Well, I DID Resolve The Low Disk Space Issue…
Today my son’s crappy desktop (the only semi-working computer left) started flashing “low disk space” warnings, so I trolled around the C: drive to find some stuff to delete. I was able to resolve the low disk space issue by deleting all of my sixteen year old’s PORN COLLECTION. Yay me!
This is the second time I’ve bumped into his porn stash. Last time, I let the poor child be. This time, I may say something. I don’t know. Cast your vote.
Well, She Asked For It.
I was sent a “recipe exchange” email. Usually I discard these things, because, um, I don’t play well with others. Also, I’m not superstitious. Finally, I’m not all into cooking.
However.
Someone I really like sent it to me, so I complied. Since it’s the only thing I’ve written in a week, I’m posting it here. Twenty lucky bitches will receive it in their email, too (Stevo, I left you out, because of the whole turkey pellets cooking event. Clearly you can’t be trusted in the kitchen). This is not the only recipe I’ve ever written off the top of my head: I also wrote one for a PB&J sandwich once. There were a surprising number of questions afterwards. Without further ado!
Caesar Salad for Lazy People and Single Mothers. Or Lazy Single Mothers, Like Me.*
- 1 head Romaine, washed and dried and all torn into salad-size pieces
- 1/4 cup oil. I use canola. Lots of people use olive oil, but then make the mistake of using cheap-ass olive oil. If you use olive oil, use extra extra mega virgin.
- One large clove garlic. Hope you like garlic!
- Lemon juice. Fresh or from the squeezy bottle (squeezy bottle is how I roll)
- 1 egg yolk
- Grated Parmesan – I like the TJ’s brand, in the refrigerated section
- Ground black pepper
- Croutons. From a box. Or a bag. Just not homemade, for the love of Kee-rist. People who make homemade croutons suck.
About a half hour before you make the salad (like, while you’re prepping the greens), use your garlic press to squish the garlic into the oil. Let it sit. Throw your dry greens in a big bowl. Toss the oil in (garlic bits included), mixing well. Add the egg yolk; mix well. Yes, a raw egg yolk. It’s perfectly safe, unless you’ve been leaving your eggs out in the sun all day. Look it up on the internet if you don’t believe me. Now that you’re done doubting me, squeeze some lemon juice in– how much? I don’t know how much. ‘Til it tastes as lemony as you want it. Now throw some grated parmesan in. How much? I don’t know. ‘Til it’s as parmesany as you want it. I put in a little at a time so I don’t overdo. Mix well, of course. Then grind some fresh black pepper, mix well. You shouldn’t need any salt because of the parmesan. Throw in the croutons last. You’re done.
Unless you want a chicken Caesar salad. Trader Joe’s has some great plain chicken strips in the refrigerated section, by the salads. Throw some of those in. They even have Caesar-flavored ones, but they’re a little too flavory for me. If you try this salad, you’ll be astounded that there’s anything too flavory for me. This salad is pretty garlicky and a little on the salty side, and is excellent during PMS. Anyhoo, if you throw chicken strips into it you can call it “dinner.” Look, you made dinner! Wow! You’re Betty frickin’ Crocker!
*If you try this salad and think, Wow, that Jackie is kinda… trailer trashy…, please be assured that this revelation does not come as a surprise to me or anyone that knows me.
Bitch Mom Strikes Again
You know, I’m a single mother. That means instead of my son having two parents that he fails to take seriously, I get taken un-seriously twice as much.
Which is why I sometimes have to be Bitch Mom.
See, being a single mother of a teen is something that can go very wrong, very quickly. I’ve watched daytime talk shows. I’ve seen the insane teenagers who walk all over their tearful single mothers. Are these kids awful? Yes. Are their parents worse? Yes. Will I become one of these mothers? Over my dead fucking body.
One way to be an effective Bitch Mother is to follow through when you say you’re going to do something, or when you establish a punishment or guideline. If you don’t do what you say you’ll do, and hold your kid to certain standards, your child will likely see you as an invertebrate, and will ignore your mandates. Kids need to know that you’re not fucking around. Especially when you’re the only parent there– they need to know that you’re stable, consistent, and willing to be tough when necessary. It’s good for them. So sayeth me.
