Always a Bridesmaid

I'm going to be a bridesmaid again. And you all know how much I love that.

But let me preface this post by saying that had my friend Heather not asked me to be in her wedding, I would have been PISSED. Still, I hate being a bridesmaid-- does that make any sense? Of course it does.

Normally, a photo like this would be the only recent picture I would allow out for public viewing:



But due to constant badgering from SOME OF YOU, and also to prove a point that the sight of me in formal wear will in no way bring joy to anyone's most memorable day, here is a picture of me from the wedding back in July:



Yes, I realize it's only a shot from behind-- there are those of you who read this who frighten easily. (And also those who possess mad photoshop skills and have unlimited access and power over the internet.) I have no idea why my hand is on my own ass-- I'm hoping it's not some sort of nervous tick.

People, trust me on this: no one should ask a woman in her late thirties to be a bridesmaid-- we just end up looking like drag queens in our shiny dresses and overdone makeup. And it pisses off the groomsmen because they want a pretty little thing they can get drunk and sleep with after the reception.

Anyway, this is a picture of a gown one of the other bridesmaids suggested:



A perfectly lovely dress, to be sure-- if you have the figure of Marilyn Monroe and not Wilfred Brimley. If I were to squeeze myself in that thing my eyes would bulge out and I would look like one of those big goldfish.

This is the dress I'm voting for:



Love the color (eggplant-- when Heather first said purple I had horrible visions of ghastly lavender gowns), love how it's loose and flowy, even better would be a wrap to cover up my big arms. It's either that or this one:



And yes, that was actually listed as a bridesmaid dress.

C'est Fini!

I have a problem.

Yes, there are so many directions I could take with that, but for the purposes of this post, let's stay on subject, shall we?

I get these bursts of creativity, but very rarely do I finish a project. I present to you Exhibit A:



This is a picture I painted for Jay, who has been obsessed with dinosaurs since the age of 2. It was supposed to be a birthday present. His birthday was in February. As you can see, it is still not completed.

Next we have a dress I made after being inspired by my friend Susan.



It is now almost winter and this dress still is not hemmed and doesn't have button holes, or buttons for that matter. Also, Megan has developed a strong aversion to dresses and won't let me put it on her. Awesome. I hope Meg likes pink and brown, Libby.

If you've read Erin's blog you know that she is a crocheting fool and whips out these ridiculously cute hats and things at an incredible pace. Seriously, I think she runs a mini sweat shop with her four kids. Seeing how adorable her stuff is inspired me to start knitting and crocheting again. And look, I actually finished!



It helps that this is the easiest pattern ever. Hence, the other hats.



It would be nice if I could parlay my little hobbies into some sort of business, but I fear that I have neither the stamina nor the tact needed. For instance, I would want prospective buyers to have attractive children, that way the merchandise would look better upon delivery. And people might take it the wrong way if I wrote THIS HAT WON'T LOOK AS CUTE IF YOUR KID IS UGLY on my website. And customers tend to make unreasonable demands, like wanting stuff to fit. I guess I could always write PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU HAVE A FREAKISHLY BIG HEAD under the sizing.

It would be nice, though, to sit back watching t.v. and knitting, yelling HEY, I'M TRYING TO WORK HERE if the kids got too loud or Jason asked about dinner or whatever. Too bad I work at such a slow pace I'd have to charge $200 a hat to make it worthwhile.

But at least I'm getting better at finishing stuff. That falls under the self-improvement umbrella, right? I'll be an enlightned being in no time.

I Hate Being Healthy

Middle age sucks.

When you're young you're carefree and beautiful-- seriously, even ugly people are pretty in their 20's. When you're old you can say and do pretty much whatever you want and you no longer torture yourself about fat rolls and diets. Sure there's the whole dementia and impending death thing looming over you, but a fair trade for being able to eat without thinking about calories if you ask me. I can't wait until I am old enough to wear elastic waistbands openly without fear of judgement.

I haven't really cared about my appearance very much these last couple of years, and boy does it show. I've finally come to the point where I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a store window and said Whoa Nellie, this has gone far enough already. So I've been trying to lose weight by eating smaller, more frequent and healthier meals as opposed to my usual routine of skip breakfast, have a big lunch, and eat until I can no longer breathe at dinner. I've also been exercising. (Um, just not today because I'm taking the time to write this thoughtful little piece here for you. Seriously, the sacrifices I make for you guys.)

