Movie reviews and orgasmically good boneless beef ribs

I live a few blocks away from a video store called Movie Gallery... Which is, you know, awesome. Because our old (teeny-tiny-no-shower-no-AC-upstairs-in-the-land-that-time-forgot) apartment was a good 10 minute drive (EACH WAY!!!) to the nearest video rental portal. Hubby and I haven't put out the money for cable TV - ever - since we've had our own place. And you know what? I'm pretty okay with that. We just rent and watch movies instead.

When we lived in Fargo, ND -

(yes, get the "Eh there!"s out of your system)(seriously, I'm waiting.)(Shut up, it was actually filmed in Bemidji, MN not Fargo, ND.)(And yes, we Minnesotans really do say, "Doan't youa look cyoot in dem dere boo-ahts!")

- we joined that Blockbuster thing where you paid so much a month, could have so many films out at a time, and could exchange them as often as you wanted. I'm not even fucking kidding you when I tell you that the staff knew us by name.

We loved it. However, when we moved back to this shitty town, the nearest Blockbuster was a 25 minute drive each way. Not long after moving back (within 4 months) we had our bouncing bundle of penis-equipped joy and no jobs. No jobs = no money. Thems were some tough times, and our family helped us out so many times I don't even know why they speak to us anymore.

Oh wait, it's cause I'm awesome and everyone loves me. Duh! :)

Anyhow, there weren't any closer video stores that had a similar plan - UNTIL NOW. Yes, people. For $40 a month (which we spend in two trips to the video rental portal) we can have out three movies or two games and one movie and exchange the disks as often as we like.

*gameshow host voice* But that's not all! */gameshow host voice*

We also get 50% off of Pre-Viewed movies (Which, awesome.) and 10% off of concessions.

Jesus, when did this become a post touting the pros of the Power Play deal? Bah.

Anyhow, I enrolled in said plan on Friday, and since then have rented:

Confessions Of A Shopaholic

I Love You, Man

Fast And Furious

Enchanted

and Rachel Getting Married.

The only one I had seen already was Enchanted.

Confessions of a Shopaholic

I gave it a C-. The cast was fabulous and perhaps I would have liked it more if I had read the book. The plot was so/so.

I Love You, Man

A solid B. It was hilarious - especially the projectile vomit part - but the ending sort of blew.

Rachel Getting Married

An A, for sure. My only complaint was all the stupid (and in my un-humble opinion, unnecessary) crap with the wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner toasts. Once Kym (Anne Hathaway) starts talking, the movie picks right up like a crack whore getting her second wind. My heart broke for Kym over and over again, I wanted to love her and make her okay again. And you will need a box of tissues.

Fast And Furious

Okay, so this one starts off with a panty-dropping action sequence. I figuratively creamed my panties. After cleaning up my panties, I'd have to give it a C+. The action sequences alone are worth the watch, but the plot leaves something to be desired.

I think tonight I'm going to get 12 Rounds and perhaps Race To Witch Mountain or something equally fantastical. :)

Saturday night I bought a little over 2 1/2 pounds of boneless beef ribs at WalMart. Usually their produce and meat sections blow like a nickel whore with a pocket full of quarters, but these were pretty damned good. I marinated them overnight in KC Masterpiece's Steakhouse marinade (I'd do steak in that stuff, too) and baked them at 300 degrees from about 11:00 am until we ate around 6:00. I couldn't lift them with the tongs, I had to scoop them out.

The best part? They tasted like tender, flaky beef jerky. So Son ate them without a fuss!

Mommy: 1 Son: 4,509,927.

We may have to move to Iowa... But I'd do it for Aunt Becky.

This post will also be known as Aunt Becky, Part Deux.

Because our awesomeness couldn't be contained in one blog post. Oh, no. We were too fabulous for that.

Just to catch everyone up who didn't read the previous post, Aunt Becky and I went to Walmart, participated in alcoholic beverages and had a foursome with Ben and Jerry, then we ended with her giving me blog tips the next day.

Because my boss is such a wonderfully fabulous guy, he took Aunt Becky to lunch with us at Le Bistro's. You can find them here on Facebook. (Fan them!)(Just do it!!!) We had a fabulous entree of Oriental Chicken Salad; romaine, grilled chicken, mandarin oranges, water chestnuts, and fried wonton strips with their Asian dressing. Tres magnifique!

However, the best was yet to come. We had what is possibly the best tasting thing to have ever been in my mouth (besides Aunt Becky - HA, DIRTY!) for dessert.

Chocolate Raspberry Creme Brulee.

Be jealous.

Then Aunt Becky stole my Ande's mint, but that's ok. I'll let her because we love each other so. And when you love someone, you share everything with them.

Except your herpes.

Then we went cruising across the bridge back to work; the view looks pretty, but to the left there is a waste management plant and it smells like poo and farts.

Then we giggled at the awesome fish in the deli downstairs; I've named him Oscar, because he just looks like an Oscar. Don't you think?

Shut up. I really don't care if you agree with me.

He is Oscar, and no one can convince me otherwise.

Ok, I took my bitter pants off and put my giggly pants on.

And Sign; I could never keep my hands off Aunt Becky.

Nor would I ever use her in the event of a fire.

Speaking of giggly; this sort of speaks for itself, doesn't it?

Apokolips? Really?

So Aunt Becky and I giggled much, and then did blowjob shots. Because they're delicious.

Then once I got her good and drunk, I asked Aunt Becky to marry me.

And once she swallowed her blowjob, she said YES!!!

