Drinking Blue Moon with an orange slice...in a Network Communications Division mug that Sam got for free at work. 'Cause I'm ghetto like that. Have to mention that a certain someone gave my husband the craving for Blue Moon via her Facebook status the other day. (*coughSarahagain*)
Eating dark chocolate covered pretzels from TJ's.
This is an excellent combination. If you think I write about food & coffee all the time, you are right. But I also think about them that often, so at least I'm honest about my vices.
Contemplating a) eating my "light" popcorn, b) sewing 2 buttons onto a dress, and c) possibly watching Dollhouse.
Question: What is Dollhouse?
Answer: Erm. Friday night TV show on Fox about imprintable people called "dolls" who go out on "missions" with programmed personalities. And, er. Kinda hard to describe. It's created by Joss Whedon (of Buffy/Angel/Firefly fame), so I kind of have to watch it, no matter the odd premise. Oh, and he also wrote Toy Story. I mean, he IS one of the great pop geniuses of our generation, and I HAVE actually gone to his session at ComiCon. Not that wierd premises scare *me* off. I've got the balls to watch the SciFi channel, even.
Yes, I go to ComiCon. I've got balls for that, too.
Oh, wait, Sam has suggested The Soup. Joel McHale time, yesss. BTW, I didn't notice when he turned around on Community this week and looked so nice in his jeans. I totally wasn't looking.
And now the Blue Moon has shut down my brain and I am swaying back and forth. No buttons. No Dollhouse. Only Joel McHale and fogginess.
Buh-bye...
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Friday, October 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Freakin' Tarte d'Alsace
Oh, my beloved Trader Joe's, located in the retail center of a phony "Traditionally Designed Neighborhood", where Bouganvilla and public-use green areas mingle with WASPy snobbishness, how I do adore thee. Enjoy thee. Buy lots of Fall comfort-type edibles at thee.
My lunch today, post encounter with my lover, Trader Joe:
-Tarte d'Alsace--ham slivers, gruyere, caramelized onions, etc., on a pastry crust. DIE. In Heaven. Shout out to Sarah, who told me to try this!! Violet wouldn't touch it because she's a total butthead like that.
-Mixed Spring Baby Greens w/Champagne & Pear Vinaigrette, dried cranberries, & walnuts
-Trader Joe's Spicy Cider, chilled & iced. Fall love!!!!!
With a glistening bead of drool at the corner of my mouth, I carefully unwrapped my Tarte and got ready to place it in the toaster oven. Looking up, I glimpsed my Dad stumping towards the kitchen. Gah! I got the HECK out of there. Waited for 7 minutes in my "living room". Came back out to the kitchen to find/smell...freaking, EFFING mystery meat hamburger patty sizzling away on the foreman and covering up the joyous fragrance of my holy Tarte!!! Soooo much offense and anger in my heart.
But. My "living room" is a sanctuary. I can solitarily consume my Tarte, salade, & cider, while reading away at my laptop and listening to the happiness of Wright/Violet as they play with their Trader Joe's balloons ("Ball! Ball!") and watch Little Bear.
As for the that neighborhood? Well. It is engineered to appeal to my old-fashioned sensibilities. Mixed, old-style house styles. Street parking in the front, garages in the alley out back. Trader Joe's and coffee within walking distance. And those pretty, pretty park areas all over the neighborhood. *Sigh* I sooo identify with New Urbanism and Traditional Neighborhood Design. (Huh? Wikipedia that sh!t.)
The thing is, I started to think, how is a neighborhood with upper, upper middle class to wealthy income houses mixed development? Sure, they have an apartment complex thrown in there, but please. That's just lip service. Then, I found out that earlier this year, its residents completely freaked out because a non-profit bought a home there to house autistic adults. They, like, protested at a town meeting & everything. People were all, we're scared to walk our children, eek! Like, fly your ignorant bigot flag SO high! Un-believable. I mean, I'm sure not all the residents felt that way, but sheesh. Buncha rich douches. (Oh, I've sooo put on blue-collar-ish resentment today!)
Nah, they can have their faux neighborhood and silicone breasted wives. Imma take my garage in front, big ol' backyard in the back master planned development where everyone stays inside their own yards. Er, eventually. *sniff*
Hands down, the best Trader Joe's around, though. And it has this awesome fountain & park right outside it where Sam can let the kids run around like crazy while I shop.
(I still want to live there.)
(Kinda.)
My lunch today, post encounter with my lover, Trader Joe:
-Tarte d'Alsace--ham slivers, gruyere, caramelized onions, etc., on a pastry crust. DIE. In Heaven. Shout out to Sarah, who told me to try this!! Violet wouldn't touch it because she's a total butthead like that.
-Mixed Spring Baby Greens w/Champagne & Pear Vinaigrette, dried cranberries, & walnuts
-Trader Joe's Spicy Cider, chilled & iced. Fall love!!!!!
