A Room of One's Own

Lasagna is not a damn casserole!

I have a short list of things that freak me out: anything once it has passed through that hole in my sink and that has become part of the netherworld that is my garbage disposal even if I saw exactly what it was 2 seconds earlier before it went in, hair that has been or is currently stuck in a drain even if I know it is my own hair, the Duggars and casseroles. If you note, the first two are very similar and the last two are very similar.

I don't recall my mother ever having made casseroles for us as kids. I think there is just something a little too WASPy about a casserole. We're Italian. The idea of putting pasta, macaroni, noodles or anything like that in a Pyrex dish with anything other than cheese and a red sauce heebies our jeebies. Those of the WASPy persuasion can suck the ethnicity straight out of a dish. I had a lady at Bunco (I could stop right there, couldn't I?) make a vegetable lasagna. In my house, that means your red sauce you've put in the lasagna does actually have chuncks of meat in it, though they may have been present at another time. See reference below:

This lady, bless her heart, had substituted the ricotta with cottage cheese and added every damn vegetable she could find in the produce section. Carrots, peas, zucchini, broccoli, cauliflower. Bitch took a lasagna and turned the damned thing into a casserole.

Now, there may be some people that would argue that the lasagna is a casserole. Do not even go there. Just back the truck right the hell up. My ancestors could rise up out of their graves and kill me by simply staring at me because of the mere thought of my typing that last bit. Lethal stink eye. Let me give you an easy analogy and activity to test out how furious you can make an Italian woman by calling her lasagna a casserole: go to your local Mexican food market. Go up to some random Mexican woman and ask for her enchilada recipe because you feel like making a casserole. Don't hold me responsible for whatever is thrown at your head as she and anyone else of whom you were in ear shot of, runs you down Aisle 6 trying to beat your sorry ass. You just lumped enchiladas in with this shit:

I will, however, openly note that, like my obsession with the Duggars, I am kind of intrigued by the casserole. It's peculiar. It's a whole meal in one place. That freaks me out. It also screams death and office potluck. Seriously, you can't tell me I'm wrong. If you're eating a casserole, odds are someone is dead or you're comsuming it next to something with Xerox written on it. For as much as they scare me and I feel casseroles are like Reality TV, a dumbed down version of the real thing, I will inevitably place a dollop of casserole on my plate any chance I get. Curiosity gets the best of me. Call me a hypocrite. I don't give a rat's ass.

Where is the Duggar connection? Oh, it's beautiful. I went back to their website and now my uterus AND my stomach are not speaking to me. I'm fearful of my body expelling a picket sign.Knowledge gained: they have recipes. Click. You know you want to. The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you! The first one is my favorite and Jim Bob agrees with me. The second is truly amazing and I'm not sure it actually involves food. I love that the superlative of "Yum! Yum!" has been added. I'm just glad that we have to Duggars to prove that we are what we eat.

One fell swoop

A few weeks ago my 90 year old grandmother whapped me upside the head. This is the second time she's done this in the last 6 month. I decided about a week ago that I deserved it. She just wants me to call. She just wants to be part of my life. She comes from the old school. You call your elders. I just haven't. I haven't been a good granddaughter.

I could list a whole array of reasons that I could have for generally being pissed off at her. She's not been the best grandmother. It's hard to just turn a blind eye to that and just move past it. But still, she is the only grandparent I have left. She is my family. All she wants is my love and how hard is it really to love someone back?

I decided to make a conscious effort to be a better grand daughter. I think I could be a better whole lot of other things but that's a whole other topic.  I called her on Monday because she had asked my mom if I needed help. She has nothing better to do. I invited her to come help me today to unpack. She now lives two miles from me and I am fresh out of excuses. We had a good time. She was incredibly helpful and disappointed I didn't have her do more. She could have stayed and helped for four more hours.

I made her day. It wasn't hard. I feel good about it. I'll be sleeping a little better tonight. And Lord knows I could use that. 

Close the damn shop already!

I saw a link today. It was about the Duggars having their 17th kid. The second I clicked on it, my uterus reeled back and kicked me in the stomach as if to say, "Bitch, don't even READ that shit!" Yeah, my uterus has a bad attitude. Rightfully so, I wouldn't want to be her.

I watched the special on them when they had only 14 kids. Only 14. I can't imagine having two! I think that crabby ass uterus of mine would flat walk right out of my body if I even considered the thought. It would protest. As a matter of fact, it has frequently protested, leaving me to believe I was meant to be a one kid woman. Of course, God does not have the same plan for Michelle Duggar. According to my calculations, when #17 is born, she will have spent a compiled 11 and a quarter years of her life pregnant. Wow.

I have several questions beyond the obvious of why the hell does she wear her hair like that? How in the name of all things holy do they actually have time to have sex? Have any of the older kids gotten wise to the fact that while they were in charge of their "buddy" sibling, mom and dad are storing up energy to have more Duggars? Or worse yet, making more Duggars? I can't wait for that light bulb to go off.

