C-U-Next-Tuesday FOOD FIGHT

In this edition of C-U-Next-Tuesday, we will address Food Network stars ...


Emeril Lagasse
I'm checking out "Emeril Live" today (kids are with the grands), and he's throwing down some serious yum.

The episode is titled "Stuff It." Wine and mascarpone are being thrown around like a nerd's lunch bag on the bus.

I'm hungry, and I'm getting a little turned on by the idea of crab-stuffed portobellos. I mean, wow, they look delicious.

So then Emeril, who is my boy and is loved, finishes the dish and wipes his hands. He says very carefully and slowly that he must wash his hands, of course, because he just ... touched ... a ... mushroom.

- pause -

*confused giggle from audience member*

- pause -

*Emeril slaps his hand and gives the naughty face*

I'm not even going to explain this.

Sandra Lee
Sandy, your food sucks, and your tablescapes are ridic. Stop making money. Now.

If I ever again have to look at your makeup-caked face and your jacked-up boobs in a salmon-color shirt, next to a salmon-color KitchenAid mixer, drinking a salmon-color cocktail, putting sherbet on a piece of pre-cooked salmon and calling it "dinner," I'm going to come to the Food Network studio and spray paint your stupid fucking tablescape purple.

Tables are for food, dishes, utensils and maybe a sweet centerpiece or a few candles.

They are not intended for drunk, overgrown sorority girls to use for their twisted preschool toy fantasies. Most of us stopped daydreaming of having tea parties with seahorses atop tables made of rainbows when we were 5.

Of course, most of us don't drink our nutrients with straight vodka in a menopausal last-ditch effort to recapture the dreams of our broken childhoods.

You are the Glenn Beck of the Food Network. Seek help.


Paula Deen
The ingredients in this recipe explain why I love you.

In my opinion, you have the best breasts of any Food Network star. They're plump and ample and I imagine them to smell like maple syrup and bacon.

They make me want to hug you after I've had a tough day on the playground. And then you'll feed me bacon-wrapped cookies, and I'll color for a little while.

OK, maybe I do have some twisted preschool fantasies. I'm still far more stable than Sandra Lee.

Giada De Laurentis

Please don't bite me.

 

GUSTAVO CABALLERO / GETTY IMAGES

I said "asshole" in therapy, but I'm all better now

I'm publishing this draft of a post I started a month ago, because tonight I had my last counseling session. Seems like a good way to honor PDub (best counselor EV).

Freaked out? If so, take your stigma-feeding judginess elsewhere. If you had a heart condition, you'd take medicine. I have a brain condition. Suck it.

For those of you sticking around, le post:

OK. So, background: I have been diagnosed with clinical depression. Sometimes it's hard to tell because it occasionally manifests itself as me acting like a complete jackass, and that's kind of how I act when I'm not depressed.

This is the second time I've been treated for depression. The first time I had postpartum depression and got medicated and then everything was sunshine sparkles or whatever.

I thought this time, since I didn't know what caused it and because new-doctor-who's-all-young-and-makes-me-feel-unaccomplished-by-comparison wanted me to have a consultation before she prescribed me anything, I decided to see a therapist.

This you should know: therapist is awesome, and I totally respect him.

Now the meds are kicking in, and I kind of don't have a lot to talk about. I mean, I don't feel like global warming is going to kill us all tomorrow, and I'm not having random crying jags because some asshole in Arizona left his Chihuahua on top of his car and the dog fell off and broke three legs but still spent three months limping his way back to his negligent owner out of love and the owner is overcome by guilt and petlove and spends thousands of dollars on vet care even though the Chihuahua is basically now just a sausage with one leg and freakishly large ears.

(I'm super insane, but I got a lot of empathy, yo.)

So, tonight, I told the therapist about some things I think when I'm feeling depressed. They have to do with obsessing over the things I said or did wrong when I was 11 or 15 or 22.

He was understanding and insightful and said maybe that guilt over these things I did years ago is one of those signs I need to learn is a symptom of depression for me, so I can seek help earlier if it comes up again.

Then I said, "Yeah, I guess you're kind of supposed to be an asshole when you're a teenager."

So now I have a new thing I said wrong to obsess over next time I'm depressed.

PDub is a good guy, and he gives good therapy. I'm feeling good about me.