So when my son told me last weekend that he and his girlfriend and another friend had organized and invited 120 guests to a joint birthday party for all three of them, I kinda had to go Bitch Mom on his ass. Because, um, he didn’t ask for any permission to rent a hall with sound equipment and schedule a birthday party. These are the kinds of things that you should probably run past your mother.
After many ridiculous justifications on his behalf, and a phone call from one of the other kids’ mother (guess what? I’m in charge of plates, forks, and cups!), I told him that the only way in Satan’s green Earth he was attending his own birthday party (three weeks after the actual event, yo) was if he performed chores. The Chore List was goodly-sized, and he has until 4 p.m. tomorrow to perform these chores. I told him No Joke: These Aren’t Done, No Party For You, Sonny. He assured me that these chores would all get done.
They’re so, so not done, and I don’t think they will be in time. Whose fault is this? His. How many times did I catch him converting and transferring video to his iPod when he should have been pulling weeds or cleaning bookshelves? About five million. Last night, when he realized that No Fucking Way was he going to be able to pull it off, he lodged an objection to the patent unfairness of the quantity and quality of the chores. Sorry kid- statute of limitations runneth out. The time to timely object was, um, within one hour of reading the list and agreeing to the (non-negotiable) terms. His last minute defense? “I didn’t read the whole list.”
Boo fucking hoo. Ignorance isn’t a defense. If the work isn’t done, I will not let him go to the party. Of course, I’ll have to stop by the party to drop off plates/cups/forks, because Bitch Mom isn’t so bitchy as to make the other kids swig out of a 2-liter while eating cake from their sweaty palms.
On the upside, I finally got a copy of the invitation last night.
Lemony Badness
I love bad cook stories. I love to hear about how badly other people cook. Don’t get me wrong– I’m not claiming to be a professional chef. I’m a mediocre cook. No one has ever swooned over one of my culinary creations, but no one has ever (projectile) vomited due to my cooking, either. Cooking, to me, doesn’t seem especially hard when you stick to relatively simple fare, as I do.
Other people struggle, though. To some other people, cooking is as inexplicable as math is to me.
I have a friend who occasionally regales me with tales of his stepmother’s frightening inability to cook. She uses a frying pan with Teflon peeling off of it (barf). Teflon ends up in the food, unsurprisingly. She’s fond of recipes that involve dumping a can on concentrated Campbell’s cream ‘o something soup into a casserole dish and adding meat. She lets fruit ripen to squishy, fruitfly-infested funk and then offers it to guests (that fruit’s just not ripe until it’s really, really soft).
But this latest one– dear sweet baby Jebus on a popsicle stick.
This friend’s father suffered a heart attack a couple months ago. Arteries clogged way the fuck up. Doctor recommended that he lay off the Philly cheese steaks and takeout food that constituted the majority of his diet and substitute with fruits, vegetables, and fish. Three days after being released from the hospital, his wife was back to feeding him hot dogs. I’m convinced that she’s trying to kill him. Her first husband died. I think she’s a black widow who kills with cholesterol. Anyway, she did make one concession to the suggested heart-healthy diet: fish.
And you know what goes with fish? Lemon. But not fresh lemon. Since no Campbell’s Cream of Lemon soup exists, she found a good substitute: lemon yogurt. She dumps a cup of lemon yogurt over raw fish fillets and tosses the concoction in the oven. Neither one of them can understand why this dish ends up tasting like ass. Because she’s using a “yogurt sauce”. That’s fancy; everyone knows that.
Your bad cook stories welcome; nay, demanded. Did I mention that I love bad cook stories?
Showertime Accusations
I was in the shower today, and my three year old came into the bathroom. Pulling back the shower curtain (thank jebus I heard her coming in, because if she’d done that without advance notice of her approach, I’d have had a heart attack and died right there in my dirty shower), she frowned at me and said, “Did you tell her no?” (jabs finger in her chest for “her”). “Um, yeah?” I said (because I had, in fact, told her no at least once that day). She shook her head at me, a look of disgust on her face, and exited the bathroom. Then I shaved my armpits.
Three things seen while driving:
Yesterday: My son and I happened to glance over at the driver of the next car at the same time, and saw a woman in her sixties tweezing her chin hairs.
Today: A very dirty man in a wheelchair, using his feet to push himself backward. While in the middle of the right hand lane of a busy street. A wide sidewalk was less than five feet away.