Stick that in your computer and process it, Daver. Ha!

Cucumbers vs. Carrots

This is just a short blog to share a hilarious story with you all.

I was at Aunt Becky's blog when I read about her guest spot on the Mouthy Housewives blog. I decided to read the other posts, because it seemed like a good blog. And it's hilarious. This post in particular made me think terrible, dirty thoughts about produce.

This was the portion of the post that triggered these terrible, sinful thoughts:

Ah, the joys of having a 3-year-old. There you are, simply trying to pee in a public restroom with your child in the stall, when suddenly the kid booms out louder than LAX’s PA system, “WOW, MOMMY! YOU SURE HAVE A LOT OF HAIR IN YOUR PRIVATE PARTS! YOU LOOK LIKE A STUFFED BUNNY! DO YOU WANT SOME CAWWOTS DOWN THERE?” Or at least that’s what I heard happened to a friend of mine one time at the Target she no longer frequents.

And my first thought was:

"No thank you, honey. Mommy prefers to feed the bunny big cucumbers."

On a scale of 1-10, how bad is that? Like, can I Hail Mary my way out of this? :)

God I'm awesome.

To Ashley's house we go, then to Wal*Mart we go... Wait, that doesn't rhyme. Fuck, I suck at that.

So, I got the best surprise EVER a few weeks ago when Aunt Becky was delivered right to my front door! She arrived surrounded by sparkling hearts bearing an invitation to a non-existent party. I was initially disappointed; but then I realized that the party was standing right in front of me!

(Be jealous)

Anywho, Aunt Becky and I have been chilling out the last few weeks. We've been watching movies, reading books, watching adult films...

*cough*

Um, aaaanyways. We had to take a trip to Wal*Mart last night to buy fish food, and I decided we should take some photos to document our precious time together.

The following is a true story. None of the names have been changed to protect the innocent, because there are no innocents in this story.

Aunt Becky decided that she wanted to drive. It took me forever to find enough phone books for her to see over the wheel, but that's okay. She's worth it.

As soon as we arrived at Wal*Mart, she beelined straight for the essentials. I decided that considering the 'activities' of the past few weeks, we were running low on KY anyhow, so I picked up a (few) bottle(s).

When we saw these shorts, we had to giggle. It reminded us both of ice-cream cone socks, high ponytails, scrunchies and knotted t-shirts, and so Aunt Becky insisted on taking a photo with them. We were documenting for posterity, people.

We finally made it to the pet section, and Aunt Becky helped me find the fish food I needed to buy. But not until we played one good (loud) game of Marco Polo. I didn't get any photos of that because, well, it's a verbal game. And I was Marco. Hard to take photos with your eyes closed.

We were about to leave when Aunt Becky decided that she needed a new Harlequinn book. It's deliciously smutty, just like Aunt Becky!

By the way, darling, every time feels like the first time with you...

We had a fun time, and decided to keep the good times rolling by cracking open some more vodka - it's even a girly flavor, just like Aunt Becky likes it. Are we soul mates or what?

Even after drinking all that vodka, she still wasn't drunk enough to sleep with me. So I did the only thing I could to push her over the edge; I tempted her with a foursome. Ben and Jerry do it every time. :)

Because this is not an NC-17 blog, this was the only photo I could get of the activities that followed. Let me just say, there were handcuffs, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, cupcakes and llamas involved. It was hot and kinky.

Aunt Becky decided to come with me to work today, and when I was getting ready to schmear my bagel she insisted on taking a photo with it. Because she said they looked like boobs with inverted nipples. I've corrupted her so well!

Now she's lecturing me on proper blogging etiquette. It's so humbling to have such a fabulous blogger here, in person, giving me blogging advice. Because Aunt Becky is, like, one of the many goddesses of blogging. It's like having Hera giving you advice on how to deal with a philandering husband.

The Daver, eat your heart out. I'm keeping Aunt Becky forever.

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles...

So, for your bakery-related entertainment, I present to you a double feature!

We have today, for your drool-worthy delight, a chocolate half-sheet cake decorated as a Vikings-themed football field, and a Double Chocolate Raspberry torte coated with ganache and accented with a drizzled chocolate lace garnish.

Chocolate cake batter - a delicious amalgamation that includes butter, chocolate, eggs and vanilla. Everything a growing girl needs. It tastes way better than the boxed batter.

Baked half sheet cake. I really need to invest in a heating core next time I do anything larger than an 8" cake. Baking it at 200 degrees for an hour sucks.

Golden Yellow, Violet, and Kelly Green. Wilton should fucking sponsor me.

Derek is a Viking fan, and so his wife ordered a cake decorated like a football field. I even bought a Wilton 'hair/grass' tip to decorate the field. What happens right as I'm about to begin filling in the field? I can't find the damned tip I JUST BOUGHT. So he got a star field instead.

Double Chocolate Raspberry torte batter - chocolate, butter, eggs, vanilla and dark raspberry liquer. Yum!

The finished torte - filled with seedless raspberry jam.

Hand-piped chocolate lace to garnish the sides.

And if that wasn't enough, the whole thing is drenched in chocolate ganache. :)

I am currently listening to NPR's Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! It's pretty motherfucking hilarious. If you haven't listened to it before, you can find it here. There was a huge controversy over a comment that Mo Rocca made back in February of 2009 about sweaters. I laughed my ass off. And Paula Poundstone is pretty damned funny, too. I could have gotten in trouble with the volume of my laughter when Kevin Fitzgerald (a former rock 'n' roll bouncer who has worked with the Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones and Ozzy Osbourne) was talking about his current career as a large animal veterinarian and confessed his fear of spiders.

