I'm feeling unusually bitchy tonight, so I decided to drown my sorrows. Pink milk is the shit, yo. Drank it all the time when I was a kid, and still do when I feel like I need my momsie (actually... she bought me this bottle last week after my surgery. How fitting).
Guess it's kinda obvious, 'cause CK wrote keeping my habit supplied into his vows when we got married. Now he's off the hook, but that's okay -- me and pink will be just fine. Another one, bartender!
This... is my refrigerator on day one of the South Beach Diet. (And no, the whipped cream is NOT mine.)
And this... is me on day two of the South Beach Diet.
For dinner last night I steamed up some Trader Ming's Vegetable (read: Edamame) Shu Mai with Ponzu sauce.
And then I threw together a Mexican-Indian hybrid thingamajig called a "Dosadilla," the insanely-simple recipe for which I got out of my trusty Robin Robertson's Vegetarian Quick-Fix book.
It involves making mashed potatoes, throwing in some sauteed peas and onions and stirring in some curry powder. Ta-da! And then, I guess, the tortilla is the "Mexican" part. *koff koff*
We had strawberry lemonade and, for dessert, leftover Mabon klingon-forehead pie.
Leah ate more than half the shu mai on her own. She ate a square painstakingly cut out of the middle of her dosadilla, which was fine by me, because I got to have the rest of it. And then CK called dibs on the rest of the pie, pie, pie.
Dood. We couldn't be more white if we tried.
(Photos from here and here. A recipe for easy-ish-looking eggplant shu mai here.)
Today was Mabon, or the autumn equinox to you non-Pagan-minded. I.e. the day when the light and the dark in our 24 hour day is equal. I only remembered it in the middle of today, after which I paged CK and said, "YO! Today's MABON!"
And he was all...yeah? and? You want to do something, don't you?
Shishkedarnit. You know we've been married too long when my pitches out of left field end up mere flyouts.
Dude, of course I wanna do something. It's MABON!
Which actually doesn't mean much to me, but considering I grew up with the drugstore tinsel versions of Santa and the Easter Bunny, I'm kinda eager to find cultural holidays I can really embrace as my own.
So I looked it up and Mabon revellers celebrate with meals of apples, beans, butternut squash, hazelnuts, root veggies, things of that ilk to represent the second harvest. Yummy stuff. Stuff I had zero energy to make, especially given that we'd yet to go grocery shopping after coming back from the wedding in upstate New York yesterday.
I pouted at CK.
He said, "Apple pie?"
We bought our pie and came home. Unloaded. And found our pie sitting on its side. Dumb grocery cashier. Who in their right mind packs a pie on its side?
Dumb, dumb, dumb. When's your birthday? Be sure to invite me so I can turn your cake over, mmkay?
So now my Mabon pie resembles a Klingon's forehead. I'm still gonna eat it, but instead of counting my blessings and giving thanks, I'm probably gonna be dreaming up some revenge fantasies that involve apple pies. Guess that's what I get for not making my own damn pie.
I just realized something. I really like the word "pie." I've said it a lot during this post and I'm still not tired of it. Pie, pie, pie.
Happy autumn.
The first official event on the program this week at my new school that I took part in was dinner. Upon arriving in the cafeteria, I saw this tray. Little did I know that the next day, the tray I grabbed off the pile would be this very same tray.
Meanwhile, 553 miles away, Momsie suddenly snorfled involuntarily.
So I was feeling particularly un-Irish last night, since I completely forgot to mark the day that celebrates half of our heritage. All three of us are exactly 50% Irish.
Although I do get confused about my own claim to St. Patrick's day. My dad once told me that his dad was not the green sort of Irish, but the orange sort, and hated March 17 because it was all so, SO wrong and a total insult to his countrymen. Or something like that.
So on the way to the pharmacy yesterday and in the midst of a meltdown because I wouldn't purchase a $7 Princess coloring book, I realized that I was being a really crappy Orangewoman. Especially since dinner last night was nothing appropriate... unless Eggplant Teriyaki over white Basmati is somehow appropriate.
So after listing for the 12th time all the reasons I was not going to buy that overpriced pad of paper with commercially licensed outlines of co-dependent bobbleheads in skirts, I grabbed some funfetti cake mix and frosting. And then I stood paralyzed in the bakery aisle for 23 minutes and had a heart attack when I saw one little tube of orange icing would knock me back $4. Green wasn't much better at $3. And since I was hoping to have both a green and orange cake, that'd be $7 just for decorating it.
Shishkedarn.
But shiver me timbers, I am a little smartie. Well, we all knew that already, but I am particularly proud of myself this time because I managed to slide my eyeballs three inches over to the left and see green sprinkles for $1.50. Whoocha! Brainfart!
And below is the result of my totally appropriate cranial emission:
In other news: Wonkette tells us (twice) that NY's new governor (aka the black blind -- but not the first of either -- guy who took over from whore-paying Spitzer) has attempted to pre-empt character assassination by fessing up right away to getting it on with someone who is *gasp* not his wife.
And for that matter, he tells us that she did it too, but we're not as interested since she's neither blind nor the governor. And besides, she's pretty, so who can blame her? Riiight.
I am so in hate with our media right now, both right and left. Surprise, surprise, politicians have sex. This makes them zero percent different than 80% of the animal kingdom. They also have affairs. Which makes them zero percent different than hmm..., oh hell, also 80% of the animal kingdom. Are we not the least bit alarmed when 1) this is news, 2) both sex and marriages become a weapon of shame that can cost people their careers and dignity, and 3) that the media sees this as an opportunity to cull the attention of their readership, which not only indicates that journalists continue their slide down into the hell that is called "selling your soul" but that readers do too?
And yes, I realize by merely talking about it I risk joining everybody on the merry mud-slinging playground and not keeping my academic bloomers lily-white, but hey.
It's my blog. I'll bitch if I want to.
