Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they're rather stupid.

Ladies, have you ever noticed that when you ask a man to get something for you it seems he can never seem to find it?  Whether it be milk from the refrigerator or  a stamp to mail a letter.

It’s called man eyes and they all seem to have the same problem.

You know how it is . . . you send him to get it and chances are pretty high that he won’t be able to find it.

I have theory on this phenomenon. 

This is what I believe happens.  You ask with a please and a thank you and all other manner of politeness.  Then suddenly, without inexplicably the man is struck blind . . . selectively blind . . . man eyes.

He can maneuver about without bumping into walls or falling over furniture but as he approaches his target his vision is suddenly impaired . . . its kind of like reverse tunnel vision. 

My experience has been that its just easier to go and get whatever it is I need for myself.

And that, girlfriends, is what it all boils down to.  it’s not that they can’t see . . . it’s that they won’t see. 

If they do it enough times they know that you will eventually give up and stop asking them to do anything for you.  It’s a conspiracy at the highest levels of manly deception.

And all you men out there??  We are on to you!

Mormon Peach Cobbler

The fruit, usually immersed in a sweet syrup, is traditionally covered with a biscuit topping so that it has the rough, uneven appearance of cobblestones—hence the name “cobblers”.  

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Fruit Mixture

1 29 Ounce Size Can Of Sliced Peaches In Syrup

1 Tablespoon Cornstarch

1/2 Teaspoon Cinnamon

1/4 Teaspoon Nutmeg

Drain the juice into a saucepan.  Mix a little of the juice with cornstarch to make a soft paste and add the paste to the rest of the juice.  Add the spices.

Heat until bubbly, stirring as needed.  The syrup should thicken to a slurry.

Pour the slurry and peaches into a small casserole dish.

Topping

1 Egg

1/3 Cup Milk

4 Tablespoons Butter, Melted

1 Cup Flour

1/4 Cup Sugar

2 Teaspoons Baking Powder

1/4 Teaspoon Salt

In a medium bowl, whisk the butter, milk, and egg together.  Add the sugar and stir.

Combine the dry ingredients and add them to the liquid mixture.   Stir until well combined.

Spoon over the peach mixture so that the fruit is covered.

Bake for 45 minutes or until the top is a golden brown.

Serve hot or cold with vanilla ice cream or even cold milk or crème anglaise.

Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they're rather stupid.


Mary Poppins

Play is the exultation of the possible

So there I was . . . a kid; dumb, susceptible, gullible.  There was my older sister . . . in a word  . . . evil.  Okay, that may be over exaggerating only slightly . . . I wasn't all that dumb . .. . no wait,  yes I was.  Hehehe . . . Okay, okay to be fair she wasn’t exactly evil . . . maybe just a little bad.   Or perhaps she was simply jealous of her younger, cuter sister who would always be younger AND cuter . . . it's understandable.

So there we were . . . in the basement doing whatever it is that stupid, wicked little girls do in basements . . . probably playing house, or candy land or some other insidious game.  When all of a sudden . . . looming large . . . it was there . . . the clothes dryer.  With its gaping mouth enticing some poor young child with its sinister carnival ride possibilities. 

Really, from a kid's point of view, how awesome would that be?  It's warm and goes round and round . . . fun stuff!


Of course, being a silly dumb child, I didn't think about the fins poking out of the drum and how painful it would be as I tumbled around in there getting whacked and thwacked by them.  Nope . . . I didn't think of that at all.

Viciously encouraged by my older sister I climbed on in.  From inside I could hear my sister fumbling around with the operation knobs and then I was moving.  It quickly went from fun to owie, owie, ouchie OW . . . let me oooouuuuuuttttttt!.


From my perspective, I think she waited a tad to long to let me out.  


Bruised and battered but no worse for wear I climbed from the cylindrical torture chamber never to contemplate that particular adventure again.


Ah . . . childhood . . . good times, good times.

Crème Anglaise


1 Cup Half-n-Half

1 2-Inch Piece Vanilla Bean, Split

3 Large Egg Yolks

3 Tablespoons Sugar

Combine milk and cream in heavy medium saucepan. Scrape in seeds from vanilla bean; add bean. Bring milk mixture to simmer. Remove from heat.


Whisk egg yolks and sugar in medium bowl to blend. Gradually whisk hot milk mixture into yolk mixture. Return custard to saucepan. Stir over low heat until custard thickens and leaves path on back of spoon when finger is drawn across, about 5 minutes (do not boil). Strain sauce into bowl. Cover and chill.

Play is the exultation of the possible.
Martin Buber

I don't care how . . . I want it NOW!

This weekend starts a week of fresh air, beer swilling, no brain cell using vacation.  Our escapes from the reality of our day to day lives are pretty laid back, but this one will be epically relaxiating.  

Even so, there are always arrangements to be made . . . and I do the all the prep work.  It makes things oh-so-much easier with no input from hubby.  Basically, because he freaks out at the slightest little thing . . . . the result of which being that if he  gets stressed out the threats of vacation being cancelled erupt.  Let’s face it he’s a big freakin’ baby.  But he’s mine and I love him.