(I'm terrified of spiders, by the way. Not as terrified as Hubby, who makes ME kill the spiders in our house.)

A man brought in a giant spider and said, "I just don't think he's acting like himself" and "his legs are falling off". Kevin's response was, "Well, when a spider's legs are falling off it means it's seriously ill." And without an examination he sent him to a gentleman who specializes in spiders. The Dr. calls him and says, "Did you tell this man that when a spider's legs are falling off it means it's ill?" and Kevin says, "Yes." The Dr. responds, "If you would have taken the time to examine it, you would have realized the the legs falling off means that the spider is DEAD."

I almost pissed my pants laughing. And when he talks about how he was thinking the best cure for a spider not acting like itself is a phone book... Oh dear lord.

Last night I decided that, the hell with it, I'm going to get my hairs trimmed. My ends were so split even Bobby and Whitney were like, "You need to work this shit out." I wasn't quite to the straw-farm-in-a-third-world-country stage, but it was creeping it's way up.

Now it's happy and healthy again. I can run my fingers through it without it cutting me up. :)

Son has, as I've mentioned before, an obsession with pretending to be He-Man. Last night, I was upgraded from Skeletor to Cringer, the faithful tiger sidekick. Who is a total pussy until he's transformed. But it's adorable, it sounds like he's saying, "Krincher" and "Skedegor". And when he holds aloft his mighty Cars umbrella and goes, "By the Power of Greyskull!" and makes the crashing noises, then holds the umbrella with both hands and goes, "I have the power!" It's just too funny. At least it's not Barbie in Some Gay Ballet That We Adapted That Sucks Total Ass.

And for that, Hubby is grateful. :)

"Hello, I'm calling to procure a hasty abortion. Hold on, I'm calling on my hamburger phone."

Hello, fair Intarweb land!

I apologize for not updating on Friday - cause I totally would have - but my computer at work is being a severe dickhead. I don't know what's wrong with it, and I'm not techie-smart enough to fix the damn thing. However, I don't know if it's luck of the draw or not all in my head, but switching from Firefox back to Internet Explorer seems to have allowed me to get on the internet without freezing. Perhaps I'll download Google Chrome.

Anywho, you don't really care, do you my dear Intarweb? You're yawning and drooling and thinking to yourself, "Why the hell doesn't she just get on with being all witty and clever?"

So, onto the rants.

Hubby and I have been together for seven years. Matter of fact, we joined hands in the world of wedded bliss on our seven-year anniversary. It was also the five year anniversary of our engagement. We, like any other couple, have had our fair share of ups and downs... Sometimes it feels like more downs than ups. The important things about these tidbitlets of fact are that we didn't get hitched right away. We had started planning a wedding about four years back, then all hell broke loose in our relationship. It took us a good two and a half years to work our shit out. Add into the world of our stressed out relationship the birth of our son; having a child is stressful in a healthy, steady relationship. I sometimes wonder how we survived. But somehow, out of the dark and gloom that would rival Snow White's nightmare forest, we pulled together. Now, fair Intarweb, that's not to say that we never have disagreements (true fights are very rare - I'd say we've had maybe two in the seven years we've been together), but the point, precious Intarwebs -

And I do have one

- is that we waited. We talked out the marriage planning, and decided that the time was finally right. We married because we WANTED (notice the caps lock, that means I'm emphasizing the seriousness) to; not because we felt compelled to. Yep, we had a baby together. Yep, most people would view that as a sign that "It's Time" to get married. We resisted. We both knew the other wasn't going anywhere, and we waited. I've been seeing a lot of old classmates around my age who got married because they thought it was just the next step - something they were supposed to do, like they were following some life recipe. That's not to say, of course, that these couples don't love each other. I'm sure they do. But that doesn't mean that you HAVE (caps lock again, people) to get married. Marriage is Teh Sewious. It's not a goal line, it's just being handed the football. You have to work toward the goal AFTER you get the football. And you'll get tackled, and you'll fumble, and whatever other bad shit happens in basketball (Kidding, people. Kidding. Maybe.).

I frequently see some of these couples complaining that they hate their spouses, that they're unhappy... Well, it's because you married because you thought you were supposed to, or because you wanted a wedding. People need to stop getting married to have weddings. Honestly. I do know some couples who got married for the marriage and seem very happy. And I wish all the couples happiness and a long marriage if that's what they're meant to have.

My second irritation of the day happens to be about something even more (GASP) controversial.

I stopped by my mom's work today to pick up a check from a cake I did for them last week. They work down the block from the only clinic in town that happens to do abortions. Now, I'm pro-choice, but I don't think it's a decision to be made lightly. I can understand why other people are pro-life, and I think that they have a right to protest, just the same as I have the right to procure a hasty abortion if I so choose. Not that I've ever had an abortion, but if I wanted one, I'm glad to have that option available.

The problem, sweet Intarwebs, are when protesters parade around with mutilated aborted fetus posters, flashing them at all who pass by (on a fairly busy street in the downtown area, I might add). I can understand their scare tactic, even if I think it's rude and uncouth. But they don't know who is in each car that passes by. There are children that could see that. And I firmly believe that mutilated fetuses are not something children should see. Why in the hell don't they just show them to women entering the clinic? Why do they need to flash the goddamn posters at all? They're sick and disgusting. You don't show them flashing posters of dead soldiers when they protest war. At least, I haven't seem them do that.

