Wednesday, August 26, 2009

My Solheim Cup Runneth Over

A few weeks ago, Cheeseball Neighbor and The Queen of Connections (who used to be ChiSky Grrrl) asked us a if we wanted to go watch some women's golf.
We don't know much about women's golf, but who cares? We didn't ask many questions--just the date, time, cost, location. (Have you noticed our neighbors ROCK--they've always got something awesome up their sleeves and they always have a good time for minimal cost. We've decided that the Queen has contacts EVERYWHERE. She really IS the Queen of Connections.) We agreed that the golf event sounded fun and, once the wife confirmed we had the day free, agreed that we would love to go.

Being that the wife and I are ignorant to the world of women's golf, we didn't have the wherewith all to get excited about the adventure we were about to take. We had no idea we were about to go to a kick-ass, well-publicized, bi-annual international event--that is only held on U.S. soil every four years. International! We thought we were going to wander around some links and have fun with fun people.

The wife and I learn we're going to some po-dunk place called Sugar Grove--an hour or so drive--to go see some tournament called the Solheim Cup--at some course named Rich Harvest Farms. We don't know what this means--what the hell is a Solheim Cup?--but, we are smart enough to research what we're supposed to wear. The wife goes on line to look up tournament information--a quick view of gallery photos suggests we can be casual--no need for collared shirts or fancy pants. I notice that a lot of the gallery peeps are wearing red shirts but don't realize (DUH!) they are sporting our nation's colors of red, white and blue. (Hello! Double Duh!) We stop at the ATM and get some cash, as we figure parking and food will cost a pretty penny.....and, since the Queen scored us the admission tickets, we figure paying for parking and gas is only right.

The Queen and Cheeseball Neighbor pile us into their car and away we go. We're yipping about this and that when the Queen casually mentions that not only do we have fully paid admission to the event, we have priority parking AND passes to the sponsor tents (read: FREE FOOD!). Score! Being that we are super naive, we don't actually realize how awesome this is going to turn out--we're thinking some hot dogs on a bun and chips....

As we approach the event, it becomes apparent that this is NOT a small event. It is a mega-huge event and there are people everywhere. Police are directing traffic to the various parking lots. The media circus surrounds us. Big, fancy souvenir programs are handed to us. Spectators are dressed like it's the Fourth of July.

We get out of the car and wander the grounds, mouths a-gape in surprise and awe. We learn all about the tournament, stunned that we are at an international event that people have given their eye teeth to attend. We get a good laugh when we learn people have been planning to attend this event for an entire year. We scratch our heads when it finally dawns on us that an international event has somehow found its way to only an hour away from where we life. We learn that the best of women's golf is here. I learn that my grrrrls Laura Davies and Julie Inkster are in the house! I am almost incredulous.....

.....and, then we see where we are going to be eating and peeing. Oh dear! REAL food, real tables and chairs, all you can eat, personal space away from the crowds, right on the 17th fairway. Better yet, fancy toilet facilities were ours for the taking! While the minions are standing in line at the port-o-potties, we're excreting urine through our urethras in air conditioned style. Incredulous squared!

The excitement of the crowd, the national pride, the talented golfers, the vast array of food and the beautiful fancy bathrooms all made for a wonderful afternoon. We ate ourselves into food comas. (I am not proud to say that I stuffed some extra cookies into my pockets before leaving the food tent--THAT'S how good they were. I had to keep my pockets out of the sun, lest my cookies "bake" while standing there.) Incredibly, and completely by accident, we plop ourselves along the 17th fairway....right in line to where the women are driving their first shots on said fairway. Plop! A little white ball falls right in line with us. Plop! Another little white ball. Next thing you know, two golfer approach--right smack dab in front of us. Um, that's Michelle Wie. Right there. Michelle Wie, for crying out loud! Wait--there's Laura Davies. (Holy cow, those are some calves. I'm not messing her.) Why, Julie Inkster's so close I can just about shake her hand.

It was a glorious day in women's golf.

Even more glorious, we can truthfully say we were there when Michelle went on to take the tournament into her own hands and slap her European competition into shape, because we WERE there. The gallery was on fire!

We were home in time to watch the awards ceremony on television.....

....and yes, I ate my pocketed cookies while sitting on the couch, watching the U.S. team accept the Solheim Cup.
**********************************************************************

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Part II: I scream, you scream, we all scream for.....


...I scream for...for high cholesterol? I am having ice cream for breakfast today. Seriously. Why? Because my cholesterol was so disgustingly high when I got the test results yesterday that I decided to eat myself into an ice cream coma and then cut out all the high-fructosed, corn-syruped, hydrogenated-sugared-parts in my life. I did indeed basically scream when the nurse was reading the numbers to me--I was one big crabby patty when she was reporting what I was not expecting to hear. I kept saying, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

I had visions of consuming raw red meat, vats of french fires, six-egg omelets and double-cheese pizzas.