I've learned in six sessions (with the help of a little SSRI - holla!) that depression has little if anything to do with my tendency to walk backward into people at cocktail parties (I'm just not charming, sorry) or my ridiculous habit of saying inappropriate things to my parents, as characterized by this conversation:

Dad: You have a headache, honey?

Me (washing back pills): Nope. This is my antidepressant and a birth control pill, because, really, if you're taking one, you should be taking the other.

Dad: ... 

So, my weirdness has nothing to do with depression. Depression just makes me feel bad about weirdness.

Now, I feel great, so I'm going to weird it up, SUCKAS!

Celebrity Crushes

So, I obviously meant that the weekend starts Sunday.

It's OK. I got all my "real" work out of the way, so I can use the holiday week to "work" on blogging.

Coming up with a short list of my fave celebs is HARD, so I've decided to break it up a bit.

I. just. can't. narrow. it. down.

Nearly all of my celebrity crushes are second- or third-tier celebrities, but THEY DESERVE more love.

Have you ever watched "Best Week Ever" on VH1? It's basically the place where D-listers go to die, kind of like "Hollywood Squares" of the new millennium.

That's the kind of cynical, money-grubbing, fame-hungry attitude I love, but I also love the accidental celeb, the meek and humble.

Remember Chief Moose? DO YOU?! I do. And you should, too. He had a fan site, briefly. The FAQ sheet answered, in lengthy detail, such burning questions as "Is the Moose loose?" (The answer was something like, "No, the Moose is not a slut ...")

I have met some real celebrities, but I'm not typically starstruck.

The last time I remember being starstruck is when I was 9, on vacation at the beach, dining at a fine restaurant, where I was so excited to see the local weatherman sitting just a few tables away, I begged my parents to let me go talk to him, got jittery, spilled soda all over my lap, and missed the opportunity to say "hi." I was only a little bit crushed ...

*muffled sobs into pillow*

So, I think if I ever met one of the low-end celebrities on my crush list, I might have a similar reaction. The problem, I believe, is that I tend to meet A-listers or, in one case, did not realize I was meeting a celebrity at all.

It's like in those 80s movies when the girl is surrounded by handsome-if-misogynistic jocks when all she really wants is a "nice guy" (read: nosepicker).

A-listers just aren't satisfying.

So, I will start my list with the flavor of the month. (I'm starting small.)

No one will remember this guy in 20 years, except on shows like "Best Week Ever." Actually, he could probably work his way into a regular gig on that show.

So, without further ado, I present to you ...

Levi Johnston

Who he is: the teen father of Sarah Palin's illegitimate grandson.

Why he's famous: capitalized on being the teen father of Sarah Palin's illegitimate grandson.

How he capitalized: mouthed off about the Palin family, especially the former VP candidate; posed for Playgirl (without going full Monty)

Why I like him: using his notoriety/money to get joint custody of his son; smirk that tells the world he knows exactly how long he'll be famous (15 minutes) and how much money he can make in that time; boned the VP candidate's daughter and didn't bother to use a condom. DUDE.

Celeb Crush Rating: Rootin' for ya, man.

What the rating means: You're a little douchey, and what you're doing is definitely icky, but you're doing some of this for your son, which is cool (kind of). You're not afraid of people in power, and you speak your mind. You're not a celeb crush, and you're probably not going to be, but hot DAMN you know how to make a buck. I hope life turns out OK for you, even though you piss off a lot of powerful people.

POSTS PLANNED

A wild, wild long weekend (maybe week) full of the same low quality of posts all two of you have come to love tolerate as a brief distraction from your dead-end, soul-crushing day jobs.

Publishpalooza. Isn't it douchey when people add "apalooza" to the end of things to make it sound super fun? Because Lollapalooza was fun. In 1994.

Now, when someone tells me he/she is attending Lollapalooza, I'm like, "Oh, really? Did you like Woodstock II?" Buy me a $40 Hanes T-shirt while you're there, sweetheart. (Psst. They sell those at Wal-Mart on the $5 rack, and they even throw down for a smiley face sign.)

So, yeah. This week will be that awesome.

Naked Cupcakeapalooza.

Subjects discussed will include:
1. A countdown of the most inappropriate things I have said/done to my parents. Some Hallmark moments might include thongs, a clothespin, medication, a nipple, or my hairstyle.
They probably should have had other children, so they'd know I'm not their fault.