I really want to walk up to them and bitch slap them back to reality. However, working for a criminal defense attorney has intensified my respect for the law. Also, I have a pretty mouth and I'm pretty sure I'd become Brunhilda's Bitch if I ever had to serve time. I may be a tall Amazonian, but I can't really fight for shit.

So maybe one day I'll walk up to them and engage their narrow minds, but for now I'm just going to bitch about it here. Because I'm sure that debating with them would have made me late for work.

I think my son may grow up to idolize Liberace.

I got some text messages from the Husband today; it's his day off with the Son and he decided to take him to the local White Trash Paradise (a.k.a. Walmart) and bum around there for a while.

Cool. Have fun, boys.

So the text messages are as follows:

1/3: What the hell is wrong with our kid? I tried to get him coloring stuff and he threw a fit. Get him Cars and he's happier than a pig stuck in shit he

2/3: needs to start using his head let's try to explain to him for coloring is coordination (?). He's your kid man tell ya what if it ain't sparkly or shiny he don't

3/3: want it.

Son enjoys sparkly things, shiny things, high heeled shoes, purses, and his favorite color is pink. He's also a huge drama queen.

One of his favorite pastimes is walking around the house in my stilettos -

at least his favorites are my Nine West pumps, kid's got taste

- and shorts with no shirt with a purse and a necklace.

*Sigh* It's a good thing I wouldn't mind having a gay son. As long as my daughter (if/when I have one) also likes pink and sparkly things. If I give birth to a girl who becomes a tomboy, I will consider my womb a failure.

It's probably my fault anyhow, because when I was cooking my cooter monkey I was wishing for a girl. Hardcore. My uterus granted half my wish, except it gave me a girl with a twig and giggleberries. He even has an almost androgynous look about him. He's got full coral lips, big bright baby blue eyes, long dark eyelashes, and soft baby hair that grows like I put fertilizer on it. I kid you not, monkey boy had a mullet by the time he was 7 months old. I have to cut his bangs usually once every month and a half.

See?

If he had been a girl, his hair would've been almost to his butt by now. And it would be glorious; it's dirty dishwater blonde, with light blonde and darker blonde natural highlights and as soft as satin. I'd love to have his hair color.

It was hilarious to see the meat and potatoes on the ultrasound, though. :)

I'm James Earl Jones, bitch!

Last night I had another cake order. Things cannot go as smoothly as I'd like them to, because that's never the way it works. My plan was to get things hopping around 6:30 so that I could have that bad boy in the oven by 7:00 and be decorating by 9:00. Of course, that's never, ever what happens. On the silver lining side, I'm getting better and better at cornering and leveling buttercream.

Husband is getting more and more into reading. I know it seems odd since he's now 26, but he's very particular about reading material and has bad eyesight - so it's difficult for him to concentrate on tiny words sometimes. He went to the library last night and took Son with, which, awesome and definitely conducive to my baking agenda.

Until he calls me asking me to bring something with proof of residence. Goddamn it. So I grab our utility bill, thinking that it should have our current address on it. 'Course not. Did I mention that it was POURING here last night? We haven't had rain like that in quite some time. I think we got 3-4 inches yesterday, and it didn't start until around noon-ish. So I get back in the car (thank god we're only three blocks away) and grab something after checking to make sure the address is correct. Then he asks me to keep an eye on Son while he fills out the paperwork. Then Son starts acting up so I have to take him home. Grr. It was like 7:15 when I finally got to start.

I plied myself with some D'Oro wine and got cracking... 3 cups of shortening, 2 lbs of powdered sugar, 8 egg whites, 2 2/3 cups of margarita mix, 4 tablespoons of lime juice, 4 cups of flour, 3 1/2 cups of granulated sugar later...

Square pan filled with Margarita batter deliciousness.

I just thought that the limes looked pretty, so I took a picture for you all. :) Afterward, I licked salt off of Evan's neck, shot tequila, and sucked on this.

Just kidding.

My new best friend - a juicing reamer. That sounds SO dirty, but I used to juice lemons by hand. It was ridiculously hard. So I invested in this $5 gem and haven't looked back.

Pretty green lime buttercream! It was delish. I still have some left, and I plan on eating that whenever I crave something sweet. It's good for 3 weeks if it's in an airtight container. I can finish it by then. Mwuahahaha.

And for the finale, the decorated cake. I finished this around 1:00 am. That's supposed to look like a lime slice, fyi. And green sparkle gel? Not the best writing tool ever.

Lesson learned.

I also made a run to Taco John's around 10:30 for food, because we were hungry and nothing in the house sounded good. So when I got back, Evan was watching Conan the Barbarian.

Yeah, I know. *sigh*

I came home to the part where Thulsa Doom chops off Conan's mom's head. And my immediate response was to blurt out, "I'm James Earl Jones, bitch! Whatchyu gonna do?!" Because James Earl Jones? He's pretty badass (except I wanted to shave those short blunt bangs off his head). I posted this on Facebook, which led to a late-night debate about who really is THE badass motherfucker; JEJ or Samuel L. Jackson?

I decided that JEJ is the badass motherfucking ruler; he played Mufasa, Darth Vader's voice (because it wouldn't have been Darth without it), and that crazy sex-obsessed king from Coming To America. SLJ is the badass motherfucking gangster. Pulp Fiction; I mean come on. He could've whacked John Travolta, and Johnny... He's was pretty badass for a white guy.