It did not help one iota when she assured me my HDL was incredible and that actually my numbers balance out and thus the doctor is going to cut me slack and not seek medication-induced lower cholesterol. (My HDL is rocking, but that won't save my sorry ass in the long run.)

You might be asking what sugar has to do with cholesterol. I've always thought there had to be some connection, as evidenced by my elevated cholesterol. I'm happy to report (um, maybe happy is not the right word) science is indeed finding links between sugar and high cholesterol. With the amount of sugar I eat in a day, I believe I am the poster child of "sugar-induced high cholesterol." (I want credit if that becomes standard reference to cholesterol issues related to sugar addiction.) If they need a subject to test, I am the one they should seek.

I am living testimony how vegetarian walkers in relatively good shape can have high cholesterol. I take those dang giant fish oil things (which, by the way, does not make this vegetarian one bit happy). I stay far from fried foods. I don't usually eat eggs unless they are in something else (like ice cream or cake). I don't eat real cheese (unless a pizza comes my way once every three or four months). I eat fake-soy-doesn't-really-melt cheese, tofu-laden products yadda yadda.

It's gotta be heredity and sugar. Mostly sugar. Actually, mostly man-made/man-ruined sugar products--not plain old cane sugar. It's all those scientifically messed up sugars that create more problems that old fashion sugar (although the volume of that I consume is indeed a problem, too). We should have been listening when Kevin Trudeau was whining about all of this.

Of course, changing hormones supposedly don't help in the cholesterol department but my blood work as related to hormones suggest that I have a lonnnnnnng, lonnnnnng, lonnnnnnnnnnng way to go before I can use that as an excuse. (In fact, looks like I could shoot out a baby without even trying, those hormones are so good....that's NOT on my list of things to do today.)

So, excuse me while I slurp more ice cream down. I'm getting kinda nauseous but I'm not giving in until it's all gone.

Tomorrow's sugar crash is gonna suck.

I scream.....for....um, Japanese blog comments? What the???? Today, someone posted a comment on one of my previous blog entries....in Japanese (or Chinese or Mandarin or some other form of Asian-ese, no offense to anyone--I'm not well versed in anything beyond our basic alphabet). How could I NOT think about approving the comment--this means the Addiverse is INTERNATIONAL! I was hoping it didn't say something really, really obscene (of which it certainly might, as it was posted on my "Bigger, Wider, Longer Ellen DeGeneres blog entry). If anyone of you is good at translating Japanese, let me know. That way, we can find out if I've just referred to the size of someone's something and how to make that something something bigger and stronger.


It looks really cool. I'm sure it's perverse, so I can't post it for you. That's all I need: to be inundated by male enhancement product information in Japanese or put an end to your computer world via a Japanese bug. (Not a Japanese Beetle bug. Just a virus bug.)

finally.....I scream for....Brett Favre's disloyal, selfish, pompous, hypocritical, waffle-filled, egotisical decision to poop on all those Packer fans. He can say what he wants, but the Cheddarlands is a-fire with disdain for their fallen hero. I am not sure the wife or her family or her peeps of Wisconsin are going to live through this debacle. While I enjoy all the fodder, I am worried for the safety and sanity of those residing north of the Flat Lands Border....

...I mean, setting all those Favre jerseys on fire at the same time could really mess with global warming.

It's gonna be a long, long football season. Well, unless the ol' Mississippi Drama Queen gets injured; then, it's gonna be one big party around here.

Buy these things in stock and then move North: Cheese fries, cheese curds, fat-laden kringles, brats, brats and more brats. Beer. Beer by the truckload. If Favre gets hurt/throws interception after interception/sucks/does really well, the party people of the Cheddarlands are going to be consuming these things in mass quantities.....