The problem with this brilliant plan is that 1. I have very little willpower and 2. I like quick results. I guess I got spoiled back in the day when I could drop 15 pounds in 3 days on the cocaine diet with all my waitress brethen. Since that's no longer an option, looks like I'll have to do it the old fashioned way-- slowly but surely. Which sucks. To make matters worse, I think my body is pissed off at me for the years I abused and neglected it. Not to mention taking it for granted. I used to have the metabolism of a teenage boy-- I could and did eat like a full grown man and rarely gained any weight. And did I appreciate that? Hell no, instead I was taking over the counter diet pills starting in middle school and always hated the way my body looked. Looking back I'm thinking Damn I was HAWT-- why didn't I realize it??

So now my body is having it's revenge, and I'm struggling just to lose a few pounds. Time... it's a fucker and it always wins. So if you are reading this and you are in your 20's, enjoy it. Run around naked, flaunt your stuff. Trust me, your time is coming soon enough.

Yes, dieting is making me cynical and bitchy. Bitchier, that is. Have a nice fucking day.

Best Damn Poem Ever

I just noticed this on the package of noodles from the Asian market:



It almost brought a tear to my eye. And I thought the directions on the back were cute, with little helpful hints like "For fry: put little oil in pan."

You are at the bottom of my heat, people.

Which reminded me of the show I saw last night on Discovery Health called Strange Sex. There was a woman on there who suffered from Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder, in which the patient was almost constantly in a state of arousal and had to masturbate often to relieve herself. She went on to relate what a burden this condition was, and how it was close to ruining her life. The doctor explained that people with this condition often experienced 20, 30, sometimes up to 50 orgasms a day. Well, by chance this woman started taking some medication to help her stop smoking and one of the unexpected side effects was a relief from her PGAD. Apparently, the meds acted as a Dopamine inhibitor, which prevented the onset of arousal. The patient went on to say what a relief this medication was, and how she finally felt like a normal person.

Later it was revealed that the woman had chosen to no longer take the medication, and preferred to deal with her condition "without drugs."

You are at the bottom of my heat.

Today's Secret Ingredient Is...

So the other day Jason was watching America's Test Kitchen and gets this great idea for us to make the Lo Mein with Pork. He was so inspired, in fact, that he went out and bought a new stainless steel pan that I'm pretty sure was forged from some of the steel from the Trade Towers-- like an entire floor's worth. Seriously, we no longer have to argue about getting a gun for home security because this thing is heavy enough to bash in an ogre's head.

He wanted to buy the pan because supposedly I have ruined all of our other cookware. Apparently, I don't know how to wash non-stick pans. But I say if those fuckers had really been non-stick like they claim to be I wouldn't have had to scrub the crap out of them to begin with. This is why I shun all cast iron pans, although Jason acts as if they are the holy grail of kitchenware. I'm sorry, I just can't handle a pan that you can't wash. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to clean it? Wiping it out just doesn't work for me.

Anyway, did I mention that this dish had EIGHTEEN different ingredients? Yeah, so I had to make a special trip to the Asian market to get some of the ingredients. I decided to take Jay along because hey, this counts as teaching him about our heritage, right? When we walked in the first thing he said was "It smells funny in here." I shushed him and grinned nervously at the other patrons, half-expecting to be tossed out as impostors. The first thing on my list was Asian egg noodles. To my amazement, I found that there were two entire aisles devoted entirely to noodles. It was as if the clouds had parted and a stream of golden light was illuminating the bounty before me.

The other ingredients were a little tricky to find. And of course there were a lot of exotic things that simultaneously repulsed and delighted Jay in a way that only an eight year-old boy can be. There were some fist-sized wedges of solidified pig's blood, various things with tentacles, and something soaking in a bucket on the floor (and how does that pass health inspection?).

Preparing the dish was a complicated sequence that required both Jason and me. It was like being on one of those chef shows and I swear at one point during our bickering Jason called me a donkey, but I can't really be sure. Finally, after a ridiculous amount of work, it was finished. We gathered around and heaped large portions onto our plates, giddy with anticipation for what was surely going to be our finest meal yet. We eagerly took our first bites, and then--

Silence.

It sucked. Big Donkey Balls.

The lesson here? Tip the Chinese delivery guy extra the next time you order out.