Come to think of it, how did Ving Rhames not make it into this as Marsellus Wallace? Does he look like a bitch? No, when someone pisses him off, he gets a couple of hard pipe-hitting gangstas (of course I'm not using the exact words for obvious reasons) to go to work on those who upset him with pliers and a blowtorch. That's how he rolls.

How about you readers? Who do you think deserves the title of Badass Motherfucker?

You can't make this shit up...

Working in an attorney's office has it's moments of hilarity. This morning, I was the recipient of one such moment.

There is a client who has a criminal sex charge against them for rape. That sounds bad, but the victim's statement and eyewitness accounts don't match up, and the victim is becoming more and more discredited each day. To cut straight to the point, we got a voicemail this morning that the victim (who was 'found' in the client's closet) took a dump in said closet.

I'll let that sink in a moment.

Yes, the victim really did poo in the client's closet. As well as leaving a pair of stained undergarments behind.

Then, the client's family asks me what to do with the poo. Should they throw it away? Bag it up? Should someone else come bag it up so it's not considered tampered evidence?

I am not qualified to advise people on what do to with evidential shit. (I'm not sure if I should be proud or sad.)

So I spoke to the attorney, and his response: "I don't really see any benefit to keeping the poop. Tell them to take a picture of it as they found it and then throw it away, but bag up the underwear and I'll tell them what to do with that later."

And that, my readers, is how you take care of shit.

Because there's no benefit to keeping the poop.

You put the lime in the coconut and drink the bowl up...

I made margarita cupcakes this weekend. :) Margarita mix (non-alcoholic) and lime zest in the batter, and fresh-squeezed lime juice in the lime buttercream frosting. It was all sorts of happy, and my guinea pigs (since this was a new recipe, and I needed feedback before doing a cake for a bakery order) seemed to like it. Here are the results!

Yum-a-licious Margarita cake batter. Margarita mix and lime zest... I had a very difficult time keeping it out my mouth... Yes, I know that raw eggs (even though the recipe only used whites) are bad for you. But seriously, how many of us ate raw cake batter as kids and survived?
Exactly. Shush your faces.
Yes, it's tinted green. Because green cake is cute if it's tinted. Not if it's moldy.

Next came green tinted lime buttercream frosting. Two full tablespoons of fresh-squeezed (yes, I squeezed the juice myself) ... Wait, that sounds so dirty. Any who, fresh-squeezed lime juice balanced out the sweetness of the pound of powdered sugar nicely.

Pretty swirl-frosted cupcake. I need to buy an M1 tip and coupler so I can make the frosting bigger and prettier, like Reddi-whip.

Oh, my little pretties... Come to papa, no more fish or squid for me! Ok, had a Bill Engvall shark moment. I am not parasailing while on Vicodin and Bahama Mamas.
But I do wonder if half a Vicodin and a Bahama Mama really do make for a bitchin' day...

Yep, I decimated half a cupcake in one bite. Moist margarita cake, sweet/sour lime buttercream... I think they'll enjoy it at 50 Below on Thursday. :)

Husband, Son and I went up to Michael's (a craft store) last night so that I could pick up cake boxes for the orders this week. They were having a fabulous sale on picture frames and collage frames. I mean, 40% off is pretty awesome. So we bought three collage frames, and had plans to go through the wedding photos on our hard drive (even if our computer is lame) and pick out photos to put in the collage. Because I'm ghetto and I just send them to Walmart.com to be printed at my local White Trash Paradise. Anyway, we were watching some show on ABC about the secrets behind the magic tricks.

The magician was heavyset. Which is, duh, just fine because I've got a bit of cushion for the pushin' myself. The part that was wrong on so many levels - an abacus doesn't have enough beads for me to count all the ways this shit was wrong - was that he was wearing a skin-tight velvet shirt.

Skin-tight velvet.

That's not the easiest thing to pull off, and I'll bet that after getting sweaty under those stage lights he had a hard time pulling it off. ;) (Eww, I have an image in my head of the creepy guy 'pulling one off'. It's almost as scarring as when I watched The Devil's Rejects and saw the scene of Captain Spaulding having sex in clown makeup with his loose old man skin and old saggy nuts bouncing. Bleeeh.)

And he was wearing this creepy, creepy mask and was - of course - surrounded by gorgeous women. I guess the song, "Be A Clown" (sweet, sweet irony) was right. Be the poor, silly ass; and you'll always travel first class.

So we sat and ate our tacos, and then watched Castle. Does anyone else watch this show? Nathan Fillion is fantastic. They were investigating a murder, and they walked into the apartment of an author whose pen name was Lee Wax, and the door was - GASP! - open and no one was answering their calls. Offhandedly, I commented, "Lee Wax got waxed!" and Husband laughed. Then Nathan Fillion said something way funnier, and I remembered how much of a loser I am.

It's ok, I'll bet I bake way better than he does.

Also, Brett Favre is a douche, and I've felt this way for quite some time. I don't like football, and living in a border town of Minnesota/Wisconsin, you see lots of purple, green and gold. I don't particularly care for any of those colors. I just have a very strong aversion to anything Vikings or Packers.

Someone bought my son a Packers outfit when he was younger; a onesie and a track suit. It made happy to no end when he spit up all over it. :) I refuse to put him in anything football unless the colors are pretty; like the Panthers.

The Panthers' colors are pretty.

A love letter to Stefanie... No, not the character from Short Circuit.