With a glistening bead of drool at the corner of my mouth, I carefully unwrapped my Tarte and got ready to place it in the toaster oven. Looking up, I glimpsed my Dad stumping towards the kitchen. Gah! I got the HECK out of there. Waited for 7 minutes in my "living room". Came back out to the kitchen to find/smell...freaking, EFFING mystery meat hamburger patty sizzling away on the foreman and covering up the joyous fragrance of my holy Tarte!!! Soooo much offense and anger in my heart.
But. My "living room" is a sanctuary. I can solitarily consume my Tarte, salade, & cider, while reading away at my laptop and listening to the happiness of Wright/Violet as they play with their Trader Joe's balloons ("Ball! Ball!") and watch Little Bear.
As for the that neighborhood? Well. It is engineered to appeal to my old-fashioned sensibilities. Mixed, old-style house styles. Street parking in the front, garages in the alley out back. Trader Joe's and coffee within walking distance. And those pretty, pretty park areas all over the neighborhood. *Sigh* I sooo identify with New Urbanism and Traditional Neighborhood Design. (Huh? Wikipedia that sh!t.)
The thing is, I started to think, how is a neighborhood with upper, upper middle class to wealthy income houses mixed development? Sure, they have an apartment complex thrown in there, but please. That's just lip service. Then, I found out that earlier this year, its residents completely freaked out because a non-profit bought a home there to house autistic adults. They, like, protested at a town meeting & everything. People were all, we're scared to walk our children, eek! Like, fly your ignorant bigot flag SO high! Un-believable. I mean, I'm sure not all the residents felt that way, but sheesh. Buncha rich douches. (Oh, I've sooo put on blue-collar-ish resentment today!)
Nah, they can have their faux neighborhood and silicone breasted wives. Imma take my garage in front, big ol' backyard in the back master planned development where everyone stays inside their own yards. Er, eventually. *sniff*
Hands down, the best Trader Joe's around, though. And it has this awesome fountain & park right outside it where Sam can let the kids run around like crazy while I shop.
(I still want to live there.)
(Kinda.)
Saturday, September 19, 2009
He'll change
PSA: Last night Sam showed up for TV time with some sort of Fanta & vanilla ice cream concoction that I'm calling a Creamsicle Float. He presented it in two matching mugs, each with its own bendy straw & spoon, the better for optimum individual Creamsicle Float devouring. OMG, yum! Am I the only woman who goes all melty--me, not the drink--when her man brings her delicious treats out of the blue? We sipped & ate them merrily while reading skanky Harry Potter fanfic (me) and watching Psyche (him). Happiness.
Speaking of men, back to my intended topic: man-myths. Ish.
I was thinking about them last night when I came into our crowded bedroom to sleep in my crowded bed which currently features a) Sam, b) sleepybeautifulevil Wright, c) 12 inches of space for me. Did I mention that Violet now sleeps on on her toddler mattress on our floor? Yes, well, we are all struggling here at the 'rents. I finally gave up and decided that we would get through these last months in whatever way possible, and if that means that we all seek comfort from each other through shared sleep, so be it. If I were her, I wouldn't want to sleep in the office/bedroom that we call "Violet's room" either. Anyway, our current setup has something so comfy and time-honored about it. It's like we are giving echoey props to our homesteading forebears, for whom living in one room was a given, not a hardship. In our case, however, we will hopefully have a spacious dwelling of cookie-cutter stucco waiting on the other side of our synchronized snores.
But was talking about myths?
Right. Um, a well-documented man-myth, one that is the basis for many--dare I say most?--romantic stories is this: a worthy woman takes a bad man and, with her superior feminine wiles, turns him into a good one. Here's a similar one: a woman takes man who is bad on the outside and, maybe not outwardly turns him around, but at least turns him enough so that he is different and sweet when they are alone together. The "I see behind the veil, and I'm the luckiest woman ever" myth. We might scoff at these ideas as sorta silly, but nevertheless they are time-honored, powerful themes. Pay attention, and you will notice them in many, many of the stories that we see today in movies/TV/books, heck, even life. I admit that I am a HUGE sucker for them, considering that my absolute favorite type of hero is the bad-boy type. To take it even further, I might even say that I married a bad boy of sorts. :) (The other ones just made me yawn.)
Coming to bed last night with my precious Wright laying there taking up an unreasonable amount of space and looking like an angel, I was struck with the thought that Baby Wright and I are a classic man-myth. Because, let's face it, this kid is a complete terror during most of his waking hours. He is full swing into what I like to call The Witching Year, that horrific period between 18 - 30 months old when my children are just plain frustrating and un-fun to be around. He is adamantly scream-y and stubborn about every single little detail in his life. He has an unapologetic, rafter-shaking cry/scream that he whips out at the drop of the hat. I mean, no doubt he communicates efficiently, but in the most annoying way possible. I can't take him anywhere without becoming completely embarrassed, stressed out, and in general only nominally able to complete my errand. I walk out of any room he is in and it is like I died, based on his reaction. Also, I'm pretty sure my dad might not admit it, but he hates him (a clue: when he stomps around with shooting-range earmuffs...ya think?). Even my mom has expressed ample frustration at his constant running, screaming, throwing, and general disobedience.