I pack my clothes, provide him with a basket of pre sorted clothing to choose from for him to pack (it gives him the feeling that he’s contributed to getting ready for the trip), gather snacks, coffee fixins and the like.  That way everything is ready to go when . .. . well . . . we’re ready to go.

This time the loading of the truck went flawlessly . . . everything in its place, nothing amiss and . . . most remarkable . . . no hissy fits.  It was really and truly amazing.  In the interest of full disclosure . . . he did forget his coat but we were only a couple blocks away from home when he realized it and it was a quick turn about and retrieval with very little excitement.

The trip itself was as good as it gets.  We hit the usual traffic in the usual spots but nothing major and we made the drive from Connecticut to the White Mountains of New Hampshire in 4 ½ hours . . . not bad considering it’s taken us as long as 8 hours . . . but typically around 6.

We arrived at the motel . . . the White Trellis . . . our home away from home.  What we see when we pull into the parking lot sets the tone for the next hour or so . . . some was parked in his . . . yes his . . . parking space.  You see, this place is really is  our home away from home and we have our own room . . . really!  Room #8?  Yeah, that’s ours every time we visit . .  . which is several times a year.  There are assigned spaces for each room and some Masshole was parked in ours.  Now, take into consideration, it is winter there is snow on the ground, it was dark and you can’t see the space markers.  It matters not . . . car . . .  in his space  . . . a travesty.  Thus begins the downward spiral to poopheadedness.  Me?  I’m all like whatever there’s another space just as close to our room . . . premium parking, in fact.

We got out of the truck only to be greeted by our cheerful innkeeper, Mary.  She showers us with hugs and kisses prior to taking our credit card and giving us the password for the wireless internet connection.

While I’m paying the bill, he begins unloading the truck.  We haven’t seen Mary for a few months and there is much to catch up.  It’s late and all I want to do is settle in and have a beer and relax.  By the time I manage to say good night, hubby has the truck unloaded and well on his way to grumpiness.  “I could’ve used a little help,” says he.

I roll my eyes and help bring the rest of our stuff into the room which he has piled outside the door.

As a side note . . . any place we stay the minimum requirements are a clean room and access to the interwebs . . . not much else matters.

We got into the room and it was like 80,000 degrees in there.  A new digital thermostats had been installed with the controls locked out and we couldn’t adjust the temperature.  The grumpiness level is beginning to spike.  But, he hacked it soon enough and that crisis was over.

Whew.

However, we he tries to get his laptop connected to the wireless router it won’t connect.  Keep in mind that I booted up MY laptop, plugged in the password and I was surfing the world wide web right off the bat.  Also, besides his laptop he brought his tablet and he got that connected right off, as well.  And his mobile phone has internet access.  He’s got a plethora of technology at his fingertips.  But he couldn’t get his laptop online and the world was coming to an end.

“That’s it”, says he “I’m going home.”  (Really he said that!)

Incredulously I say, “You’re going home?  Right now?”

“Yes.”

“You have internet access.  You can Facebook, read blogs and catch up on the news to your heart’s content . . . what’s the problem.”

“I can’t play my games on the tablet . . . it’s slower than dirt.”

Okay . . . we’re in the White Mountains surrounded by majestic beauty, marvelous brew pubs and stuff to do no matter where you go and HE is worried that he won’t get the high score in Bejeweled Blitz or Zuma.  Can you say addicted??

Picture this . . . an 8 year old child stomping his foot and crying, “I’m taking my toys and I’m going home.”  That will give you an accurate picture of the tantrum I was facing.  I decided the best course of action was to ignore him and he’d get over it.  So, I  just continued enjoying my beer and browsing the web.  He finally got his laptop connected and all was right with the world.

We wake up the next morning to a blue sky filled with poofy white clouds and a view of snow spattered mountains.  Not a bad way to start to the day.

in lieu of an apology, he justified his fit of temper saying, “In my defense, everything went perfectly getting here.”  Like that in any way justified him acting like a big giant baby with a droopy, poopy diaper and a raging case of diaper rash.

Welcome to my world. 

  

Firewater Friday - People think you can't be clever if you have breasts

There once was a man from Nantucket . . . no really . . . there was.  But that has nothing to do with this blog post.

What it IS about is two whacked out chicks with impressive chumbawumbas.  Not extraordinary merely for their robust (get it . . . bust) size but for what their gazongas have done for them. 

This is about good jahoobies versus evil knockers.

A Florida woman was recently busted for drivingwhile intoxicated.  But . . . according to her . . .  it wasn’t her alcohol consumption that caused her to recklessly operate her motor vehicle.  Oh no . . . it was her num-nums!

When the police officer informed her that he wanted to perform a field sobriety test she asserted that it would not be possible for her to pass such an examination stating that her “big boobies” 

cause her to be off balance. 