Stockpile. Just keep it stock-piled. They are gonna need this stuff. Buy low, sell high. Just stay away from Japanese male enhancement products and Japanese beetles.
*********************************************************************

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

I scream, you scream...we all scream for.... ice cream? ice cream trucks? My beloved lady chiropractor adjusting the wife? Japanese beetles devouring the rose bushes? Favre in Viking Purple? All of the above? This is the blog I had intended to post before Mr. Favre-o-roid shot back onto the scene. For inquiring minds, the wife is NOT over this nor is she okay with this. She is a woman scorned. Hell hath no fury like a scorned Packer Fan. I'm just sayin'. Anyways, back to I scream, you scream. I would take time to talk about the wife going to see My Beloved Lady Chiropractor as part of this blog entry, but I think that I'd like to dedicate an entire blog entry to that, so you'll have to wait to learn more. (I am disappointed to say that the wife is not one bit smitten or impressed with MBLC. Sigh. So sad.) Last weekend, I was standing by the wife's beautiful rose bushes, in full bloom, fragrance filling the air. I bent over to get a good sniff....when....that's when I saw them. Beetles. The Japanese Beetles. FRIGGIN' JAPANESE BEETLES FROM HELL! Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, I'm sure I popped a vein. They're back and now they have moved on to ruining the roses. A closer look showed that the bushes were COVERED with the things. It was disgusting--literally ten of them piled on top of each other on some buds. I was incensed. How dare they mess with the wife's gorgeous roses? I was filled with venom and hatred. The sky became black and stormy with how much venom I was spewing forth.... I started FLICKING them off with my fingers, shooting them as hard as I could into the siding on the house. While this left bug juice on my nails at times, I didn't care. I just like hearing them SMACK into the siding and then bounce to the ground. It was quite satisfying. I was on the verge of hysterics, I will admit. I was swearing and muttering, quite upset about the whole return of the bug, hating everything about them...... That's when I heard it. The soft, happy music wafting in the summer night's air. I stopped flicking long enough to listen more closely. I knew that sound. It brought back instant memories of my childhood. Instant. When I say it stopped me in my tracks, I am not exaggerating. It was getting closer.....it was.... ...an ice cream truck! I thought maybe I was more hysterical than I realized, but a few additional seconds of listening assured me that I was not having auditory hallucinations--there was an ice cream truck approaching our street. I totally forget about the beetles and went running--yes, running, bare feet and all--toward the front yard. As I saw the truck slowly turn on to our street, I waved down the driver. I was giddy with delight! I think I may have jumped up and down once or twice. I wildly pointed my finger in the air, as if to yell, "HANG ON A SECOND!" and frantically tried to open the garage door. I had to get my wallet out of the car and didn't want this guy to drive on by. I was so excited, I couldn't get the door open. I waved at him again, basically BEGGING him not to drive further. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE wait for me! I wasn't hungry. I didn't have an actual taste for ice cream. I had a taste for my history, my childhood, my innocence and youth. How can you hear that sound and not want to go running toward it? How can you hear that sound and not instantly become happy? I got my money and crossed the street, still bare-footed, still sporting bug juice-stained nails. "I'll have a drum stick and one of those," pointing to one of those ice cream bars on a stick with the fake chocolate center and the crunchy things on the outside. (Figured I best buy something for the wife.) I was so happy, I almost bought ice cream for the dogs. At first, I was worried the guy might think I was nuts; but, after a milli-second, I realized that there were probably plenty of people my age chasing after his truck. I chirped about how I didn't think ice cream trucks existed any more and professed my excitement for him being there. Beetles? What beetles? I was filled with love and laughter and joy; I didn't have room in my being for hatred or thoughts of beetles. I had ice cream from an ice cream truck! As I noticed his music was no longer playing, I said, "Hey, you stopped singing!" He wasn't a very fun ice cream truck driver. He scowled at me, trying to figure out what I meant. "The music," I said. "You're not playing your music." Mr. IC Driver assured me there is some city ordinance forbidding his truck from singing while pulled over (to hawk ice cream to 40 and 50 year olds, he should have added). As I didn't think ice cream trucks even existed any more, I was surprised that anyone would have thought to make ordinances about such vehicles. "That'll be five dollars," he growled. Well, ice cream certainly costs a bit more than when I was a child, but it was totally, totally worth it. I could have gone to the store and purchased entire boxes of ice cream for what I was paying, but that's not the point..... The point is that THIS ice cream came to ME from an ICE CREAM TRUCK. I took the ice cream in the house and presented it to the wife and we ate our ice cream in blissful, beetle-free silence. I have been smiling ever since. I haven't seen--or heard--him since then, but I know he'll be back. Is life good or what? ********************************************************************* I hope the ice cream truck drives by again soon. The wife could use a little ice cream right about now. That, and an enima or a shot of whiskey or a shotgun or something like that. Just don't wear purple when you are around her. And, for god's sake, don't say the five-lettered "F" word. *********************************************************************

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The Favre-a-roid Returnth...in Purple, no less

We interrupt our previously planned blog due to breaking news on the football front....

Uh-oh.

Hear that noise?

That was the wife's had EXPLODING.

See that football screaming across the backyard?

That's the wife punting her Brett Favre-autographed football out of site.

If I didn't know better, I'd bet her uterus just grew back.

