I started the extension phase of the trial. I'm going to complete my first 2-year phase in January, so now I go into the extension phase. Saint Louisans: they closed Highway Forty when I started this, that's how long I've been in the trial.
The nurse had good news. A benefit of the extension phase is that even if you had been taking the placebo before, you are promised the real drug now. There are two doses given of the real drug: .5 and .05. She explained both doses work equally well, and since the high dose might have taken out those two people who died, the maker is dropping the high dose and everyone gets the equally effective low dose.
So! I'm pretty sure I've been on the high dose, so this is an improvement for me. Half the calories, all the flavor! Tastes great, less killing!
December 7th is Pearl Harbor Day, my Granceil's birthday (damn Japanese ruining her birthday), and now the day Whitey Herzog, the baseball Cardinal's manager, was finally tapped for the Baseball Hall of Fame.
I wasn't a big baseball fan growing up, but then I saw a game Whitey managed. Here's a typical Whiteyball game. (I swear to you this game happened. I don't know the stats and who we were playing, but it happened.) (Thanks Wikipedia, it was August 7, 1987 against the Phillies.)
The Cardinals were losing 12 to 4, and Whitey said (perhaps not in these words),"Well. Fuck this. Let's have some fun." He'd gone through all of his pitchers already, so he sent the first baseman in to pitch. I think Jose Oquendo was the first baseman, I don't really know because he played every position that year, because Whitey Herzog is a DIVERGENT THINKER. Then I think someone else pitched the last inning, because we were so fucked. Maybe Ozzie Smith. Or maybe that was the day he sent Ozzie in to catch. I mean, we lost, but we tried.
Because what the hell. Gotta try it all. And that was Whiteyball. That, plus nutty things like people stealing second and third and probably home, and inching toward the win, and bullpen by committee. In lieu of home runs we got to see Whitey get worked up. THEN we got to see Whitey get expelled. What I would give to find some video on YouTube for you. He'd get up in the umpire's face and turn his hat backward to get closer to the umpire's face and chest butt the umpire until the umpire had NO choice but throw him out.
I remember Gary and I were vacationing in Chicago when Whitey left the Cardinals. Unthinkable. I don't even really know who our manager even is now. The last two run together in my head, the guy who went to New York and got cancer, and the current one. One of them is named Joe Torre. And I don't care enough to look it up.
First, assemble your ingredients. It is important to understand no white sugar was used in making this cake.
Powdered sugar was used, though, and I decided not to use the nuts or the flour.So, first "make" the pie crust by carefully unwrapping the Pillsbury pie crust and pressing it into a pan (see below on the right). Then if you WANT to fail, carve out a cake-sized section of pie crust for between the cake layers.
Then, decide to use the scraps and roll them together into a cake sized shape. These will work.
Throw round pie scraps on a different sheet and bake.
Then, use the Moist cake recipe by Mom. (I am actually concerned some of you young folks are not familiar with this recipe and may be making cakes just by following the box directions. You know all the boxes that brag there is pudding in the mix? This is where it came from.)
Forget as usual you are allergic to raw eggs. Pay for this in an hour.
Cook in your reasonably clean oven. Does anyone actually ever wipe up the debris left after the self-cleaning oven cleans itself? I don't.
It takes forever to cook all the way through.
So, then make the filling. I made this chocolate cream cheese recipe. It is fabulous especially when consumed later with leftover cooked pie crust.
Learn another valuable lesson: Don't add powdered sugar to your stand mixer and then crank it to "Whip."
After the cake has cooled, split it.
Frost the bottom of the pie shell, add half the cake, add frosting, then add one of the pie crust circles.
Then frost the circle, add the rest of the cake, and frost that.
But then, realize there is a tragic gap between the pie crust shell and the cake.
Remember you had originally planned to add fondant. Research fondant and realize you don't know the difference between fondant and ganache. Make ganache (half semisweet morsels, half boiling cream).
Just waiting for it to set up now.
Eat extra pie crust scraps dipped in extra chocolate cream cheese frosting while you wait. Listen to husband scream "That cake pie is horrible! I'm not eating that!" then observe as husband helpfully looks up "real" Cake Pie recipes on the internet:
Cookie Cake Pie: This is Mary Lizzie pie with cake. I promised Mary Lizzie pie already for the festivus celebration.
Lemon Cake Pie: This sounds good. and it splits from cake to pie on its own.
Carrot Cake Pie:Damn, she thought of cakepie on 5/7/09.
It has been three hours. The ganache is fudgy. Time to try the pie.
Well, huh, next time I'll slice it into 1/3rd and 2/3rds, not half and half.
It does indeed taste like a Frankenpie, cobbled from cake and pie. (Cake or death?) Not quite a merging of cake and pie. A bit like I really should put it in a bowl and ladle cream over it. I'm afraid Tami was dead on: it's a good cake cluttered up with pie crust.
Well, here's the plan. Cake Pie goes to work tomorrow to be cast into the break room, and instead my festivus contributions will be Mary Lizzie pie (essentially chocolate chip cookie pie) and I think I'll give that lemon pie a shot.
I swear, right now I'm going to cook up some vegetables. Cake Pie made me want some veggies.
Unfortunately due to a system error, the items you have ordered are currently out of stock. We will be receiving more stock of these by around Friday 4th December and can have these shipped then for you. As a gesture of goodwill, to apologize for the delay, we will also include a third pair of these socks, absolutely free of charge.