There was an article in Sunday's New York Times about a mommy who decided to go dry. This is the article. I follow Stefanie's blog, I think she's witty, hilarious, and inspiring. If you're reading this, I applaud you. And if you're not, I applaud you anyway. It takes a lot of courage to stand up for something that's bound to get people riled up. But you know what? You did it anyway. You are a hero to me.

Now, keep in mind, I am in no way endorsing or approving mommies getting schnocked while their toddlers zone out on Sesame Street. But in all honesty people, what is the big deal? I usually wait until my son is in bed to have a glass of wine or two, but if I choose to have a glass of wine with my husband over dinner or while my son and I watch a movie together - I am not committing a capital crime. Yes, I realize the hypocrisy. If my daycare providers were having a glass of wine during nap time I'd be upset. But I pay them to take care of my son. I'm not paid to take care of my son, nor should I be. I am the parent and sometimes there is hypocrisy in parenting. I'll do things that I would never let other people do. And you know what? Sometimes I make mistakes. If I'm not feeling well, I'll doze on the couch while my son plays. I wouldn't let someone else take care of my son while they were sick, but you can't always take a 'sick day' like a real employee. I tell ya, kids are the worst employers to work for sometimes.

I work full time. Then I go home from work (and admittedly, my job isn't very difficult) and take care of my son. Most days I'm doing it by myself. My husband works - and works hard, long hours - to bring home the bacon. So while he's working like a dog, I'm working at home after I'm done with my full-time job. I'm a lucky enough woman to have a husband who is happy to spend alone time with his son while I run to the grocery store or go out with a friend. However, this was not always so. I was, once upon a time, a SAHM. I did it twice; once by choice, and once because of unemployment.

The first time was after my son was born. I didn't go back to work until he was about 6 months old. I adore my son, I love him with all my heart, but he wasn't a planned pregnancy. We didn't plan on having a baby yet, and to those of you in the comment section of the NYT article - it flacking happens. You can't always 'plan' a baby. Dear lord, some people have their heads really far up their asses. Throughout my pregnancy, people told me, "You're never going to be able to do anything anymore" and "Well, you know, it's going to be all about the baby now." And I dreaded it. My biggest regret was allowing people to hamper my enjoyment of my pregancy, and I miss it. My day would start by getting up with him, playing with him a bit, and letting him kick back and do whatever when he was done playing. Really, anal-dwellers, there's only so much playing one can do with an infant and remain sane. Truthfully, I was bored out of my mind. And when I wasn't bored, I was stressed.

Yes, anal-dwellers, it is possible to be both stressed and bored with motherhood. It just doesn't often happen at the same time.

I'd be by myself and my son would cry for no reason - and infants usually do - and I'd just start crying along with him because I didn't know what to do. The anal-dwellers are apparently under this delusion that motherhood is all cotton candy, lollipops and quiet well-behaved children. It's not. When your child cries, it doesn't mean your a bad or an incapable parent. Babies just cry sometimes. And for those who have colicky babies, my heart goes out to you. Especially those moments when you're doing some much-needed grocery shopping because you're down to a can of peas and a can of fruit cocktail and your baby begins wailing, and someone gives you a dirty look. Know that you're not a bad mommy, but that they're narrow-minded people.

You can't always be the MacGuyver/Martha Stewart Mommy who teaches their children how to make a dress out of pipe cleaners and toothpaste. Not everyone is that creative. And sometimes, you need to leave your kids the hell alone to let them learn how to self-entertain. Because the books say so. However, the hum-drum rhythm of baby, laundry, baby, vacuuming, baby, dinner, baby, dishes, bedtime gets BORING. And in that hum-drum, you can lose a bit of yourself. It's like taking on a job that takes all your time, energy, and efforts. Eventually, if you don't take time out for yourself (and going home to sleep doesn't count), you're going to lose a bit of your identity and become defined as the job. Motherhood is no different. When I said before that I don't expect to be paid for my parenting, that doesn't mean that I don't look on it as job. It's the most important job I'll ever have, and it's a life-long job. It's hard work, and some of us don't take to it like others. And you know what?

That's okay.

It's okay not to know what to do sometimes. It's ok to not be part of the 'Mom-fia', to not wear pearl necklaces and A-line skirts with aprons while you clean house. It's ok to skip the makeup and hairspray, because some days you're lucky if you get to shower. Every parent has their own style, every parent does things differently. Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it isn't right. It's ok to feel sometimes like you just need a break. No one can, or should have to, work 24/7/365.

But regardless, I know my son is worth it. I know that no matter how mad I get when he's decided to color the couch and himself, when he tornadoes the room I just cleaned, or when he's just plain being mouthy and acting up; I love him. I'd jump in front of bullets and moving vehicles for him. I'd saw off my arm if it meant he'd never have to feel an ounce of unnecessary pain. I'll kick the ass of anyone who hurts my baby, and if you don't believe me, ask anyone who knows me. I am unquestionably devoted to my son. The point of all this being that as long as you love your children (even if you're upset and don't really like them at the moment), and try to do what's best for them, that's all that really matters.

I give Stefanie so much freaking credit. I think that admitting that she felt she had a problem and taking the steps to solve it speaks volumes for her character. I admire the courage she has for stepping up and taking responsibility. I admire her for staying funny, and for being the best mom she can be. I admire her for putting her children first. I admire her for sticking with it.

Keep your head high, Stef. There are more people who support you than those who don't. And for the love of all that's holy, keep those hilarious posts coming!

/rant.

That New Problem monster is a real dick.