P.S. It occurred to me that some of you might be thinking I thought she said they owned a restaurant once? What's the deal with her being such a shitty cook? The answer to that, my friends, is that Jason's family are the cooks. Jason is a wonderful cook, it comes very naturally to him. His family had been in the restaurant business for a long time. I pretty much handled the front of the house-- the cash register, customers, servers, etc. Oh, and during prep I was in charge of the cold stuff, like chopping produce. I'm an awesome chopper. But cooking? Not my thing.

Writing From the Heart

I'm all stuffy and sneezy today and all I want to do is watch sappy movies and stuff myself with comfort food. But then I logged on here and Woot! Woot! I'm a rock star-- look at all my new peeps! Welcome, welcome!

I finally got my loot from Brandon from the Travel Channel.



I love how they come in sour cream and onion flavor. I showed them to some kids that had come over to watch Ice Age 3 yesterday, and they were appropriately grossed out and awed. I kept thinking that when they got home they were going to tell their parents how I ate crickets and everyone would just assume it was because I'm Asian. Awesome. Soon I'll have a reputation and mystique to rival Boo Radley.

Yesterday I cooked a roast that was as big as my ass. And it wasn't one of those pot roasts you plop in the crock pot, either. (Don't you love a crock pot? No matter what you throw in there, voila-- eight hours later it turns into something meaty and carroty and yummy-- even if you didn't have carrots to start with.) This was a top sirloin roast that weighed as much as a small baby. (BTW, I never realized how many different frickin' roasts there are-- top round, bottom round, tri-tip, round tip--they all look the same to me. I just shoved my shiny new meat thermometer in that bad boy and stuck it in the oven.) Anyway, I have to say it turned out pretty good. I'm rather proud of myself. Meat has always been a little intimidating to me-- I can never tell when it's done. I end up poking it around every once in awhile until I finally shrug, cross my fingers, and take it out. 9 out of 10 times I end up over-cooking it.

If that last paragraph seemed pointless, it's because I've decided to just throw whatever comes to mind within a short span of time. I recently sent in an article to Hearing Health that I wrote pretty much at the last minute because I am the worst procrastinator ever. I was sure that the editor was going to email me asking what kind of crap was I trying to pawn off, but instead she praised it. Hunh. I realized that happens quite a bit-- things that I put a lot of thought into get luke warm responses more often than not, but things that I bang out in one sitting get compliments and accolades. Go figure. I guess writing is best when it is from the heart. So I've decided to whip out my posts with little thought, editing, or much time involved. You're welcome.

What Comes Out When I Have Too Much Time To Myself

Another distinction between me and Dooce (you know, besides the obvious difference in class-- as in money, not good taste. Because as any loyal reader knows, I am just oozing with the latter.)

Whoops, I believe I left another sentence fragment hanging. Sorry, I have a problem with paragraphed asides that run amuck.

Anyway, as I was saying, unlike Dooce, who probably never reads her comments (which is why I never write one on her blog, because seriously, after #246, what's the point?), I savor each and every morsel you leave me. I take your words and swirl them around in my mouth for a bit, and then raise my hands to the heavens and shout them for all the gods to hear. That's how much I love you guys. Just saying. (Come on 160!)

So, as I write this, Megan is off with Heather and her mom's club for playgroup. Um, without me. Okay, so I wussed out. Heather and I take turns watching each other's kids so we can get things done. And I have a lot to get done. As you can tell.

I know those other moms are probably very nice women. I'm just not ready. I get all hive-y and uncomfortable just thinking about it. Maybe I have social anxiety. What? I can't have social anxiety? The Bloggess is allowed to use that but not me-- I'm just a cantankerous old bitch? Well, maybe...

We might forgo the fun family trip to the swamp of death in November. Jason and I were discussing trying to go to Disneyworld in December. There are some really great deals on lodging, although we may have to pawn some stuff/ melt our gold teeth to buy the tickets for the theme parks. ($78 for one adult for one day???) I really want to take the kids before Jay is too old to enjoy it. If you never went to Disneyworld your whole childhood is just fucked, right? Case in point, I never got to go. Jason went a few times as a kid and he says he remembers staying all day and walking until there were blisters on his feet. Damn right-- at those prices we're gonna get our money's worth. We're going to squeeze every last drop of fun out of those tickets until everyone is crying and/or bleeding. Reminds me of the few times my family went out to eat when I was a kid-- we'd always go to a buffet like Ryan's and my parents would keep sending us back to get more food and wouldn't let us be finished until there was a half-digested yeast roll coming out of one or more of our orifices.

That's called makin' memories, people.