Get out of the way, boys and girls---the Favre-o-roid has returned and this time, he's in purple.

It's not a pretty site on the home front; in fact, I think I shall stay far away from the wife as this fiasco unfolds.

Suffice it to say that I find Brett Favre to be a pathetic, arrogant, selfish, primadonna jerk. Get some counseling and go home, BF (and we're not talking about best friend here). Talk about an aggressively blatant act. Therapy. A lot of it.

I'm not sure the wife is going to be okay.

My blog about ice cream trucks, japanese beetles and my beloved lady chiropractor have to wait. The Favre-o-roid returnth....and, it's not a good thing.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

May...or...may not

this photo technically has nothing to do with this blog entry except that it illustrates how I felt after today's episode. There's nothing sadder than a little piece of cake that gets dropped on the ground. I dropped it last week when serving cake during a recent work-related party. If you are wondering: no, I didn't eat it.

oh.
my.
god.

I missed a scheduled one-on-one meeting with the mayor yesterday.

I believe it is not a good idea for me to blow off the mayor when it comes to my employment.

The meeting was set up in regards to things of which I do not speak (read: my job and the fate of something I supervisor, of which I also do not speak). It was an important meeting, not only because it was with a major political figure but also because he might have the ket to my fate as both a boss and employer.

I had been very excited about the meeting, yipping about it for weeks. Even Cheeseball Neighbor and ChiSky Grrrrl (who will soon have a new nickname) knew about it. The appointment was set for noon. It was in my hand-written calendar book, it was in my computer calendar, it was in my brain. I wondered if I'd have to take the Mayor out for lunch as the meeting was at lunch time. I mused about taking him to the county fair as that's big news where he's from. I yipped about it to the wife. I thought about what I was going to wear--it's hot, can I wear sandals? Do I have to wear my suit? I hope not cuz they don't fit. Do you think he cares if my Mickey Mouse tattoo hangs out of my capris? I settled on casual but not too casual, complete with sandals and Mickey Mouse indeed peeking. I went to work as usual, checked my calendar one last time, and went on with my day.

So, I'm at one of my sites, covering for vacationing staff when the CEO calls and asks if I need a ride to see the Mayor. I assure her I do not, as I'm going to go early to see one of my sites and that I'll go from there. The Marketing guy (who set up the appointment) calls me and asks me if I want a ride to see the Mayor; I again reiterate I don't need a ride but thanks, anyways.

I didn't think twice about them calling.

I finish what I'm doing, get in the car, and start heading to my site. It's only 10 AM, so I know I have plenty of time to visit my site and then meet with His Honor. I fluff my hair, turn on my Rascal Flatts CD, sing happily along with the music. That's when I hear my phone ring. I look at the display--it's the CEO. I turn down the music and shut my windows so I can hear her.

"Hello!" I answer cheerfully. After all, I'm off to see the Mayor and do great things for my program. It's a happy day.

"Where are you?" she asks.

Although I find this to be a weird question, I jauntily answer, "I'm in the car, on the way to my site and then to see the Mayor."

Silence.

"What time is the meeting?" she asks.

"Noon!" I exclaim.

Silence. Long, long silence. So long that I'm afraid we've been disconnected.

She finally speaks. "The meeting was at 9 A.M."

I am so stunned I have to pull over. I start to babble, incredulous. "You're kidding, right? You're kidding? No, you wouldn't kid about something like that. You're kidding?"

More silence. Painful, painful, horrible silence. I want to vomit. She is obviously not kidding.

I assure her I have it written down in my book and on my computer. I ramble on incoherently when the Marketing Guy (who obviously is standing right there) chirps in, "the meeting was at 9 AM." As he is the one who set it up, chances are he's right.

I try profusely not to cry.

I. am. mortified.

How can this be?

She tells me to come to the main office so we can talk about this. She asks if I have any free time today. I mutter out, "Well, I do now!"

Thankfully, she finds this to be a funny comment. I have no idea why, because it's really not funny that I have free time now that I've missed my meeting with the Mayor.

Suffice it to say, I turned my car around and started to head toward the main office. On the way, I run in to my office so I can read the email Marketing Guy sent me way back when. Clear as day, black and white, the email says that my meeting with the Mayor is on August 12........at 9 A.M.

Where I got noon is beyond me.

Of course, this means.....I panic--where the hell am I supposed to be at Noon? I figure I must have a noon appointment and now not only have I missed my meeting with the Mayor, I am about to miss another meeting of unknown origin.

This is when I burst into tears.

Crying, as everyone knows, is oh-so helpful.