So, those of you who are parents will probably understand my dilemma. My husband and I don't always agree on every aspect of parenting, though we have come to compromises on most of the larger things. Then, just when we thing we're safe in our co-parenting bed, the big bad New Problem monster creeps up and scares the shit out of us. Then we have to get out of bed and clean it up. And poo, it sucks. Someday I'm going to make a rug out of that fucker. But I digress.

Yesterday was my husband's one day off (he's a manager at Dairy Queen, salaried, and he works harder than a Chinese kid at a sweatshop most days) and on that day he always keeps our son home with him from daycare to spend much-needed time with him. I think it's fabulous that my husband gets one day off a week and is so dedicated to his family that he'll spend his only day off taking care of his son. One of the many reasons why I love him. :) So he decides to take his little Mini-Me up to visit his dad and sister and her two kids. Yes, his sister lives with his dad, along with her boyfriend and two of her three kids. They live in a trailer court -

Shut up, we lived there with him before we got our own place for a short time. SHUT UP. I am NOT white trash. Ok, maybe I am. Yeah. But I'm not an inbred redneck!

- and they have a front porch that the kids mostly play on, along with the driveway. Her two sons are allowed to leave the yard to play with their friends who live down the Drive from them (they're about 4 trailers from the top road). Husband was inside taking the Browns to the Superbowl, and Sister's boyfriend was watching the boys. He had to take a tinkle break, so he left the kids on the porch with the instruction to stay on the porch. My son is 3 and doesn't spend much time up there. Does anyone else see where this is going?

So after the Browns won, Husband goes out to the porch. Which is, of course, empty. Where does he find our toddler and nephews? Well, our nephews are at the bottom of the Drive playing with their friends. Their friends' parents apparently don't think their kids are important enough to supervise, because they're all outside by themselves. Our nephews are 3 and soon to be 6. Yeah. Now I'm all for trusting your kids, but people come whipping down the streets, and they're not old enough to be wandering a block alone. If they're 7, 8, then by all means. That should be old enough. But 3 and 5? Come on. The court they live in is right off a highway, separated by a sparse semblance of what I'm guessing is supposed to be 'woods'.

He finds our son across the bottom road, heading into the woods. And he feels that this was our son's fault, and that he should have listened when they told him to stay on the porch. Okay, I'll let this sink in. Anyone else find a hole in this logic? His cousins leave the porch, he follows them, no parents are supervising at their friends' house and it's our son's fault? I quickly disillusioned him, so we are comfortably back in the co-parenting bed, but I'd be interested to find out if any of you think that I was wrong.

Meanwhile, I'm going to sit here and enjoy the rest of my Caribou Coffee cooler (similar to a Starbucks Frappuccino, but WAY better) and get some warrant notices sent out. Ah, the joys of being the bearer of good news. It's a half day today, as are all Fridays for summer. Wait, summer is almost over, isn't it? Noooo! I don't want half day Fridays to be over yet. Maybe the boss will decide to keep them. :) Because really, it's far too much fun when he takes us out for a looong lunch and drinks on Fridays. Either way, he's in trial today, so it doesn't matter since he won't be back by the time the office closes at noon.

On an unrelated note, does anyone else feel special when they go to the bathroom at work to find that they're the first person to 'annoint' the freshly cleaned toilet?

My son's newest obsession is watching Husband's season one DVDs of He-Man And The Masters Of The Universe (My husband is an uber-geek). He carries a plastic baseball bat across his back by stuffing it down the neckhole of his shirt, then whipping it out to exclaim, "I He-Man! I have the power!" And then depending on what he feels like that day, Husband and I get to take turns being Skeletor. At least I'm not that creepy plant guy that looked like an asparagus with a ginormous head. Or if he's in the Ice Age mood, he's baby possum, I'm mommy possum and Husband is daddy possum. Last night, He-Man and Skeletor (Husband) were 'fighting' a great battle, and Skeletor took He-Man down with a voracious round of tickle bugs. I'll bet the real Skeletor never thought of tickling He-Man. :)

Plagiarism in the kitchen...

My dear lovely readers...

I have a serious confession. At the suggestion of one of my friends, I plagiarized in the kitchen. Well, sort of. I took an idea and gave it my own little tweaks. My friend shipped me some items from a store that I love Love LOVE that isn't up in my red-neck of the woods. Because the area I live in is as gay as Liberace's closet. In return for the cost of shipping, she requested I make her some baked goods when she came up here to visit a month ago... We originally settled upon cupcakes, simple and sweet. And pink. :) However, her boyfriend found this post from Bakerella, and suggested I make those instead. So I put my creative panties on, and gave Cupcake Burgers my best shot. I made everything from scratch except the brownies (boxed) and the fondant. Because fondant is a BITCH to make, and I don't have the necessary double boiler. I have a serious hate/mild dislike relationship with fondant.

Aaanywho.

Here are the following adorable results from the fruits of my creative pantied loins.

The adorable little brownie burgers... Pretty maids all out of rows.

A brownie burger with fondant cheese. Not to be confused with head cheese.

Donchya love the powdered sugar all over these little babies?

Voila! Cupcake buns with brownie burgers, fondant cheese and ketchup and mustard frosting!







And we can't forget the hand-piped frosting sesame seeds! :)









So... What do you think, readership? I didn't go the whole nine yards that Bakerella did, making sugar cookie fries (please don't hate me, I was in the process of packing to move or I would have made the damn fries...) but I think the effect was cute. She said they were delicious. :) And please bear with me, the photo upload option is being a douche. It kept deleting the photos and now I know to just upload the stupid photos first and write second. Grr. I'll suss out this blog thing, don't you babies cry.