Nevermind, I have to ask. What the hell is up with her hair. And those poor girls. I think they could all get together, cut off their hair, make a rope of the collection and strangle their mother. I can't figure out why they haven't thought of this.

Do you think that Michelle Duggar ever has the urge to run screaming from the house and then sit in a remote part of their 20 acre property swigging whiskey, chain smoking and plotting how to maim Jim Bob? Because, honestly, that is exactly what I would do if I were her, especially if I had to wear those Keds every day.

Why are you here? Yes. YOU!

Why are you people here? Why are you reading this? Do I know you? Did I whore my blog out to you? I wonder about such things. Every now and again I check the stats to see where people are coming from that visit this site. Apparently, I come up on a slew of random Google searches. From what I can deduce, many people who visit my site think:

• I hold the key to that all important question of whether Bobby Deen is gay. I do not know this. I DO have his email, though. Ask him yourself.
• This is a site created to help you write you term paper for 11th grade English. I taught 11th grade English. Go do your own damn work!
• I know all about Michael Chiarello's divorce. Hell, I don't even know if he IS getting divorced. If he is, it ain't my fault. But, I do have a wicked crush on him. I had to put that out there in case he uses a Google search to find out if he's divorced. If so, Michael - call me ;)

My point is that if you come here, stay a little. Say hi to the family, even if you came here just because you just really want to know about Bobby Deen's sexuality or because you want the rest of the quote that starts, "That's a negative, Ghostrider."

Oh sweet gluttony

I am not eating until Thursday. I am not moving until Tuesday.

My best friend and I headed out late morning to go be exceptionally girlie and have brunch at the Biltmore. Let me tell you, they put out quite a spread. They have a buffet that you are to enjoy and THEN order an entree. Seriously, this brunch buffet was a thing of beauty. I think I hogged ALL of the spinach salad with candied pecans. Really, if you come across candied pecans, ever, hog them. Just hoard those bad boys and do not share with anyone. The vast amount of cheeses I also consumed would make Speedy Gonzalez shutter.

To add to the glutton fest, we had mimosas. Usually, I don't partake. Not that I'm opposed to drinking before noon. I just don't like fruit juice all up in my liquor. I'll take the juice. I'll take the champagne. Rarely together. Have I mentioned the fact that the weather was perfect? And that there was dessert? I may have sampled everything.

The actual brunch was good, but what was truly great was the subsequent hour and a half we spent roaming the Biltmore and crashing in really large over stuffed outdoor chairs. We just could not move. I was almost in pain. I finally got home a little after 3pm. I have done nothing since. I have knitted a tiny bit and watched a movie. I still fell no desire to do a damn thing. Gawd, today has been fabulous.

Because I love a good story

I'm on a messageboard of very silly, wonderful women (and a few gay men and one straight man). Someone asked how people had met their husbands. I think some of the answers were too damn sweet and cute to not share with the world.

"We met in college when I cut class to go with a friend of mine who said, ‘You have to come to my speech class. There is the cutest guy EVER.’ And there was. I had to pass him to throw away a Coke can and he looked at me with the most enormous blue eyes and said in his best lounge lizard voice, ‘You know, you really ought to recycle your aluminum.’ Best pick-up line ever."

"We were pen pals during Vietnam. I got his name from a teen magazine. When he was discharged he came to Kentucky where I was in college to meet me...I transferred to a college in San Antonio the next semester and we got married when I graduated. It was a lifetime ago, 36 years in June."

"He brought me a fish. He and a mutual friend had been fishing and brought the fish to our house. I guess Mom didn't want to clean it or I wouldn't let her kill it, don't remember all those details now. I put the fish in the kitchen sink but it didn't live long. We'll be married 36 years in March." (So he caught her a delicious bass...)

"6th grade." (I hope Jen means they BOTH were in 6th grade. I kid. Why? Because I love.)

"We met at the South Music Hall (for those of you familiar with Birmingham) on Thanksgiving Night. I saw him give my roommate his number and I thought he was hitting on her so I never looked his way again. I didn't know they had gone to high school together and were old friends. Several hours later he came up to me and told me I had danced with every guy in the place that night but HIM and would I PLEASE pay him some attention."

In honor of Leslie

I declared it Leslie Day a while back. Ever since, I have been meaning to dedicate a blog entry to the Leslie. We love the Leslie. You may recall Leslie first becoming famous for running to the convenient market as we were in line up for the St. Patty's Day parade in Jackson two years ago. She brought back fried chicken and pickles on a stick and a cold six pack of beer and proceeded to plop her ass down on the curb, dressed as a box of Beignet Mix, and consumed and shared. So it was 9am. What the hell did we care? We were on vacation!

Since then, Leslie has been routinely sending the most random, most hilarious lines of email or text messages that just make me nearly pee my pants laughing or at least scratch my head. So, in honor of Leslie being here from Oklahoma! this weekend and the parade being around the corner, I thought I would share some of them as much as they will embarrass her. She asked for it. They may be out of context but I think it makes them funnier.