I get to the Main Office and run right into the HR Lady. She takes one look at me and her jaw drops. I step into her office and again burst into tears. No one has ever seen me in any mood but perky and positive. No one has seen me cry at work, for Pete's sake. Here I am sobbing. I explain what has happened, adding that "In a week, this is really going to be funny, but it's not funny right now." I cannot gain my composure. My crying is way out of proportion to the situation. I begin to think peri-menopause has decided to rear it's ugly head. Note to self: call physician and get a damned physical scheduled.

The CEO walks in. This makes me cry more. I slob out, "I so don't want to be crying in front of you," leave and go to the bathroom. I am so mad at myself I could just spit. Now, not only did I miss my meeting with the Mayor, I am now crying hysterically and don't know why. I feel so stupid I want to just lay down on the gross bathroom floor and never get up.

I am embarrassed to say that it took me quite some time to gain my composure.

When I get out of the bathroom, I drag my sorry ass self into the CEO's office. I explain that I know saying I'm sorry won't change anything but I am really sorry and assure her I do not know what happened. I tell her I feel so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She stares at me for what seems like an eternity and then barks out, "If anyone ever tells you you are stupid, that's fine. Just reply back to them: I may be stupid but I can learn. I can become smart. You can't learn how to be pretty."

That's funny, especially in consideration to the situation.

It appears I am forgiven, although I have not exactly figured out what I am going to do about the Mayor. I may...or may not have to do anything. I didn't ask about the Mayor as I didn't want to start crying again. I figure I can ask about him on the next business day. Until then, I am going to learn how not to be stupid.....

....that, and check my calendar. Check it over and over and over.....

....and, get a doctor's appointment. I am soooo not spending the next five years crying at work or anywhere else. (please don't let me turn in to Kathy Bates' character in Fried Green Tomatos:
Evelyn (Kathy): Towanda! Right of Wrong, Queen Beyond Compare! Ninny: How many of them hormones you takin', honey? Towanda!")

This morning, it IS really a little bit funny that I missed a meeting with the Mayor, even though I remain mortified. I am SOOOO going to be the butt of all jokes at our next Executive-type meeting and I will SOOOOOO deserve it. I'm just going to focus on not being stupid and on looking pretty.
***********************************************************************

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Nothin' Up My Sleeve

best wishes to Dee Zee for a speedy, uneventful recovery. May you never have to think about that dreaded gall bladder again.

Raise your hands--how many of you remember Rocky and Bullwinkle? And, how many of you remember the phrase, "Nothin Up my Sleeve" when Bullwinkle performs a bit of magic???

I thought so.

I have no time for babbling about national health care or about the legitimacy of recent town hall ridiculousness, I've got bigger things to worry about....like, how that street magician is hovering off the sidewalk and why the hell Jillian Michaels is hawking weight loss products.....

Here's something you might not have known: I am a huge fan of magic. No, not the basketball kind of magic; the kind where some guy pulls a rabbit out of a hat or cuts a scantily clad assistant in half. Most of you have no idea that I am even one bit interested in magic, but I am. Why, I even worked as a magician's assistant one summer (okay, so I was in one show with a guy who was a "magic clown"). I love a good card trick, I love to watch pro magicians to see if I can "see" the illusion, I love the thought of Seigfried and Roy wowing the Vegas crowd. So, it's no surprise I love learning secrets of all those illusions. That's where my newest favorite T.V. show comes in: it's all about revealing secrets of the world's biggest magicians, grand illusion style.

Who knew there was such a show? I found it by accident while the wife was on her last leg of her Annual Tour of the Cheddarlands. It's not a new show in any capacity--in fact, the first round of the show was filmed in the 1990's. It's new to me, as I just didn't know about it. Always the last to know. It's on MyNetworkTV, whatever that is. All I know is it's Channel 16 on our cable and that the show is on Monday and Wednesday nights. I was flipping channels and there he was, the Masked Magician. Sure beat watching another thirty minutes of the Weather Channel.

Those of you who know about magic know that it is really, really naughty to reveal trade secrets. It's against every code known to magicians. In fact, it is so naughty that I'm thinking this guy (I am assuming it's a guy) is going to disappear once and for all if his anonymity is compromised. The Masked Magician--blackballed to Magician hell!

So, I now know how to levitate....and, how to cut the wife in half, make the dogs disappear and then re-appear, stay underwater for 18 minutes, hold a seance, and stick a sword through Xena. I can throw a card through a solid window and make a motorcycle disappear......

......thing is, I haven't been able to figure out how to get out of a plane stuck on a tarmac for seven hours (those poor people!), pull health care reform out of a hat, magically remove the scratch I put on the wife's car, turn Freckles' yeasty, scabby, smelly, itchy skin allergies into apple-blossom, healthy skin, or how to magically remove my shoes from my feet when I enter the house.