In the official report to police officer wrote, “When I told her we were going to do some roadside tasks she told me that I needed to understand that she is big chested and if I asked her to close her eyes and balance she is not going to balance well," he went on to write "When I told her she had to keep her hands at her side she stated hell no not with these. Telling me again she can't do it, not with her big boobies.”

The fact that she reeked of booze, was staggering around and couldn’t talk straight was reason enough to book her.  That and the glass of “tea” the deputy found in her car that smelled suspiciously like hootch.

She offered to show the policeman her ta-ta’s.  He declined.

In other news, a different woman driver claims her 38KKK hooters saved her from death when she wrecked her car. 

The proud bearer of the world’s largest breast implants claims that her ginormous milkmakers spared her from an early demise by acting as secondary airbags when she lost control of her car and rammed into a tree.

She was cited for operating a motor vehicle while intoxicated and for not wearing a seat belt.   She claims that she does not drink alcohol; however, she admitted to taking drugs for various ailments including backaches . . . you think those back pains may have something to do with the fact that her cha-chas are the size of basketballs?

Hmmm  . . .

Slow Comfortable Screw  

 1 Oz. Vodka

 1 Oz. Southern Comfort

 1 Oz. Sloe Gin

 5 Oz. Orange Juice

Add all ingredients to a cocktail shaker half-packed with ice. Shake, shake, shake . . . Pour into a glass filled with ice.

People think you can't be clever if you have breasts.
Kelly Brook

Whip it! Whip it good!

What's with the kids these days?  They think they're so darned smart . . . impertinent . . . lazy . . . ne'er do wells.  A bunch-a whipper snappers, all of 'em.  

Interestingly . . . the meaning of whipper snapper has never strayed far from it's origins.  


It started all the way back then . . . like 400 years ago.  Yup, kids were slackers then too, just like they are now.  But instead of sequestering themselves with their computers playing World of Warcraft or Skyrim they cracked whips.  No kidding!  They did.

Just like today kids, in the big cities of the 17th centurywould loiter about and annoy passers by. . . whipper snappers were so called because of their penchant for standing around on street corners all day, idly snapping whips in a misguided attempt to command attention and respect. The fuddy-duddies of the day started calling them “whipper-snappers”.


Fact is stranger than fiction . . . 

Cheesy Beanie - Weanie Casserole

I made this recipe up from stuff I had hanging out in my pantry and fridge.  It’s quick, easy and really really nomdillyicious

1 Package Hot Dogs

2 Cans Baked Beans

2 Cups Shredded Cheddar Cheese

1 Tube Crescent Rolls

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Slice hot dogs into 1/2 inch pieces. In a saucepan mix the hot dogs and beans together and heat until warmed through.  Put in casserole dish and top with cheese.  Lay the crescent rolls on top. Bake 30 minutes.  Enjoy.

Turn the other cheek

Hubby and I live in a small condo.  Our unit is sandwiched right smack dab in the middle of a bunch of other units.

I think we’re good neighbors.  We keep to ourselves, we don’t bother anybody . . . frankly, we don’t give a flippin’ flop what any one is doing or how they live their lives.

We do, however, have a few neighbors who seem bent on annoying the bajoopies out of us and basically making our lives miserable.

And, it’s been that way since the day I moved in.  That was over 12 years ago . . . I was single and on my own for the first time in my life.  Obviously, I was very excited to have my very own place.  I had a small porch with a sliding glass door  off my bedroom.  One of the first things I bought was a wind chime to hang on that porch.  Not a big clunky gongy thing but a delicate tinkly one . . . it was, by no means, obnoxious.

The point is, my sweet little wind chime wasn’t dangling from my eaves for more than a few hours when the president of the condo association was knocking on my door telling me it had to come down because my next door neighbor had complained about the “noise”.

And so it began . . .

Because no one was going to get the best of me . . . I hung said wind chime inside my front window with a fan blowing on it so that my new neighbors could continue to enjoy the chiming experience.

Mess with me will you?  Yeah well, you just go and try it!

So, that set the tone for the years to come.

There have been many other incidents . . . too many to innumerate . . . and most of them because of the obnoxiousness of our drunkard neighbor next door who apparently has nothing better to do with his time but harass us.

So, when he gets falling down drunk and an ambulance has to come to haul his inebriated ass off to the hospital to detox we make sure to give him a little wave to send him on his way.

Turn the other cheek, I always say!  The other butt cheek!

Baked Egg Cups

12 Eggs

12 Thin Slices of Deli Ham (Round)

1/2 Cup of Your Favorite Cheese

1/2 Cup Diced Scallions

Fresh Cracked Sea Salt and Pepper

Preheat the oven to 400.  Spray a muffin tin with cooking spray.  Lay a piece of ham in each hole creating a little ham cup.  Crack one egg into each hole and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Bake the eggs for about 12 minutes…until the white is firm and the yolk is still nice and runny. (15 minutes for a "well done" egg)

Carefully remove each egg from the muffin tin and top with grated cheese and scallions.  Serve hot!  Yield: 12