A Good Purchase

Generally speaking, shopping at antique and thrift stores is an exercise in uncertainty. One never knows what stock will be available, and if one leaves something behind, it's not likely one will find it again. I became reacquainted with this universal truth just recently, when I didn't buy a cookbook at a local thrift store.

It wasn't there when I went back. Dammit.

So when I stumbled across this:

I knew I would regret not buying it. Oh, I tried not buying it. I put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then put it back on the shelf. Then picked it up again. Then...well, you see where this is going. But eventually, I bought the cookbook and brought it home.

And then Roommate put it tidily away and it took me two weeks to find it.

Anyway. Find it I did and, while skimming through the recipes, I stumbled across a tiny, shining gem of a recipe. It's called "Oat and Sesame Biscuits."

NB: The author, Margaret Briggs, taught school in the UK and Germany for thirty years before publishing this and other books like "Vinegar: 1001 Practical Uses. [I know.] We can safely assume, therefore, that Maggie, bless her heart, means the cookie version of the term biscuits rather than the "and gravy" type.

And! Evidently, Mag-a-rooney, as I just felt like calling her, just had to publish this treatise on all the oat's majesty and wonder. Not only could she not keep the wealth of knowledge of the history of porridge and proper spurtle etiquette to herself, she obviously had way too much time on her hands despite buying and restoring a "dilapidated house in SW France" with her husband, Lol. No, that's his name. Lol. Seriously.

You can't make this crap up.

Anyway. Back to the biscuits.

This recipe has a remarkably brief ingredient list:

Oats,
sesame seeds,
brown sugar and
cooking oil.

The method is as follows:

1. Roast the sesame seeds in a dry pan until golden.
2. Put oats, sesame seeds, brown sugar and cooking oil in a bowl and leave for one hour.
3. Add the beaten egg--


Wait a minute. What beaten egg? Upon closer examination of the four item ingredient list, I see no eggs, beaten or otherwise. Is it one egg that's needed? Is it two eggs? Is it one egg, beaten, but only half used? It is a brown egg? A green egg? An Easter egg?

I really want to call the author of this cookbook and say, "Mags! Babe! What the hell, man???" Sadly, I do not have her phone number. Possibly this is for the best. I'd hate to interrupt critical vinegar use. In a formerly dilapidated French house. With Lol.

You can't make this crap up.

Led Astray. Again.

On Thursday evening, Roommate and I went to visit our personal trainer/sadist again. Did I mention that her name is Sandi? With an i? Possibly a little heart over it?

Yeah.

Anyway, Sandi, PT/S, was particularly gleeful that Roommate and I were in no small amount of pain even before her regularly scheduled torture session. Roommate told her happily that we'd worked out three times that week already. [I have no idea why Roommate is so happy about this. She may actually be broken.]

My lack of blogging becomes understandable, doesn't it? I was far too busy moaning and kvetching to type. Plus, it really, really hurt.

And then--then!!!--Roommate had to go and blab about my promise to Mr. Man. Mr. Man is my ridiculously dreamy-hot Swedish friend. My insanely fit, ridiculously hot, absurdly intelligent, incredibly focused Swedish friend. I promised...

Sigh. I can't believe I did this.

I promised to jog a mile.

I know!!!!! No, I haven't a clue what I was thinking. Okay, maybe I was distracted by the hotness. But come on! A mile. ME!!! Was he deranged to insist upon it? Was I drunk when I caved?

And Sandi, PT/S, was delighted. Delighted. No, more delighted than that. More than that, even. Okay, not that much. But close. And then she stopped and said, "Why did you agree to run when he asked you and not when I did?"

C'mon, Sandi. Really? Think about it. Hotness. I told her, "Because I have no hope of ever sleeping with you."

Not that I'll ever sleep with Mr. Man. But a woman can dream, can't she? Sleeping with Mr. Man is as unrealistic as my pathetic attempt to jog a mile on Sunday. No, I did not succeed. I traveled a mile, in a combination of walking and jogging, but sadly, I did not fulfill my promise. And everything that hurt before really, really, REALLY hurts now.