A few months ago: A man holding an 18 pack of beer, urinating in a trashcan next to a bus stop. On a busy street.
Come to Tucson! It’s awesome!
My Dishes Can Perform Circus Acts
The massive stacks of dirty dishes on my kitchen counter are arranged in Cirque de Soleil-like configurations. I don’t know how a hideously loud crash hasn’t awakened me in the middle of the night.
Here’s the part of my post where I feel sorry for myself. I’m sick of sleeping on the couch. I ache. I’m tired. Waah. I want my own room. I also want my own bathroom, while we’re talking pipe dreams…
Yesterday my mega-awesome friend sent me Anne Lamott’s Grace (Eventually) and the Writer’s Market supplement. Awesome. I could use a little Anne right now. It was a lovely surprise. I also received my freelance writing business cards in the mail. Now I should try passing them out. Want one?
I went to look for vitamins, thinking the various B vitamins and some iron might perk me the hell up. Looks like they may be buried beneath Cirque de Soleil. Such a Catch-22. I need the vitamin energy to find the vitamins. Woe is me.
I’m Rooting For The Serial Killer
I had already written the title for this post when I Googled “dexter showtime,” and lo, the official tagline is “The serial killer you’ll root for.” That’s just how good I am. Or how predictable and unclever I am (and Showtime, as well).
The Sopranos was the show that satisfied my lust for alternative justice. When it ended, I despaired quite a bit– you have no idea how often The Sopranos episodes worked their way into my therapy sessions. Forget the law, lawyers, courts, and other oft-ineffective and time-consuming means of fixing shit– whack ‘em. Or beat them into submission. Though I’m not one to go a-whackin’ when I’m pissed, I did enjoy living vicariously through Tony and the various other misogynistic sociopaths.
Thankfully, I now have Dexter, the psychopath with a code of professional ethics. I can’t remember who told me about Dexter, but I immediately found the idea intriguing. A serial killer who only kills bad guys? Brilliant. Sign me up.
I just finished Season 1, and the first two episodes of Season 2, and the tension as I worry that Dexter will get caught in Season 2 is fucking killing me. I mean, I know he won’t because, duh, hit series down the drain if he does, but Jebus. Be gentle with me. I’m the girl that couldn’t watch 24 because my adrenaline level became so elevated.
It’s a great show. You should watch it.
Who Is Stealing All My Shit?
I sometimes indulge in wild paranoia, and allow myself to believe that someone comes into my house while I’m out doing things like buying Lysol Disinfecting Wipes (how did we live before these were invented? And how do I use so many and still live in filth?) and steals all my shit.
Where is my one pair of jeans that truly fit me?
Where are all of my underwear?
Where are all of my hair elastics?
Where?
Disheartening News For The Poor
My boy-o turned 16 recently. He’s usually one of the first birthdays of the school year. It’s disconcerting to know that two of his classmates who have also had birthdays have received new Mercedes-Benzs (Benzes?) for their sixteenth.
This does not bode well for the rest of the school year.
My son reports the following tales of spoiledness and entitlement:
- Most of his friends are getting one of their parent’s late-model cars as a birthday/xmas gift.
- His friend, X, is disgusted with the 2006 Plymouth PT Cruiser her mother will bestow upon her. While I agree that the PT Cruiser is dorktastic, I’d take one offered to me for the price of $0.00. 2006? That’s, let’s see, carry the 12, ten fucking years newer than my car.
- One of the kids who received a new Mercedes recently is too scared to park it in the school parking lot, so he drives his father’s Volvo instead. Yeah.
My kid received a new bike for his sixteenth birthday. If I ever get in a place of financial non-panic, I’ll get a new car and it can be his job to make sure that the left headlight remains properly taped on his very own ‘96 Explorer.
My New Blogging System
I didn’t blog for a few weeks, because I found a new way of blogging that was far less labor-intensive than WordPress.
Mental blogging.
See, I just think the blog post, mentally edit it for clarity and maximum hilarity, and then post it. Boom. It’s right there. It’s still high-quality content, but there’s so much less work for me.
The downside is that my mental blogging stats show that no one has looked at my posts. Except me. Let me assure you: you would have enjoyed these posts verily. I’m sorry you missed them.