I have high hopes for the Pantherellas, since they are poised to be in a "luxury sock" standoff with the Masomething socks. I suppose I have to mention the free socks whenever I wear them and judge them, because of the new Blog Rules. I'll find some way to mark the free ones.
In my defense, I was asleep most of the time I was being stupid.
Oh, and I'm strongly considering adding a cheesecake layer.
To My Darling Quintuplets:
Today my darling socks turn one week old.
Smartwool socks, adopted from the Far East. I call them "Leta."
Wigwam socks, from the U.S. These socks are named "Henry."
Misomething socks. These are my delicate Italian socks that I call "Mia."
Grocery Socks: These are No-nonsense socks. They are named "Noah."
The Prodigal Socks(not pictured): I ordered the Pantherella socks a week ago and Amazon says they should have come by today. Why aren't they here? I have enough love for five socks.
Now for the real mothering: pitting the socks between each other and making comparisons. The only socks I've washed so far are the Smartwools. You can't tell from the photo, because that's an unwashed pair, but Smartwools look like cicada shells after they've been washed and dried. I suppose I shouldn't be tossing them in the dryer. But just like the clinical trial, this is the real-life test, not the lab test. Sink or swim, as my Mom would say.
Another example of the real-life experience I've been monitoring is the exfoliation factor. Here is a photo of the grocery store socks turned inside out after one wearing. I want a pair of socks I can snap and not have a cloud of dead skin float around my ankles. Someone asks, "Why don't you just put moisturizer on your legs after you take a shower?" Because I'm wet. Rubbing moisturizer on wet skin is nasty and clammy. Rubbing moisturizer on dry skin is phlegmatic and sloppy and makes my moist skin crawl. And the only moisturizer I have now is the ridiculously overpriced Lush Gorgeous, and I won't rub $XX-dollar cream on my skin then cover it with $XX-dollar socks. But keep in touch. I might some day, the way I'm headed.
At any rate, I have some preliminary findings.
Cashmere socks? Very soft. Twenty times softer than Grocery socks? No. And they are very slouchy by the end of the day. However, my dead leg skin has stayed on my legs.
Smartwool socks feel like a flat nylon scrubbing pad I once had in my kitchen. Or like the spongy white filler sheets they sometimes put around china.
The Wigwams just arrived today and have their first outing tomorrow. This particular make of Wigwams are thinner at the foot and thicker at the ankles than the Smartwools.
All my socks are special in their own way and have made my life so much more meaningful. I love you all,
Twenty four and a half years of marriage and I have no idea how to deal with this situation. I'm looking to you for advice.
To coax the dog back to health Gary began feeding him canned dog food. At some point he checked the tiny can of Premium dog food to see how much Mac should get a day, and we were only feeding him three cans instead of five. The same day he discovered this, the dog woke up and barked after midnight. Could have been a raccoon in the yard. Could have been a full moon.
Gary heard it as hunger and decided to feed him.
And as the night follows the day, the dog gets up in the middle of the night every night now and barks until Gary feeds him.
Gary blames the dog.
The two most obvious solutions are doomed. I can't sleep in the other room because the dog really hates that, and he barks. I can't use earplugs because it's futile. Gary is right next to my head and when he begins really yelling at the dog AT THREE A.M. after the dog has barked for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES it wakes me up.
In more cheerful news, I wore the cashmere socks today. Marcia's take? "They feel like socks."
Even better, I volunteered to bring Cake Pie to the department Festivus celebration next week.
First off, let me state I like Thanksgiving at my in-laws. I like the way my mother-in-law cooks a turkey, and I like cooking nothing but green bean casserole.
That SAID, if I were to host a Thanksgiving dinner there would be some changes made.
1. Drinking. There would be drinking. All drinks would taste like caramel apple spiced hard cider or Irish coffee.
2. China. We would not eat off paper plates, we would eat off mis-matched thrift store china that we would then throw away.
3. Turkey. A fresh Amish turkey, never frozen, cooked long and slow. Also, jellied cranberry sauce, dressing and stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, and perhaps yams. No sweet potato casseroles. I'm off sweet potatoes. I just made a vat of "fall root vegetable" soup, which sounded good until we ate some. ("Fall hot baby food" soup, more like it.)
4. Dessert. Okay, pies, but not fruit pies, and not cream pies. Cake pies. CAKE pies. Essentially, you make a deep dish pie crust, and then a lot of flat crusts. Then you bake a layer cake, and use chocolate frosting to cement the bottom layer to the deep crust, then you alternate a thin layer of frosting, a layer of flat pie crust, a thin layer of frosting, a layer of cake, and continue. Then you put some chewy cream cheese ganache over it all and press pecans into the sides. Serve with creme fraiche.
5. More dessert. Carrot cake. Pecan pie. Apple spice cake.
6. No pumpkin pie. Bleah. Hate pumpkin pie. It's a pie made of a vegetable. And don't throw carrot cake back in my face. Pumpkin pie is like carrot pie. Beet pie. Zucchini pie.
7. So after dinner we would immediately freeze the turkey carcass for six months later when we say "how long has this been in the deep freeze? Better throw it out."
Granted, this is my fantasy Thanksgiving, but to accommodate my needs I had to dismiss Gary's desires (pumpkin pie and whipped cream sprayed directly into his mouth). Too bad. He can eat grape tomatoes and Southwest Ranch dip, which is what he's eaten for three days since the root vegetable soup was rejected and he told me tonight that my latest casserole tasted like raw chicken skin.