2. The Kindle: you are useless to me.

3. My top celebrity crushes. I'm so excited about revealing my fave, I can barely contain myself. I can't decide whether I should make this the first or last post this week.
Understand this: there will be no Johnny Depp, no Brad Pitt (because, ew, dirty and douchey), no George Clooney, and no OMG-Megan-Fox-is-so-hot/Lady-Gaga-is-SO-COOL-I'd-totally-go-girl-for-her bullshit. My list is co-ed, but it is not about pretty people. It is about inner awesomeness and general kickassity.

Put on your gladrags and let's swing.

(Really? Blogger doesn't know what gladrags are? Crappy spellcheck.)

C-U-Next-Tuesday

SPONTANEOUS ERECTION WARNING: Post contains suggestive photo of me with wine bottle.

My camera is great for a digital, but I'm at the point in my career where I should really just bite the bullet and invest in a Nikon.

I just don't feel like shelling out 600 bucks. (For this reason, I also have not replaced our disgusting old sofa.) Now, there might a solution to my problem.

I heard some chicks use the Internet to get guys to pay for their breast implants. They post pictures of themselves and have, like, flirty little sweetie-pie conversations with men who then pay for their surgeries.  

Charity, people. That's the Christmas spirit, right there.

The ladies probably then have to send photos of their new bewbies to the guys, but that's cool. The dudes with the credit cards should get something for their money. When you send Sally Struthers money for hungry kids, the kids are supposed to send you their drawings of their newly filled tummies and third-world dental procedures. It's only fair to see the good you do in this world.

Here's the thing: If I post some of the crappy photos my digital takes, maybe someone will take pity on me and buy me a nice camera.

They're not sexy photos, but the men didn't buy those chicks' boobs for sex. It was good will toward man.

(photo deleted because people actually read this blog sometimes now, and i'm anonymous)

A new camera for me is a fucking steal compared to breast implants. A decent camera would put you out about $600, which is at most one-tenth of what a couple of C-cups cost.

In return, I would gladly send SFW photos of my completely clothed breasts, which have nursed twins but are still perky enough to hold up a sweater. I'll even throw in the rights to my absolutely-not-politically-correct, incredibly offensive, but possibly million-dollar fetish Web site ideas.

I don't really have a lot of time to chitchat on the Internetz, so I probably won't send many flirty e-mails. If you give me your address, though, I'll snail-mail you the leftover Halloween candy, a blurred-out photo of my family holiday pic, and a batch of Christmas granola.

Who's buying?

My not-so-wet dream and regular features

I'm getting ready to go to bed, but what's the point? I'm still a little miffed about my dream last night.

I dreamed I had to wait 45 minutes for a snickerdoodle-flavor coffee in a paper cup and some lunch. (The detail I give coffee in my dreams is telling.)

The wait was excruciating. I was standing at a counter, and people had basically cleaned up and turned off lights. Totally inappropriate and unprofessional. Everyone else in my party had been served and were sitting at the tables eating lunch. I waited and waited and waited.

What kind of fucked up dream is that? Who wants to spend sleeping hours waiting at a counter, tense and pissed off because she can't get caffeine?

Answer: Nobody.

Give me my fucking coffee already. I have better dreams scheduled, assholes. GAW.

Anyway, I'm hoping for a better dream tonight. Obvi.

I have plans to make a regular feature out of "c-u-Next-Tuesday." Yay. My first stupid blog gimmick. Expect irreverence.

Or don't.

Who cares?

I'm basically the best blogger ever.

Scheduling Holidays with the P Fam

So ... the holidays get a bit *yikes* around these parts. I'll 'splain:

Nov. 23 - My folks' anniversary
Nov. 20-something - Thanksgiving
Dec. 6 - Twins' birthday
Dec. 11 - Mom-in-law's birthday
Dec. 14 - My birthday (I want presents. Mark your calendar.)
Dec. 25 - Christmas
Dec. 26 - Dad-in-law's birthday
Jan. 1 - New Year's
Jan. 2 - Mom's birthday

I'm trying to get LJ and the Hankster ready for their 3rd birthday. I'd like for them to be excited.

I know what kind of cupcakes they want (pink frosting, yellow cake for Lucy; red cake and blue frosting for Harry), what they want for gifts (a book about pink for Lucy; strawberries for Harrison), and that they like balloons.