"I danced cheek to cheek with the Attorney General."

"I just got back from (the city of) Frederick's Fantastic Oyster Fry."

"I made out with Janie Fricke's fiddle player last night."

"I remember putting Willie in the china."

"Someone I didn't know very well asked me if I slept with this Senator."

"I nearly crashed my new boss's $140,000 Mercedes Benz today."

"Either I'm a big fat whore or a lesbian." (She is neither, despite doing shots and making out with fiddlers. The fiddler was male. There was no roof involved.)

Let's all love the Leslie. Think of us this weekend, as I'm sure our plans will involve a beer or two and me learning the hand motions that go with the state song of Oklahoma!, which is ... Oklahoma!

My HUGE girl crush!

I love Deanna Raybourn. It's true. I'm totally her bitch. She knows it.

She wrote this great novel. It's called Silent in the Grave. I'm just starting it. I saw it at The Poisoned Pen today and squealed like an 8th grade cheerleader. It's available at major bookstores, too, so go buy one now. Barnes and Noble has her book as their on-line historical fiction book club selection. It's completely surreal to see your friend's picture and name all over the web and to have her incommunicado because she's on a book tour. I can only imagine how cool Deanna feels.

Aside from her mad writing skills, there are a few other reasons I love her. She sends me snark in the mail. I have all kinds of notepads, post-its, and such with snark written all over it. Literally. She even sent me a labeled pizza cutter to ensure that I had one post-divorce. The label is starting wear off and I'm very worried. I may cry if it fully smudges off.

She called me back tonight as I had left a message squealing in her answering machine. I got to gush about her book which made me happy. Then we cursed the Bitch Who Stole My Coat. Then she turned me on to Posh Girl Vintage. Our conversation the went fully into "Oh my Gawd! 1940's Blue Swing Coat on page 3!" We surfed this website and did more squealing. I should hate her for introducing me to this lady. I could buy at least a dozen things and oh sweet Jesus, they have lingerie. Poor house, here I come!

So in general, Deanna is the greatest thing since sliced bread and I think sliced bread is pretty nifty.

The 'fun' in dysfunctional

I just spent 6 hours with the whole family. This is not a big statement as there are only five of us. If there were more, it'd be real bad. We're a handful as individuals. We're way worse together. Seriously, my family is insane in a very lovable way. Today's activities included:

• Eating a four course meal
• Drinking an apple martini (my dad is so macho and loves such girlie drinks!)
• Drinking 4 bottles of wine
• Watching football all day
• Turning various things in my parents house upside down
• Tormenting a Jack Russell
• Exchanging of money under the table based on bets of how long it would take my mother to mention bodily functions at the dinner table
• Endless loving harassment between my sister, my brother-in-law and myself
• Wholly inappropriate conversation you should never have with your family, namely your dad, present

We all decided we are sick people. My mother asked me at one point if I could imagine ever bringing anyone else to this family. I told her that it would no longer matter if they liked someone I ever brought home. If that person were to return a second time instead of run screaming, they're a keeper.

Oddly, I couldn't imagine my family any other way. Yeah, my dad horrifically yells at my mom in the kitchen. Yeah, my sister has NO filter and is routinely crass and embarrassing. Yeah, my mother is a caricature. Me? I have a multitude of oddities I bring to the table, namely being the baby and thinking I can get away with anything.  I didn't choose these people, but I would.

The art of caring. or not

Yesterday was it. It was perfect. It felt good. It had meaning and it made me happy. I could have lived without horribly burning my hand but you can't have everything.

Yesterday was a long lesson in what to care about and what not to. I did a significant amount of cooking. I loved it. I had planned to make homemade raviolis and a chocolate pound cake. Toward the end the cooking process for the filing and 3/4 the way through mixing the cake batter, my sister and brother-in-law called and demanded I join them for dinner and drinks. Demanded. There was NO request for my presence. And, I was to leave just then.

So there I am, in my kitchen, a total mess. Both ovens going and a bowl full of cake batter. Kitchen totally destroyed. Plans to go out at some point with Levi and Sebastian. It was almost 6 o'clock. There was a beautiful moment in which caring just stopped. It just ceased to exist.

I put Saran Wrap over the cake batter and shoved it in the fridge. The cake might not work today but I didn't care. In the few minutes it took me to not care, I burned the ravioli filling. I did not care about that either. It was only ravioli filling. I turned off all the ovens, threw on my shoes and was out the door in 10 minutes.

I just went with it and it felt good. I had a great time. We had good drinks and great food and hilarious conversation. I felt very loved and well taken care of. That is what I want to care about. Not burnt food. I knew I had made plans already for the evening and I also knew they were going to fall through. I knew it. And they did. And you know what? I don't care about that either. I went out not caring that I was going to be totally blown off, again. In that, I made good choice.

I'm trading in caring for living.