CHEEEEEEESE

So far this week, Houseboy has been really on his game in the "keeping his sugar-momma happy with food" department, and I almost don't know which delicious dish to write about first. As you can see, to your left, Monday's dish featured homemade macaroni and cheese in little individual dishy thingies with like 17 kinds of cheese and yummybreadcrumbcrustycheesy topping.

There was also some sort of green centerpiece arrangement that silly Houseboy said would help that heart pain I've been having lately.

You can also see in the background the beer bottle cap coffee table that only took about 5 years and 2.5 livers to create. We like to eat modern Japanese style: sitting on the floor in front of the television.


Last night, solemn Houseboy created one of my personal favorite dishes, Eggplant Parmagian. I didn't get a picture, because I kind of accidentally inhaled it all before Houseboy was finished pouring my wine. My excuse is that all I'd had to eat all day was 4 diet cokes and 3 cups of tea. That, and it was fried eggplant smothered in pasta sauce, parmagian and mozzarella. God bless this food to our use and all that.

Huffing Paint

Disclaimer: If happen to know me and know you are from my hometown, please recognize that if you are reading this right now it is most likely because I like you at least well enough to not avoid you completely, which is saying a lot. Therefore, don't take anything you're about to read to apply to you. Probably. Thank you and have a nice day.


So, I was interacting via the world wide interwebs today with an illustrious alum of a certain small town high school which shall remain nameless (though certainly obvious), and she informed me that our 10 year high school reunion is coming up. Two things are obvious in this: #1 That is simply a falsehood and the bitch should watch her mouth in the future, and #2 I dropped out of that school so I'm unlikely to be invited, even if it were true. Which it is not.

Anyway, it started me off on an unfortunate train of thought about how important it is that I am better, smarter and prettier than all those losers I grew up with, and how difficult it would be to explain that to all of them at a beer bash in Richter's woods. I'm pretty sure it would involve new jeans and some sort of t-shirt that says "I'm good at math and make more money than you and I live in the same building with 'people of color' and don't even freak out about it and I can walk to an art gallery and a coffee shop and where I live it smells like people's shit instead of like cow's shit." And you can see where I'm having a hard time here.

So, mostly then, I was thinking that rather than bragging about living in a city I hate or doing a job none of them would understand, or marrying a man who is neither Czech nor related to anyone in town, that I would find some sort of "I've never huffed paint" angle. I could work on showing all the ranges of emotion I'm still capable of feeling and expressing with my face or saying complete sentences with minimal slurring.

I think we're on to something here.

I love to hate Alfonso Soriano

Since he's pretty much exactly the kind of player I love: small (ish), athletic, fast... OBP in the 300's, slugging in the 500s.... yet for some perverse reason he always chooses to play for teams I hate: the Yankees, the Rangers (now known as the Texiera Rangers), the Nationals, and now the Cubs (though for once he chose the team I hate LESS in the region).

Anyway, that's all lead-up to this dugout chat from last year's spring training, which is currently in my top 5 funniest things I've ever read.

http://dugout.progressiveboink.com/archive/jon22.html

Enjoy!

I'm reclaiming the term "houseboy"

There's a good chance the herein discussed person will not appreciate the term, but I like it and until he's working full-time and I'm in school, I get to assign the titles. That said, this is going to be the first in what I hope is a long line of posts about Things My Houseboy Cooked for Me. So maybe he'll forgive me since it's sort of a song of praise.

For St. Patrick's Day this year we decided we wanted to be as authentically Irish as possible. Something that is perhaps ironic since the 1/4 of me that is not German is Scotch-Irish and English, so I'm basically the Protestant Rapist Oppressor of the good Irish Catholics. I'm o.k. with that.

So, anyway, "authentically Irish" mostly seems to involve various boiled and spiced meats, but we managed to find one fish dish called "Cod Cobbler." It's basically a casserole of cod and cheese, topped with scones. And it is to the endless praise of Señor Houseboy that this was not TOTALLY inedible. It was, however, basically globby boiled fish in milk with some delicious scones on top. Yum.

Next year I'll let him do what he originally wanted to: make the totally un-Irish sounding Teriyaki Glazed Salmon recipe off that Irish Recipes website.

Wedding

One Time I Got Married.


The End.

Flower

It's kind of grainy... not as nice as I'd have hoped. But here she is:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-530589295668604392&hl=en

"Taper Jean Girl" was her favorite song.