Time is such a strange concept for a little tike. We've been reviewing the order of events.

"First, Thanksgiving. Then, Lucy and Harry's birthday. Then, Grandma's birthday. Then, Mommy's birthday. Then, Christmas ..."

LJ and I went to church together yesterday - just us girls. For a 2-year-old, she's pretty indignant that she doesn't get any Body or Blood. She sticks out her hands just the right way every time. She gets back at the priest by talking through his entire homily. Take that, dude-in-dress.

So, after church, we took our girl-time car ride to talk a little bit about the birthday. This is when I learned what kind of cupcakes she wants and that she should get a pink "rip-it" (wrapped gift, in adultspeak) and Harrison should get a blue one.

Then, I let her listen to "Jingle Bells" from "Christmas with the Rat Pack" 6 times. As we made our last turn toward home, she started crying.

"What's wrong, baby?" I asked her.

"No go home," she sobbed. "Nooo gooo ho-ooome."

Me: "Honey, don't you want to go see Daddy and Harrison?"

Lucy: "Noooo. I want to go to Thanksgiddi-ing."

Me: *sigh*


This is what I get for trying to schedule the holidays with a 2-year-old.

Seasons change
I suppose this will just be one of many mother-daughter conversations where we misunderstand each other.

I once witnessed the following conversation between my mother and grandmother when my mom was taking Mom-Mom out to do some shopping.

Mom (backing car out of driveway): OK, Mom. What do you have on your list today?

Mom-Mom:  Well, I need some throw rugs for the kitchen. I'd like to look at some blouses. Your father needs some socks. Oh - and I could use some spring clothespins.

Mom (slightly confused and annoyed):  Why do you need spring clothespins?

Mom-Mom (a little surprised by the question, perhaps):  Well, to hang my laundry.

Mom (really annoyed and super testy):  Well, what's wrong with your winter ones, Mom?


Mom-Mom and Me: *snicker*

Mom-Mom (wiping tears from her laughing eyes): Not spring clothespins. Spring clothespins.


Mom (realizing some clothespins have springs): What? ... Oh!

Don't you just love Cute Anecdote Monday? I'll be back to being a sarcastic c-u-Next-Tuesday tomorrow.

Stuff you should know so you don't look like a dumbass on the Internetz or in life

I spend some time on the Internet, and during this time, I read a lot. A lot of people have a lot of opinions.
Some of those opinions are quite insightful. Some of them are just plain idiotic.

Some people look fucking brilliant because they have amazing grammar skills and vocabulary that makes the average reader run for http://www.merriam-webster.com/. Do not be fooled. Many of these people lack rational thought or basic human tolerance, kind of like Hitler.

Others can't spell, don't understand and/or know the proper phrasing of idioms, and fail to grasp basic sentence structure. Still, they sometimes have something worthwhile to add to a debate or discussion.

The rest of the people on the Internet are either stupid and illiterate OR are just plain average.

This post is for the illiterate-but-functional who want to avoid being laughed off the World Wide Web by those who paid attention in 4th grade.

Pull up a chair next to this crackling fire, dear Interneters, and let's discuss things you should already know. I'll try to update this as I see other tragic mistakes.

1. The ellipsis. Space, three periods, space. Not eleven periods. Three. Get it? OK. Let's try ... this way. Great. There are some other technical rules about end-of-sentence punctuation and the ellipsis, but the "dot, dot, dot" method will get you through most situations.

2.  Supposedly. Say it out loud. There's a D in there, not a V. If you use "supposively," you are not only wrong but supposedly failing 9th grade. If you pronounce the word with a "V," you can plan on being assistant customer service manager until retirement. You will never get a promotion.


3. Definitely. Two "E"s, two "I"s. No "A"s. That middle word in there? It's "finite." Pronounce it like that in your head. De-FINITE-ly.

Don't be sad if you've made these mistakes. I'm a journalist and could tell you all sorts of fun mistakes I or my friends have made. In fact, I might one day write a post about them. Until then, please, for the love of blog, work on the ellipsis. It's the easiest to remember.

Very sincerely, with kisses and stuff,

Your very condescending, very naked cupcake blogger,
Sarah

P.S. I'm looking forward to figuring out the mistakes I made in this post. Then I'll be all, "See what you get for being preachy, dumbass? Now no one will ever want to read your blog." Then, I'll be like, "So? No one reads it now."