NB: When a military guy tries to tell you that pain is just weakness leaving the body, he's full of crap. In case you needed to know this.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Ow. Even sighing hurts now. Gah!

I blame the hotness.

The patient giggled.

A patient asked me this morning, "Do you know why a chicken coop has only two doors?"

I thought for a moment and said, "No. Why?"

"Because if it had four doors, it'd be a sedan."

Weekend with Ted

Big Head Ted came to visit this weekend. It was super. He's such a good boy, despite being 144 pounds, at last weigh in, and having toenails made of titanium. Not that he knows that he weighs 144 pounds and has toenails made of titanium. As far as he's concerned, he's the smallest dog in the house.

He and Beagle Bailey did their twin boys impression on the couch. See how small they are?
Can you blame them for getting whatever small snatches of sleep they could? They were exhausted. Bailey bow-OOOOOO-ed Ted until Ted galumphed after him, chasing each other around the living room. The seriously overcrowded and relatively small living room.

Hmm? Bow-ooo? Galumph? These are technical terms. Do feel free to ask if they confuse you, dearest.

Anyway, Bailey did not play fair, as he scuttled under furniture and through spaces far too small for Ted to fit. Ted had his revenge, of course, by bounding up and completely over armchairs and the settee to catch that sneaky beagle as he appeared on the other side. They had a marvelous time.

It is no small miracle that the house is still standing.

Ted is very likely part German Shepherd Dog, possibly mixed with mastodon. He, however, has no clue that he may well be a descendant of one the toughest breeds in the world.

Unless it's that last picture. He can handle that.

Ted. Small dog in a really big package.

In case anyone wondered:

Daytime. Daytime Theraflu.

Ahem.

LIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We have a winner!

Champion Palacegarden Malachy. Pekingese. Winner, Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, 2012. See, I don't mind the pekingese winning. I don't. But then, I was delighted with the footstool from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," so maybe I'm not the person to ask.
A lovely group of pet owners have an email circle, to with I was invited fairly recently. While there wasn't an actual hue and cry that went up over the best-in-show decision, there were a few mutters. And this was posted:
Okay, so there's a slight resemblance. But come on! How can you not love that little face??? That ridiculous, goateed, old-eastern-European-man-eyebrowed face?

You just laughed, didn't you? You just thought of someone who looks just like this dog. I know. It slays me, too.

But still, there was a general air of disgruntlement from a few quarters. I did try to offer my support by saying this:

I do like the walking footstool, but I understand your disappointment. I'm
disappointed every time a terrier doesn't win best in show. I think a terrier
should ALWAYS win best in show. And if a terrier doesn't win best in show, the
winner should have some terrier in its background. And if the winner doesn't
have some terrier in its background, it should have some terrier-like traits or
behaviors. And if it doesn't have terrier-like traits or behaviors, it should be
friends with a terrier and hang out with a terrier as often as possible.

'Cause I like terriers. You know. A little.

Shrug. I think I have to view this as I did the 2011 Stanley Cup finals.

Next year!!! We'll take it next year!!!

Valentine's Day

This is not my wee beastie, but oh! Does this dog have it right! HRHTM would totally love these candy hearts.

In regards to my Valentine's Day, I spent some quality time this morning with my valentines, AKA the dogs. Yes, yes, I did. Because last night, around midnight, my Fabulous Neighbor called. FN had gone to the walk-in clinic with Roommate for several hours earlier that evening; she was very unwell.

"I have something to tell you," she said, "but you can't freak out."

I clamped down the lock on the freak-out button in my brain and said, "Okay."

"You won't freak out?"

"I won't freak out. What's going on?"

FN took a deep breath. "I'm having chest pain and heaviness in my chest."

"Okay," I said calmly. "Then we're going to the ER."

It was the best Valentine's Day ever. Hearts. Okay, cardiac testing, but close enough. Flowers. Sent by FN's daughter. And, considering that the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show was on last night and is finishing up tonight, none of which I will see due to our time in the ER, tremendous acts of love. The four hours of sleep I got with the dogs was merely the ribbon on the package.

Ah, love. What a beautiful thing. Happy Valentine's Day.

In Search Of...!!