But...I get this private, intimate little side of Baby Wright that no one else does...and I am IN LOVE. I mean, like, I have a huge crush on my child and want to gaze at him lovingly for hours. He is so perfectly formed, so beautiful. I adore his guileless gaze and golden curls. His puffy cheeks and block-y feet. Oh, I could go on and on. *sigh* When I hold him in my arms to nurse him and he is still and I can admire him, when I come upon him groggy and cuddly post-nap, I not only forgive him his awful behavior, I actually forget. I am just in awe of this...this being that I helped bring into the world and am charged with. I only focus on that. And, when reality comes crashing down, as it inevitably does, I hope. And I think...he'll change. :)
Speaking of men, back to my intended topic: man-myths. Ish.
I was thinking about them last night when I came into our crowded bedroom to sleep in my crowded bed which currently features a) Sam, b) sleepybeautifulevil Wright, c) 12 inches of space for me. Did I mention that Violet now sleeps on on her toddler mattress on our floor? Yes, well, we are all struggling here at the 'rents. I finally gave up and decided that we would get through these last months in whatever way possible, and if that means that we all seek comfort from each other through shared sleep, so be it. If I were her, I wouldn't want to sleep in the office/bedroom that we call "Violet's room" either. Anyway, our current setup has something so comfy and time-honored about it. It's like we are giving echoey props to our homesteading forebears, for whom living in one room was a given, not a hardship. In our case, however, we will hopefully have a spacious dwelling of cookie-cutter stucco waiting on the other side of our synchronized snores.
But was talking about myths?
Right. Um, a well-documented man-myth, one that is the basis for many--dare I say most?--romantic stories is this: a worthy woman takes a bad man and, with her superior feminine wiles, turns him into a good one. Here's a similar one: a woman takes man who is bad on the outside and, maybe not outwardly turns him around, but at least turns him enough so that he is different and sweet when they are alone together. The "I see behind the veil, and I'm the luckiest woman ever" myth. We might scoff at these ideas as sorta silly, but nevertheless they are time-honored, powerful themes. Pay attention, and you will notice them in many, many of the stories that we see today in movies/TV/books, heck, even life. I admit that I am a HUGE sucker for them, considering that my absolute favorite type of hero is the bad-boy type. To take it even further, I might even say that I married a bad boy of sorts. :) (The other ones just made me yawn.)
Coming to bed last night with my precious Wright laying there taking up an unreasonable amount of space and looking like an angel, I was struck with the thought that Baby Wright and I are a classic man-myth. Because, let's face it, this kid is a complete terror during most of his waking hours. He is full swing into what I like to call The Witching Year, that horrific period between 18 - 30 months old when my children are just plain frustrating and un-fun to be around. He is adamantly scream-y and stubborn about every single little detail in his life. He has an unapologetic, rafter-shaking cry/scream that he whips out at the drop of the hat. I mean, no doubt he communicates efficiently, but in the most annoying way possible. I can't take him anywhere without becoming completely embarrassed, stressed out, and in general only nominally able to complete my errand. I walk out of any room he is in and it is like I died, based on his reaction. Also, I'm pretty sure my dad might not admit it, but he hates him (a clue: when he stomps around with shooting-range earmuffs...ya think?). Even my mom has expressed ample frustration at his constant running, screaming, throwing, and general disobedience.
But...I get this private, intimate little side of Baby Wright that no one else does...and I am IN LOVE. I mean, like, I have a huge crush on my child and want to gaze at him lovingly for hours. He is so perfectly formed, so beautiful. I adore his guileless gaze and golden curls. His puffy cheeks and block-y feet. Oh, I could go on and on. *sigh* When I hold him in my arms to nurse him and he is still and I can admire him, when I come upon him groggy and cuddly post-nap, I not only forgive him his awful behavior, I actually forget. I am just in awe of this...this being that I helped bring into the world and am charged with. I only focus on that. And, when reality comes crashing down, as it inevitably does, I hope. And I think...he'll change. :)
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Can we talk about Sunday morning? Ugh. First of all, it contains that word, morning . Most mornings, I creak out of bed, every atom of my ...
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Oh, my beloved Trader Joe's, located in the retail center of a phony "Traditionally Designed Neighborhood", where Bouganvilla ... -
PSA: Last night Sam showed up for TV time with some sort of Fanta & vanilla ice cream concoction that I'm calling a Creamsicle Floa...