I certainly haven't figured out how to levitate Ann Coulter off the planet.....

So, Jillian--can you help me magically keep my new (read: bigger) sized pants from not fitting?
I'm having a little trouble in that department. I see you are selling weight loss products. (Yes, that's a copy of my computer screen and that's what I was looking at today.)

Jillian, Jillian, Jillian. First you ruin me knees, now you want me to take your products. You know I read your most recent book, liked what you said, agreed with a lot of your metabolism rantings, thought about getting the ol' goiter checked as I progress down the perimenopause trail.

Then, this link comes in my email....is that my Jillian hawking diet products???? Say it isn't so, Joe!

I am distraught about the whole Jillian-selling-weight-loss products thing
--I'm not sure why, but I feel like you're selling out here. What happened to your insisting that working out, eating healthy foods, getting your thyroid checked was the only way to go? Isn't putting your name on this stuff the same as all those other lame diet tricks that you are so against?

I can't say I researched any of this, so don't take my word on anything--I'm going with my twenty second eye-balling of the ad illustrated above and the few morsels of information I read in the email I read from the Jillian Michaels' website.

Jillian, you're my girl--explain this to me! (I'll wait for your answer.)

You know, if you could whip up some magic and make my pants fit and magically make my peri-pooch stop expanding, I might forgive all this.

If not, I am so going to practice levitating you AND Ann Coulter off the planet at the same time....

....Presto!

Saturday, August 08, 2009

Final thoughts on Cupcakes; Awaiting my little Cupcake (Madonna!)

Ah, the infamous window. (If you know not of this window, scroll back a few entries. I promise it's worth it). This photo shows what the window looks like when fully opened. If one breaks the arms holding open the window, the opening is increased enough to be birthed through, but by no means does it open enough to be parallel with the ground. Notice how luscious the pavement looks--that's where I started from. Yum.

I would have taken a photo of Harry Scary but he wasn't around....

I've heard from many people about the cupcakes (again, scroll back, young reader!). I appreciate all the words of wisdom. I think the bottom line is: always eat cupcakes upon arrival. Don't save them for anyone or anything. Eat them the same day as they are baked. Hell, eat them in the bakery parking lot!

It is my civic duty to save the world from cupcake ignorance; hence, I share some of the information provided to me. Perky Potholder Grrrrl said, "Because I wrote a half-assed cookbook, I feel qualified to tell you NEVER REFRIGERATE cake (or bread). It makes it all sad and dried out. But you know that now. (sigh) I've heard you should refrigerate cream cheese frosting, but if a cake has cream cheese frosting, why in heavens name would there be any left? Seriously." Cool Mama added, "You had to refrigerate the cupcakes. The only thing I would have suggested, but it would have been too late, was to bag them individually in baggies (or saran wrap). I thought of it when I saw them in the picture on your blog. They were fine, the flavor was still there. Of course if you want to get technical (and I'll argue your cook book friend on this) they could have been frozen when you want to keep them a few days, but then I don't know what would have happened to the frosting as I don't know what that frosting was made of.

I will never again "stale" a cupcake.

Enough of stale cupcakes....let's talk about MY little cupcake: Madonna! This Madonna Whore is excited to announce that Madonna has an "ultimate greatest hits" album coming out on September 29, 2009. I wouldn't have known this if MJagger hadn't mentioned it during a recent walk. How I was ignorant of this blessed event, I do not know.

Research has educated me on the new album, but only a little bit of information is actually out there in cyberspace: (1) It is a two-CD compilation; (2) all the songs have been re-mastered; (3) there is no track list available yet--hence, everyone is guessing what is actually on the album; (4) there is a new song included ("Celebration") and you can buy this single RIGHT NOW via MP3; (5) you can pre-order this album... and, you bet your patooty I did indeed pre-order this gem on Amazon.

September 29th sounds very far away, but it's really only a few weeks from this moment. Besides, Madonna's birthday is on August 16th, so I can celebrate this first and then celebrate the Celebration later.

In honor of the new CD, here's what I posted on Book de la Face: My Life According to Madonna. It's one of those sophomoric "notes" people do on FB. Why 40 something year old people like me do those notes is beyond me but I like doing them, so what the heck. I encourage you to do your own "My Life According to [insert name of favorite band here]. You just use song titles to answer the little questions......