My next project is going to be figuring out how to make margarita cake batter from scratch, because the recipe I found just calls for box mix with margarita mix and booze. I am going to be a busy baker this month, I have the margarita cake on the 20th, a Vikings cake on the 22nd, and a double chocolate raspberry torte on the 23rd. It's excellent to have all this business. :) It makes me feel successful, and we all know how warm and fuzzy of a feeling that is. It's best with a side of humble pie, but I'm just not hungry enough for that. Maybe later.

Who is Ashley, and what's under that flaky, tender crust?

So… first blog post.

What to start off with? Well, blog posts rarely start with a bang (this isn’t a pregnancy, people), and so I figure I’ll just be boring and tell you all a bit about myself. Not like very many people are going to follow me at this point anyhow, and I’ll just aspire to having a blog where people will want to search my archives and read this boring post.

My name is Ashley. I am not an alcoholic, though some people might take the way I joke about needing a drink to mean that I am. I really don’t enjoy the taste of most alcoholic beverages, and I tend to lean toward the sweet side. My husband has an allergy to alcohol, though it’s not devastating. He can have a few beers/drinks as long as he sips and doesn’t shoot or guzzle. Otherwise he gets all red and blotchy, and, well. Most intelligent people know what happens during an allergic reaction.

I babble, I ramble, and sometimes what I say isn’t going to be very interesting. I have a 3 year old son who has changed my whole outlook on life, and I love him more than anything or anyone else in this world. I know I love him way more than the vagina that spawned me, though I do love her in my own way. I am obsessed with Grey’s Anatomy, and will probably blog my opinions on how this week’s show was once it premieres in September.

I can be, at times, completely hilarious. I have a fucked-up family that I love despite some of their antics, and like most people who are truly funny – I contribute my developed sense of humor to them. I learned early on that humor makes an excellent coping mechanism, though I sometimes take it too far. Usually, I’m just funny as all hell.

I work at a family/criminal law office. My boss is the best; I love my job. My boss is a cowboy-boot wearing, mullet-sporting, earring-wearing attorney (obviously) and he’s got the greatest sense of humor. We frequently spend time at lunch quipping Pulp Fiction quotes at one another. My aunt is the paralegal here (yay for using my connections to land the best job ever!), and I sometimes swear she gave birth to me (she and my mom are twins) and that my mom took the rap for it. She and I are unbelievably alike.

To any of my family that might be reading this; I might say things that you don’t agree with. I’m not going to post names of family members, and I’ll be kind enough to give you all pseudonyms. To any readers; I might say things that you don’t agree with. Please feel free to let your opinions be known, all of you. I am well aware that no one will agree with everything I say, and I’m going to do my best to be ok with that. The only thing I ask is that my son stays out of any and all arguments. I am a momma lion, and you just don’t attack my little cub. I will probably say off-the-cuff things that I mean sarcastically but don’t read that way regarding my son. If you have any questions on how I meant something, please feel free to ask. Feel free to attack me at will; you’ll find that I border on the passive-aggressive side of arguments. I prefer to think of it as having an innate ability to hear both sides of an argument. I am not a liar by nature, and I’ll usually tell the truth. If you feel I’m wrong, present your case. I was in Mock Trial, so you may want to make sure that you substantiate your facts. Whenever I do choose to post a (carefully edited) rant, I may not necessarily substantiate my facts. And I will admit it when I know I’m just being a whiny bitch.

One of my best and most redeeming qualities is my ability to bake the shit out of just about anything. I prefer to make things from scratch, and I will post photos of my ventures to make you all salivate. *evil grin* I also enjoy making new recipes… Sort of like Keri Russel’s character in Waitress. My pride and joy is the pie I call the 8^th Deadly Sin. It’s a 6-layer pie, made from chocolate crust, cinnamon French silk, chocolate ganache, and homemade almond whipped cream. I created the recipe myself by modifying a few other recipes. My pie crusts almost always have a little something extra added to them… Like when I make a pecan pie – I added chopped pecans to the crust itself. From what I heard, it was delish. Pies are my favorite, but I do cakes, cookies, bars, truffles… One of my friends even sent me a link to another blog where they made Cupcake Burgers. They were adorable. I made my batter from scratch, whereas they used box mix, but I credit Bakerella with that idea. I’d love to start a baking business* so that I could share the happiness, but I don’t have a licensed kitchen and all the advertisement has to be done by word of mouth. Bah.

The name of my blog was a tiny bit of a challenge. I needed something that fit me, but something that would be clever. I am known for being a little snarky, sassy, sarcastic, witty, clever... You all get the idea, I'm sure. I wanted something as hilarious as Mommy Wants Vodka, but I'm not much a drinker. My favorite thing to bake is pie, because you can do so many different things with it. And Sassy Pie just clicked... As for the Jesus remark, I am not very religious (I believe that there is something greater up there, but have a difficult time believing the Bible) and find religious humor hilarious. One day at lunch I remarked that if Jesus died to pay for our sins, we may as well give him his money's worth. That one cracked my boss up, as he's a 'recovering Catholic'.

I'm on Twitter, and you're more than welcome to follow me. Just look at the Widget and follow the Yellow Brick Road. :)

So, till next time reader(s).

*Disclaimer; I am not using this blog as a means to drum up business or solicit sales, simply relating my desire to start a business. This is a personal blog only.