Do you remember that show? I think it was Leonard Nimoy who hosted it, and the point was to seek out the magical and mysterious of this world. I think it needs to be redone. I think we need to go in search of...

...Roommate's Dream Guy.

Not that Roommate spends a lot of time dwelling on this. I, however, do.

Just so you know, dear invisible one, Roommate's guy is going to be called Nick. That might not be his name. But that's what I'm going to call him. Why, yes! I will tell you why.

See, Roommate likes to watch the ghost hunting shows. I, myself, am creeped out by them, but she enjoys them. Quite a lot, actually. One of her favorites is "Ghost Adventures."
This show features three clever fellows named Zack, Aaron and Nick. Yes, Nick!

NB: This Nick is not Roommate's Nick. In case there was confusion. After all, if this Nick were Roommate's Nick, there'd be no need to go....In Search Of....!!!! We'd already know where he is. Just saying.

Anyway. In "Ghost Adventures," Zack, Aaron and Nick go into buildings that are believed to be haunted. Yes. Willingly. After a brief tour, they wait until dark and allow themselves to be---wait for it---locked inside the building. Yes. Willingly!! Then, rocket scientists that they are, they walk around this seriously creeptastic building [oftentimes an abandoned mental asylum, where patients were tortured and neglected, thus creating seriously pissed-off ghosts] trying to irritate the spirits stuck there.

Oy.

And! As if this didn't scare the bejesus out of everyone enough, Nick is invariably sent someplace ultra-creepy. Like the morgue. Where he's occasionally locked into the dead-body-holding thing. No, I don't know what it's called. I do know it's a bad idea. And Zack and Aaron usually end up running around scary building du jour, shouting "NICK! NICK!!"

I help matters, from my spot on the couch, only my eyes peeping over my blanket, by shouting along, "NICK! NICK!!" Thanks to all the shouting, mine included, Nick is located and brought back to relative safety with his buddies. Brilliant creatures that they are.

Now what, you may be wondering, does this have to do with Roommate's Dream Guy? My feeling is, as he walks down the aisle after marrying Roommate, he will be embarking on the greatest adventure of his life. It's only fitting that I shout "NICK! NICK!!" at him as they pass. He might not be facing ghosts, but he will be entering in on a union of two souls, and all baggage therein, that will undoubtedly include family drama, work headaches, excessive couponing, beagles and...

...Me.

Hmm. Maybe the angry ghosts would be easier.

How nice is that???

Roommate, in the words of a fairly memorable Saturday Night Live skit, "has been berry, berry good to me." Not only did she run to the store--twice--for ingredients for me on Saturday, but she came home with lobster tails and asparagus, which made it into tonight's dinner. How nice, you might be thinking...but what makes this particularly kind?

Well...

Roommate isn't fond of shellfish. And she loathes asparagus.

Yeah, more for me, I know. But she buys this stuff because she knows I love it; knowing, too, that she will be served food with this stuff in it. Except the asparagus. Nothing is going to force Roommate to eat asparagus. Don't ask her. She won't do it. And glaring will ensue if you try.

Word to the wise: Don't try.

Roommate was also left unattended at our latest Weight Watchers meeting and bought this for me:

I don't think the people at Weight Watchers intended it for making cakes, cookies, pies and other naughties, but we're not telling them. Keep it under your hat, would you?

Roommate. What a good egg she is. I'm really going to miss her when she finally gets sick of my crap and moves out.

New Shoes!

Brace yourself, dearest invisible friend. I have BIG news.

I went shopping.

I know!!! It's not my talent. It's not even enjoyable for me. It's usually something I do only when absolutely necessary, when I look at my clothing or shoes and realize that whatever it was originally, it's now just a mass of thread held together by habit or luck. And I know I shouldn't put it off as long as I do. I know it makes me look sloppy. But I hate shopping.

It depresses me. I hate looking at myself in the mirror, wearing something that doesn't fit or doesn't look good. I hate looking at the things that I think are so pretty, but I cannot wear. And I HATE spending the money on this stuff!! Do you know how many books I could buy with that money? Or cooking/baking equipment? Or hell, sushi dinners?

But, as per usual, I've veered off topic. It's a good thing I don't drive the way I blog.