My Life According to Madonna:

Are you a male or female: Material Girl
Describe yourself: Like a Virgin
How do you feel: Incredible
Describe where you currently live: La Isla Bonita (ha ha, MJagger!)
If you could go anywhere, where would you go: Into the Groove (Hollywood? Miles Away? Candy Shop?)
Your favorite form of transportation: Easy Ride
Your best friend is: Amazing
You and your best friends are: true blue
What's the weather like: Rain
Favorite time of day: Hanky Panky (couldn't resist)
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:4 minutes
What is life to you: Holiday
Your fear: what it feels like for a girl (Papa don't preach?)
What is the best advice you have to give: Express yourself
Thought for the Day: Open Your Heart
How I would like to die: Die another day

Get into the Groove, people! And, get on Book de la Face and give the wife a hard time, as she has given in to the FB madness. I knew it was only a matter of time....
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Wednesday, August 05, 2009

That's Doctor Prom Date to you

Before I speak of my high school prom date, I thought I'd share a horrible phone photo of Lucy. How often can you get a photo of your dog sticking its tongue out at you? If the photo doesn't make you laugh (or, at least wonder what the hell is wrong with Lucy...or, with me), you need to take a nap and eat more chocolate.

Before I speak of my prom date, I confess that I have reached an all-time low in the "I'm so sporty" department: I hurt my knee while putting a Jillian Michael's DVD into the DVD player this evening. One minute, I was having thoughts of doing something stupid like doing a 20 minute cardio workout; the next, I was bent over in pain, wondering what the hell just happened. I think it was a sign from God: "STEP. AWAY. FROM. THAT. WORKOUT. TAPE!" I know better than to do a Jillian tape--history shows such behavior increased my butt size, trashed my knee and toyed with my brain. I admit my motivation wasn't that I thought I'd get a better work out than going for a walk....no, I was being lazy. Twenty minutes of Jillian is a lot faster than three miles of walking around the neighborhood. Bad idea, as evidenced by my aching knee. I don't know what happened, but I felt it and there is no denying I am in need of my beloved lady chiropractor. Something in my knee is out of whack and this upsets me.

Before I speak of my prom date, I also wanted to share this photo of Freckles Warrior Princess, as taken by Cheeseball Neighbor and ChiSky Grrrrl. This is Freckles enjoying a Cubs chair, quite to the dismay of the Milwaukee-Brewer-loving wife. Freckles is Cubby-Blue fan from whelp. When the grrrrrlz visit Brown Dog and the neighbors, they are treated to a royal Cubs fest. Yum! They report that Freckles didn't get out of this chair for two full hours. Unfortunately, Freckles is back to being a smelly, itchy, bloody, yeasty, eye-boogered canine, miserable with dog allergies. (She was allergy-free when seated in this chair, so no worries about that.) It's the rust in the grass-- that red fungus that shows up every August. It makes her miserable. It's not like she can avoid grass. We limit her grass time but we have to walk a little every day or she'll give new meaning to her nickname "Fatty Patty." Benadryl barely touches it. A visit to the cat doctor can't be far away.....

Finally! About that prom date. I am in the midst of searching for long lost classmates (for our upcoming high school reunion) and realized that I had not found my prom date. I'm not sure he wants to be found (especially by me), but I thought at least a Google search would be in order. So, I sat at my desk at the place of which I do not speak, trying to remember how to spell his last name....is there or isn't there a "z" in it? Is it a "K" or a "C?" So many lost brain cells, so little time....

Before I get to what I found, I'd like to share a little background about Dr. Prom Date.

There were 600 students in our graduating class. Dr. Prom Date was Number One. Valedictorian. A gentleman scholar who was in the band, I might add. If you are gonna get a prom date, why not go for the top dog? He was one smart cookie--put me to shame. Now, I was a not-so-shabby Number Four, a sporty nerd, also in the band--but, I had nothing on him. Nothing.

Suffice it to say it is about ten zillion miles between number one and number four.

How we came to be prom dates is beyond me, but I'm glad we went to the big show together because he really was a nice guy and I really had a good time, even though he had to be home by 1 A.M. Doctor Prom Date was the perfect guy, from bouquet to white tux to the day-after Great America trip. It was nerd heaven!

So, once I remember how to spell his last name, I find Dr. Prom Date on Google. I thought he might have found his calling as a priest or medical doctor, but he's found his way into the sciences and engineering--which doesn't surprise me, even though it would have been great fodder if he had indeed become a priest. Scrolling through the google results, I'm sure it's him after seeing his credentials...yup, correct college....yup, correct master's level program....yup, that's his home town. I start reading about what he's been up to and my eyes start to glaze over. The words don't even sound like English. I write blogs with poor grammar and tacky photos of my dogs; he publishes things about corrosion inhibition apparatus blah blah thermocouples in situ heating dirt blah blah blah.

