Knee-Slappin' (or Lickin') Funny

The Chef and I saw Michael Ian Black at Catch a Rising Star* in Little Rhody** on Friday. (See photo. Yep. That guy. You've seen him a million times. Remember The State? LOVED that show!)

Anyway, I won tickets via the facebook and then a most awesome friend scored us a front row table.*** I could have licked his knees. MI Black, I mean, not my friend. That would be weird.


*I have something to tell you about this place, but not today, dear. I have a headache.

**I HATE when people call it this. Is there a Big Rhody somewhere I don't know about? Like when a father and son have the same first name so one of them is the Big and one is the Little?

***The Chef taught me that "It doesn't hurt to ask." If you don't ask for what you want, you're not giving someone the opportunity to do something kind. So really, asking people for what you want is a public service. Please note that this is MY interpretation. The Chef's mind isn't nearly as convoluted.

Worth the Wait

I think I need a better phone. When the picture is small like this, it's in focus and real purdy. Not so much when I do this:

It's like real life--without my glasses or contacts!

P.S. This is NOT my kitchen. My kitchen is about the size of the red box right there. The red box when it's closed.

I wish I could figure out how to add pictures from my iPad

I have other wishes as well, but that is a biggun right now. Because I would like to show you photos of strawberries as big as your head, covered in chocolate delicious enough to make Willy Wonka weep.

And you should gaze upon the flowers prettier than any gown you'll see at the Oscars tonight. But you can't because I am stymied by the iPad technology. That doesn't make me like it any less, for I love the iPad so very much. Even if it autocorrects like crazy.

Some recent autocorrects
What I meant to say: I love you to bits.
What I actually said: I love you robots.

What I meant to say: Is that possible?
What I actually said: Is that sable?

What I meant to type: Humphrey
What the iPad thought I wanted to say: hump hey

And then this epic fail:
I don't. Shrinks I? DAMN you autorotate! No! autocorrect! dammit!
I don't. Should I?

That is all. For now...

Sorry, kids. Be back soon!

And then I will show you cool Valentine's Day pictures.  But in the meantime, this should keep you occupied...

True story. I've been practicing my whole life to be this awesome.

Breads and sugar and potatoes...oh yeah...

…the blessed trinity of heaven on earth.
I love them. Loooooooove them. Luuuuuurrrrrrrve them. My version of heaven is a library with unlimited cookies, bread with olive oil, and mashed potatoes (and Diet Coke, of course).  In my heaven, I can eat and drink in the library and don't have to hide the stash, lest I get kicked out. Also, my library has all new books, because they are better.

That is all.

Ice, Ice, Baby

Did you know Vanilla Ice has his own show on HGTV? It's strangely watchable.

Anyway, here's a problem with having your washer and dryer in the basement--a basement only accessible via the outside bulkhead: It will be covered in snow. And ice. And more ice. And then some more ice.



I WISH my bulkhead looked like this!



You will find this out when you have a basket of laundry balanced on one hip. You will try to break it with the heel of your boot, the shovel, your steel-trap mind. If ice could laugh, it would be laughing at you. Ice is mean. Mean like the mean girl at work who gets inordinate amounts of pleasure from telling on you to the higher-ups when you have a work gaff. Or makes up stuff when you don't have a work gaff. (I know I'm always saying we should be kind, but we are all free to wish a pox on this girl. The universe will NOT be mad at us. I pinky swear.)

That's an appropriate use of ice. Keeping me from my washer and dryer is NOT.

Not up for pox-wishing? How about wishing ice on her bulkhead (metaphorically) because she doesn't have a swell guy like The Chef, to whom I've put out a call for help. No, not the "Come break my ice" (heh heh) kind of help. The "Can I use your washer?" cry for assistance.  I may have padded the request by waving fresh oysters, clams, and scallops in his direction. This may be a successful ploy.

See the face the lady's making? That's me. See how happy the waiter is? Quadruple that and you've got The Chef.

I want to take one giant leap forward. Stupid wind resistance.

I want to be one of those people who runs. Just throws on some running shoes and goes. All day long I thought about how I was going to do that when I got home.

So when I got home from work, I threw on some running shoes and tippy-toed up my ice-slicked lane to the road, where it was damn cold. But dry and not slippery. I didn’t run, though.

I walked, all hunched over like a C-shaped woman, a veritable comma-lady, trying not to freeze to death. Oh! And I haven’t exercised since October—OCTOBER—before I got sick and had surgery and spent a thousand years recovering. It’s going to be a long time before I can get up to running, because:

1. I have never been a runner anywhere but in my head. (My brain gets one hell of a workout, though.)
2. Even though I didn’t run, I was kind of in shape from walking, which would have made becoming a runner/jogger/trotter easier than the shape I’m in now.
3. My shape is that of a bottom-heavy pear. I do not like this shape. It is not aerodynamically sound.

I know; I know. Baby steps.

I'd just like to go out for a nice walk, so...