My dear friend Carla, whose birthday it is today, was an excellent shopping mentor. Actually, she was an excellent shopping enforcer. She would shove me into the dressing room, ignore the whining, and throw clothes over the door. Then she would tell me what to buy. I loved that.

BUT! This past weekend, Roommate and I went shopping with her mom. AND Macy's had shoes on clearance. AND my work shoes were looking a wee bit ragged. So these are my new work shoes:
Not terrible, right? Not like my photography skills. Which are abysmal. But I bought them. They fit. They're useful and sensible. And they were on clearance!!!

Since I was looking at work shoes, I glanced over at a pair that looks like these:

Hm. They didn't set my world on fire. I couldn't really use them for work. But I did need a pair of non-work shoes to wear while being tortured by the tiny blonde sadist [personal trainer] and the hideous Brazilian Butt guy.

Meh.

But it was sensible. If I'm going to do this wretched exercise thing, then I have to plan for it. I have to have the necessary equipment for it. And even though that equipment consists mainly of sweats, shoes and the floor of my living room, all three pieces are fairly important.

But...they were on clearance, too, which eased the sting a little. Sigh. It's sensible. It's necessary. It's logic in action.

And that's as long as that behavior lasted.

Because then Roommate and I both tried on these:

Oh, yeah. No logic here. I can't wear them to work. Roommate made it through an hour in them yesterday at her job before switching to her new flats. I almost never go out enough to justify owning them, or co-owning them with Roommate, since we wear the same size shoe. These shoes make zero sense.

But these shoes live at my house now.

And strangely, despite their ridiculous height and complete lack of support...I feel no sting at all.

Heh.

Why are these people smiling????

Roommate is no longer allowed to watch infomercials.

Okay, that's crap. I can't control her or her choices of television entertainment---yes, infomercials do so count as entertainment---and I certainly can't stop her from purchasing things like...

This:
Yes, it's the marvelous, magnificent, magical Brazilian Butt Lift!!!!!

Well. Roommate is who she is, after all. How could she resist this? This is the same person, if we recall, who hired a personal trainer for us. On purpose. And she does love to shop, even if it is via the TV. And look! Look! Look at all the neat-o stuff that came with this new and exciting torture device!!!



Oh, it's the Brazilian Butt Lift exercise system! My former coworker Paula, a revoltingly hot blonde Brazilian herself, was wildly amused by our experiences with this. [NB: The term used in Brazilian Portugese to name the bottom is bum-bum. That's pronounced boom-boom, not buhm-buhm. Mispronunciation of this term may cause wine to shoot out of the nose of nearest Brazililan.]

Six fabulous workout DVDs, a booklet on foods that "burn fat," a supermodel six-day slimdown plan, travel workout cards, a tape measure, exercise bands and a pencil! Yes. A pencil. For performing the pencil test.

Hm? Oh! The pencil test. Well, it's a clever and low-tech method of determining how rotten one ought to feel about one's body, particularly one's derriere. The idea is to place the pencil at the point that butt connects to thigh. If the butt cheek holds the pencil in place, one may safely conclude that her butt is horribly oversized and adversely affected by gravity.

I, myself, do not feel the need to perform the pencil test. I have eyes, after all, and can see the land mass that is my rear end. And frankly, if I put a pencil in that region of my body, we may never see said pencil again. That's like sending a plane into the Bermuda Triangle. During a storm. On Friday the 13th.

Anyway. Roommate has used this "exercise system" three times already. I have participated, whining and yowling the whole way, twice. Twice. Let me tell you, darling invisible friend, that our personal trainer, the tiny blonde sadist, would delight in the torments this man has inflicted upon us.
He looks like a nice enough fellow, doesn't he? Yeah. He's not. Not even a little.

Because! He doesn't ever pause. EVER. It's ghastly. He's all, "Four more of these really hard and painful moves!! Three! Two! Last one-and-now-let's-do-this-other-really-hard-thing-immediately-without-taking-one-freaking-second-to-breathe!!!!"

It doesn't matter that there's a little counter on the screen, telling you that there's only eleven seconds left of the squat-down-then-reach-up-for-no-damn-good-reason move. Immediately afterward, he's going to yell at you to kick your leg out in back while simultaneously reaching upward, balancing and filing your taxes.