I have no idea what any of this means except that he paid attention in Physics class and I didn't. (Don't even get me started about Physics class.)

Number one....to number four: the friggin' Grand Canyon, in this case. Now, I'm not saying I'm some dummy; I'm just saying that's quite a leap from where I'm standing. Good for you, Doctor Prom Date! I am psyched to say I was your date...and, have pictures to prove it.

I have many questions for him, the first of which will be, "what the hell is a implantable goniometer and does your mother know about this?" I will then ask him about his life, if he now wears jeans and what his adventures have included over the past thirty years. I'll ask the obligitory questions about family and such....after that, I'll convince him to attend our class reunion. Maybe he can wear a white tux for the event....I'll wear a dress if he wears a tux.......

....as long as he leaves his implantable goniometer at home.
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Monday, August 03, 2009

A Sad Day for Cupcakes

(for those of you with tri-focals and/or over 40: click on article to make it easier to read)

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Here's Your Cupcakes, Cupcake

I didn't realize it until this morning--I forgot to blog this week. Crazy. How did this happen?

In one word: cupcakes.

Now, you know I am ALL about the Lemon Cake, complete with Ode, but the wife....the wife loves cupcakes. She prefers a cupcake to a piece of cake any day. I personally think of her as a strawberry-rhubarb kind of pie lover but she has proven me wrong.

Just when you think you know someone.

I purchased some cupcakes this week from some bakery in an unidentified po-dunk town, via MJagger's co-worker. (The photo above is of the cupcakes, safely nestled in the frig. Don't ask why there aren't a dozen. The dogs ate them. Yeah, that's it. The dogs at the missing cupcakes.) MJagger has been babbling about these cupcakes for months; she's always telling me, "Addi, these are the best cupcakes in the world. THE WORLD! I want to be there when you eat your first one of these cup cakes." Her description left me just about breathless. She moaned when talking about the frosting: "The frosting--oh, the frosting! I can't describe it. It's not whipped cream. It's not sugary. It's kind of buttermilk...but better. BETTER! It's the most amazing frosting." The cupcakes were described as chocolate cakes with this white frosting...and more white frosting stuff in the middle....kind of like a Hostess cupcake.

Although they sounded delicious, I was kind of skeptical. After all, how good can a cupcake really be?

Because they did indeed sound tasty and because the family is coming over, I decided to order a dozen. MJagger agreed to take care of the ordering as long as I came to work and picked them up. That way, she said, she could watch me eat one of these things. "I want to be there when you eat that first one," she again reiterated. Weird, but okay. So, I go pick them up and she's serious--she wants me to eat one right there. I get out of the car and try one.

Oh. My. God. I have to admit, this IS the best cupcake I have EVER eaten in my life. Ever. I almost dropped my morsel of heaven but caught it (frosting side down in my palm) before it hit the parking lot pavement.

I am here to tell you that I would have eaten the thing even if it had hit the pavement. I would have scraped off the dirt and grass and even cigarette butts and then eaten it.

I called the wife and said, "YOU HAVE TO TRY ONE OF THESE CUPCAKES! I am on my way home." I didn't know if she'd think they were good and I was worried that I might have set her up to expect much more than might be found in these tidbits of cake and goo. I had to take them home because I couldn't leave them in the car while running all my work errands. I pull up in the driveway, hand the wife the box of cupcakes and drive off.


Um, this video has nothing to do with cupcakes, but I like it, so watch it after your done reading about these orgasmic cupcakes. I especially like the part where the butt sniffing happens.


I'm running my errands...,when only a few minutes later, the wife calls me. "Oh. My. GOD! This is the best cupcake I've EVER eaten!" she exclaims.

For the wife to call me about a cupcake, it must be a good cupcake. For the wife to rave about cupcakes is even more amazing. For her to say, "you know, my mother makes really good cupcakes....but, these are way better," is like saying the Pope isn't Catholic. The wife was so smitten with this dessert that she even posted that she "had just eaten the best cupcake ever" on her Book de la Face page. Made a big impression, I'm guessing.

In fact, she has been talking about those cupcakes ever since she ate one. She is cupcake obsessed. Upon completion of said cupcake, she announced that THIS is what she wants for her birthday. I might want home-made Lemon Cake with Blueberry but she wants these cupcakes. (I will ensure this happens. Cupcakes for everyone in September!)

When I told her I'd order a dozen, she told me "order two dozen--they'll freeze."

So, cupcakes have been consuming us while we consume them. I'm not sure my family will find them to be the best cupcakes ever, but I'm sure they will enjoy them....

....That is, if the wife doesn't eat them before the family actually gets here.....
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