And the cool down? Um...

This is a pretty darn difficult yoga move, my friend. Not a freaking cool down. And ow. Ow. OW!!!

When it hurts to sit, hurts to stand, hurts to step, hurts to climb stairs, hurts to breathe, it's not an exercise system, it's a cruel and unreasonable thing. Where the hell do these people get their training to do this stuff??????????!!!!!!! Oh. Right. Of course.

Sorry.

How the game is played. I think.

Oh, the joy of the Mr. Right Now dating website continues. One charming gentleman posted a few questions on his profile for potential dates to answer and earn "extra points." Points. I'm not sure how the point system works. This is a scored game? I had no idea. Are there quarters? How long do they last? Can we call a time-out for consultations with coaches? How do we handle penalties?

And is this fellow the prize? The trophy?

Hm.

Anyway. The guy posted questions. So I replied.

Okay, you asked questions in your profile and I cannot resist questions. Don't judge me. Be grateful you didn't ask about the air velocity of the laden swallow.

Anyway. Here goes:

1)Why can't women put on mascara with their mouth closed?
The act of holding our mouths open helps us hold our facial muscles still and our brows lifted sufficiently to avoid getting mascara on our faces and eyelids. If that happens, we have to take off ALL of our make-up and we won't be ready to go to dinner for at least another hour. Yeah. Suddenly, you WANT us to
open our mouths, don't you?

2) Is it possible to brush your teeth without wiggling your bottom?
It IS possible. It's just not as fun. Or entertaining. And for some of us, it counts as "exercise."

3) If corn oil is made from corn, and vegetable oil is made from vegetables, then
what is baby oil made from?
Ha! Trick question. Baby oil is deceptively named and is mostly mineral oil, with a few additives to soften and protect the skin, and fragrance to cover the aroma of diaper and spit-up. Baby lotion, however, is a whole different story. No, you don't want to know.

Hope you have a good weekend.

So. Who thinks this one will reply?

And do guys really mind the butt-wiggling thing? Really?

Shadow? What shadow?

Poor hoggy. So much darn pressure.

And this is how I spend my time.

To be fair--to myself, actually--if I don't occupy my time with cooking and baking until the wee hours, I have way too much time to think about my current situation. This makes me sad.

So I cook.

This is today's Soup Day spread. X-ray tech extraordinaire Vicki's oyster crackers aren't in this shot. But she brought them. We love Vicki.

Cornbread sounded good to me. And I actually had cornmeal, sitting around and looking lonely. So I used it.

And lately I've been naming my food. Remember Hans? The hot vegetarian blonde, AKA red lentil soup ? Yeah. Anyway, this is the name of the cornbread:

And I needed a safety soup, but jeeze, how many pots of lentil soup can I make before people rise up and revolt? I could eat lentil soup every day of the week, but strangely, other people do not share my delight in that lovely little seed.

Yeah, I thought it was a legume, too! But no. A seed. Whodathunkit?

Anyway, I made cheater chili. A whole lotta cans got opened for this soup. White beans. Garbanzo beans. Black beans. Tomatoes. And frozen corn. Because that's what I had. And you have to do a grain with beans to make a complete protein in vegan food. Yes, you do. Yes, you do. Go Google it.

So this is my gluten-free, vegan option of the day:

And this is what I named it:

Then I made the main soup. This soup is what happens when one persists in buying 20-25 pound turkeys for the holiday meal...for four people. One is left with eighteen containers of turkey and stock in one's freezer. But do I learn from this? NooooOOOOOooooo.

Turkey, parsnips carrots and spinach, all held together with approximately 45 pounds of nokedli. You know, the Hungarian version of spaezel. The love child of pasta and dumplings.

And as Nadia G. of "Bitchin' Kitchen" says, "Only parsnips can taste parsnippy." I think there's a lesson in there for all of us.

This soup is what grandmothers use when antibiotics aren't available. Or are too expensive. So naturally, this is its name:

Note the asterisk. Disclaimer followed.

NB: Always read the fine print.

Hey, I'm here to help.